Chapter 42
Noah
I haven’t been able to sit still since she left, so I pace.
I make tea I don’t drink. I organize my mother’s pill case into perfectly color-coded morning/noon/night columns like Bea does with my calendar and then reorganize it again because I know she wouldn’t use orange and pink together; they don’t match.
I read the same paragraph of some old paperback on Mom’s coffee table five times. I count how many peonies are left alive and decide the one with the broken neck is an omen. Of what? Doesn’t matter. It’s an omen.
Mom dozes in and out with her ankle propped on pillows and soap operas murmuring in the background. When she’s awake, she’s lucid. Gentle. Too observant. She watches me misfold laundry like I’m eight again, then sighs at the ceiling like she and the plaster are sharing a joke at my expense.
On the second afternoon of this, while I’m scratching off a yellow label of the pill case because it’s the wrong day, she surprises me with a question. “Are you going to call that girl?”
My spine goes rigid. “Which girl?”
She gives me the look she used to give me when I was about to get a scolding. “The one who looks like your future.”
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding eye contact. “Beatrice is my assistant.”
“She is also very kind,” Mom says simply. “And your tone was unkind.”
“I was protecting you.”
“I know, my boy. But you are the one who needs protecting.” Her eyes darken with sadness.
“I am very sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me.
I am sorry that I wasn’t there when Ezra needed me.
I wish I was stronger to stand up to your father and protect both of you, my little boys.
” A small tear escapes her brown eyes, and a giant hand gets inside my chest and squeezes it.
“But I think I am better now. I will be better if I see that you are not wasting your life away taking care of me.”
“Mom,” I sigh. “I’m not wasting my life.”
“You are. And I think it’s time you did something for yourself. Go on vacation and take this girl with you. Was she the one who got you all riled up after that secret trip you took with your brother?”
My cheeks start heating up—I told Mom about Ezra’s marriage when we came back, and Ezra only called her for a talk that lasted exactly one minute. She also noticed that I was unusually grumpy after that trip. Maybe Mom’s brain is sharper than I think.
I don’t answer that. I don’t answer anything for a long minute, because my face is hot and I’m suddenly seventeen, lying about a split lip and saying football practice got rough.
“Call her,” Mom says softer. “Use your manners. The ones I tried teaching to you.”
I kiss her forehead, adjust the ice, and make sure the remote is within her reach. Then I step into the hall and stare at my phone.
Two missed calls from Martin. One text from Ezra—board rumor mill garbage I don’t care about. No unread messages from Bea, because she didn’t text me after she walked away. Because she’s stubborn. Because I’m worse.
I type:
I was wrong.
I delete it. It feels small. It also feels true. I type again:
I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Thank you for helping my mother.
I hover. My thumb is a coward. I hit send before it can negotiate a treaty with my pride.
The bubble sits there with no read receipt. Good. She turned them off. Of course she did.
I text a second time, faster:
Can I see you?
I’m sorry.
There’s no answer, so I do something I am excellent at: I start controlling the variables I can control.
I book a therapist, a home health aide, and a goddamn occupational therapist who will nail the bathroom rug to the floor if I ask.
I rewrite the doorman’s instructions—approved visitors only, with Beatrice Wrong being a part of it: call me first, call Ezra second, call the aide third, call Beatrice fourth.
I stock the freezer with soup Mom likes and label everything like a lunatic because that’s what Bea would do.
Then I call Ezra for a long awaited conversation.
“Ready to talk about what the hell happened at dinner the other night?”
“That’s not exactly why I’m calling.” I get ready, exhale, and start talking. “Tonight, you are going to come and see Mom.”
Silence.
“I mean it, Ezra. She is your mother too, and she is sick. She needs your forgiveness as much as you need to give it to her. Tonight, Ezra.”
I’m expecting a storm with a bunch of thunder, so when he says a quiet “Okay,” I’m taken aback because I braced for the worst.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll bring Maeve. Hopefully that’s okay?”
Is it okay? I don’t know. but she is Ezra’s wife, a permanent fixture who will be in Mom’s life forever.
“That’s okay, I guess. Wrong sisters might be exactly what she needs.”
A pause. “Did you introduce Bea to Mom?”
“It—” I wince. “It happened accidentally. But yes, she was good for Mom.”
Another pause. “O-okay?”
And this is where I find myself doing something I’ve never done before: I spill my guts to my brother. About Bea, my feelings, everything starting from over a year ago.
I tell him about Maupiti. About the hotel bar, the sundress, and her face under the moonlight.
I tell him about wanting to have her but keeping her at distance because she was never meant to be mine.
I tell him about Mom, the rug, the ankle, and the way I took my fear out on the one person who was actually there.
Ezra doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t gloat. Just breathes on the other end and occasionally says “Yeah” or “I remember that.”
When I finally run out of words, he says, “So, you love her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”
“That’s not the same as not doing it; I should know that,” he says gently. There’s a smile in his voice. Not smug. Sad. Soft. Emotional. And my brother doesn’t do emotional. “We’ll be there at seven.”
In the evening, I order takeout and make more tea.
At 6:58, there’s a considerate knock, and I open the door to my brother in a sweater instead of a suit for a change. Maeve’s tucked under his arm, all bright and colorful as usual.
“Hi, Mrs. King,” Maeve says as soon as she spots Mom. Her voice is soft and gentle. “I brought you rosemary shortbread. It’s from a place that thinks butter is a love language, and I agree with it.”
“Maeve,” Mom says like she’s trying the word on, then she smiles—a careful curve that starts on her lips first and then reaches her eyes. “My son married a woman with good taste.”
“Debatable,” Ezra mutters, and Mom laughs. It’s tiny but real, and I have to clear my throat because it turns tight.
The visit is quiet. No speeches, no dragging ghosts out from the closet by their hair. Ezra sets up the TV to one of those cooking channels where everyone is having an anxiety attack under the pressure.
Maeve fusses with throw pillows until she climbs between them and covers herself with a blanket Mom passes to her.
After Maeve is done nesting, Mom smiles and asks us after the Newside project, and for a second, I see the woman who used to correct our homework and bully teachers with courtesy.
Ezra stands up and goes to the bathroom.
When he comes back, he settles next to Mom and finds her hand.
When she doesn’t pull away and sends him a warm smile, I have to rise to my feet and walk away to the kitchen.
Because I can’t see all of that without thinking about what I said to Bea when I saw her here.
I panicked. I was mad at myself for not being here when Mom needed me.
I was scared that Mom would like Beatrice too much, and after that, if I fucked it up with her, Mom would be devastated.
I wanted to be one hundred percent sure that the thing between us would work before introducing Bea to this part of my life.
And of course, I fucked it up.