The Secret Keeper Fulfilled by Brea Brown

Author:Brea Brown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wayzgoose Press

In addition to being so busy that the days pass in a blur of diapers, naps, and mealtimes, part of the reason I haven’t been as full of the Christmas spirit as usual may have something to do with the lingering tension between my mom and me. And Brice and Mary. The last time I checked, Brice still didn’t know his mom’s Christmas plans or if she’ll be at Vince and Jen’s wedding.

At least I’m talking to my mom again. Sort of. My nerves can’t handle calling her every other day, but I try to call her once a week. Nothing has been resolved, and we talk about nothing significant and seem to be tiptoeing around each other, but that’s relatively normal for us, so I’m calling it good for now. It’s the Stratford way.

Even after years of being an honorary member of the Stratford family, Brice still doesn’t understand our propensity for grudge-holding or problem-burying. When he finally couldn’t stand not knowing the whole story, he seized what I’m sure he thought would be his opportunity to fix it with one golden piece of insight.

Standing at the pedestal sink in our bathroom early one morning a couple of weeks ago, when we were still the only ones awake in the house, he sprayed a blob of shaving cream into his hand and, lathering his face, asked, “Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on between you and your mom?” He rinsed his hands, picked up his razor, and regarded me with raised eyebrows through the mirror before leaning forward and making his first stroke down the right side of his face.

I used emptying the hamper as an excuse for not answering promptly, as I debated whether I wanted to get into it right then. I had a feeling he already had his “Love one another; don’t let the sun go down on your anger” speech ready (although the sun had gone down nearly thirty times at that point). While I stalled, he made short work of the shadow on his cheeks, chin, and neck, splashed water on his face to rinse the remaining foam, and patted himself dry with a hand towel.

Massaging lotion into his newly smooth skin, he turned to face me, rested his hand on his towel-clad hip, and said, “Well?”

Arms full of dirty clothing, I told him what she said, word-for-word, to upset me.

His Adam’s apple clicked, his face hardened, and he left the bathroom without a word. There ended the sink-side sermon before it began.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told him the part about Mom and Dad questioning our “poor choices.” But I needed him to see my pique has been justified, and none of his platitudinous proverbs would apply this time.

He hasn’t said anything more about it since then, but I’m sure Mom’s words were part of the inspiration last night for him chucking the laundry out of sight for another day. Maybe he’s determined to turn our poor choices into doable, right ones.

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