“And what did you come up with?”
“The truth I guess.”
“And are you prepared for the outcome?”
“No, but I’ll deal with the fall out.”
“Don’t leave it too long before you talk to her. If she finds out from someone else that you are here, it’s going to be bad.”
“Fuck me, I know. I just need one day. Just one, I promise.”
Chapter Fourteen
I have just walked into the gallery and put down my bag when I hear my cell phone chime, letting me know of an incoming message. And then again, and again.
As I dig through my disaster of a bag to retrieve it, the gallery phone rings.Oh, for fuck’s sake.I toss aside my bag; my cell can wait.I am running late again, with next to no sleep and can already tell it’s going to be one of those days.
“Good morning, A Touch of Grace Art Gallery, Hannah speaking,” I say in a cheery professional tone that I’m not quite feeling.
“Hi, sweetie.” I hear my mom’s voice over the line. "I never heard from you yesterday, so I thought I would check in and see how you’re doing.”
Once upon a time, I would have questioned if she really cared about me or if she wanted me to ask her how she was. We have come a long way since then. It took me being an adult and a bunch of therapy to understand my complex feelings.
Her mental health took up a lot of room in our relationship when I was younger. To say my childhood was an adventure is a gross understatement. There were many spontaneous escapadesand grand ideas. Those times were often followed by crippling depression that would keep her in bed for days if not weeks.
Grace is the most loving mother in the world, but sometimes, her mental health got in the way of being a parent. Growing up, my dad always balanced out the dynamic in the house. When he was gone, I ended up parenting myself and sometimes her.
After he died, she went into a major depressive state that I wasn't sure she was going to survive. But with a combination of new medication and regular therapy she has turned a corner and is doing much better. She will always have bipolar disorder, but the highs and lows are no longer as severe. Now I know she’s genuinely interested in me and my life.
“Good morning, I’m really good. What are your plans today?”
“I don’t know yet. I have an appointment with Ryan later at the clinic. Other than that, I have no plans beside spending time with the flowers.”
“How are your gardens? I bet the fall colours are gorgeous?”
When Dad died, she couldn’t work at the gallery at all, so I completely took over as the manager, now owner. She currently comes in a few times a month to curate displays and help with events.
She spends a lot of time creating beautiful perennial gardens around her house and often mine. She volunteers her time helping the village with beautification projects, and seasonal decorations. She claims the fresh air and dirt on her hands feeds her soul.
I wish I enjoyed dirt therapy more. I prefer paint and a canvass.
I'm glad she continues to see Ryan as her therapist. He was fresh out of university with a master's in psychology when he started seeing her regularly. I found out he attended the same university and was in the same program that I was enrolledin once upon a time. He has consistently proven himself as an excellent therapist over the years.
She adores him and sometimes professional lines are crossed. I often find him at the dinner table on holidays and on random Sundays. He’s here all alone with no family and I consider him a friend now.
“The gardens are coming along nicely. I’m thinking about having a water feature installed next spring. No fish though, they wouldn’t survive our cold winters.”
I can hear the smile in her voice.
“How are things at the gallery? Do you need any help with the show?”
“A water feature sounds amazing. I think we’ve got the gallery under control, but I’ll let you know if I need an extra set of hands.”
After saying our goodbyes and promising to check in when I get home tonight, I remember the text messages I had received before answering my mother's call.
I really need to clean out this bagI think again as I search for my phone amongst the clutter.
Let’s make that multiple messages from Beck. Why say in one message when you can drag it out in five or more text messages? That would be ridiculous.
