by Katie Cross
I sent the text without caring whether he’d respond or what he’d say. Chris was a closed chapter in my life. One I could now move forward from.
No matter what he said, it simply didn’t matter anymore.
Chapter 18
The Right Thing
“Mom? Can you hear me?”
Mom’s groggy, swollen eyes opened into mere slits, then closed again. Her breath was ragged and a little weak. They’d taken the breathing tube out of her mouth. Without it, she seemed less frail. I brushed a lock of hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered open again halfheartedly.
“Hey,” I said with a smile. “It’s just me.”
She blinked several times. Her eyes darted around the room. When she tried to speak, nothing came out. Her nurse, Jessica, stood on the other side of the bed. She held out a styrofoam cup with a straw and a little ice water.
“Here, Melissa,” she said. “Take one small swallow. It’ll help your throat, which will be sore from the tube.”
Mom attempted it, then managed to whisper, “Where am I?”
“At the hospital,” I said. “Do you remember the ambulance coming?”
She nodded.
“After we arrived in the ER and they put a stent in your heart, you went to the ICU, then transferred here for a quadruple bypass surgery. You’ve been sedated for several days while you recover.”
Her eyes appeared sluggish, as if her thoughts were thick and slow. I doubted she’d remember the conversation with all the sedatives in her body, but it was good to see her responding to something.
“So … tired,” she murmured, her eyes dragging open slowly. “Pain.”
“I know, Mom. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here all day. Jessica can get you some more pain meds, all right?”
With great effort, she looked at me again. Tears filled her eyes. “So sorry,” she whispered. Her lower lip trembled. I shook my head.
“No, Mom. Don’t apologize now. All is forgiven. Everything is fine. We’ve both made mistakes and both have a lot of change ahead of us. You’re strong. You pulled through. Now we’ll get you through the rest and move forward from there, okay? For now, you just heal.”
She turned her head toward me and nodded a little. Her eyes fluttered closed, back into sleep, and her face relaxed. I let out a long breath and pressed my forehead to hers.
“We’ll get through it together.”
Janine wore a plum outfit the next time I saw her, with a pencil skirt that stopped just at the knees. When she crossed her ankles in her tan pumps, something in her put-togetherness comforted me, like there was something stable in this shifting reality we called life.
“I’m very proud of your effort with your mom.” Janine gave me a warm smile. “That was a difficult situation you were in.”
“Thanks.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Lighter.”
“Good.”
“More available in my own head. For now, anyway.”
“I feel I must warn you that forgiveness isn’t always one and done. As you and your mom rebuild or start fresh, you’ll both continue to make mistakes. And you’ll have to work on forgiving those as well.”
“I can do that.”
She gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Welcome to adulthood, where no one is perfect and all of us need compassion.”
I swallowed, thinking about the new landscape ahead. Living in the trailer without Mom for the past several weeks had been surreal and quiet. Even though Mom never said much, she had a far greater presence than I’d ever realized.
“You know what surprised me the most?” I asked. “Understanding things from her point of view.”
“There’s an expectation that parents must be perfect, but that certainly isn’t truth. No one is infallible. To expect that would be to set everyone up for failure. Do you still plan on moving out?”
“Yeah. But not because I’m angry at her. Because it’s the right thing to do. When it comes to my mom, I’m part of the problem. But … I’m scared to leave.”
“Living with your mom has enabled her to be reclusive. If she has to get out for food, maybe that could change her own paths. Maybe not, but at least she has more opportunity.”
I met Janine’s eyes, understanding from her suddenly soft tone that she was trying to break something to me gently. I had enabled my mom’s reclusiveness all these years. Shopping for her. Running the errands. Filling the car with gas. Even cleaning the house. It left a heavy, ugly feeling inside me, like a cloud about to burst. There was still so much more to do.
“I’m not done yet here, am I?” I asked.
Janine held out her hands a little, in an open gesture.
“You control your own path, Rachelle. But if I were to weigh in with my professional opinion, I would say, no. You aren’t. We’ve made excellent progress, and I’m very happy about your work. But I believe there are areas we haven’t explored yet that need a little more light.”
Mulling that over brought me a modicum of relief. I could feel I wasn’t done yet. Knowing I could come back to Janine every week to chip away at the glacial ice blocks still locked around my heart made me less afraid.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile.
She sat a little straighter. “It’s my pleasure, Rachelle. Truly.”
The acute care rehabilitation center smelled like alcohol when I stepped inside.
Two nurses waved at me from behind a medication cart as I slid past them and down Hall C. Mom’s room sat near a fake bouquet of flowers and a window. I slid inside, sandwich bag rustling in my left hand, a bottle of water in my right.
Mom sat in a wide chair in the middle of the room. Oxygen tubing still stretched across her face, but her hair appeared recently brushed and lay on her shoulders in damp strands. Her room felt crisp with air conditioning and a light floral scent, belying the sultry August heat outside.
“Hey, Mom.” I closed the door with my hips. “Today going all right?”
“Hi.”
I set the bag on a table and pulled two sandwiches out. She grabbed her remote and muted the TV. I set a six-inch sandwich in front of her, then grabbed mine.
“Turkey,” I said. “No mayo. Whole wheat. Lots of veggies. Extra mustard in the packets. Your favorite water bottle here.” I dug into my pockets and pulled out a few sugar-free flavoring packets. “And there was one black cherry left. I’ll go grab some more later today.”
The oxygen hissed as she pulled another breath in.
“Thanks.”
Although pale, she seemed brighter than she had in years. The oxygen and CPAP machine had been helping her sleep at night. Thanks to the portion-controlled food—and the lack of constant snacking—she’d dropped twenty pounds since leaving the hospital three weeks before. Although her chest pained her and she acted terribly shy around most of the staff, I imagined being around people again had helped. Her anxiety attacks about not being home had decreased, though I still saw wildness in her eyes every now and then.
Mom unwrapped her sandwich. I sat down across from her. “I walked to the end of the hall today,” she said.
“Nice. That’s ten feet farther than yesterday.” The wrap around my sandwich crinkled when I peeled it back. “Plan on going farther tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“How does it feel?”
She paused, lip jutted out in thought. “Painful on my knees, but … not so bad.”
“Good.”
For several minutes, we ate in cordial silence. Mom had been unusually quiet, staring out the window instead of at the TV—which still rang in the background. Sometimes I felt moments of total clarity about our relationship, and other times a sense of uncertainty. Could we really rebuild? Would things actually move forward, or would she disappear again into food and television as soon as she returned home?
I didn’t know. Her choices were her own.
“Any news from Doctor Wu?” I asked, leaning back in the chair.
“Still
no infection, which is good. Pain control is better. The swelling in my legs is going down. If things continue this way, I’ll be home within weeks. Hopefully by the end of the month.”
“Excellent.”
She paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. Then she set it down and looked at me—or close enough, anyway. She never made eye contact.
“You’re going to move out, aren’t you?” she asked.
I sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it. I think it’s time, once you’re safe enough on your own.”
Without me to clean the house and run all the errands, she’d be forced to maintain some semblance of life and activity. Sophia also owned the studio apartment above the Frosting Cottage. She was going to let me rent. A long silence swelled between us. She picked her sandwich back up.
“I understand.”
“But I’m going to wait until I know you’re back on your feet and in a good place.”
She nodded once. “Thanks.”
Her lack of protest was as good of an acceptance as I’d get. In some ways, I could almost consider it an apology. Mom had never balked at the idea of me moving away because it had never been brought up, as if we both lived under the assumption that I’d stay there forever. Maybe I would have.
“Mom?”
She turned my way. “Hmm?”
“I’m glad you’re doing okay.”
She paused, blinked, and managed a faltering smile. “Me too.” Her eyes flickered to the clock hanging above her door. “How much longer?”
“Ten minutes.”
“She’s nice?”
“Annoyingly so.”
She chewed on her bottom lip and played with a piece of lettuce that stuck out the side of the sandwich. I set mine aside, leaned forward, and covered her hand with mine.
“Mom? Janine’s great. There’s no reason to be afraid. It’s really nice having someone to talk to judgment-free.”
Mom hesitated, then nodded. She turned back to her sandwich to finish it off. I sank back into the chair with a little sigh.
No gauge existed of how Mom would truly react to anything when she moved back or I moved out or when Janine dove deeper into her issues. Mom’s illness was more than just television and eating. It was retreat. Terror. Abandonment.
Even more questions floated around us about what would happen after the acute care center stay was done. How would we pay the medical bills? Would she be able to get herself to appointments? There were a lot of things to figure out.
But at least my happiness wasn’t one of them.
“It’s so … weird.”
Bitsy and I stood in the kitchen, glancing over the house. Without Mom’s potato chips rustling or TV blaring, everything seemed too quiet. Strangely silent in a way that strangled any sense of home out of the place.
“It’s … tired,” Bitsy said, running a finger over a stack of unread newspapers still in their plastic wrapping. Beneath it, a cardboard box filled with cans of corn pressed into the carpet. It had been there awhile, if I remembered right.
“I guess you’re right. Now is a good time to start over.”
She nodded. Now that Mom wasn’t occupying the room, I gazed on everything with a more critical eye. Thick layers of dust on the mantle. Matted carpet. Crumbs on the couch, which showed wear on only two cushions. Bitsy squinted, peering at the window. Her nose twitched. “How long since this place has had a good scrubbing?”
“Well, before I broke my ankle. The chaos must be killing you.”
“I’m feeling twitchy.”
I glanced at the piles of junk mail Mom hadn’t thrown away. Coupons littered the counter. A paper cup filled with old pencils teetered on the edge of the counter. The dusky air seemed to settle into my skin. My arms itched.
Bitsy shoved her sleeves higher on her arms. She nodded toward the windows. “Well,” she said. “Let’s get to work, then. Open those windows up. Let’s move the TV into the garage so we can have the carpets cleaned. We’re going to revolutionize this hovel.”
For the next two hours, I obeyed Bitsy’s commands like a soldier. She rooted around beneath the sink, extracting cleaning supplies, sponges, paper towels, and old vacuum filter bags. What she couldn’t find, she provided from the back of her car, where she kept the cleaning supplies for her maid business. While I threw open windows and doors and vacuumed blinds, she sorted through the food in the pantry and fridge, throwing out anything expired—and a few of Mom’s unhealthier stashes, like entire bags of jelly beans and licorice.
She fired up the vacuum and attacked the moldy candies hidden beneath the couch. Deep indents in the carpet proved that the furniture hadn’t been moved in years. I pitched old kleenex and candy wrappers into the garbage. Bitsy dusted every surface. Then I washed countless dishes, and together we scrubbed all the kitchen cupboards. Putting a fresh face on everything made it seem as if I could rub out the past and start anew.
The trailer, though still shabby, smelled like pine instead of mildew. Hot, fresh air drifted through the room, washing the old, damp smell from every corner. I’d rearranged the front room, removed the TV, and put a picture of Mom and me on the mantle. One quick call and the carpets would be cleaned the next day. Mom would freak out when she came back, even though we hadn’t touched her room.
But maybe she wouldn’t. I never thought she’d talk to Janine either.
The chime of a text message caught my attention. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket.
Hey, you up for watching me do a gig tonight? William asked.
I grinned, then wrote back. Definitely.
Sweet. I’ll pick you up at six. Let’s do dinner before.
“C’mon,” Bitsy said, hauling the last of nine black garbage bags to the front door. “Let’s take all this out to the garbage and go for a short walk. It’s about time you start working that ankle again. Can’t believe your physical therapist approved you for full weight bearing.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Your marathon would have been today.”
“I know.”
“How are you feeling about that?”
I grinned. “Marathons can come later. This feels better.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulder, even though both of us were covered with dirt and grime. Looking on the fresh rooms eased some of the discomfort I felt knowing I’d soon start packing to move out. At least I could leave Mom in a good space and let her decide if she would maintain it.
“It was you who paid my counseling bills, wasn’t it?” I asked, struck by a sudden thought.
She cast me a sidelong glance. “I never said that.”
“I figured it out.”
“Not just me,” she said. “All of the Health and Happiness Society pitched in. For Lexie and Megan, they felt like it was one of the only ways they could support you from far away. For me and Mira? We just love you.”
I tightened my hold on her.
“Thanks.”
She squeezed me close. “Anytime. The Health and Happiness Society sticks together. Dirty houses and all.”
Acknowledgments
You’ll Never Know was like birth.
Months in the making. Lots of thought, planning, ideas, and stalling.
LOTS of stalling.
Then it hit me all at once, and I knew I had to stop putting off my own demons and get Rachelle’s story into the world. Within months, this book rushed into the world, ready to go. It’s like she finally knew what she wanted to say. Or, perhaps, what I felt needed to be said.
For this book, I have to thank my excellent team of beta readers that had my back—and made this book as sculpted and beautiful as it is. Jennifer J, Kristen P, the other Kristen P, Darcee, Karli, Ta-rah—who is my Lexie—and Kelsey K.
My production team always amazes me, so thanks to Kella, Jenny, Catherine, and Carissa for your help and endless patience. I adore all of you.
Jennifer, Ginger, and Nancy—you’ll never know what you’ve given me. Thanks
for being my Janine.
LM and BG—you are my world.
Most of all, thanks to Husband, who saw in me (and my books) what I never saw in myself.
About the Author
Katie Cross grew up in the mountains of Idaho, where she still loves to play when she gets the chance.
If she’s not writing, you can find her traveling, working as a nurse, trail running with her husband and two dogs, or curled up with a book and a cup of chai.
To learn more about Katie, visit her website.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Rights and Disclaimers
Dedication
You’ll Never Know
1 • Shattered Euphoria
2 • The Plan
3 • Too Far
4 • That’s It
5 • Won’t Happen Now
6 • Roles
7 • Forgiveness
8 • Attractive
9 • Opportunity
10 • Wicked Smart
11 • Rearranging
12 • Inspiration
13 • Reframe
14 • A Long Time
15 • Into the Past
16 • Hope
17 • Compassion
18 • The Right Thing
What’s Next?
Acknowledgments
About the Author