60. My Willful Stubbornness
MY WILLFUL STUBBORNNESS
brIGHTON
I’d be better off if I hadn’t seen his mottled face.
I’d definitely be less wrecked if he’d made eye contact or hadn’t been using his thumb and forefinger, as only men do, to scrub the tears from his red-rimmed eyes.
If my brother would’ve looked at me, instead of studying the baseboards as he passed, I’d feel better about these next few steps I need to take.
But he didn’t.
No nod. No joking.
Not even a “yeah, yeah” that so easily trips from his tongue.
It’s not as if I’m heading to the guillotine.
But…
But, this fucking sucks.
“Brighton?”
Pop pokes his head into the living room where I’ve been pacing. That is, until the ghostly look on Braxton’s face stopped me dead in my tracks.
I lift my head and hold my father’s eyes and receive one solemn jerk of his chin as his answer.
If I didn’t see him clench his teeth and a barely-there smile from where his lips are pressed tight together, I’d assume he was angry.
He’s not. He’s fighting the emotional tidal wave that’s threatening to suck us all under.
My legs come unstuck, and like a young foal, I stutter step to the mouth of the hall. My head must be ducked low, because Pop puts a hand on my shoulders and rubs them like he’s pushing dust off the edges until I resume a normal stance.
He leans in and kisses my forehead before using the leverage he has on my body to turn me toward their room. With a soft nudge, he walks away. I wouldn’t know if not for the sound of his boots on the old hardwood floors thundering in my ears as eerie silence swallows everything else.
I walk, almost on tiptoe, to the open door and take a steadying breath before leaning around the jamb.
“Mom?”
“Hey, baby girl.” She lifts her too-frail hand and waves me in, patting the covers next to her.
I sit, trying not to notice the gray tinge painting her once beautiful olive skin. My strong, vibrant mother is too pale for her Italian heritage. Gone, too, is her thick, lustrous hair. It’s limp and sparse, stark against the unhealthy color of her gaunt skin.
Her robust, larger-than-life personality is muted to resignation.
That hits the hardest.
“Did I ever tell you I was afraid to have a daughter?”
I shake my head. This is the first time she’s ever mentioned anything like this.
“Growing up, I wanted a girl. I had names picked out, even knew exactly how I’d dress her.
I was silly and immature.” Her eyes draw closed as she takes another breath.
When they open, she continues. “The older I got, the more I realized I didn’t have the temperament to be a girl-mom.
Your brothers? I had it easy with them—well, with Exton at least. But he and Brax…
Being a mama to them was the most natural thing I’ve ever done.
There’s enough of their father in them to temper what they got from me.
But you?” She locks me with her fiery chocolate gaze.
“From the moment you were born, you were different.”
“I—” My words catch in my throat, but quickly cut off the rest of that thought. What am I going to do… argue?
Her cool palm lands on top of mine, and I can’t remember what was worth fighting about.
“You were fire and you were ice. You were smart-mouthed, but so whip smart that I’d want to wring the sarcasm from your tongue, while at the same time cheering for you at your bold brilliance.
You poked at things in me that I didn’t like about myself.
And you did it unknowingly. It waged a war within me.
How could I love something in you that I hated in myself?
How could I admire you and celebrate you while wanting desperately to craft you into the best version of yourself?
How could I be so proud of this girl who could give me fits?
How had this” —she gestures to me from head to hip— “come from me? Could I take any credit at all?” She shakes her head, and I can see the pain behind the motion.
“No, Brighton Alexandra. This is all you. You were the precocious child who thought she could figure it all out on her own. Or study her big brothers for the answers. You were the girl who wouldn’t be told that rodeo was for boys or that little girls didn’t wear cowboy boots.”
“Stupid people,” I mutter and watch a grin play upon her mouth.
“You were the girl who knew exactly who she was and wouldn’t accept less than she deserved. I love that about you. But you know what?”
I hold her eyes and shake my head.
“I don’t think that last part is wholly true.”
I rear back, confused.
“My sweet girl, not the deserve part… The knowing exactly who you are part. It certainly is the case that you know exactly who you want to be. But I’m not confident that you know who you are.”
I want to argue, tell her I know my own mind. I want to remind her that I know my worth since she reminded me of it so often.
“So, I want to tell you…
“You’re kind and funny. You’re brilliant and compassionate.
You are the heart you wear on your sleeve, even if it’s held under lock and key.
You’re the wisdom of your father and—unfortunately for you, but so, so lucky for me—the passion of your mother.
You’re his tried-and-true nature and my willful stubbornness.
You’re all woman and still strong enough to go toe-to-toe with any man.
I admire that about you.” A smile beams from her too thin face. “You’re stubborn. And you are amazing.”
“Mom—”
She taps my hand and continues as if I haven’t interrupted.
“But you’re wrestling yourself silly.” She pauses when she sees my face, lifting her palm to tap the top of my hand before resting it back there, as if she doesn’t have the energy to keep lifting it.
“Shhh. Let me finish. Sometimes you remind me of an alligator wrestling his own tail or an ouroboros that never stops gnawing, trying to eat more from the end, but choking on what it’s got. Make peace with yourself, Bright.
“Make peace with yourself. When you do, give that away to someone you find worthy. Until you find that peace, you won’t be a good wife or partner.
And one day, I hope you have a great husband…
someone who deserves the amazing woman I birthed, someone who recognizes your strength but also the vulnerability it masks.
Someone who looks past the sarcasm and sharp tongue to see the hurt and fear underneath.
You, my darling daughter, are everything I could dream up times a million.
I am so proud of you. I did a great job with you and I can be proud of myself for that. ”
A lone tear streaks from her eye, dipping into the hollows of her face before running for her ear. I reach up and brush it away.
“I love you, Mom. I had a great example to look up to. If I can be half the woman you are—”
“Don’t you finish that sentence, Brighton.” Her tone is sharp for her weakened state. “To be half the woman I am, you’d have to go back in time. You’ve far exceeded me, sweet girl. Far exceeded. I am so proud to be your mother. Thank you for choosing me, if that’s the way it works.”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Do you need some rest?”
“A little. I’d love for you to tell me about what’s happening down the hill? How’s your newest baby? Tell me everything.”
I hold her hand and regale her with stories from the barn and how Marron is coming along. I tell her about a new litter of barn cats and the mischief they’re finding.
“Luna got curious about a skunk the night before last—” I look up and see her asleep. I never finish the story about Luna and the wretched smell that still lines my nostrils. “I love you, Mom. Greatest gifts I’ve ever been given were your love and encouragement. I’m not ready to lose you.”
My voice breaks and instead of being sucked under by the emotion of loss, I remember what I still have.
I slide my butt down and lean on my side, spooning back into her.
I might as well be four years old and scared of a thunderstorm, curled up in my parents’ bed, reminding myself of their ability to save me from monsters and booming thunder.
And all the other dangers out there lurking.
Except cancer.
No one can save any of us from that fiend. It takes and takes, devouring everything in its path.
Taking my heart… and my Mom with it.