I don’t bother looking for Mom in the kitchen because I know where I will find her.
Outside, the weather has started to cool, and a breeze flows off the lake. Mom kneels next to a flower bed, her petite frame curled up like a snail in a shell. Her hair is flat and hangs in clumps around her face, uncombed, and she’s wearing a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt.
In her lethargic and weary state, she doesn’t notice me watching her from the top of the porch steps as she picks dead leaves off her rosebushes. She picks healthy leaves, too. That’s what people do sometimes—in order to remove the bad from life, we remove some of the good.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, my voice carrying to her on the breeze.
Mom starts and looks up at me where I’m standing on the porch, my hands balled into fists, anxiously awaiting the conversation we should have had years ago. For the first time in a long time, her eyes are alert, and I feel like she’s really seeing me.
“No, you don’t,” she says. She shakes her head and carefully pulls her gardening gloves off one at a time. She stands and brushes herself off.
“I do,” I say. “Those things I said to you when I saw you last...they were harsh. And not true. I, of all people, know that it takes two to make a relationship work. Or not work.”
Mom nods but doesn’t make a move to come closer. “I appreciate that.”
“That’s not all,” I go on, before I can change my mind. “It’s about Abby.”
She sucks in a breath at the mention of Abby’s name. It’s been so long since we’ve said it in each other’s presence. I realize now that I’ve feared it, worried my shame would be written all over my face.
Mom doesn’t speak. I can see by her expression that she’s afraid, too.
“I knew,” I say. “I knew she was pregnant.”
She blinks hard, trying to comprehend. Before she can say anything, I get it all out, purging the guilt from my body.
“She made me promise not tell anyone. And I knew she was sick. The night before, she was in pain. You know that she went to the hospital that night, but what I never told you is that I was with her. Since she was eighteen, she could check herself in, so...I drove her. I sat there with her for two hours, knowing the whole time I should have called you. I listened to that doctor say she had the stomach flu. And I believed him. And then I lied for her, so she could hide up in her room, and then...she died.” My breath hitches on the last word. I’ve never spoken any of this out loud, not to anyone. “If I’d been braver, or stronger, or smarter, I would have made the right decision. Abby would still be here. And I’m just so, so sorry.”
“Oh, Dylan,” Mom breathes. She brings her fingers to her mouth, a gesture I realize I’ve gotten from her. I didn’t want to turn into my mom—thought it would be the worst possible insult—but I see I already have. Finally, though, I understand that she hasn’t wanted to create this gap between her and the people she loves—it was the only thing she knew how to do to survive the pain. The same way I made sure there was always a safe distance between Cooper and my heart.
Minutes pass as Mom watches the grass turn from summer to fall. I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes—processing, digesting—as I listen to my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I’ve avoided telling her the truth for fifteen years, but these few minutes feel like an eternity.
Finally, she looks at me with tears in her eyes and says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
My heart breaks. Tears fill my eyes. It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t want Abby to be mad at me. I didn’t want you and Dad to be mad at me for not telling you sooner. I was so scared.”
She puts up a hand to stop me, unsatisfied with my answer. “No,” she says, her voice softer than I expect. “I mean, why didn’t you tell me all this a long time ago?”
I shake my head, unable to answer. Silent tears pour down my cheeks and drip off my chin. I hide my face behind my hands. It’s too hard to face her. Teenagers make mistakes all the time, but I never thought I would have to live with the consequences of my mistake for the rest of my life.
For a long minute, all I hear is my own sniffling, then the sound of Mom’s footsteps as she walks away from me. I thought I’d prepared myself for the reality that this conversation would never bring us back together, but now that it’s happening, I realize I’ve never heard a more painful sound in my life.
But then, inexplicably, I feel hands on my hair and Mom’s soft cheek against mine. I peek out from beneath my hands to see her red, tear-stained face looking back at me. She pulls me closer, and I bury my face in the fabric of her shirt and cry like I never allowed myself to—not when I was sixteen, not ever. Back then, I didn’t feel I had the right to ask for comfort. And in the years since, I blamed our distance on Mom because it was easier than admitting to myself that I pulled away first, too afraid to face my inquisition. But now, Mom squeezes me to her so tightly it hurts, and I revel in it because it’s the ferocity of a mother’s love, something I thought I’d never feel again.
She whispers my name over and over again, and her body shakes with her own sobs.
When neither one of us can cry anymore, we wipe our eyes, and Mom leads me to the patio table. She pulls two chairs out so we can sit facing each other. Once we’re settled, she says, “Dylan, I need you to listen to me, okay? For once in your life, hear me.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “Okay.”
She takes a deep breath. “I am so sorry you ever felt like Abby’s death was your fault. I know it must have been incredibly scary for you to have to deal with something like that when you were so young. But, sweetie...you did the right thing.”
I shake my head, but she cuts me off, placing her hand on mine.
“You did. You were loyal to your sister, and you helped her the best you could at the time. That’s what your dad and I have always wanted for you kids. We knew we couldn’t be involved in every part of your lives, but we hoped when you couldn’t come to us, you would lean on each other, and that’s exactly what you did. I couldn’t have asked anything more of you.”
“But if you’d known, maybe she would have had a chance,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “But maybe that’s not true either. Maybe even with the doctor’s help, it wouldn’t have been diagnosed in time.”
I know she’s right. That’s the reason I want my grant—because early testing for complications isn’t standard, even if the patient sees her doctor in the first weeks of pregnancy.
“We’ll never know,” Mom goes on. “But you can’t plague yourself with maybes. Trust me. I know. I’ve been doing it, too, and I didn’t realize how much it was hurting all of us. I’ve pushed everyone away, and I have to face the consequences of that.” She looks at her dirty, cracked fingernails. I flip my hand over and cover them with mine.
“I don’t want us to keep pushing each other away,” I say.
“Dylan, honey, I never meant to make you feel like I was pushing you away,” she chokes. She can barely get the words out. “I thought I was doing the right thing. After Abby died, you were so angry and withdrawn. I felt like I had already done everything wrong with Abby, and I didn’t want to do the same thing with you. So I gave you space, thinking that if I pushed you, you’d only push back harder. You got your stubbornness from me, you know,” she says with a wry laugh. “But I was wrong again. I should have made sure you knew without a doubt that I was there whenever you needed me. I wish Abby had known that, too. Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have kept her pregnancy a secret from me. Maybe, maybe, maybe.”
We’re both crying again, and my understanding of her self-condemnation is so deep that I’m rendered speechless.
Mom takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.
“The last time you we
re here,” she says softly, “you said you would never be like me.”
“Mom, I’m—”
She cuts me off. “You were right. I gave up—on my dreams, on my marriage, on finding new ways to be happy. But, Dylan, after everything you’ve been through, and all the adversity you’ve faced, you’ve never given up. I couldn’t be more proud to have you not be like me.”
I shake my head, fat tears rolling down my cheeks, wanting more than anything to close the gap between who we are as women.
Mom pulls me into another tight hug, and I feel like it’s the first step.
16
“You’re thinking about it,” Reese says from behind me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Before I’ve even looked at him, the memories of the last time we were together flash through my mind. Electricity shoots through me. Still.
“No, I’m not,” I say, but my smile gives me away. I stand in my backyard at the tree line, looking down at the staircase that leads to the creek—the place he made me promise to stay away from. I haven’t been tempted until now—now that the rest of the yard is complete. When I came home from work this afternoon, the moat had water running through it for the first time, starting to the left of the front door, wrapping around the house, traveling downward across our sideways-sloped backyard, and ending in a pool in a quiet corner surrounded by stone and grass. The bridge and the swing are both in place, and colorful flowers billow from beds along the house, almost like the flowers were there first, and the house had been carefully placed between them.
“Are you ready?” Reese asks me. An afternoon breeze blows and lifts my hair off my shoulders. I look back at him and smile.
“Yes.”
“Close your eyes then,” he says. He doesn’t seem the least bit dampened by me leaving him at the river, and I’m glad for that. He has other heartaches to sadden his spirit, and the world needs his smile.
I laugh but close my eyes. He doesn’t have to ask if I trust him. Trust is coming a lot easier these days.
Reese’s hand slips into mine, and he navigates me forward. “Steps,” he says.
I guide my foot down the first one and then the second. With every step, the scent in the humid air begins to change—water, and a certain unmistakable pollen. A scent I know very well. I open my mouth to identify it, but he stops me.
“Just pretend to be surprised, okay?”
I feel the ground soften when I step off the last stair and then Reese’s hands as he places them over my eyes. His chest is against my back, and his arms are around me. I smell his earthy fragrance mixed with that of my favorite flowers, stronger than I’ve ever smelled them before.
He puts his lips close to my ear and counts down, “Three...two...one...” Then he removes his hands, revealing his surprise. I bring my hand to my mouth, unable to breathe, unable to speak. Stargazer lilies. Everywhere. All around the bench I love to sit on while I watch fallen leaves ride the water downstream, and clumped together in corners. There are small flowering vines woven into the creases of the staircase where one step meets the next, so they look like they’ve been growing there for decades. Stepping-stones lead from the staircase down to the creek. Added up, it’s a Monet. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t believe it’s mine.
I turn to Reese, another beautiful thing that could have been mine in another time or place. I breathe in his smile, taking it inside me to sustain me for whatever lies ahead, to remind me of the woman I have become and the woman I still hope to be.
He says nothing, just reads me the way he does. I’ll miss that, too.
“Thank you for this,” I say. “It’s perfect. And so unexpected.”
“Well,” he says, “I wish I could take all the credit, but to tell you the truth...it was Dr. Caldwell’s idea.”
I look around. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted. I should have known.
“Oh, Cooper,” I say. No matter where I go or what I do, he’s there.
Reese turns his back to me, walks over to one of the flowers and runs a petal through his fingertips. The creek bubbles over the rocks beside us, punctuating the silence.
“These are from me, though,” he says, cupping the bulb of a white flower in his hand. I crouch down and put my nose to the petals. “Tulips. They represent serenity...and forgiveness.”
Forgiveness.
“You remembered,” I say, smiling.
“I’ll always remember you, Dylan.”
He wears a pensive grin and looks more like the man I first met months ago—the mysterious stranger. He’s pulling away. Or I am.
“I figured out what the Universe was waiting for,” I tell him.
He nods, mulls it over. “And?”
“I needed to find the courage to be honest,” I say. “And to come to the realization that I can’t change the past.”
“No,” he says, agreeing with me. “You can’t. But you can choose the future.”
“You helped me see that. So I have a lot more to thank you for than this.”
I reach for his hand, turn it over and trace my fingers along the calluses on his palm. There is so much evidence of life there. I wish I had more time to learn.
He turns my hand over in his and brings it up to his lips, places a kiss on my wrist.
“Dylan, I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear.”
I grin. “I would expect nothing different.”
“You love Cooper. You never stopped.”
I look away. I wanted to stop. I tried to.
I release his hand, but it isn’t disappointment that crosses his face. Instead, a quiet satisfaction.
“I guess you finally figured me out,” I say.
“No, you finally figured you out.”
I smile and give him a peck on the cheek, his facial hair tickling my jaw. I’ll always remember him, too. There’s so much of him here to remind me. I don’t want to forget. He will move on to another place, another yard, another woman, but his wisdom will stay here to guide me back to what’s important whenever I feel lost.
“Thank you. Truly,” I say.
“For what?”
“The yard. Listening. Understanding.”
“All part of the job,” he says with a wink.
He steps forward to smooth a hand over my hair and places a kiss on my forehead.
Colder weather is around the corner, and everything Reese built here will soon wither and die. I know it will all come back next year, but I mourn for it anyway—this sweet perfection that has been so short-lived. Right now, it just feels like goodbye.
* * *
Dad’s apartment is two blocks from his office. It’s surreal to walk into the new building, trying to take in the unfamiliar surroundings and attach them to the image of my father I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating. The lobby is contemporary, decorated in classy beiges and cool blues. The feel is exactly the opposite of Dad’s antiquated office building and the classic elegance of the house he spent his entire life in. The security guard at the entrance bows his head at me as I pass. I take the elevator to the eighth floor.
Dad answers the door before I’ve finished knocking. I didn’t warn him I’d be stopping by, but I’m guessing he doesn’t get many visitors here yet. The open door reveals a smile and his longer gray curls just touching his forehead. His cheeks are rosy, and his face has a subtle fullness to it. He looks happy.
“Dylan!”
My name bursts out of Dad’s mouth, and he pulls me into a hug. I allow the small amount of moisture in my eyes to soak into Dad’s shirt. I recognize that my emotions aren’t sadness, per se, but more a reminiscence for a chapter of our lives that is forever closed. Crossing the threshold into Dad’s one-bedroom apartment makes that more evident than anything else has.
> “Make yourself at home,” Dad says as he closes the door and bustles into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”
I don’t. “Water would be great,” I say.
I cross the living room to the large windows that allow the sunlight to fill every corner of the small space. There’s a thin strip of balcony on the other side of the glass and a view that’s even better than the one outside Dad’s office. Below is a lush canopy of trees and, beyond that, a café with cute two-top outdoor tables. I can picture Dad down there, sipping his black coffee and reading his newspaper on Saturday mornings. I can picture him having a life without Mom, without family holidays, without all of us under the same roof at the same time. It’s like a punch to the stomach.
“Here you go, baby girl,” Dad says.
I turn back to Dad and take the water, setting it on the coffee table. All of the furniture is new, giving it a model-home feel. I wonder if he hired someone to furnish it for him—he never had a knack for that type of thing. But across from the couch, instead of a TV, is a row of bookshelves, proving that Dad is finding ways to make this place his own.
“Why did you decide you should be the one to move out?” I ask him. “The house has been in your family for generations.”
“That’s exactly why,” he says with a lopsided grin. “It was time for something new. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to your mother. That’s been her home for almost thirty years. And that’s where all our memories of Abby are. She needs those reminders more than I do.”
I nod, not sure what to say.
“Sit down,” Dad encourages. I take a place on the couch, and he takes the reading chair next to me. “How are you?” he asks. “How are things with Cooper?”
I laugh. “No beating around the bush, huh?”
“You never called me about separating your assets. I’d hoped maybe you worked things out.”
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