“I’m not asking you to stop being mad,” she says. “You be mad as long as you need to. But I’m not going anywhere this time. Even if you yell at me. I’ll be right here, being your annoying mother, showing up whether you want me to or not.”
A wet laugh escapes me. “That’s not how amends are supposed to work.”
“Well, I never did anything by the book.” She pulls back and cups my face in her hands. “I’m learning, Elly. Slowly. One day at a time.”
“I don’t know how much Bastian told you, but ‘one day’ might be all we have left,” I mutter pessimistically.
“Well, I don’t know anything about all this mess you all have found yourselves in. I’m an air-headed old lady just trying to figure life out. But love… I’ve got a bit more expertise there. And you know what Ihavefigured out?” she asks me.
“That asking to go halfsies on a first date is a red flag?”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not a good sign, that’s for sure. But no, not that. What I’ve learned over my many hard years is that the difference isn’t in whether you love someone. That part… you can’t control that. Goodness, how I tried. The difference is in what you’re willing to accept from those you love.”
She takes my hand again and sandwiches it between hers.
“I chose men who took and took and gave not a damn thing back. Not that they’re the only ones to blame—guess we went ‘halfsies’ on the guilt, to steal your word. But they took ‘cause I let them, baby. And I let them because I thought that was all I deserved.” She dabs at my tears with soft touches. “But Bastian? That man dragged himself eight blocks with a bullet hole in his gut just to get back to you. He didn’t run away from you when things got hard; he rantowardyou. And that right there is the whole damn point. Loving someone who loves you back, whofightsfor you—that’s not the same as what I did. Don’t punish yourself for finding something real just because I never could.”
“Love’s so fucking stupid,” I mumble.
Mom laughs. “Oh, it sure is. The stupidest thing on this planet. The best, too, incidentally.”
I bury my face in the crook of her shoulder. “I do love him, Mom. Is that wrong?”
“Right and wrong’s got nothing to do with it,” Mom says. “Love justis. Like gravity. You can fight it all you want, but eventually, you’re gonna fall.”
I pull back and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “When did you get so wise?”
“Oh, that li’l chestnut? Stole it from a TV show. Did it sound good when I said it?”
I laugh snottily and rap her knee lightly. “Maybe ‘wise-ass’ would’ve been more accurate.”
“Takes one to know one,” she says with an irrepressible grin. She strokes a fallen bang out of my face and kisses each cheek. “I love you, Elly Belly. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Now, drink your tea. Growing a baby is thirsty work.”
I take a sip of the mug she brought me. The honey sweetens it just enough to settle my stomach and my tears alike. We sit companionably side by side, enjoying the sun on our faces through the bedroom window, until there’s a knock on the door.
“Everything okay in there?” Bastian asks carefully.
“We’re fine!” I call back, my voice still thick with tears. “Be out in a minute.”
His footsteps retreat down the hall.
Mom stands and shuffles toward the door. But she pauses at the threshold and turns back to face me. “I’m not demanding to be part of your life, Elly. I know I haven’t earned that.” She swallows hard enough that I can hear it from across the room.“But if you ever want me there—for the baby, or for anything else—I’ll show up this time. I promise.”
The lump in my throat makes speaking impossible. All I can do is nod.
48
BASTIAN
from scratch /fr?m skraCH/: adverb
1: made with raw ingredients rather than pre-made components.
2: what you have to do with a brother’s trust after you’ve burned the first batch to ash.
The bacon pops and sizzles, sending up a spray of grease that catches the edge of my wrist. I don’t flinch. After everything I’ve been through, a little hot fat barely registers.
Seventy-two hours ago, I was bleeding out on Georgia Hunter’s bathroom floor while she stitched my gut closed. Now, I’m standing at a stove in suburban Skokie, flipping strips of Smithfield and pushing eggs around a nonstick pan.
