Chapter 21
Nolan
“I can’t believe you still do that,” I say.
“Do what?” Emma stuffs the last piece of blueberry muffin (top) into her mouth like a hyena.
“Eat only the tops off the muffins and leave the bottoms, like an absolute monster.” She’d always give me the bottoms. I’d always eat them, even if I wasn’t hungry, because I hate wasting food.
“I am who I am.” She shoots me an unapologetic, crumb-filled smile, and I’m reminded of how much she looks like Mom.
It’s not just their same hooded blue eyes and sharp features; it’s the mannerisms, the way they scrunch their eyes closed when something amuses them.
The soft arch of their brows and the quirk of their lips.
“Does Trav know this about you?”
She taps a rogue blade of grass sticking to her Converse. “He does and he’s willing to accept it, so long as I don’t say anything when he guzzles milk straight from the carton.”
“Ah, breakfast crime on breakfast crime.”
“The secret to a healthy marriage,” she says through a yawn, unable to hide her fatigue.
She stopped by this morning to “visit Mom” before heading to the salon for the day, even though I know she came over to check in.
Last night was rough. Mom tried to leave the house at nine in the evening to go to “an appointment,” and became irate when I wouldn’t give her the car keys.
She accused me on the front lawn of keeping her prisoner in the house, which drew the attention of the neighbors.
It took at least an hour before she calmed down with the help of medication.
“So Mom mentioned how excited she is about your new girlfriend and your football date tonight. Why haven’t I heard about her?”
I immediately look away. The last person I want to lie to after Mom is Em. So I settle on half-truth. “It’s not as serious as Mom makes it out to be. We’re just friends from work.”
“Just friends? Going to a football game alone, just the two of them?”
“We’re spending time together, enjoying each other’s company.”
She ignores that and makes a grabby hands motion for my phone. “I need a picture.”
I pull up the only photos we have together, the staged ones from Squamish, and toss her my phone.
She grins wildly and kicks her feet. “She is adorable. You two are adorable. Look at the way you look at each other! When is the wedding?” She toggles back and forth between a photo of me looking at Andi, and another one of her smiling up at me.
I snort, plucking my phone from her grasp. “Okay. Next topic.”
She raises a brow, unimpressed. “Defensive much? It’s a legitimate question.”
I swipe the photo away with exaggerated annoyance, making sure she sees how much this conversation is ruining my life. “Because we’re not talking about that right now, okay? Next.”
She leans in, squinting at me with mock seriousness. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a buzzkill?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy as hell?”
She rolls her eyes, unfazed. “How are things with Mom?”
“Honestly, I’m not certain this woman is our actual mother,” I say, motioning toward her. She’s at the far end of the yard, singing and plucking weeds from her bed of geraniums. She’s even wearing one of those floppy straw hats.
“See? I told you. She changed a lot while you were away. Did the work in treatment and therapy. In more ways than one.” She has told me that, about a thousand times, though I’ve always taken Emma’s Mom-related opinions with a grain of salt.
She was always the first to forgive her.
The first to run into her arms when she’d come back for us, no matter how long she’d been gone.
Being two years younger, Emma wasn’t fully aware of how bad things got.
I always made sure she was safe in her room, either asleep or with the television on loud enough to drown out the yelling and commotion when Mom and one of her boyfriends would fight.
Or the nights Mom would come home stumbling and belligerent.
Emma never saw me carry Mom to bed wasted.
She never saw me pushing Mom on her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit.
When Mom would inevitably take off, some family members would lie to us, claiming she left “to work.” Emma believed it more often than not, whereas I knew the truth.
I was old enough to understand the whispers between adults, the complaining about how she always did this.
I knew how frustrated they were with her for leaving them with two extra mouths to feed and no timeline for when she’d return, if ever.
Sometimes it’s frustrating that Emma has such a rosy perception of who Mom was, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not only do I want to protect Emma, but the two of them formed a close bond over the years that I’d never want to tamper with.
“But, Em, she’s been…making me breakfast. Actually asking me about my life, meddling, when she’s not pissed at me for existing,” I say, pacing up and down the driveway. I have the day off before the football game with Andi tonight, and I’ve been antsy about it since I woke up at the crack of dawn.
She slants me a Where have you been? look. “Yup. That’s what us moms tend to do. It was hard for me, too, you know. I had a lot of resentment toward her. But when I had kids, it changed.”
“How so?”
“On one hand, I knew I’d never repeat her mistakes.
I couldn’t and still can’t understand how someone could leave their kids like she did.
But I also look at them and think about how I’d feel if they turned their backs on me.
If they looked at me like a massive disappointment after I’d turned my life around.
I’d be brokenhearted.” Emma is highly empathetic and has been ever since she was a kid.
“I know it’s weird for you, but you have to realize Mom isn’t the person she used to be.
She got help, she got better. For us. It would be nice if you could see that…
before it’s too late.” I know what she means by that.
She wants me to forgive Mom before her mind is gone entirely.
As great as forgiveness sounds in theory, actually doing it is a whole different story.
I sigh. “Trust me, I want to be in a good place with her, too. But I’m scared it’s too late. She’s having way more bad days than good now.”
“I noticed,” she adds, her mouth curling into a small frown.
“Mom and I argue more than we ever have, too, even before she went to rehab. Like whenever I visit and start cleaning or doing anything for her, she gets annoyed if it’s not done how she likes it.
She was also upset for a while because I came over too much, and then when I didn’t come over enough.
I think she’s still mad at me for starting up the salon. ”
“She’s not,” I insist, if only for her sake. “She’s proud of you. She told me the other day.”
“I still feel guilty, though, leaving you with Mom, especially since things are getting…worse.”
“Em, don’t even think that. I was gone for ten years. Coming back for a couple months was the least I could do. Besides, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be, especially if it means you finally get to do what you love. How are things going at the salon anyway?” I ask.
“I didn’t realize how much goes into it. Hiring, marketing, product inventory, payroll. I’ve been getting there at, like, five in the morning and staying until way past dinner.”
“Shit. A lot more complicated than cutting people’s hair.”
She tips her chin in a nod. “Sure is. The other day, I had to bring the kids because day care was closed. In the span of an hour, Maisey almost drank bleach and Carter waxed one of his eyebrows off.”
I snort. “Jesus. They are feral.”
“But honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed working, though. Not that being a stay-at-home and taking care of Mom wasn’t work. It’s just…having something tangible of my own. Being an entrepreneur, it’s something I never thought I could do. And I’m doing it.”
“You are.”
“If you hadn’t come home and been here to help, none of this would have been possible. I’m really grateful. Actually, speaking of, I have some good news.”
I brace myself. “Good news?”
“I got the call yesterday. Lakeside officially has a spot for Mom at the beginning of September.”
I can barely comprehend what she’s saying. “But wait, what about the other place? The Marshes?”
“It’s less ideal. She’d be on a dementia floor with mostly men. And there’s less one-on-one care and activities. It is cheaper, though, so I understand if that’s something you’re concerned about.”
I stare down at my feet, taking it all in. “Holy shit.”
“It’s good news, Nolan,” she says.
“Does Mom know?”
“Yeah. I talked to her this morning. She really preferred this place, so it’s a done deal.”
“Wow,” I say. “That escalated quickly.”
“We’ll need to put the house up for sale, go through everything and figure out what to keep, what to get rid of.” As much as none of us want to sell, we need the house money to pay for the facility.
Em goes on about how she has a friend who’s a Realtor who can get us on the market quick. Frankly, I’m still overwhelmed by the prospect of clearing out the house, let alone listing it.
We chat a bit about the kids and work before she’s due to get to the salon. When Em leaves, Mom suggests we take a walk.
“You look like you could use the distraction,” she says, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.
I think about what Emma said about forgiveness.
Mom is definitely trying; there’s no doubt about that.
Me giving her attitude like I’m an angsty sixteen-year-old isn’t helping matters.
Besides, I could definitely use a distraction, so I take her hand.