Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,337

you like to start bringing in family and friends?” she asks, obviously wanting to move past the awkward moment that still has me squirming painfully like a deer caught in a sharp-toothed trap.

“Hold on one second,” I say. “I want to do something first.”

With a glance at Grip, I gently lift the cap away from Zoe’s head. I don’t hide my flaws from Grip, and he loves me unconditionally. He doesn’t hide his from me because he knows I love him with the same immutable heart. Our daughter, for as long as she’s here with us, deserves no less.

I want to see her flaws because I know I’ll love her just the same. It’s hard to look. Without the hat, the illusion that she’s like every other newborn disappears with a cruel sleight of hand and confirms what the ultrasound showed us months ago. There are parts of her missing. A thin membrane covers the parts of her brain that developed, but it’s not pretty.

Even so, she’s ours.

“You okay?” Grip asks, his shoulders tight as if he’s braced for a blow.

“Yeah.” I pull the little cap back into place, even though I’ll never forget what lies beneath. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Relief loosens the muscles in his neck and shoulders, loosens the frown from his face.

“She is.” He drops a kiss on the little cap on Zoe’s head. “Now let’s introduce her to everybody.”

It’s not everybody, but it’s that nucleus of people who have supported us. It’s Ms. James, of course, Rhys, Kai, Amir, Jimmi, Luke, and even Jade. The nurse takes pictures of them all holding Zoe, some wearing tear-dampened smiles.

When my parents come, Rhyson stiffly greets them before stepping out of the room. Christmas dinner was okay. He and our father are doing better; he and our mother . . .better. The family counseling sessions have helped, but there is enough tension in the room without their unresolved issues adding to it.

My mother watches the door close behind Rhyson and sighs before turning her attention to me.

“How are you?” she asks, her eyes dry and steady on my face.

“As well as can be expected.” I shrug, running a self-conscious hand over my nest of hair, licking my lips and wishing for a little color. An army of friends, family, nurses, and doctors have come through and I haven’t thought twice, but without a word, this one woman reminds me that I’m probably not presentable. She’s flawless as usual.

“You want to hold her, Angela?” Grip asks. “Your husband just took his picture.”

“Where is he?” Mother looks around the room.

“He went to talk to Rhyson.” Grip clears his throat when my mother’s face falls. It’s a sore spot for her that Rhyson has extended forgiveness to my father but still barely tolerates her. Of the two, she cracked the whip hardest when Rhyson was a child. She gave him prescription drugs to cope with his anxiety, and when he was addicted, she delayed getting him help because she didn’t understand how serious it was.

“Yes, let’s get the picture.” She takes Zoe, and at first her arms are wooden, her posture arrow straight. Then, when she looks down at her granddaughter for the first time, maybe for the last, her face softens and her mouth quivers. Her body curves protectively around the little blanketed bundle. I’m astounded to see a tear skate over her powdered cheek. Then my mother does what no one else has dared to do. She inches the hat back to see Zoe just as she is. She looks up at me, and tears spring to my eyes at what I see on her face—not the agony I’ve seen with some, not the shadow of death, but awe.

“She’s wonderful, Bristol,” she says, blinking rapidly against more tears. “And of all the things you’ve done, I’ve never been prouder of you than I am right now.”

I can only nod because my throat is clogged, my lips sealed. My mother is flawed, but I stopped my running tally of her mistakes long ago. The list got too long and just became a record of my bitterness. Despite all of that and as much as we’ve clashed through the years, I am an offshoot of this tree. I hope I grew straighter and that my roots have gone deeper. I hope my branches will reach wider, offering shelter that my mother often withheld, but if I ever have the breadth of a sequoia or the strength of a sycamore, watching her