Chapter 57 Mom Always Knows
mom always knows
Hannah
A few days after our stargazing date, Rowan has a second electric blanket delivered with a note.
Hannah,
Tonight is for you and your mom. I think she’d like to look up at the stars with you again.
Love,
Rowan
With Rowan occupied keeping his own mom company in the hospital after her operation, I savor this night carved out for Mom and me.
It’s not how it used to be. There’s no wine and our best friends are painfully absent.
The wheelchair she’s confined to means Mom has a difficult time craning her neck upward.
I nurse a mug of hot chocolate while helping her sip broth from a thermos, both of us wrapped snug in our matching blankets.
But she’s awake. And smiling. She asks about Tess, and I pass along what Rowan has told me about her surgery—it was successful and now they’re preparing for a fresh round of challenging physical therapy.
Though Mom’s speech is labored, we exchange a few memories of our time spent out here with Gwyn and Maddy. Richard joins us after a while, and Mom reaches for his hand right away.
I don’t often think about the time I wasted on Gerald, but the memories tumble in like a rush without my permission.
Years spent trying to jam a square peg into a round hole because I thought I could fake it—present the illusion of star-crossed lovers up to their ears in happiness to my dying mother.
Watching Richard tuck Mom’s frail hand in his knocks me back like an avalanche. Something clicks then—how wrong I was to think true love could be faked.
It’s why Mom didn’t pepper me with a million questions when I ran out on my wedding. I didn’t need to tell her. She’s my mom—she already knew the love was a fraud.
It’s why she never told me I was crazy to dive in head first with a man leaving town in two weeks. I didn’t need to justify my choices for her. She’s my mom—she already knew I’d found my person.
Whether it’s a farce or as real as the breath in my lungs, Mom knows. She always knows.
I could shake my fist at the powers that be for not allowing Mom to experience this kind of love in her life until she’d nearly left it.
For not giving them more time. But then I see it again—the way they look at each other—and my righteous anger, the need to blame something or someone. ..it vanishes.
We’re not all that different. Soulmates rarely are.
For nearly thirty years, I’ve had her and she’s had me.
I’ve kept her grounded and she’s reminded me to spread my wings every now and then.
It’s no coincidence our perfect people entered our lives at the exact right time we needed them.
When we needed comfort. Understanding. A reason to hope.
I’d like to believe Mom finally told Richard how she feels. But if she hasn’t, I certainly hope he sees it in her eyes the way I do.
“It’s cloudy tonight,” Richard says.
“The best,” Mom and I answer in unison.
Reminiscence softens the gaunt lines of her face. “The clouds always were you and Maddy’s favorite.”
I nod in the silence as we stare up at the sky.
Then Mom says the most Lydia James thing ever. “That one kind of looks like a dildo.”
My body slumps in the chair, shoulders bouncing in hushed hysterics. I hide my face behind my hand while Richard snorts from her other side.
Mom laughs, shameless and bright and entirely her. I cast a wish on the sound, praying for the breeze to take hold of it and deliver it back to me when I start to forget.
Summer officially gives way to fall. By October, Mom is completely bedridden. The hospice nurse puts her on a catheter as her windows of consciousness grow smaller and smaller.
Nobody can predict how much longer she has. Could be days, could be weeks. I watch the shallow rise of her chest for hours on end, stuck somewhere between wishing she’d wake up so I can hear her voice one more time and begging God to end her misery.
Sometimes it feels like I’m not breathing any better than she is. I inhale along with her and hold my breath, waiting for her next one. Life is a constant loop of is this it?
Over two months have passed since Rowan left. Our nightly phone conversations are the only time my lungs take in a full breath most days. Hours spent catching each other up on our day, discussing the mundane, the notable, and all the things in between.
For the first few weeks, I sensed his hesitation to talk about Tess.
Admittedly, it’s not always easy to hear about his mother’s recovery while mine slowly turns into a shell of herself before my eyes.
But I’ve never been able to shake his words all those years ago, the same words I recited back to him before he left—there’s joy to be had now if we’d just open our eyes to see it.
And I do. I find joy in the little things.
Mom squeezing my hand after three days of no consciousness.
Kristen popping in unannounced on her lunch break for a block walk, showing up in the evenings with a bottle of wine.
Artie, Tom, and Cecil spending their Sunday afternoons with me in place of their usual VFW festivities.
Richard asking me to teach him how to play chess sparks an excitement I didn’t know I needed.
My soldier’s coffee deliveries and care packages.
Rowan. He’s not one of the little things. He’s the biggest, brightest thing. The most constant, reliable thing.
Dubs’ plea the night of the gala circles my thoughts on a loop. Take care of him. I try to do as much for him as he’s doing for me with all these miles between us.
Handwritten letters mailed the old-fashioned way in hopes they brighten his day unexpectedly. The occasional letter for Tess, too.
Midnight texts on the nights Mom’s rattling lungs are so unnerving I’m too scared to sleep. Sometimes he’s awake too and we begin a rapid-fire call-and-response chain of memes meant to make each other laugh.
Takeout deliveries on the days Tess’ physical therapy is particularly hard. Does he still tell me to stop sending him things? Yup.
“I will if you will,” I snark one such afternoon after another surprise Chinese food delivery.
He lets out an easygoing sigh. I grin against the phone as I pull into a parking spot in front of the pharmacy.
While I could have Mom’s prescriptions delivered, I’ve found the regular pharmacy runs are an easy way to get out of the house. A good opportunity for me to stretch my legs and clear my head for ten minutes.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I climb out of my car and head inside, the bell over the door jingling as I enter. “Alright, gotta pick up Mom’s meds. Talk to you later?”
“I promised my mom an Indiana Jones marathon tonight so I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I chuckle. “Indiana Jones, huh?”
“It’s a Harrison Ford thing. I don’t get it.”
“Mmm, I do. Tell her I approve.”
“Gross.”
“Rude.”
We hang up and I lean against the pick-up counter, waiting for the pharmacist to return. Two figures pass by the windows at the front, and I gasp quietly.
Not again.
“Here you go, ma’am,” the gentleman interrupts.
I swiftly turn around, plastering on a fake smile through the transaction.
My fingers tremble when I run my credit card through the machine.
The bell at the entrance rings from behind me.
I hold my breath, clench my teeth as I slide my card and prescriptions into my purse.
Pulling the collar of my jacket up higher, I duck my head and spin toward the exit right into a solid chest.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, miss,” a tall stranger says.
Not him. I immediately release the air trapped in my lungs.
“No, my fault. Excuse me.”
The kind man steps aside so I can pass. I discreetly scan the rest of the small shop and find it empty. Goosebumps still prickle my skin—I know what I saw.
Crisp fall air chills my cheeks when I step outside. Dusk has settled over the city, pumpkins and bales of hay adorning the pharmacy entrance in preparation for Halloween next week. Across the street, a small flower shop sells varying shades of mums on the sidewalk.
And there—it’s him. Daniel. With a young blonde.
I stiffen. Something foreign curdles the blood in my veins. Not fear. Not panic.
Anger.
Frozen to the concrete, I stare across the two lanes of traffic as he tucks a hand under her elbow and points to a bouquet.
His phantom touch creeps over my arm, and I squeeze the keys in my fist. She smiles at him and he swipes the bundle of flowers off the table. My ears must be on fire—I’m fuming.
When things get dark, talk to somebody.
I close myself inside my car without being spotted. My hands clutch the steering wheel as I take in one deep breath, then another. I retrieve my phone from my coat pocket.
Me
You good to sit with Mom for a bit longer? There’s something I need to do.
Kristen
Sure. No changes here, but I’ll text if anything does. Take all the time you need.
A lifetime spent in one town and I’ve never been here. The building is bland. Unremarkable with a generic glassed double-door entrance. Half a dozen patrol cars litter the parking lot.
I’m paralyzed in my driver’s seat, turning my phone between my hands. I think about the blonde and whether or not she’s safe. If she’s seen the version of Daniel I saw.
Before long, I’m crossing the lot. Don’t stop fighting.
Stepping up a curb, onto the walkway. Admitting it happened doesn’t make you weak.
My nerves are as unsure as my feet, but I keep moving forward. Telling your story doesn’t make you weak.
I pull the door open, enter the small waiting area. Beige walls. A row of cheap, low-profile arm chairs on one side.
“Good evening, ma’am. What can I do for you?” The calm female voice draws me in from where I’d been scanning the cream linoleum tiled floor.
Razors twist in my throat as I approach the reception desk. My hands form fists in my coat pockets, eyes drifting over the handful of officers hunched over their work stations behind her. “Um…I need to…uh”—I force a swallow to steady my voice—“I need to report a sexual assault.”