doctor Joe Hellinger had contacted, or that she would spike a fever and we would end up in the ER, all because I had insisted she leave her own home.
So I huddled between the soft white sheets that covered the pillow-top on the gorgeous big bed in my pine-scented room, and listened for sounds from hers. At one point, I crept across the hall and cracked open the door, needing to hear her breathe so that I would know she was actually there.
Naturally, in the dark where thoughts loomed, I thought of mothers and daughters—specifically, whether a mother was still a mother if her child died, which was my version of what Margaret had asked in Connecticut.
For the first time, I had an answer, because despite having been a hair’s breadth from Lily’s ashes, she felt more alive to me than ever. She was with me as I stood at Mom’s door, pressed to my hip with her arms around my waist, just like she used to do. She was five, would always be five, and while that fact should have crushed me, it no longer did. The time I’d spent with Edward tonight had changed me. I accepted that she was gone—acceptance being different from simple admission. I found a peace in her presence now that I hadn’t felt since her death. She was in my thoughts. No one could take her away ever again.
Secure in that knowledge, I finally fell into a dead sleep and awoke with a jolt as daylight ghosted through the drapes. But how to confuse my home bedroom with a room at the Inn? My watch said seven, which was later than I’d planned. Bolting up, I went for my mother.
She was already in the living room. Wearing an Inn robe and slippers, she had a hint of natural color on her cheeks. If the trip had set her back, it didn’t show. She was typing on her laptop, but stopped, hands suspended, when she saw me.
She didn’t smile. But neither did I. Being here together, after all this time and all that had come between us, was awkward. We were feeling our way along.
“How’d you sleep?” I asked.
She put her hands in her lap. “Very well, thank you. It’s a beautiful bed.” Her gaze circled. “A beautiful suite. Too generous of Edward.” Before I could argue, her eyes were on me, speaking in advance of the words. “You look more like you now.”
I’m sure I did to her. “You’re the first person here to see me like this.” Well, except for Liam now, but he didn’t count.
“I like it.”
I snorted. “No one else would. One look at my scar, and they’d run in the other direction.”
“They would, or you would?” my mother asked. And hadn’t she hit that nail on the head? I was going back and forth, totally unsure, when she said, “It’s faded.”
“I see it every morning. I need to. Sometimes life here is too comfortable, y’know?”
My mother didn’t answer at first. Her eyes, such a fragile green, grew puzzled. “Is that wrong?” she finally asked. “To find happiness?”
Two soul-searching questions at seven in the morning was too much. Honesty was super when you knew what to say, which just then I did not. Thanks to Edward—and yes, to my mother—I had come a long way in the guilt department, but that didn’t mean I was completely free.
“First, how does your hip feel?”
“Sore, but not enough to take a pill.”
She had been typing with both hands. I eyed the left one, which lay still now.
She turned the cast over and back. “It’s fine.” As if to demonstrate, she reached for the nearby teacup and held it with the fingers of both hands.
“Oh, good. You got tea.” I was relieved to see the top of the walker behind the sofa. I didn’t care if she hid it, as long as she used it when she was alone.
“And I took a shower,” she said with some defiance. “They told me to wait until the stitches came out, but it’s been over a week, and I felt disgusting.”
I had to smile. “You weren’t.”
“Well, I feel better now.” Her face gentled some. It struck me that she, too, may have had her moments in the dark last night, imagining all sorts of negatives about coming here. “The flowers are beautiful,” she remarked and, lingering on the nearest tulips, said, “I thought you’d be up before me. You always were.”