ground fog. The wipers kicked in every ten seconds or so, picked up when the mist became a drizzle, then slowed again.
My phone lit. Shanahan. Seriously? he wrote.
With my emotions in high gear, his doubt set me off. Would I do this for kicks? My mother hasn’t talked to me in four years. The call came from her assistant. I punched Send before fully analyzing the wisdom of it, but was angry enough to add, Trust me, I don’t want to be going, but she’s my mother. I sent that one off with a huff and muttered, “Like having to ask permission helps…”
“Only a few months left,” Edward said and gave my hand a squeeze. “Warm enough?” He stretched a long arm toward the middle console anyway, able fingers setting my heated seat to high. I hadn’t thought to ask, but the heat was nice.
How long will you be there? Shanahan texted.
It was an interesting question. I haven’t thought that far. Just the day, I think. Neither of us had overnight bags. I have to see how she is.
Let me know.
Returning the phone to my lap, I refocused on the road. We had joined I-89 heading toward White River Junction. It was a route I had driven many times, mostly to see Shanahan, which was part of my punishment and, therefore, welcome in its way. Only now, here, in Edward’s car, with Edward and an illusion of normalcy, did I find having a probation officer humiliating.
I closed my eyes, pictured a mountain stream, inhaled and exhaled to the sound of trickling water.
“You good?” Edward’s deep voice asked.
My eyes popped open just as his darted me a quick glance. I darted one back that held doubt.
“You’re doing the right thing,” he said.
“Tell that to my heart. What if she refuses to see me?”
“She won’t.”
“Why not?”
“She needs you.”
My phone screen lit. Barely, I read.
“Grace,” I told Edward and texted, Is Chris okay?
Contrite, she replied, but made no comment about my past, which she certainly would have, if Chris had told her. Suddenly gets it. Realizes what a big deal this is. Did it take People to convince him?
Possibly, I thought, though I wondered whether my confession had played even a small role. That would be redeeming.
How are YOU? I asked.
Nervous. Hiding. Angry at the kid.
I didn’t respond. I got the nervous and hiding part, but the angry-at-the-kid part hit too close to home.
“They say a mother’s love is unconditional,” I said aloud, “but which is more abiding—a mother’s love or a child’s need for it?”
Edward was quiet at first. “You do need her love.”
“But does she love me?”
“She’s your mother.”
“It’s been four years. I’ve reached out. She doesn’t respond.”
“Emotions are complex.”
“That’s my point. Can she love me even if she can’t forgive me?”
It was a minute before he said, “Can you love anyone, if you can’t forgive yourself?”
The message was for me, but I wasn’t there yet. “What if she tells me to leave?”
“I’ll talk with her.”
“She hates you.”
His smile was crooked. “True. So maybe I need to be doing this, too.”
But I wasn’t there yet, either. “If she doesn’t want me in her house, what can I do for her?”
“Make lunch.”
That raised a whole other issue. “Annika said the church brought food, but how do I know it’s still fresh? I should be bringing food myself. That’s what a good daughter would do.”
“A good daughter would wait and see what she has and what she wants. I can always make a supermarket run.”
Now there was a distraction. Edward and I used to food shop together when we first met, not so much once we were married. My career had always been more forgiving than his, even after Lily was born.
“Well, yeah, that’s another thing I did wrong,” Edward said when his offer hung in their air. “I could’ve helped more. I’ve gotten pretty good at it since then. Necessity is the mother, and all.”
“I would’ve thought you’d order online and have it delivered.”
“Sometimes I did.”
“When you were really busy.”
“When I didn’t want to be seen.”
“Because people might recognize you?” I asked, thinking collateral damage.
But his expression held its own brand of shame. “When I felt like shit about me. When I hated work and missed you and couldn’t see the future. I ordered paper towels online and had pizza delivered and watched Homeland.”
“Homeland. Not too real?” Game of Thrones was fantasy, which was the only reason I could bear the violence.
“Yes, too real. That’s why it helped. It got me out