Chapter 32 Elena
Ididn't move.
Carol Reeves stood on my father's porch, soaked to the bone, asking for my dead mother.
"Carol." I found my voice. "It's Elena. Come inside."
She looked at me and something flickered. Confusion. Then a smile, hesitant and relieved.
"Elena. Oh, thank God." She stepped forward and nearly collapsed. I caught her, felt how cold she was through the wet cardigan.
"I've got you. Come on."
Dad appeared behind me. "Jesus. Carol?"
"Help me get her inside."
We guided her to the couch. She was shaking, muttering something I couldn't make out. Caleb grabbed towels from the bathroom while I knelt in front of her, trying to peel the soaked cardigan off her shoulders.
"There's a storm," Carol said, gripping my hands. "Matthew… I can't find Matthew. He was just here and now—"
"He's okay. He's safe. I'm going to call him."
"You will?" She looked at me like I'd offered her the world.
"I promise."
Dad appeared in the doorway with a blanket. I took it, wrapped it around Carol's shoulders. Her teeth were chattering.
"I'll make tea," Dad said quietly, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Caleb stayed in the doorway, uncertain. I glanced at him, tried to communicate something—I'm okay, just give me a minute—and he nodded, stepped back into the dining room.
Carol's hands found mine again. She was staring at me, trying to place something.
"You're Margaret's girl."
My chest tightened. "Yeah. I am."
"Where is she? Margaret. Is she here?"
I couldn't speak for a second. My mother had been gone for years.
"She's not here right now," I managed.
"Oh." Carol looked around the room, confused. "I thought... I needed to talk to her. About the kids."
The kids. Me and Matt. She thought we were still teenagers.
"What about them?" I asked softly.
"They're so serious." Carol smiled, distant. "Your Elena and my Matthew. He talks about her all the time. Drives Bill crazy."
I felt tears prick my eyes but kept my voice steady. "Does he?"
"Oh yes. It's Elena this, Elena that." She laughed a little. "He's got it bad. I told Bill, I said, 'That's the girl he's going to marry.'"
I held her hand in mine, squeezed it.
"And Bill said I was getting ahead of myself, but a mother knows." She squeezed my hands back. "He's a good boy. My Matthew. You know that, don't you?"
"I know."
"He tries so hard. Always has." Her eyes went distant, somewhere else entirely. "Even when he was little. Always trying to help me fix things."
She went quiet and I didn't push. Just sat there holding her hands while the rain hammered the windows.
"I had this rosebush," she said finally. "Bill got it from the market for me. Beautiful thing. But it never bloomed. I tried everything… fertilizer, different spots in the yard. Nothing really worked."
She stared at our joined hands.
"Matthew must've been ten or eleven. He'd see me out there, fussing with it. And one day he just started watering it for me. Every day after school. Came in with his hands all muddy, so proud." Her voice cracked. "He'd say, 'I watered it, Mom. It's gonna bloom soon, you'll see.'"
A tear slid down her cheek.
"But it never did." She looked up at me. "Bill finally said... he said, 'Carol, it's the wrong soil. It's never going to bloom here.' And I got so angry at him. Because I'd put so much into it. Matthew had put so much into it."
Tears prickled my eyes.
"But he was right." Carol's thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Wasn't the rose's fault. Wasn't my fault either. Just... wrong place for it."
The room felt too small.
"I planted a different one the next spring," she whispered. "And that one took right away. Beautiful blooms every year."
She drifted after that. Stared past me at something I couldn't see. I sat there on the floor, hands still in hers, understanding exactly what she'd given me without meaning to.
Wrong soil. Not anyone's fault.
Dad came back with tea and set it on the coffee table. He caught my eye, saw the tears on my face, but didn't ask. Carol blinked, seemed to surface, then looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time.
"Elena?"
"I'm here."
"Where's Matthew? I need to find him."
"I'm going to call him right now." I stood, pulled my phone from my pocket. My hands were shaking.
"You'll tell him I'm here?"
"I will."
I walked into the kitchen. Stood there for a moment, trying to steady my breathing, and then I scrolled through my contacts list until I found his number.
He answered on the first ring. "Elena?"
"Your mom's here. At my dad's house." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "She's okay."
I heard him exhale, broken and relieved all at once. "Thank God. I've been—" He stopped. "Is she hurt?"
"No. Cold and confused, but she's safe. We've got her warm."
"I'm twenty minutes out. I'll be right there."
"Okay."
A pause.
"Elena. Thank you. I don't—thank you."
I closed my eyes. "Just get here safe."
I hung up and stood there in my father's kitchen, listening to the rain, feeling something crack open in my chest.
I'd loved Matt. Really loved him. The forever kind. The kind that picks out baby names and says I do and means it. But that didn't mean staying. That didn't mean trying until we both bled out.
Sometimes love wasn't enough. Maybe the soil was wrong, or maybe you had to let the thing die so something else could grow.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
Through the doorway, I could see Caleb standing in the dining room. He was watching me, that steady, patient look on his face. I walked back to him and he opened his arms. I stepped into them, let him hold me while I cried.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." I pulled back to look at him. "I am."
He kissed my forehead and held me tight.
From the living room, I heard Carol's voice, small and worried. "Where's my boy? I need my boy."
"He's coming," Dad said gently. "He'll be here soon."
I took a breath and steadied myself.
"I should sit with her," I said.
Caleb nodded. "I'll be right here."
I went back to the couch and sat beside Carol, taking her hand again.
"Matthew's on his way," I told her.
"Oh good." She smiled, vague and distant. "He's such a good boy."
"He is."
"You know," she said, looking at me like she'd just remembered something important, "you should marry him. If he asks. He's a good boy. But if you're not ready... that’s okay. Just be gentle. His heart breaks easy."
She must have seen something in my face because she squeezed my hand. "It'll mend, though. Hearts do. They always do."
"I'll remember that," I whispered.
She drifted off after that. Head against the couch, eyes closing, still holding my hand. I sat there in the quiet, listening to her breathe, listening to the rain.
Outside, headlights swept across the window.
Matt was here.