I long to call her Momma, to let those two syllables fall from my lips, and for her to take me in her arms and tell me it’s all going to be okay. Only I can’t have any of that. Calling her by anything other than Marlene confuses and upsets her, and she’s not familiar enough with me for any show of affection like a hug. Every now and then, she’ll sidle up next to me and sort of lean in, like she, too, craves the contact, but it’s rare. Each time she does it, I go straight to my car and cry like I’ve lost her all over again.
“Marlene, do you like it when I visit?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says, not even looking up.
“Do you think you’d miss me if I didn’t come again?”
She stops what she’s doing and looks up at me. “You’re not coming back?”
“No, I’m coming back. I just wondered if…if you’d miss me if I was gone.”
“Oh. Okay.” Not an answer at all, but when she resumes playing with the jewelry set, I know it’s the only one I’ll get.
I wonder at the way her mind works. It’s a mystery to me how she could end up like this. And yet here she is. Here we are.
I think about the letter I wrote her, about how she’ll probably never read it and, even if she does, she might not understand it. But I wrote it anyway. I had to. I wanted her to know. Everything. All of it.
They say confession is good for the soul. Maybe that’s true. I hope so, because my soul could use some good.
To confess to Momma for any other reason, however, makes no sense. Yet…I did. It seems I’m always seeking things from her that I know I won’t get. The most I can hope for is a smile of hazy recognition, a couple hours of playing with children’s toys, and the occasional leaning of her thin frame into mine. Yet…I seek anyway.
The human mind is a peculiar thing.
I fight back tears, bitter tears of yearning that I hold closely in check, and I watch as Momma chooses a sticker from the sheet in the box and places it in the center circle of a bottle cap necklace before slipping the plastic chain around her neck. She takes the cap between her fingers and smiles down at it. I smile, too, albeit a watery one. I’m not looking at the jewelry; I’m looking at her.
Then, strangely, suddenly, as if I’d called her name, my mother looks up at me. I watch as her smile begins to fade. Tentatively, she reaches out to touch my hair. Her hand is gentle and hesitant as she moves it down to stroke the side of my face from temple to chin, pausing only to cup my cheek.
Her eyes are locked on mine and I hold my breath, willing myself not to cry as she stares at me. I want to beg her to know me, to recognize me, and to love me. But I don’t. I simply stare back at her. And wait.
Finally, with great purpose it seems, she removes her hand to reach up under her hair and pull the necklace over her head. She looks at it, her thumb brushing reverently over the sticker she just placed, and then she slips the chain over my head instead.
A gift.
The first she’s given me since her accident.
I pull my hair out from under the flimsy plastic chain and settle the bottle cap against my breastbone. Momma’s lips curve into a different, more tender kind of smile and she presses her palm to my chest, covering the charm. She holds her hand there. She’s quiet, as though, intuitively, she knows this moment is special.
The heat from Momma’s hand leaches into my skin, providing its own bit of comfort. We sit like that for several long seconds, and for just a heartbeat, she’s my mom again and I’m her daughter. For just a minute, she’s not broken and neither am I.
Only, in reality, we both are.
Something within her mind intrudes on the moment, bringing back the woman-child my mother has become. Her expression shifts and, with the zeal of a pre-teen, she dives back into the jewelry set to make something else, taking out beads and sifting through bottle caps for just the right colors.
Grief gushes through me. I want that moment back. I want my mom back.
Blinking rapidly to clear my eyes of the water gathering there, I look down at the charm she gave me. I wasn’t paying attention to how she’d decorated it, but I’m paying attention now. In the center of the bottle cap is a sticker of a yellow button.
A button.
When I was a little girl, my mother used to call me her button. It was a pet name. Nothing special. Just some silly little thing between us.
It doesn’t seem so silly now.
My pulse stutters and, for a moment, I am overcome with hope.
Could this mean…?
Is it possible…?
Is there any way that, on some level, Momma knows me?
I watch her hopefully, praying for some other sign that she meant to do this, that she remembers me, that she knows me. I watch and I wait, her fingers working nimbly as she pushes beads onto a bracelet. When she finally smiles up at me, however, that hope is dashed. I see the same friendly child I always see. There is no guile in her eyes, no pain and no suffering, but there is also no real recognition either.
That moment, whatever it was, is gone.
I smile to cover the ache inside, and when my heart breaks into another, smaller piece, I decorate it with bottle caps and buttons and stickers, and I label it simply Momma.
CHAPTER 19
ABI
The Next Step
I came back to Molly’s Knob for a few very specific reasons, none of which involved Sam Forrester in any form or fashion. And yet now I find that a big chunk of my life is focused on him—thoughts, hopes, fears, plans. Only that can’t be. He wasn’t part of my plan. I guess that’s why avoiding him has now become my biggest objective. It’s that or…
Or what?
I’ve agreed, committed to do this thing for him, for his wife, but…now what? What’s the next step and how do I make it?
I have no idea.
Are we supposed to date? Because I can’t even wrap my head around how that will go, how that will feel.
Are we supposed to pretend? Pretend to be in love, pretend to be falling in love, pretend to be making a future? I’m equally uncomfortable with that.
Are we supposed to just wait? If so, for what? For his wife to die? That is unthinkable. It feels traitorous and just…wrong.
So what then? What is the next step?
I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, which is why I’ve taken to more or less avoiding Sam this week. It’s been days since I’ve seen him because I’m not sure I can deal with any of those options. So I’m steering clear. I feel guilty for ducking him, but at least I haven’t run yet, so there’s that.
Lucky for me, I don’t go out much, and when I do, I know to avoid certain places. For instance, I had to go to the grocery store yesterday. Rather than hitting Mullins Grocery and risking running into Sam (which, based on recent experience, seemed very likely), I drove all the way to Carville, a neighboring town, and picked up what I needed there. As much as I can, I stay at home. It’s the coward’s way out for sure, but I’m just not ready to be brave yet. I wanted to do good things for people, to help people, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d be in this position. I think I may have agreed to something that exceeds what I’m capable of.
Today is the day I promised Anna that I’d help with the 5k, though, so there was no hiding out at my little cabin. My foot is much better and I had no real excuse to cancel, so here I am. Doing some good, helping out where I can.
My table is the one beyond the finish line, so I’m by myself for the most part. The people who are gathered to watch for the winner are several feet away, and looking in the opposite direction of where I’m situated. Best part, Sam isn’t among them. I hope he’s not among the participants either.
My stomach bunches just thinking about it.
But even if Sam is among the participants, I’ll be okay. I’ll smile and be polite. I’ll serve my drinks. I’ll clean up when it’s over. And then I’ll run back to my sanctuary by the lake. Bing, bang, boom, done! And once there, I will wait. For what, I don’t
even know, but I will wait.
I’ve already set out rows and rows of cups filled with water. I was told to do half the table in water, the other half in Gatorade, so now I’m pouring orange Gatorade into the other half.
I know the moment the runners start to trickle in. The rhythmic thud of shoes on asphalt touches my ear and the crowd at the finish line starts to murmur and clap. I pour a little faster, trying to get at least the first row of cups filled before the winner arrives.
Cheers erupt behind me and I glance over my shoulder to see who won. Instantly I wish I hadn’t.
It’s Sam.
My luck is crappy. This, I know. Why wouldn’t I expect to see Sam Forrester whipping through the yellow tape stretched across the street? I’m trying to avoid him, so of course he’d be here. And of course he’d win.
Of course I’d see that tape break over his wide chest, which is barely heaving beneath the black Under Armor tank he’s wearing. Of course I’d see that his powerful legs are just as muscular and tanned as they were in high school. And of course I’d see him wave a hand at the crowd and then make a beeline for me.
Of course. Because my luck is shit. That’s all there is to it.
I straighten as he approaches, wishing I’d had these cups filled so I could at least be behind the table for this. That’s not the case, though, so I hang onto my cool, polite composure as tightly as I hang on to the bottle of Gatorade, and I brace myself.
Sam stops a foot or so from me, reaching around to take a cupful of orange liquid and toss it back like a shot of tequila. When he lowers it, I hoist the bottle. “More?”
He nods and I refill his cup before taking a step back and angling my body away from his.
“Congratulations,” I tell him, busying myself with filling the remaining cups. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”
From my peripheral vision, I see him shrug one big shoulder. “Kind of hard for me to preach physical fitness to my patients if I don’t practice it, don’t you think?”
My gaze flickers up. One corner of his mouth is quirked sardonically, and his eyes, two pale puffs of smoke, are trained on me.
I shrug, too. “Makes sense.”
I say nothing else as I fill and fill and fill, not even caring when I slosh a little out onto the white vinyl tablecloth. When I’m finished, I hurry to round the table, anxious to have it between the man who is once again becoming the nucleus of my life and me.
I glance behind Sam, hoping to see more racers. And I do. Two of them, only they’re talking to some people at the finish line, not the least bit interested in a refreshment yet.
“Something wrong?” Sam’s question brings my attention back to him.
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Abi.” Between the way he says my name, just like he did a lifetime ago, and the expression on his face, I know he sees right through me.
“What?” I play dumb. If I can’t run and I can’t hide, that’s the next best thing.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Sam,” I say, assuming the same tone and body language as him. “How can I be avoiding you? It’s not like there are a lot of things we do that put us in the same place at the same time.”
I don’t admit that, if there were a lot of things, I would avoid each and every one.
“Are…are you having regrets?”
“Of course not.” My voice rises at the end this time, and I know it’s clear that I’m trying too hard to sound casual.
Wordlessly, Sam watches me and I imagine that he’s coming to the same conclusion. Only an idiot would be fooled by me. And Sam is no idiot.
“Fine, then would you like to come for dinner tonight? I’m making one of Sara’s favorite dishes. Chicken and broccoli Alfredo.”
My guts roil at the thought. How can I go over to their house and eat her favorite dish with her husband and her child in front of her like she’s already gone?
I feel green and I swallow back a dry tangle of tumbleweed that’s lodged in my throat. “Sam, I don’t think—”
“I’m not asking for me, Abi. This is for her. Do it for her.”
I close my eyes. She’s both the reason I should and the reason I don’t want to.
But, then again, so is Sam.
If I had no feelings for him whatsoever, this would be so much easier. I wouldn’t feel like I’m betraying her every time I look at him and my pulse leaps or my stomach flutters. But, according to her, the fact that I have feelings for him, feelings I’ve never been able to get rid of, is what pleases her most.
What a screwed up mess!
“Please, Abi.”
At his velvety words I open my eyes and look up. Behind him, I see the movement of other runners making their way to my table, but for a moment, it’s just us. It’s just the man I’ve loved half my life and me, alone in the world. And he’s pleading with me. For his wife’s sake.
“Okay, Sam. Okay. What time?”
“Seven.”
I nod, already dreading it, but forcing a smile to my lips in hopes of hiding most of that dread from him. “See you then.”
Sam backs away, still watching me for a few steps, his eyes penetrating in a way that makes me feel stripped bare. If he hadn’t chosen to be a medical doctor, he would’ve made a great psychologist. He has this way of reading people. Always has. Like he can see through carefully constructed walls and right into souls. I used to love it. I used to think he could see straight into my heart and know how much I loved him.
Now I’m not such a fan. There are a million things I don’t want Sam to know. Some that I don’t want anyone to know.
I’ll just have to keep my guard up and pray he can’t really see what I want to keep hidden.
********
I hold the cake I made on the palm of one hand while I knock with the other. I should’ve pressed the doorbell, but some part of me thinks, Well, if they don’t answer, I’ll just go back home. Childish, I know, but…
After only a few seconds, however, the door swings open to reveal a smiling Noelle. She immediately reaches for my hand. I give it without hesitation.
“You’re here!” she exclaims as she starts to pull me forward. I try to wrench my fingers free so I can close the door, but before I can, Sam appears, as if by magic, to close it for me.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t be a slack enough father to let his little girl answer the door by herself, even though in all likelihood it would be me since I was expected. But just in case… I mean, who wants to take that chance? No parent who loves his or her child would be so careless. A good parent protects their child at all costs.
An old, familiar pinch of agony nips at my heart, but I make a point to push it aside. Now is neither the time nor the place for thoughts that will drag me down the rabbit hole of shame and self-loathing.
“Thank you,” I tell Sam over my shoulder as Noelle guides me toward the kitchen.
His lips tilt up into a lopsided grin. “No problem.”
“Look what we’re watching,” Noelle tells me when she lets go of my hand and runs around the sofa to where her mother is sitting in front of the television in the den. On the screen is a cartoon about a popular fish.
I set the cake on the island. “Is that Dory?”
Noelle nods, her eyes sparkling happily as she climbs up beside her mother. I’m unsure of what to do with myself. Am I supposed to go sit down and watch the movie? Am I supposed to help in the kitchen and assume the wifely role?
I stuff my hands into the back pockets of my jean capris. It’s a nervous gesture I’ve had since I was a kid. I used to bite my nails when I was tense, but my mother would smack my fingers when she caught me, so I started shoving my hands into pockets to keep myself from nibbling on them. It worked then, and it’s a habit I still use today, although, thankfully, the urge to gnaw my fingernails is gone.
When Sam enters the room behind me, I turn t
o him, desperate for some guidance. “What can I do to help?”
He bypasses me for the stove where there are several pots and skillets bubbling and simmering. By the heavenly scent in the air, I’d say dinner is nearly ready. “Not a thing. It’ll be time to eat in just a few.”
“It smells like an Italian restaurant in here,” I mutter, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and cheese.
“Sam’s a great cook,” comes Sara’s voice from the den. I glance up and see only the back of her head. She hasn’t turned around. She’s still facing the television, her daughter standing up on the sofa, leaning against her side.
The fact that she hasn’t really greeted me and that she won’t turn around gives me a distinctly uncomfortable vibe.
“He said this is your favorite dish.”
“It is. We used to go out and get it, but when I started having more bad days than good, he mastered it just so he could make it for me. What a guy, right?”
I look back at Sam who is bent over a pan of Alfredo sauce, stirring.
“Yeah, that was pretty nice of him.” I keep my answer noncommittal. It feels odd to brag on Sam, and I’m not sure why.
I stand awkwardly waiting for…something, something that never comes, so I take out my hands and slap them together, asking the room in general to tell me where the plates are so I can set the table.
“No, no,” says Sara from the den, a heave in her voice as she comes slowly to her feet. “You’re our guest. That’s my job.”
She wobbles unsteadily, reaching out for something to grab onto, but there’s nothing. I race across the room, thinking she’s about to fall, and stretch over the back of the sofa to offer my hand for support. Her thin, cold fingers clutch mine in a grip so hard it shakes.
“Thank you.” Her voice is a bit breathless. “I…I can’t seem to keep my balance these days.”
She is trying to pass it off as nothing alarming, but Noelle is standing on the couch with a scared look on her face. I can see Sam in my peripheral vision, too. He came from the kitchen and is tense just to my left, at the ready to rescue his wife in the blink of an eye.
No, this is not nothing. This is not normal for her.