Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,74
chair beside him.
His mother, of course.
No doubt come to berate him again for his many failings as a father.
He kept his eyelids firmly shut. If he ignored her, she might get the message and retreat to the annex.
But as the minutes ticked by, she gave no indication she intended to leave.
He was going to have to deal with her.
Bracing, he opened his eyes.
She was looking into the distance, her expression placid rather than angry.
Not what he’d expected.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head. “Susan called on your cell phone. Father Murphy asked her to let us know we can move back into our apartment on Friday. He said if anything has to be replaced, we should make a list. The insurance will cover some of it, and the church will help with the rest.”
“Now that we are both working, we can replace whatever is not insured ourselves.”
“I told her that.” She took a drink from the glass of water she’d brought out with her. “I put Elisa to bed.”
Here it came.
“Thank you.”
When she remained silent, he sent her a sidelong glance. Why didn’t she plunge in and bring up the subject she wanted to discuss? She’d never been reticent about broaching it in the past.
After another five minutes ticked by, he sighed.
Fine.
If she wanted him to initiate the discussion, he would. He was tired of her censure and her meddling. They needed to talk this out.
“You sent Elisa out here on purpose.”
“I was busy in the kitchen, and she likes a bedtime story.”
“You know I’m not in the mood for that sort of thing these days.”
“Yes. I know.” She set the water on the small patio table. “I’m worried about you, Thomma.” There was no reproach in her inflection. No criticism. Only concern.
That was harder to take than her disapproval.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
He had no idea.
“I hope so . . . in time.”
“Time has passed.”
“Not that much.”
“Enough to see some improvement.” Her tone remained gentle.
He clasped his hands tight in his lap. “I don’t know if I will ever get over all of the losses, ’Ami.” His voice choked.
She reached over and laid her hand on his white knuckles. “It is a heavy load for a young man to endure. Perhaps too much.”
He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I have hoped, like you, that time would heal—but I am beginning to wonder if more is needed.”
“You mean . . . like counseling?”
“That is one idea. Or there is a grief group at St. Francis. People who’ve endured losses of many kinds meet once a week to share their experiences and feelings.”
His pulse stuttered as he scowled at her. “You have talked to the priest about this?”
“No. I ask Susan to read me the bulletin every week. The meeting notice is in there.”
“I don’t want to spill my guts to a bunch of strangers.” The mere thought of it turned his stomach.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You could go and listen in the beginning. You might hear some stories that will help you cope with your own situation.”
“I don’t see how. No one who lives in a world like this”—he swept a hand around the placid setting—“could possibly understand what I’ve gone through.”
“I’m not certain that is true, Thomma. Each circumstance is unique, but loss is loss. And while we may be different than the other people who live in this town, hearts know no geographic or ethnic boundaries. Neither does the experience of grief. Will you think about it?”
His mother’s request was reasonable—and he couldn’t argue with her logic or her assessment of his mental state.
He did need help.
But a grief group?
“I can’t make any promises, ’Ami. I don’t think I would be comfortable in such a situation.”
His mother scrutinized him for a moment, rose, and picked up her water. “I know you’d rather deal with this on your own, Thomma. Your father was the same. A very private person who never wanted to admit he needed help. But if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Elisa. I am grateful she found a friend in Molly, and that is helping her . . . but a friend does not replace a father. If this rejection by you continues, it will have long-lasting effects on her life. I know neither of us want that for her—nor would Raca.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder, then returned to the house, a slight limp the only visible reminder of her sprained ankle.