But today was about spending time with his mother, Eric reminded himself. Grabbing the two plastic-handled grocery bags and the cellophane-wrapped flowers, he got out of the car and started up the walkway to the front of the house. Halfway there, a monarch butterfly fluttered around his head, and he smiled, feeling his sister’s presence near him.
He wasn’t one to normally believe in the supernatural, but his sister had been obsessed with butterflies growing up, and they’d been naturally drawn to Trisha, trusting her enough to land on her shoulder or her hand. Eric had always been envious because they’d always given him a wide berth, probably because he hadn’t been as gentle as his sister, but a few weeks after she’d passed, he’d been in the front yard when a monarch started annoying the crap out of him . . . flying in front of his face, landing on his head, and ignoring his attempts to shoo the pesky insect away.
In a moment of weird clarity, he’d known this was his sister’s way of visiting him, to let him know that she was okay and watching over him . . . not that he’d ever told anyone about his occasional encounter with those monarch butterflies. But their presence always calmed and reassured him in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I miss you, Trish,” he whispered, and with that, the butterfly swirled one more time around his head before flying away.
He continued to the front porch, and knowing the door would be locked, as it always was, and his mother was probably in the backyard, like she always was, he tucked the flowers under one arm so he could use his key to let himself inside. Everything was predictably quiet as he closed the door, the drawn drapes in the living room making the house much too dark and somber. But that, too, was normal.
As he headed into the kitchen, he passed by the long, decorative table his mother had set up as a memorial for Trish after she’d died. A crystal cut vase held beautiful white roses that he knew his mother replaced every single day and at least a dozen framed photographs of his sister, from infant stage all the way to age fifteen lined the table . . . the last picture having been taken right before her cancer diagnosis, when she still looked healthy and happy.
With that abrupt end to the framed photos, it was always a reminder to Eric of a life cut too short. Just like the last time he’d dared to look into his sister’s bedroom years ago and found it the same exact way it had been the day she’d been taken to the hospital for the last time. Untouched. Preserved. It still looked like the room of a sixteen-year-old girl.
Unlike Eric’s bedroom, which his mother had turned into a reading room for herself, with all traces of his childhood gone.
In the kitchen, he set the bags and flowers on the counter, and a glance out the window above the sink confirmed that his mother was, in fact, out back, tending to the same garden and white roses that she and Trish had planted together so long ago.
He didn’t bother telling his mother he was there. She knew what time he always arrived on Sunday, and she’d eventually make her way inside. Instead, he unloaded the items he’d bought at the market and started making dinner for the two of them, always preparing more than needed so she’d have leftovers for a few days. An hour later, he was pulling baked ziti from the oven when his mother came through the sliding glass door leading into the house from the backyard.
She was in an old, faded T-shirt and a pair of those pants that women wore that ended at her calves. Her hair, which once was a sleek bob and had been a dark russet brown, was now unruly curls with more gray than color. She hadn’t made the effort to wear makeup in a very long time, and while he’d always think of his mother as beautiful, he couldn’t help but compare this plain version of Ginny Miller to the vibrant woman who used to take pride in her appearance.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, walking over to place a kiss on her cheek, which she offered up to him. She smelled like sunshine and dirt . . . when he once remembered her being wrapped in the scent of the chocolate chip cookies she used to make for him and Trish. “How are you doing today?”
“Good,” she replied automatically as she washed her hands in the sink and gave him a small smile that was only a fraction of what it had once been, in happier times. “And you?”
He slathered a few slices of French bread with the garlic butter he’d made and set them on a baking sheet. “Same.” Yep, same general conversation every Sunday, too.