Chapter Forty-Three
The rain begins to fall as George parks in front of the Tofino Brewing Company. There’s a silver Airstream next door that’s been turned into a Japanese street-food truck, and we’re both starving. George has the menu for Toki Doki pulled up on his phone.
“Smashed cucumbers, fried prawn gyoza, and spicy seafood okonomiyaki?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
He opens his door, turns back around, kisses me full on the mouth, then leaves me with a huge grin on his lips.
I pull out my phone.
Seeing those whales loosened something inside me. I took a step closer to understanding my mother today—a step I refused to take until George got me on that boat. I know my mother, but I don’t know Rebecca Gardiner at all.
Mom answers, sounding surprised. She’s always the one to make the effort. I send the occasional text message, and I pick up the phone on her birthday, but otherwise, I rarely call my mom. “Frankie. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” My stomach flutters—I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
“Oh good.” There’s a beat of silence.
“We just got back from whale watching,” I tell her.
“You did?” Her astonishment is clear. “Did you see any?”
“Three grays.” I’m half expecting her to change the subject, to ask about George, but she sighs wistfully.
“Oh, how wonderful. What did you think?”
“I thought they were magnificent.” My eyes sting, but I’m beaming.
I can hear her smile, too. “That’s the perfect word.”
“And so big!” I say, laughing. “It was almost like seeing a dinosaur.”
“Yes! I know exactly what you mean.”
I tell my mom about the entire expedition, and she gives me her total attention, as she always does. She never fails to listen to what I have to say.
“When I come back, could you tell me about your whales?” I say near the end of our call. “I’d like to hear about them. I’d like to try to understand.”
My mom’s breath blows across the phone. “I’d love to.”
“I thought about Francesca today. Do you know where she was last spotted?”
There’s a long pause.
When Mom came back, I never wanted to hear about whales again.
It was one of the first things I told her.
She’d been crying, hugging me tight, and I made her promise not to talk about them.
Worst of all, she kept her promise. But I’ve always wondered if she’s followed the news of right whale number 1950.
“I do,” she says softly.
“Will you tell me about her?”
There’s another blank space. “When you’re home, I’ll tell you all about her.” She clears her throat. “How’s George?”
“He’s fine.” It’s a well-rehearsed, automatic response. I try again. “Actually, George is great. It’s really nice being here with him.”
“I’m sure it is. You’ve always gotten along so well.” She laughs. “Unless you’re fighting.”
“Things are changing between us,” I say, surprising myself. I wasn’t planning on telling her this, but I want her advice. “And fast.”
“In what way, honey?”
This is hard to say. I’m worried that she’s going to tell me the opposite of what I want to hear. “Well, in the way that would make us more than friends.”
She takes this in, then asks, “And is that a good thing?”
“I hope so,” I tell her. “It feels like it could be.”
She makes a humming sound.
“Well?” I ask.
“Well, what?”
“Do you have any words of wisdom for me?”
“Do you want them? Because you never ask me for advice, and I’ve learned not to offer it.”
“I do. I’m trying not to freak out. But this week with George has been…” It’s difficult to describe. “It’s the same as it’s always been between us—in all the good ways—but it’s also different. There are feelings there, and it’s incredible and terrifying. It’s George, Mom. It’s George.”
And as I’m saying it, I realize that my mother is completely biased. She adores George.
“You know what? Never mind. You like George more than you like me.”
“Frankie! How could you think that? I love George, but you’re my daughter. I’ve always tried to respect your privacy—people seem to have such an odd level of interest in your friendship. But I assumed when you lived together that things might have been different for a while.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm. It surprised me when George took a job so far away after he graduated—it seemed like he needed to put half the country between you. I thought there might have been a breakup.”
“No. It’s never been like that. It’s never been more.”
She takes that in. “You know, when you got engaged to Nate, I did wonder whether you were marrying the wrong person.”
I’m momentarily stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You would have eloped the next day!”
“No, I wouldn’t have.” (I absolutely would have.)
She laughs. I’m throwing a lot at her in this conversation, but she’s relaxed. George was right: she’s easy to talk to. The butterflies in my stomach have vanished, leaving behind the gnawing sense that I’ve missed out on so much.
“And,” she goes on. I close my eyes so I can really listen to her voice. “I’ve always wondered whether George might be the right person. You’re radiant when you’re with him. More like yourself. George is, too.”
“How so?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “You’re both so full of energy and ideas, but when you’re together, all that creativity and vitality seems to multiply. You feed off each other in positive ways—you’ve always been partners. Beneath all the fun and excitement is something much firmer.”
I hum.
“I think you give each other a rush but also a foundation you can trust. Together, you’re both the tide and the ocean floor. Constantly moving but stable.”
That feels right. “So you don’t think it’s a terrible idea? Because a big part of me feels like it could be an epic disaster.”
“I can’t predict what will happen, Frankie. That’s one of life’s biggest frustrations and greatest gifts. We can’t know. But I don’t think it’s a terrible idea. I think it’s a wonderful one.”
I take a deep breath. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Please don’t say anything to Darwin or Moby.” I’d like to cross that bridge never.
“I won’t. Although nobody would be shocked to hear you’ve developed deeper feelings for George.”
Deeper feelings. That’s it exactly.
“He’s George,” Mom says. “He’s the best.”
“He is. A top-tier human.”
“Did you know he always sends flowers on my birthday?”
“Yes, I did know that.”
“Nice ones, too. You know, you might be right. I think I do like George more than my own children.” She laughs before saying, “I’m so happy for you, Frankie. For both of you.”
“I don’t know what it will look like,” I say. “Or how it will work. Or anything at all.”
I can hear her smiling. “Well, my love, that’s life.”
“I miss you,” I say, my eyes welling.
Her voice tightens. “Honey, I miss you all the time.”