came again. Never called, never sent cards, never showed up for birthdays or holidays. And my mother used to say, ‘You’re better off—he was an abusive ass.’” And she dropped her head against his chest again.
Tom sat back on his heels, facing her. He ran his hands down her hair. He’d wanted to touch it for a long time, but he never imagined it would be like this.
“I used to remember things,” she said. “Very small things—standing on my stool to do dishes with him in a sink that wasn’t our sink. Or going bowling when the ball weighed half as much as me and Daddy laughing so hard. Or reading in a park, then going on the swings, then getting ice cream—all nice memories that didn’t seem abusive to me. My mother said those things never happened and that I invented them. She said he abused me and I had buried memories.” She lifted her head for a moment. “I did—but they weren’t the kind my mother suggested they were.”
He ran a thumb across her cheek under each eye. “Are you crying because you remember?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Because suddenly I realized I hadn’t remembered—that two whole years had been gone from my life. That my mother is really dead and nothing was ever worked out with her. That my father came back to tell me she was dead and that he was sorry.” She sniffed. “Do you have any idea what I’d have given to hear my mother say that? That she was sorry?”
He leaned his forehead against hers and gently massaged her shoulders. “Of course I do,” he said. Because he’d like to know what the hell happened between his parents and had accepted that he never would.
“Of course you do.” She took a deep breath. “I have to get a grip. It’s time to get back to work…”
“Not just yet,” Tom said. He reached for the sandwich and opened the paper towels. “Do you have water in that?” he said, jutting his chin toward the satchel. When she nodded he asked, “Will you share it with me?”
“Sure,” she said with a sniff, pulling out a big bottled water that she refilled at home every night.
He chuckled and put the sandwich on the ground on one of the paper towels, handing the other to her. “You need this for your eyes and nose. I’ll share mine.”
She obediently wiped the wet off her cheeks and blew her nose, but her eyes instantly filled again. “Thank you, Tom, but I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“I know that’s what you think,” he said, handing the sandwich toward her. “I want you to take a couple of bites. Maybe you’ll feel a little better. Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “I can eat what you can’t finish.”
“Why did you do this?” she asked, taking a very small, experimental bite.
He smiled, a little naughty. “Maxie went to town to shop. All the way to the coast. No one’s watching me, making assumptions.”
“Ah,” she said, chewing. “You’re afraid Maxie will think you like me.”
“I’m sure she already thinks that. She’s noticed I give you rides. She notices everything. But a ride and a lunch—I don’t want her getting all worked up, like I’m taking it to the next level. Because I’m not taking it to the next level.”
“Because we’re employer and employee,” she said, helping him out.
“Uh-huh, and friends. Come on, we’re friends. Aren’t we friends? I watched you blow your nose—that’s very intimate. Isn’t it?”
She laughed in spite of herself. She also took another bite of her sandwich. “You’re a very sensitive man, underneath it all.”
He gave her a serious look. He shook his head. “I don’t know about sensitive—but I’ve been to Iraq and Afghanistan with the Marines. I’ve seen grown men cry for their mothers. I’ve promised to visit their wives if they don’t make it.”
She was frozen, he could see that. She coughed and nearly choked, swallowing hard. “God,” she said. “I can be so selfish. What I’ve been through is nothing compared to war.”
He gave another stroke to her long, wonderful hair, hoping he didn’t get mustard or pickle juice on it. “Don’t do that to yourself, Nora. You’ve had your own war. You’re allowed to feel the weight of it. This has been traumatic for you.”