by Hannah Ford
“I’d like to speak to my son,” Katherine says, sounding haughty.
“Katherine,” I say, sighing. You know he doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“But you can talk to him! You can make him see! I just wanted what was best for his father, Abigail.”
“And you thought that what was best for him was to die?” I repeat incredulously. “To tell your son not to help him? To let Elijah believe that he’s the one who’s responsible for what happened to his father? That’s insane.” I take in a deep breath and try to calm myself. Yelling at Katherine isn’t going to help anything.
“Look,” I say. “Elijah has decided to start therapy. Once we talk to a therapist about it, maybe things will change.” This was my idea, and something Elijah grudgingly agreed to. Next week, Elijah is flying in the world’s most premiere neurologist, someone from France who’s done extensive research and work on the kind of brain damage Elijah’s father has. After we talk to her, we will make the decision on what to do next, and a therapist will be part of that decision. I can only assume that Elijah’s mother and what she did will be a part of that conversation and therapeutic process.
“Therapy!” Katherine scoffs at the notion. “What therapist is it? Where is the office? I should be there. They always blame the mother! Please, Abigail, you need to --”
“I don’t need to do anything,” I say. “Now, please, do not call here again. If we want to talk to you, we will call you. It’s upsetting to me and it’s upsetting to Elijah.”
I end the call firmly, and when I turn around, Elijah’s standing in the doorway.
“Who was that?” he asks, reaching for his phone.
I hand it to him, and he tucks it back into his pocket.
“It was your mother.”
He nods, studying me.
“I handled it.”
A moment of silence stretches between us, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to demand I tell him everything that happened during the conversation, to punish me for answering his phone.
But I level him with my eyes, my gaze strong and steady, letting him know that I have his back, that it’s okay to let me protect him for once, that he can cede control in certain things.
When he breaks my gaze, he glances around the room.
“You know, I remember the last time we were in here.” His arms encircle my waist, pulling me toward him. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember how I touched you?”
“Yes.”
He angles my jaw toward his, and his lips lower to mine, the kiss deepening until I’m breathless. When he pulls back, I take a second to look at him, my beautiful husband, my beautiful love, my beautiful future.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand and leading him back toward the party. “We need to get back to our guests.”
“I’m sure they would understand,” he protests.
I shake my head and smile in fake exasperation as I lead him back to our little party. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later, Mr. Armstrong.”
We have plenty of time for everything.
We have forever.
THE END
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