Chapter 43
LAINE
"Sweetheart! Oh, I was just thinking about you."
"Hey, Mom." I pull my feet up in the chair and cradle the coffee against my chest. "How's the roof?"
"Two steps forward, one step back. Carlos found more rot in the east section — David thinks termites, Carlos says water damage.
They've been going back and forth for a week.
" She laughs. "Your father's up there every morning at dawn.
I keep telling him he's sixty-three, not twenty-three, but you know how he listens. "
"He doesn't."
"He does not."
Through the floor, I hear the tile saw whine, stop, start again.
Blake's been working on the bathroom every spare hour for two weeks.
I help when I can — holding things, handing him tools, trying not to stare at his forearms while he works.
Reid's contribution has been snack delivery and unsolicited opinions about grout color.
I'm wicked at tiling, so I've been down there all morning helping, but I didn't want to put this call off any longer.
"The community center's coming along, though," Mom continues. "The women's group has started meeting in the main room already, even with scaffolding up. They don't care. They're just happy to have a space."
"That's great, Mom."
"And the garden, Laine. Tomatoes the size of your fist. The altitude here is perfect for growing."
"I'll see it in person soon."
"Three weeks!" The joy in her voice makes my ribs ache. "I've been counting the days. I actually have a little calendar on the fridge. Your father thinks I'm being ridiculous."
"You are being ridiculous."
"I'm being a mother. There's a difference." A pause. Softer now. "It's been over a year, sweet girl. You know that, right? Fourteen months."
I know. I know exactly how long. I've been counting too, just in a different direction.
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry."
"You used to come every few months. Between jobs. Remember? Wherever we were — Honduras, Ecuador, the Philippines — you'd just show up with your backpack and your sunburn and stay for a week."
"I remember."
"And then you settled in Oregon, and I thought — wonderful. She's finally staying put. We'll see more of her now." A small laugh that doesn't quite land. "Funny how that worked out."
It's not an accusation. That's what makes it worse. It's just... bewilderment. Her daughter stopped drifting and somehow became less reachable, not more.
She doesn't know why. She thinks it's the job. The new relationship. The busyness of finally building a normal life.
She doesn't know it's because I can't sit across from her and lie. And I don't know how to tell her the truth.
"I know," I say again. "I'm sorry. Things have been—"
"You don't have to apologize, sweetheart. You're coming now. That's what matters."
Don't be so understanding. Be angry. Angry would be easier.
"So — travel plans," she says, and I can hear her pulling herself back to practical ground. "You fly into Guatemala City?"
"Yeah. Then Carlos is picking us up?"
"He insisted. He's so excited to meet you — I show him your picture constantly, the poor man probably feels like he knows you already."
"And the guest house is ready?"
"All set. Fresh sheets, clean towels. It's small but it's private." A beat. "Plenty of room for two."
For two.
"Mom — Reid and I aren't—" I stop. Regroup. "We talked about this. Blake is coming too. Reid's friend." I hate myself. He's so much more than Reid's friend.
"Right. Blake." She says his name the way you'd pick up something from the bottom of your purse. Carefully. Not sure what it is yet. "Carlos has a spare room. That should work just fine."
Tell her. Right now. Just say it.
Mom, Blake isn't Reid's friend. He's—
"I'm looking forward to finally meeting Reid," she says. "After hearing about him for — what is it now, almost a year?"
"About that, yeah."
"Your father's already nervous. You know how he gets. He's been practicing his 'stern dad' routine in the mirror."
I laugh, and it almost sounds real. "Tell him to go easy. Reid's a good guy."
"He sounds like a good guy. The way you talk about him..." She trails off. I can hear her smiling. "You sound different when you talk about him, Laine. Lighter. Happier."
Don't.
"I can't wait to see it in person. To see the two of you together." Her voice catches, just barely. "You know, I've been praying for this for — well. A long time."
I know exactly how long, Mom.
"All those years of you out there on your own. Country to country. And I know you were — I know you were living your life." A careful pause. The kind of pause that holds everything she's choosing not to say. "I didn't always understand your choices."
There it is. Quiet. Gentle. The ghost of every conversation we didn't have.
She doesn't know the details. Please God, not the details.
But she knows the shape of my twenties — the men, the movement, the months I didn't call on Sundays because I was in someone else's bed and couldn't stomach the hypocrisy of picking up the phone.
I wasn't wild. Not really. But compared to the traditional relationship she hoped for for me, it was scandalous.
But she never said anything. Never judged me. Well, there may have been some long silences and some disapproving looks, but nothing overt.
"But I never stopped praying for you," she says.
The tile saw goes quiet downstairs. In the silence, I can hear my own heartbeat.
"And now look at you." Her voice thickens. "Settled. A real job. A good man who loves you. A home." She takes a shaky breath. "Do you know how long I've prayed for exactly this?"
My throat closes. Because she's not performing. She's not manipulating. She's genuinely happy for me.
Reid —the idea of Reid— is her dream for me.
"Mom—"
"I'm sorry." A watery laugh. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this on the phone. I'm saving my tears for the airport."
"There's no airport. Carlos is picking us up."
"Then I'm saving them for the driveway. The point stands.
" She blows out a breath. Collects herself.
"Anyway. I know the world is different now.
People don't always do things the traditional way.
You and Reid living together before marriage — your father and I, we understand. Things are different in the States."
This is her being flexible. This is as far as she bends.
"We've seen all kinds of arrangements out here," she adds. Lighter now. Almost an afterthought. "All kinds of lifestyles. We don't judge. We just love people where they are and trust God with the rest."
Love people where they are.
I grew up hearing that phrase. Every church, every mission, every potluck dinner where someone's choices were discussed in gentle, compassionate tones. It sounds generous. Open.
It means: You're wrong, but I won't say it to your face. I'll just love you and keep praying you come around.
"Laine? You still there, sweetheart?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out thin. So, so weak. "Sorry — I think I hear the delivery truck. We ordered some new furniture."
"Oh, how fun! What'd you get?"
"A bed." I close my eyes. "A really big bed."
"Oh. Yes. Well. I should go. Some of the women are gathering today, and I don’t want to be late. Call me next week? We still need to talk about what to pack — the altitude here is deceiving, it gets cold at night."
"I'll call. Promise."
"I love you, baby. So, so much."
"I love you too, Mom."
I hang up. Set the phone face-down on the desk Blake built me. In the room they gave me. Behind the door I closed so I could have this conversation without them hearing.
Next time. I'll tell her next time we talk.
It's what I told myself last week. The week before that. And the week before that.
The tile saw doesn't start up again. The house goes quiet except for Reid's voice drifting up from somewhere — talking to Blake, probably, or to himself, or to the delivery tracking page he's been refreshing all morning.
My life is on the other side of this door. Real and warm and waiting.
My mother's voice is still in my ear.
We just love people where they are.
I pick up my coffee. It's gone cold. Of course it has.
Next time. I'll tell her next time. It'll be fine.
She'll be disappointed but — but what? I can't even picture her reaction.
What do I actually think is going to happen?
Do I even know what I'm afraid of? The anger?
The silence? The way she has of saying "oh" like she's absorbing a blow and forgiving you for it at the same time?
"Laine!" Reid's voice blasts up through the floor, volume set to eleven. "Truck! Our street. This is not a drill!"
I laugh. Can't help it. Whatever's been pressing down on me shifts — doesn't leave, just makes room.
I set the coffee on the desk. Open my door.
One thing at a time.
The delivery guys are judging us.
They're trying to hide it — professional smiles, efficient movements — but I catch the look they exchange when Blake directs them toward the stairs going down.
"Through here," he says. "Watch the turn at the landing."
"We got it, man."
They do not, in fact, got it.
The mattress wedges itself halfway around the stairwell turn, and for a solid thirty seconds everyone just stares at it.
"Measured twice," Reid murmurs beside me.
"Six times," I correct. "He measured six times."
"And yet."
Blake's already there, grabbing the other end, tilting at an angle that defies geometry. "Lift your end. No — up. Like that. Now pivot."
The delivery guys follow his instructions with the slightly dazed expressions of men who've realized they are no longer in charge of their own delivery. Three adjustments, one near-disaster with the stairwell light, and the mattress slides through like it was never stuck.
"How did you—" one of them starts.
"Spatial reasoning," Reid says. "His superpower. Also his most annoying quality."
"One of many," I add, grinning at Reid.