Mom’s mind seemed to shift, eyes suddenly clinging to me in ways that had nothing to do with food. There was something in them that was so strong, so wanting—but gone as quickly as I identified it, so that I was left to wonder if I had simply imagined what I wanted to see.
I might have asked, but didn’t dare. Feelings were crucial. We had to talk about them, but right now facts were safer. They were also major, given her health.
“How’s your doctor?” I asked her as Edward cracked eggs into a bowl.
“He’s fine.”
“Do you have faith in him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you take for pain?”
Her gaze pointed to the windowsill. “A half dose of whatever’s in that bottle.”
Edward stopped beating eggs and leaned forward to read the label. “Percocet.”
“You never liked taking pills,” I said.
“I still don’t. They make me woozy. That may be why I’m having trouble…” She went quiet and frowned.
“Trouble seeing me?” I had known it wouldn’t be easy, still I felt a sharp pang.
“Trouble believing you’re here.”
“How could I not come? You’re my mother.”
Her eyes moved over my face, taking in my bangs, the sheen on my cheeks, the balm on my lips.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
“You look different.”
“I have to be,” I said with enough apology to make it a perfect opening to discuss the past.
Margaret, too, was in the past, but not where I thought. Eyes haunted, voice unsteady, she asked, “If a mother sends her child away, is she still a mother?”
My breath caught. Uncanny how similar it was to the question I had asked myself so many times. My version differed by a few words, but the agony of puzzling out a new reality was the same.
“Yes,” I said, because Margaret would always be my mother. “Same if a mother’s child dies.” I had to believe that. Otherwise, Lily wouldn’t continue to exist.
“I wasn’t a good mother.”
“I’m the one who wasn’t.”
“It’s an awful thing I did.”
“No, Mom, my fault, all mine—” A shrill whistle sounded. Startled, I sat straight. But it was the kettle, just the kettle.
Edward turned off the gas, and the whistle died off, leaving the sizzle of eggs in the pan and my grandmother’s soft voice in my mind. Tea is my handyman, she used to say. He fixes everything.
“Irish Breakfast?” I asked my mother.
“Please.”
I found tea bags in their usual cabinet to the left of the sink, found mugs in their usual cabinet to the right, and poured water from the kettle that I had used hundreds of times growing up. As computer literate and social-media savvy as my mother was, in these things she remained a creature of habit.
When I brought the cups to the table, she was shifting carefully. “Is that chair uncomfortable?” I asked. “Can I get a cushion? Would you rather lie down?”
She didn’t answer. Rather, seeming baffled, she was looking back at Edward. He had put toast in the toaster and was at the stove again. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. Her voice was timid, but at least she was addressing him directly. “You look different, too.”
“More gray.”
“More hair,” she said, and seeming to have used up her courage where direct contact with him was concerned, returned to me. “How long is he staying in Vermont?”
From the stove, Edward said, “As long as my wife is there.”
“Ex-wife,” I told Mom.
“But you’re together again?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Glad you’re in agreement on that,” she said and might have smiled. Instead, she refocused on her tea, dipped the bag repeatedly, as if answers would appear in the dark brew.
Behind us came the scrape of a buttered knife over toast.
I sighed. “Life is confusing.”
“Very,” she said quickly enough.
Before we could get into it, Edward gestured me to move the laptop, and was placing plates before us, then orange juice, napkins, and forks. As an afterthought, he added a jar of jam. It was everything I liked, which was everything my mother liked, which was likely why it was what I liked. Which of us was he trying to please? Did it matter?
“Impressive,” I said and, feeling light-headed, sampled the eggs. When I realized that the other two were watching me, I pretended to gag.
To Margaret, Edward said, “There’s one gone. More eggs for us.”
I smiled. “Nope. It’s good. Eat up, Mom. You need fattening.” And that raised an issue that went beyond osteoporosis. Fattening wouldn’t happen in one meal. She needed someone here to make it happen. Edward and I had left Devon on a few minutes’ notice. We weren’t even prepared to stay overnight. I had to go back. I would. No way could Shanahan deny this. If necessary, I would take it to court.
First, though, I needed to know what the typical recuperation from a broken hip was. But Mom had started to eat—hungrily, in fact—and I was suddenly famished myself. So we ate. She didn’t ask about my life or about what Edward was doing in Devon, and she made no mention of Liam. It should have been awkward, but wasn’t. We were in the same room. That was enough.
After a bit, I put down my fork. “How does a hip repair work? You get the stitches out on Tuesday, but what comes after that?”
She had either been lost in thought or simply too focused on eating to keep track of her surroundings. Swallowing, she set aside her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Rest and PT,” she finally said, and, to Edward, “Thank you. This is very good.”
“How often is PT?” I asked.
“As often as I want. It’s about flexibility. And strength.” But she was looking at Edward again. “It isn’t only the hair. You look rougher.”
“Less slick?” Edward said and slid me a smug grin.
“He’s become an innkeeper,” I told my mother.
“A what?”
“Innkeeper,” said Edward.
“Crunchy is the look,” I said.
“Crunchy,” Margaret repeated. She certainly knew the meaning of the word beyond the texture of cookies. When I was in college, crunchy was the only word Dad used to describe my friends. He had done it repeatedly, and not by way of flattery.
Lest my mother head in that direction, I steered her back. “How often do you see the doctor?”
She reached for the jam with her good hand. “After the stiches come out? I don’t know.”
Of course, she didn’t. Uber wouldn’t sit with her, making sure she asked the right questions and remembered the answers. Apparently not even Annika did, though I suspected my mother wouldn’t allow that.
She needed me.
Feeling emboldened, I said, “How long is the recuperation?”
“Three months, give or take.”
“With pain?”
“No. The pain is less each day. I’m about done with those pills. Tylenol will do.”
“Can you get out? Go places?” I was thinking about church, and about all of those friends who might take her to lunch.
“I am not going anywhere with that walker,” she declared. “As soon as I can, I’ll use a cane.”
“What’s happening with work?” I asked. It seemed a normal follow-up to using a cane. If The Buttered Scone was my mother’s baby, she would be in a rush to get back—unless what Annika said about her losing interest was true.
She shifted, then settled again. “Work is fine.” Lifting her fork, she resumed eating without looking at me. I wondered if Annika was right.
I glanced at the laptop. “Who’s been posting on Facebook?”
“Me. I only missed a day.”
“Who runs the bakery?”
“Annika Allen,” she said and reached for jam. “She’s very good.”
I waited for her to say something about Annika that mig
ht reveal either her knowledge of the Annika-Liam connection or of Annika having called me. When she did neither, I took the coward’s route and let it go.
“Is there anything you’re not allowed to do?” I asked.
“Run,” she said. Edward snickered. She shot him an uneasy glance before adding, “Lift anything more than five pounds.”
“Climb stairs?”
“I can if I want.”
“Do the stairs make you nervous?” They were the scene of the crime, so to speak.
“Some.” Her eyes rose, her voice vehement. “And don’t suggest a stair lift. I am not old, for Christ’s sake.”
That took me by surprise, not the stair-lift part but the swearing part. It wasn’t like Margaret to take the Lord’s name in vain. But she was glaring at me, daring me to argue. And she was, in fact, looking more, with each passing minute, like the mother I knew. So I held up a hand, shook my head, backed off.
“What about swimming?” asked Edward.
“They suggested that, but I don’t swim.”
“You used to,” I reminded her. “Way back. You used to do it every morning before work.”
“That pool closed. I’d have to go farther for an indoor one.”
I wasn’t mentioning Uber. “When can you drive?” Luckily, the broken bones were all on her left side, not her right.
She picked up a piece of toast. “Not soon enough.” She sighed. “The problem is reaction time. Surgery slows it down. If I drive too soon and cause an accident…” She pursed her lips and shook her head. Then, seeming to realize what she’d said, she dropped the toast and folded her arms.
I couldn’t have asked for a better lead-in. Curling my fingers around her thin wrist, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom. Sorry for everything that happened. Do you know how many times I’ve relived those minutes and done things differently in my mind—like stopping and flagging down the first car to come along, or turning around and going back—but I didn’t that day. I kept driving. Do you know how sorry I am?”
There were many things my mother could have said, but all she did was unfold her arms and wrap her hands around her tea.
“Mom?”
She sighed. “What can I say?”
“Something maybe about God forgiving our sins, or God having a plan?”
She let out a huff and looked into the distance. “I don’t know about God.” The eyes that returned to me were tear-filled. “I don’t know. I just don’t know what to say. I don’t know why things happen or what to do when you lose what you always wanted and can’t get it back. Is it God’s punishment? Is God even there?”
“Of course, He is,” I said because though my own beliefs were negligible, my mother’s were not. Hers had never wavered. Until now. Which meant that her emotions were in real trouble. An intervention wouldn’t help where religion was concerned since I was struggling with the Almighty myself. But there might be something else.
I looked at Edward, who seemed as alarmed with what Margaret had said as I was. Our eyes met and held. In that instant, that second, something passed between us. An idea. Something that made total sense without needing any thought at all, but that when even the tiniest bit of thought was applied, was the only thing that made sense.
“I think,” he said, “your mother could use a change.”
“Mom?” Leaning in, I grasped her arm, this time with both hands. “Come back to Vermont with us.”
Margaret was visibly startled.
“Come back with us,” I pushed. “I could definitely drive down here once or twice a week, even stay for a bit, but if you have to recuperate somewhere, why not there? Devon’s an amazing place. It’d be a break for you.”
“Oh, no,” she said, eyes wide, “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“My life is here. My doctor—my physical therapist—my bakery—”
“We have doctors. We have physical therapists. Your assistant is good, you just said that, so what difference would it make if you logged on from here or Devon? No one would know where you were.”
“My friends—”
Aren’t here now. Aren’t driving you places. Aren’t family. There was a cell phone on the coffee table in the living room, but it hadn’t made a peep since I’d arrived.
“Your friends can stay in touch,” I said, “but don’t you want to see where I live?”
“I—oh no—you don’t really want that.”
“I do,” I said and tried to sweeten the pot. “I work at a Spa, Mom. It’s peaceful and smells wonderful. My friends there would wash and dry your hair. You could have a mani-pedi or a massage.”
“I couldn’t—”
“And we have a pool.” I hurried on. “It’s an indoor one at the sports center just down the road from the Spa. I could drive you there and back. I live on a beautiful hill and could schedule my work so that I can be home with you, and when I’m not there, Liam is.” I stopped short.
She stared at me, then snorted. “Oh, Margaret Mackenzie, I know he’s there. No way could that child survive without his mother or his sister. But I can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s your place, and I’ve been horrible to you.”
I’d been prepared for more of the creature-of-habit response. Or the I-like-my-own-home one. Or even the I-need-to-get-back-to-work one. Not my mother apologizing.
“But you were right—y’know, way back,” Edward said, setting down his fork with a tiny clink. “Our lifestyle was sick. You got that before we did.”
My mother looked baffled, but I wasn’t being distracted.
“I want you to see my home. This is a perfect excuse—maybe even God’s plan.” She made a sharp slash with her casted hand. “Okay,” I backed off, “maybe not His plan, but it’s a good one. Think about it. It’d be like being on vacation. When was the last time you got away?” I didn’t expect an answer to that. “You’d have everything you need, plus good people. My friends will love you.”
“They’re your friends.”
“Some are way closer to your age than to mine.” I was thinking of Joyce, but Cornelia would qualify, too. She would be onboard in a heartbeat. “They’d be thrilled to have you there.”
She struggled, eyes moving here and there in search of an excuse. Finally, she just sank into herself. “It’s too much. Really.”
Not for me. This made more sense than anything had in a long time. It made perfect sense, actually, and the more I got into it, the more sense it made—the more I imagined it, the better I felt. The prospect of having my mother in Devon made me feel happy.
“It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive,” I said. “We could leave right after your PT session. Front seat, back seat—you can sit wherever you’re most comfortable. We can stop every half hour to get out and walk. Edward is a safe driver.”
“That’s not the issue,” my mother tried.
“And here’s another thing, Mom.” She hadn’t gotten up to walk away and end the discussion, which she would have done in the old days. I could blame her hip for that. Or not. Hopeful, pushing it, I said, “Devon is small, it’s do-able. It’s refreshing.” I was thinking of the days when I had first come, way before the media had, but the media had pretty much exhausted itself, hadn’t it? That was the art of the dream. “And it’s different. You need a change. Devon is a change.” I straightened and smiled. “It worked for me.”
“And for me,” Edward said.
She was torn. I could see it in her eyes, which went back and forth between him and me. I was startled to see shame. “You owe me nothing.”
“Not owe,” I insisted. “Want. I want you to come, Mom. It would be fabulous. For both of us.”
“I don’t know—”
“We could talk.”
“Oh, Mackenzie—”
“Dad would want you to do this. He would want me to do it.”
She seemed heartened by that, but only briefly. “Would he? I just don’t know any more. Too much o
f what I want is different from what he wants.”
“What do you want?”
My mom had always been a woman in control, but she had zero of it now. I’d never seen her bewildered. In a broken voice, she said, “I want to think. A little space, please?”
21
After tucking the afghan around her, I sat by my mother’s hip. She wanted space, but I couldn’t walk out. We didn’t talk. I didn’t even hold her hand, just wanted her to know I was there.
And honestly? The fact that she allowed it was a gift. Did I still want more? Absolutely. But I would have been naïve to think that our relationship would pick up where it had been before the accident. Too much had happened; we were different people now from the ones we had been then. Actually, if I were to dream, I would return to what our relationship had been when I was growing up. It wasn’t all showy with hugs and kisses, more a meeting of minds. She was independent; I was independent. She was disciplined; I was disciplined. If I walked into the kitchen while she was making dinner, I set the table, not because she asked but because it needed doing. If I was cramming for an exam, she brought me tea, not because I asked but because it would help.
Things changed once I hit college and even more after I married Edward. I remember, though, that when the accident happened, she had dropped everything and come.
Then she had gone back home to get my father, and by the time she returned, she was distant. So maybe the real problem was Dad. Maybe Liam was right. Maybe she was simply the enforcer. But my father had been dead for more than four years, during which time she hadn’t reached out on her own.
I wanted to ask whether she still blamed me for his death. But what we had here, now, was too fragile. Besides, she had closed her eyes as soon as she lay down, giving her the space she needed. Her lids moved; I wondered what images flickered there. Gradually, the movements slowed, and she dozed off.
Cautious not to wake her, I eased off the sofa and crept from the room. She hadn’t said yes to coming to Devon. But I was packing her bag anyway.
Then doubt set in. Halfway up the stairs, I turned and sat. There were two major problems here. I had barely begun to work through them when Edward appeared at the foot of the stairs, and, for a split second, that startled me, too. No matter that we’d been in each other’s company since last night, for so long before this I had gone it alone. The idea that he was here for me, tall and dark, sensible and strong, still stunned me.
Before and Again Page 30