Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Has something happened to her?” I finally broke in. My thoughts were going every which way.

  “She fell. That’s why I was trying—”

  “Fell how?” I asked and, turning my back on both men, wrapped my arm around my waist. I could have used the feel of one of the pets against my leg, but the cats were apparently smarting about my bed being taken by someone else, and Jonah was a lost cause. Or maybe Liam simply needed them more right then, though I couldn’t focus on that.

  “Down the stairs at home. It happened at night, so she was lying there a while, unconscious apparently, and then, when she came to, it took her a while to get to a phone. She broke her hip and a wrist.”

  I could see it clear as day. The house was a small Colonial, and those stairs were narrow. Liam and I had taken our share of spills on it, but a tumbling child was one thing, a sixty-five-year-old woman with a full-sized body, longer limbs, and osteoporosis another.

  But sixty-five wasn’t old. My mother wasn’t old.

  “How bad?” I asked. I shouldn’t have been frightened, but I was. My chest shouldn’t have clenched, but it did.

  “The wrist was an easy set, but the hip needed surgery.”

  “Surgery? When?”

  “Last week—”

  “And you’re only calling now?” A hand touched my back. The comfort of it calmed me enough to realize that I was being unfair, but my mother’s assistant was on it.

  “I’ve been trying Liam all week,” she argued. “I left message after message, and told him to call back, begged him to call back. I didn’t want to leave details on voice mail, but finally I did say that his mother broke her hip, and still he didn’t call back. So either he didn’t listen to my messages, or he just didn’t want to call—because I don’t lie, I have never lied, and that was actually a problem with us, my honesty was hard for him to take. But here’s another thing,” she went on, still in defense mode. “She didn’t want me to call either of you. She said that Liam wouldn’t be any help, and that you’re too busy and not to bother you and that she’d do just fine, but I don’t think she is. She’s sleeping on the living room sofa because she can’t climb—”

  “How do they treat a broken hip?” I asked. “What did the surgery do?”

  “They put in a single-compression hip screw. The procedure was straightforward, and Margaret had no complications. They had her up and walking the day after surgery, but they wanted her to go to rehab, and she refused. She says she has plenty of friends who can help. Only when her friends call, she tells them she’s fine. I mean, I called one of them when I couldn’t reach you or Liam. Alice Mahr?”

  I knew Alice. She and her husband had been at my wedding. She would have known that Mom and I were estranged, but the fact that Mom hadn’t told her where I was living now spoke volumes.

  “She didn’t know how to reach you, either,” Annika said, “but at least she already knew about the fall when I called her. She talks with your mother a lot, but Margaret tells her not to come over. She says she’s groggy from meds and needs to sleep. The church women bring food, but I don’t think she’s eating it. She’s lost weight. Honestly? I think she’s depressed.”

  That possibility upset me nearly as much as the image of my mother lying at the foot of the stairs in the dark. I knew about depression. I knew how paralyzing it could be. I also knew where it could lead.

  Rationally, I asked, “Is anyone with her?”

  “She has drop-ins. The VNA comes every morning to check her incision. A physical therapist comes every afternoon to get her up and moving around.”

  “Can she not do that on her own?”

  “Oh, she can. She has a walker, but I don’t think she’s using it much. She really needs one of you there.”

  “Okay,” I said and turned to stare at Liam. He would have to go. If Mom had told her assistant not to bother me because I was too busy, that was code for her not wanting me there. It hurt still, stung like a bad burn. But after four years of reaching out and being treated as dead, I accepted it as fact. “What about the bakery?” I asked.

  “I’m on it.”

  “Is my mother on it, too?” This was my litmus test. The Buttered Scone was her baby.

  There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Vaguely.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m her second in command. I can do what she does. We talk a couple of times a day, so she knows what’s going on, but honestly? I don’t think she cares like she did.”

  Score one for depression.

  “So will you come?” Annika asked.

  “Liam will.” But as soon as the words were out, Liam was shaking his head. So I said, “One of us will.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, thank you so much,” Annika said with a gratitude as palpable as her relief had been at the start, which made me believe her when she said, “I’ve only been at The Buttered Scone for three years, but I really love your mother, and I know she’s in pain. She needs family with her”—she caught in a loud breath—“but I won’t tell her you’re coming.” In that instant, we became conspirators. “She’ll be furious that I called you, and if I tell her I recognized your face in People from a shot in her wallet, she’ll fire me for sure. I only went through her wallet because I thought there’d be some clue how to reach you, and I felt totally guilty the whole time. I’ll tell her that I kind of put two and two together from the friends of hers I talked with—I even called her priest, I really did—but not one of them knew. Why didn’t they know? Margaret is a proud woman.”

  “Stubborn,” I murmured before I could help myself.

  “That, too, but she wouldn’t like me sticking my nose in her business. Only this really is an emergency.”

  The facts suggested it—assuming they were correct, and I had no cause to doubt Annika. She sounded coherent and genuinely concerned. I ended the call, promising to be in touch.

  Edward and Liam had gotten the gist of what had happened from my half of the conversation. As I returned the phone to Edward, though, my eyes were on Liam.

  He hadn’t moved from the sofa—had a proprietary hand on my dog now and was sitting straight. “I’m not going,” he said. “You’re the girl. You’ll know what to do with bandages and bathroom stuff. I can’t help Mom in the shower.”

  I opened my mouth to argue. But the words didn’t come. The issue wasn’t Liam’s being male. Many men helped their sick mothers. Many health care workers were male.

  The issue wasn’t even Liam’s having been Mom’s hero, until he was not.

  The issue was me. I hadn’t talked with my mother since she had blamed me for Dad’s death and disowned me. I had tried to break through the wall many, many times and failed. The issue was whether I could try again.

  I looked up at Edward. His hand had dropped from my back, but he remained close. I saw understanding in his eyes, perhaps even expectation. Beyond it, though, was just that little bit of distance between us saying that the decision was mine.

  My gaze fell to his bare chest. The hair there had never been heavy, but seeing it for the first time now in the light of day, I saw a whisper of gray. It was the same gray that glinted in his finger-combed bed-head. It was also on his face, in the beard that was so short but so dense.

  Five years later, he was the same, but not. He was five years older, five years more experienced, intuitive, sensitive—whatever. And me? I was five years older, too, and, if so, I had to be bolder. Sure, I could bully Liam into taking care of Mom. But she was my mother, too, and as independent, as self-sufficient, as stubborn, maybe even as angry as she was, she needed help.

  We are our choices. It wasn’t a Momism. Margret McGowan Reid was too devoted to the church to admire an existentialist like Sartre. But I had studied him in school, and my friends and I had glommed onto the words. We are our choices. Five years ago, I chose to take my eyes off the road. Then I chose to divorce Edward. I chose to reinvent myself as a makeup artist. I cho
se to move to Devon.

  Those were all big choices. But this felt like one, too. I was at a crossroad. After behaving badly yesterday, I had ended up alone with my green velvet box and no one to love. Here, now, today was my chance to be someone new and different—someone better. The issue, I realized as I stood with my eyes on Edward’s and my heart wavering, was responsibility.

  “I’ll go,” I told him with quiet resolve and took a quick breath. “I’ll have to miss work. Can we get Ronan Dineen to cover?”

  “Joyce will handle it,” he said, thumbing through his contacts as he started for the stairs. “Give me five to get dressed. I’m driving.”

  “Uh—”

  He turned midflight, those pale-blue eyes spearing mine. They held past and present, maybe even future, but no matter what, they dared me to argue. And honestly? I needed him to make sure I got there.

  “Call Shanahan,” he said and, resuming the climb, reached the top of the stairs in two strides.

  * * *

  It was only seven-thirty, so I wasn’t surprised when Shanahan didn’t answer his office line. When he didn’t pick up his cell, either, I texted. My mother broke her hip. I just got the call. I have to go to CT. Yes? He would allow it, and if he didn’t, let him send the State Police after me. Edward was driving. I felt safe.

  We were barely through the center of Devon, driving through a light, misting rain, when I texted Kevin an identical message. Within seconds, he replied. Are you OK?

  My finger hovered over the phone. Kevin had issues with Edward. He had taken a step back after Town Meeting, seeming to accept that Edward’s feelings for me were genuine. Still, I sensed a lingering element of something that was either protectiveness or jealousy.

  Whichever, I couldn’t lie, not to Kevin. So I typed, Edward’s driving. He’s being good.

  I’d have driven, Kevin texted back, and in the midst of my turmoil, I felt a sweet warmth.

  I know. Love you for that.

  You okay seeing your mom?

  No. But I have to. There’s no one else.

  That’s not why you have to.

  I smiled at the guy’s insight before typing, I know that, too. I love you, Kev.

  He sent two lines of kiss-blowing emojis. Buoyed by those, I dared check out who else had sent texts since People had arrived. There were the usual suspects—Alex, my book group, and—oh yes—Michael Shanahan from last night with a simple Careful, Maggie message. But there was nothing from Grace.

  I tried calling. When she didn’t pick up, I left a message with the basics, so that she wouldn’t look for me at work. The message had to be shocking, first mention of my mother, then mention of her fall. Either should have been enough for Grace to immediately call back. When she didn’t, I texted, Are you there? Then I set the phone in my lap and watched the road, but my mind was racing from Grace to Michael to Mom and back. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.

  “Music?” Edward asked.

  “No—yes—uh, maybe.” I breathed in. “What do you have?”

  He passed me his phone. I scrolled through his stations. Aside from a few additions, the list was the same as when we were married. As was mine, I thought, and the absurdity of the situation struck me. My ex-husband driving me to my mother’s house?

  In some regards, it made perfect sense. Edward knew the situation and the players. He was rational and calm. I trusted him to get me there and back intact.

  In other regards, though, it made no sense at all—no sense that the call had come to his phone while he was in my bed, where he had spent the night, with me. It made no sense that he had known to come to me when I was feeling so low, no sense that we still had such a strong emotional connection, no sense that the sex was so good. Our lovemaking had died soon after Lily did. But here it was, reborn hotter than ever.

  I studied him without fully turning my head. He wore a black turtleneck, jeans, and his barn jacket, so only his head and hands were bare. His profile was strong, but his hands were what fascinated me now—fingers that were solid and agile, that had touched every inch of my body last night and brought so much pleasure. That I should be so turned on by Edward in spite of all the grief we’d shared made no sense at all.

  And yet, sitting here with him in a mix of new car, virile man, and misty rain smells, hearing the shush of the tires speeding over the road and a crescendo of shushing when we passed or were passed, it felt like the most natural thing of all.

  I didn’t need music. Between sounds and thoughts, there was plenty of noise. Handing back the phone, I focused on the road. Visibility wasn’t great; we drove in and out of ground fog. The wipers kicked in every ten seconds or so, picked up when the mist became a drizzle, then slowed again.

  My phone lit. Shanahan. Seriously? he wrote.

  With my emotions in high gear, his doubt set me off. Would I do this for kicks? My mother hasn’t talked to me in four years. The call came from her assistant. I punched Send before fully analyzing the wisdom of it, but was angry enough to add, Trust me, I don’t want to be going, but she’s my mother. I sent that one off with a huff and muttered, “Like having to ask permission helps…”

  “Only a few months left,” Edward said and gave my hand a squeeze. “Warm enough?” He stretched a long arm toward the middle console anyway, able fingers setting my heated seat to high. I hadn’t thought to ask, but the heat was nice.

  How long will you be there? Shanahan texted.

  It was an interesting question. I haven’t thought that far. Just the day, I think. Neither of us had overnight bags. I have to see how she is.

  Let me know.

  Returning the phone to my lap, I refocused on the road. We had joined I-89 heading toward White River Junction. It was a route I had driven many times, mostly to see Shanahan, which was part of my punishment and, therefore, welcome in its way. Only now, here, in Edward’s car, with Edward and an illusion of normalcy, did I find having a probation officer humiliating.

  I closed my eyes, pictured a mountain stream, inhaled and exhaled to the sound of trickling water.

  “You good?” Edward’s deep voice asked.

  My eyes popped open just as his darted me a quick glance. I darted one back that held doubt.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” he said.

  “Tell that to my heart. What if she refuses to see me?”

  “She won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She needs you.”

  My phone screen lit. Barely, I read.

  “Grace,” I told Edward and texted, Is Chris okay?

  Contrite, she replied, but made no comment about my past, which she certainly would have, if Chris had told her. Suddenly gets it. Realizes what a big deal this is. Did it take People to convince him?

  Possibly, I thought, though I wondered whether my confession had played even a small role. That would be redeeming.

  How are YOU? I asked.

  Nervous. Hiding. Angry at the kid.

  I didn’t respond. I got the nervous and hiding part, but the angry-at-the-kid part hit too close to home.

  “They say a mother’s love is unconditional,” I said aloud, “but which is more abiding—a mother’s love or a child’s need for it?”

  Edward was quiet at first. “You do need her love.”

  “But does she love me?”

  “She’s your mother.”

  “It’s been four years. I’ve reached out. She doesn’t respond.”

  “Emotions are complex.”

  “That’s my point. Can she love me even if she can’t forgive me?”

  It was a minute before he said, “Can you love anyone, if you can’t forgive yourself?”

  The message was for me, but I wasn’t there yet. “What if she tells me to leave?”

  “I’ll talk with her.”

  “She hates you.”

  His smile was crooked. “True. So maybe I need to be doing this, too.”

  But I wasn’t there yet, either. “If she doesn’t want me i
n her house, what can I do for her?”

  “Make lunch.”

  That raised a whole other issue. “Annika said the church brought food, but how do I know it’s still fresh? I should be bringing food myself. That’s what a good daughter would do.”

  “A good daughter would wait and see what she has and what she wants. I can always make a supermarket run.”

  Now there was a distraction. Edward and I used to food shop together when we first met, not so much once we were married. My career had always been more forgiving than his, even after Lily was born.

  “Well, yeah, that’s another thing I did wrong,” Edward said when his offer hung in their air. “I could’ve helped more. I’ve gotten pretty good at it since then. Necessity is the mother, and all.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d order online and have it delivered.”

  “Sometimes I did.”

  “When you were really busy.”

  “When I didn’t want to be seen.”

  “Because people might recognize you?” I asked, thinking collateral damage.

  But his expression held its own brand of shame. “When I felt like shit about me. When I hated work and missed you and couldn’t see the future. I ordered paper towels online and had pizza delivered and watched Homeland.”

  “Homeland. Not too real?” Game of Thrones was fantasy, which was the only reason I could bear the violence.

  “Yes, too real. That’s why it helped. It got me out of myself.” He thought. “But the supermarket grew on me. Walking up and down aisles pushing a cart is mind-numbing.”

  So food shopping was his CALM. I used the reminder to take another slow breath, before returning to the subject of Mom. “Old people break hips. My mother isn’t old.”