Chapter 14 #2
Kate squeezed my hand once and stood up. She followed Joanne inside to the kitchen. I didn't explain to my mother what had happened. I didn't hand her a neat, sanitized version so she could feel like she knew how to handle us. I let Kate’s words stand as exactly what she’d wanted to give.
Before we loaded up to leave, my father walked over to the truck carrying a wooden crate of apples and a small burlap sack of potting soil.
“For the basil,” he said, nodding toward Kate.
“My basil is beyond saving,” she said.
“Mine was too. It’s still out there.”
Kate took the sack in both hands, and for the first time all weekend, her smile came without caution.
“Thank you, Gene.”
He gave a short nod. Then he pulled open the high passenger door for her and walked off toward the barn before anyone could turn it into a moment.
* * *
After spending the weekend with Cole’s parents, visiting my mother felt like a fair trade.
Cole hadn't put up a fight. Which was how we ended up sitting in her kitchen, after she’d put him through the standard maternal cross-examination, while I tried to figure out how to bring up something I’d never imagined having to tell her.
My mother had set a lemon tart in the center of the table before I’d even found a way to sit down.
Linda and Greg’s house smelled of lemon furniture polish and reheated coffee.
A cream-shaded table lamp illuminated the living room even though afternoon light still filtered through the front windows.
On the sideboard sat framed photos of my brother Danny at three different ages, alongside one of Linda and Greg on a beach I didn't recognize.
Cole sat at the far end of the sofa, a coffee mug cradled in his oversized hands.
Linda came out of the kitchen balancing three dessert plates, pausing the second she noticed me touching my watch. The clasp clicked open. I snapped it shut before opening it again.
“What is it?” she asked.
There was no gentle way to lay it out. I chose the version that took up the least amount of air.
“I was pregnant.”
The plate in Linda’s hand clattered against the edge of the table. It didn't break. She set it down slowly beside the tart.
“Kate...”
“I lost it. A few weeks ago.”
Cole didn't say a word. I felt his presence without needing to turn around. My mother gripped the back of a dining chair with both hands, the color draining from beneath her foundation.
“I had no idea,” she said.
“I know.”
“And you?” She looked at Cole, then back to me. “Were you with her?”
“Yes,” I said before he could answer. “He’s here because I asked him to be.”
Linda nodded, the motion too sharp, too fast. She pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving an empty seat between us.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Why didn't you tell me?”
The word *sweetheart* caught on something raw inside me and pulled it loose. I gripped my wrist to keep from wiping away a tear before it could fall.
“I wasn't ready to have a baby,” I said. “I’d already decided that for myself. And even so... I don't need you to explain why this hurts.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were going to say that some things just don't happen at the right time. That people get scared. That it’s nobody’s fault.”
Linda lowered her head. The room filled with the low hum of the refrigerator and the muffled rumble of traffic out on the avenue.
“I probably was going to say something like that,” she admitted.
“I know. Because you said it about Dad. For years.”
My mother looked up. There was no instant defensive shield in her eyes. That unsettled me far more than an argument would have.
“He walked out,” I said. “After you got pregnant with Danny. And you called it not being ready, as if that explained why he stopped coming back. As if wrapping it in different words changed what I learned from it.”
“Kate, I didn't want you growing up thinking he left because of you.”
“Instead, I learned that a surprise could make someone vanish. I learned that if needing something carried that kind of risk, the only smart move was never to need anything at all.”
My voice cracked on the final word. That hadn't been in the plan. My plan hadn't accounted for crying over a lemon tart, or having Cole stare down at his own hands just to keep from crowding my air.
Linda took off her reading glasses and laid them on the tablecloth.
“You were six years old, and I was trying to keep the man who walked out on us from taking up every inch of the house,” she said. “I made him small with words because I didn't know what else to do. But it wasn't small. And you shouldn't have had to turn that into a rule just to survive.”
It wasn't a tidy apology. It was better and worse than that: it didn't ask me to relieve her of the weight.
“I don't want you making excuses for him,” I said.
“I’m not. He left. And I packaged it into a story that let me get through to the next morning. I dragged you into that story with me. I’m sorry.”
The ceramic base of Cole’s mug scraped softly against the saucer as he set it on the coffee table. He didn't reach out. He didn't speak. His silence wasn't empty; it was the exact perimeter of space I’d asked him to hold.
My mother drew a slow breath through her nose, staring blankly at the tart.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” she asked. “And if there isn't, I won't turn it into an interrogation every time I see you.”
The offer caught me off guard by its design. It didn't promise total understanding. It promised she could respect a boundary.
“Not today,” I said. “Today I just wanted you to know because I needed to stop pretending these past few weeks haven't been total madness.”
“I understand.”
“And I don't want you telling anyone. Not Greg, not Danny. Not yet.”
“I won't.”
I held her gaze for a second. Silence could be a trap. It could also just be silence. For once, I didn't rush to fill the quiet for the both of us.
“Can I give you a hug?” Linda asked.
My thumb brushed the clasp of my watch. I left it still.
“Yeah. But not for long.”
“Not for long,” she echoed with a faint laugh.
Her hug smelled of her lotion—citrus with a hint of warm vanilla.
It was careful. When she stepped back, she didn't try to wipe my face or tell me everything was going to be fine.
She picked up the dessert plates and carried them into the kitchen, because apparently that was her way of giving me room to breathe.
Cole stood when I did. In the entryway, Linda brought my purse from the hall table and waited by the front door.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“I didn't tell you so you’d fix anything.”
“I know.”
Her answer landed without an edge. I filed that distinction away where I wouldn't lose track of it.
Out in the truck, Cole started the engine but left the transmission in park. Gene’s sack of soil sat wedged behind our seats. A stray apple had rolled loose from the crate, rocking gently against the floorboards every time a door opened or shut.
“Want to sit here for a minute?” he asked.
He didn't ask how I felt. He didn't start rattling off possible destinations.
I looked at my mother’s house through the windshield. The cream lamp in the living room was still glowing. Then I looked at the dark soil inside the sack and the loose apple resting against the slats of the crate.
“One minute,” I said.
Cole rested his hands on the steering wheel. I sat and breathed until the click of my watch stopped keeping time with my pulse.