Then, when I take Mom upstairs to get dressed ten minutes later…still nothing.
By the time thirty minutes have passed, I decide I’ve offended him somehow, having demanded his help without so much as aplease, and begin to panic slightly. I cannot mess this up. Mom needs this. I need this.
Prue: Now that I’m reading that back, I should have said please. Please come by whenever is best for you.
Prue: Sorry.
I fight the urge to text a fifth time in a row, telling him to forget the whole thing, when I see three little dots appear on the left side of my screen.
Milo: easy, killer
Milo: I was in the shower and getting ready to come by
Milo: I like you bossy, don’t forget
Milo: I’ll be there in twenty, if that’s okay?
Milo: please and thank you ;)
Prue: Twenty minutes is perfect.
Prue: …Please and thank you…
When Milo arrives twenty-sevenminutes later, he’s dressed as if he’s ready for his first day of school. He’s got a gray backpack strap on one shoulder, a black band T-shirt tucked into his dark blue jeans, and white sneakers that look well-worn.
And, he appears to be, or at least what I’d venture to guess is,hisversion of nervous. His smile a little tentative, his eyes a little wider, his stature a little less domineering—with his shoulders resting instead of lifted back, his chin straight instead of lifted up.
I meet him at the door of the A-frame as Mom makes herself familiar with her studio again, telling me the same story about the same painting for the second time this morning.
“Are you okay?” I ask, instead of an actual greeting, holding the door only slightly open as his wary eyes search the space between us.
“I-I-I…” He shakes himself, as he did that first day we’d met. “I don’t really know how to…dothis.”
“Just treat her like you always have,” I tell him. “Speak slowly, pronounce your words clearly, but otherwise, you don’t have to be any different. The person you knew is still in there, she’s just a little harder to reach.”
“Are you…” He swallows, his eyes going over my head to the studio and my mother inside of it. “I know the point of all of this is for you to have some time to yourself but—”
“I’ll stay today,” I assure him. “She’s not always great with…” I stopped myself before sayingstrangers,but based on that sad look on his face, he heard it just the same.
“Okay. Thanks,” he says, nodding.
I open the door fully and wave him in.
“Mom?” I say, getting her attention from the painting next to the sink, the one of a jam-covered field inspired by one of Dad’s favorite songs. “This is Milo, he’s here to—”
“Milo!” She perks up, smiling as she walks over with arms extended wide.
Milo bends over to accept her hug, his stunned eyes held on mine. I smile softly, letting him know that it is perfectly okay when he wraps his arms around her too.
“Hi, Mrs. Welch,” he says softly, then repeats himself louder, and clearer. I nearly laugh at his unnecessary overpronunciation, but resist. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“Look at you!” She steps back, admiring him as she covers hermouth with hands that seem to always be shaking these days. “My, you’re a man now!”
“How many years do you think it’s been, Mom? Ten, eleven?” I ask, helping her along.
“Must be, at least!” Her hands fall to her chest, clasping at the powder-blue fabric of her billowy dress. “You look well, honey, are you well?”
Milo’s eyes well with tears that I pretend not to notice. “Getting there,” he answers plainly. “How are you?”
