Are you leaving today?
Me
No. I’m too tired to drive.
Bea
Good. I hated to think we lost our last few days with you. Have you and Jesse had fun?
Me
Yes I’ve had a blast watching him sleep
Bea
lol surely he hasn’t slept the whole time!
Me
Literally the whole time.
All of them had. Yesterday morning, Nora started moving around the house a little and ate some crackers and Cade’s fever went away and he watched a couple movies. But those first two nights? They only slept. I had to wake them all up for medicines and fluids so they didn’t dehydrate. Maybe that was why I felt borderline sick myself. I was absolutely exhausted from taking care of all these people.
A soft knock on the door pulled my attention away from my phone. I quickly padded through the living room, careful not to wake the girls on the couch. The late morning sun made my eyes water, and there, on the bottom step of the cabin porch was my mother.
“Hollie!” Her voice was breathless. “Oh my, honey, you look terrible.”
I gave a soft laugh, lingering near the doorway to protect her from our germs. Lifting my mug of coffee, I said, “This should help.”
“Are you well though? You don’t look well.”
“I think so.” But a twinge of pain in my throat made me wonder.
She motioned to the box she’d set on the porch. One glance at it confirmed an abundance of warm food. My mother, skilled in from-scratch cooking, was the perfect shoo-in for hospitality. “I brought you guys some cinnamon rolls and some orange juice and sausage. And I stuck a jar of broth and some applesauce in there in case they aren’t ready for real food yet.”
“This is perfect. Thank you so much.”
“Are you still leaving today?”
“There’s no way I can drive.”
She smiled, and I noticed the way her eyes crinkled in the corners. She was aging—quickly—and it’d been too long since I’d connected with her. Our relationship limped along, fractured and formal, for over thirteen years. Was it too late to fix it?
“Please call me if you need anything. And as soon as those babies feel better, send them out to see me so you can take a nap.”
“I will, Mom.” I leaned to pick up the box, surprised at the weakness in my limbs. I shifted, resting the box on my hip like a baby.
For a second, she hesitated. Our conversation seemed to end, but she didn’t want to go. She rubbed her hands together—a nervous habit she’d carried her entire life. “Well, I should let you rest.”
“Okay.”
She turned.
“Hey, Mom?”
She looked back, hopeful.
“Maybe…we could talk for a little bit before I go. Just you and me.”
