She saw me get the Tylenol and the ice pack earlier this morning. And she’s smart. I’ll bet she can guess something at least close to the truth. But if she has, she doesn’t say.
“Oh, sweetie.” She pulls me out of the chair and to my feet, and she wraps me up in a tight hug like she knows just how much I’m hurting. She holds me for a few long seconds. Then she says, quietly, “Nico’s always had trouble communicating about difficult things, right? Even with you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Does this seem different than that?” She straightens up a little and moves her hands to my arms. Her eyes are a little glossy, like she’s holding back her own tears. “By that I mean, is there anything different about it now—how he’s told you he doesn’t want to talk or doesn’t want your help? If you think about it, is this how you’d expect him to behave, normally? Or, normal for him, I mean.”
I sniffle and look down at the space between us, and even though I don’t want to, I think back on earlier this morning and even back to last night. How I got home to see him in my bed, scrunched up against the wall. How I lay in bed with him. How, early in the morning before the sun was really up, he woke me up, asked me to hold him. How he flinched away from my touch, not once, but twice. Then, how his tone changed—scared and angry andirritated. Anxious... just like... “normal” for him, when he gets anxious.
“I thought... we’ve been getting closer,” I stammer, “and he’s been more open with me, and...”
“It’s hard to change habits, especially ones rooted in the type of trauma his is.”
My heart misses a beat, and I inhale a rough breath as I shake my head. She’s right. Of course.
I remember how he changed before—gradually but obviously. His slow withdrawal into himself after Patrick started coming around. His reluctance to want to spend time at home. The bruises he tried to hide, even from me. The whole terrible week freshman year when he stayed home from school and didn’t return any of my calls. I found out what happened later, after he had surgery to repair his broken nose. He told me. Eventually. Reluctantly.
“He was always quiet and stuff, but when the, uh”—I swallow hard and look up to meet my mom’s eyes—“when the abuse started, it got worse.”
She knows already. But my stomach churns, and I find myself wishing I could take back the words. Nico hasn’t said I can talk to my mom about any of this. But what happened in the past—yeah, she knows about all of that. We had to talk about it then. She and I talkeda lotabout it then, actually, which I desperately needed at the time.
“He’s had nearly a decade of this now,” she adds quietly, and I nod, the lump in my throat painful. “And I don’t know what’s going on now—”
“Neither do I,” I cut in.
“Right. So whatever it is, if you care about him—”
“I do. Very much.”
She pulls me back into her and holds me tightly. “I know, sweetie. I know.”
I’m crying now, and I bend down and bury my head in her shoulder.
“So whatever’s going on,” she continues, “the best thing you can do is just be there for him as much as possible. Be therewhenhe’s ready to talk. Remind him how much you care. And be patient with him. Accept where he is, meet him there, and know that even if he doesn’t open up right now, if it takes him time, if he seems to be pushing you away, it’s only because that’s what he’s had to do for years now to protect himself.”
I nod into her. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” She steps back, letting her hands drop away. Then she reaches up and touches my cheek. Something like pain flickers through her expression as she studies me, and she purses her lips and says, “Don’t... don’t give up on him. I... don’t think you will, but I worry about him, too. I worry...” She hesitates and lowers her eyes, frowning. “I worry that he doesn’t see his own worth. Especially now, with everything happening with his mom and that awful man coming back into his life.”
Fear seizes me, just like it had that moment on the stairs the other night, and I nod again. “I worry about that, too. More than you know.” When I look up at her, the pain is back in her expression. “I... want to be there for him,” I add. “I’m just not sure what to do when he pushes me away. Do I stay anyway? Do I give him space? Do I insist, or do I leave him alone and hope he comes back to me? What... what do I do?”
I know there’s no right answer. There’s no answer she can give me that’s definitive. And her brief smile as she shakes her head tells me that.
Letting out a sigh, I turn back to the computer and slip into the chair. “I should be able to get this done in a few hours.”
Her hand sets on my shoulder, and she squeezes me gently. “Perfect. I’ve gotta run to Omaha and pick up some paints andsupplies. I got a new commission just this morning. I should be back around noon, maybe a bit later. Although I think I need to stop at the grocery store too. Anything you need that’s not on the list on the fridge?”
I start to shake my head, then stop and smile. “Syrup?” I turn in the chair to face her. “We ran out a few days ago.”
With a laugh, she nods. “No problem.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll grab eggs and potatoes, too, and we’ll have breakfast for dinner.”
“Sounds great, Mom. And thank you.”
“Everything’ll be okay, sweetie.”
“I know.”
She gives me one more smile, and even though it’s a small gesture, it makes me feel a little better. “Be back soon,” she says.
