“I often stop for a short visit on my way home from work.” She looks at me sideways. “I didn’t expect you here until tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow.” The words come out too fast, too sharp and I wince before continuing in a gentler tone. “I would never miss Claire’s anniversary.”
She makes a dismissive gesture. “One day’s as good as the next I expect.” Reaching out, she places her hand over mine on the bench between us. “Your sister wouldn’t mind.”
My gaze snaps to hers. “How do you know?”
“I’m her mother,” she says with a chuckle, as if it’s obvious—and I suppose it is. “I knew Claire better than anyone, including you and your father.”
There’s silence for a few minutes as we stare out over the lawn that’s been Claire’s home for the last eight years. In some ways it’s hard to believe so much time has passed. In others, I feel like the life I had before Claire’s death is nothing more than a half-remembered dream. I wonder who she would be now. What she would have done with her life. Would we have stopped arguing long enough to become friends? What would she look like? Who would she love?
Try as I might, when I try to picture a grown-up Claire, all I see is my kid sister. Just as she was.
“The orchids are pretty,” Mum says, drawing me from my thoughts. “If the flowers you bring make their way to heaven, Claire must be surrounded by them by now. I doubt she’s missed the obvious.”
I lift my eyebrows in question. “The obvious?”
“That you love her and you miss her. That you’re sorry for what happened.”
My jaw clenches and I look away. If only I could say it enough. If only I knew she could hear me. I would cover this whole lawn in flowers if I thought it would make a damned bit of difference. Then maybe I’d be free.
I flinch, startled by the thought. I’ve never wished to be free of Claire before. Not until I finally found an elsewhere I’d rather be.
“I wonder if maybe it’s time for you to stop.”
Surprised, I turn to her with a frown. “You want me to stop bringing Claire flowers?”
“No, Tris.” She takes a deep breath and returns my gaze. “I want you to stop coming here.”
Pain punches a hole deep in my chest and my mouth falls open. Why would she even suggest such a thing? “I can’t stop. After what I did? I could never.”
“As apologies go, this one has lasted long enough,” she says, and although she’s wearing a gentle smile, there’s a motherly firmness to her tone I haven’t heard in a long time. “After seeing you with Sam, I realise you need to move on with your life and you can’t do that if you keep coming back here, punishing yourself for something that was never your fault.”
Of course, it was my fault. She knows it was my fault. “I killed your baby girl.” The hoarse whisper is barely audible.
Mum’s eyes close and she lets out a quiet sigh. “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying those words, ever thinking them. I was in so much pain and I didn’t know how to deal with it.” Her hand lifts to cup my cheek. “I pushed you away, Tris, and I’m so sorry. Please, can you ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” I ask, incredulously. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’myourmother, too. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most. I tried, I swear I tried, but every time I looked at you all I could see was the empty space beside you where Claire should have been. It became easier not to look, I suppose. But in turning away I lost sight of you, my precious boy.”
“I knew having me in the house hurt you,” I assure her. “I moved out as soon as I could, to make it easier for you. It worked, you got better when I was gone.” The pain of that wound is old now, but it still hurts if I poke at it.
“It did work, though it pains me to admit it,” she says with a slow nod. “After you left, I started to breathe again. I finally found the strength to deal with everything. That’s when I found it.”
“Found what?” I ask.
“My love for you.” She smiles through the tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “I know for a time we both worried it was gone but it wasn’t. It opened up inside me like an endless ocean, wild and crashing, straining to break free. All I wanted was to share it with you, but it was already too late. You didn’t trust me anymore.” She’s clasping my hands again, like she did all those years ago. The grip is tight, as it was back then, but not enough to hurt. Her nails don’t dig in this time. “Tristan, my son, my love for you could swallow the world and still have room for dessert.”
A sob crowds my throat at the words. She used to say them to me when I was a little boy, every night when she tucked me in. Almost forgotten and familiar as the brightest sunshine. I haven’t heard them in so long.
“I miss you so much, every day,” she continues. “And even if you never believe me when I tell you I love you, I will never stop saying it. Because it will never stop being true.”
She throws her arms around me then and I respond in kind. We stand up so we can get closer and as I hold her tight against me, she buries her face in my shoulder, her shoulders shaking.
“I love you, too,” I whisper, stroking a hand over her dark hair.
Eventually, we sink back onto the seat and then we talk. She asks me questions about my life and I answer them honestly. I tell her about Sam and about George. I tell her about my new meditation practice and how my sleep has improved in fits and starts. I tell her what Sam has taught me about giving our best to the people we love.
