The words land exactly where they always do. Right in the chest.
“He always knew. Even when you were small. He used to tell anyone who’d listen, ‘My boy is going to be a doctor someday.’ He had to leave school early,” she continues. “He worked for everything we had. There were long hours, but no complaints. But he never doubted you. Not once.”
I swallow hard.
“I always knew medicine was in your future,” she adds. “You were steady even then.”
I don’t tell her about the nights I wake up sweating or the demons that haunt me. Some truths are mine to carry.
She turns then and really looks at me.
“So handsome,” she murmurs. “You look just like him.”
I shift, uncomfortable in a way I never quite grew out of. “It’s the hair.”
She reaches up and brushes imaginary lint from my shoulder. “No, it’s the eyes.”
I change the subject like I always do. “I’ll call by the house next week. See if you need anything fixed.”
She waves me off. “That’s okay. I’ve got someone popping in.”
“That so?” I glance at her. “Who?”
There’s a pause for just a beat too long.
“Tom,” she finally says. “He’s been helping out.”
That catches my attention.
Tom’s been mentioning the odd job here and there for months now. I’d filed it away as friendly, the kind of thing he’s always done, but there’s a faint flush in my mother’s cheeks that wasn’t there a moment ago. It climbs just high enough to make me wonder if I’m imagining it. She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, suddenly focused on nothing.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. “Didn’t realize he was around so much.”
“Oh, he just… pops in,” she replies. “Checks things. Makes sure I’m not climbing ladders I shouldn’t.”
A smile ghosts across her mouth. It’s different from her other smiles.
I’ve thought about this over the years. The idea of her not being alone. Of someone else sitting at the kitchen table, reaching for her hand without thinking. I never liked the thought much, but I understood it. My father would hate knowing she was lonely. He’d hate knowing she spent evenings with nothing but theTV and the ticking clock for company.
I always assumed that if it happened, it would be someone new, someone separate from us with clean edges.
Tom doesn’t fit that picture.
Honestly, if there were anyone else in her life, I’d be relieved.
Happy might be pushing it. I could pretend for her sake, but only until I convinced myself I wasn’t betraying my father. Then? Then I’d be happy.
“Come on,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “Let’s get that lunch you promised.”
She leans into me and squeezes my arm when I stand.
As we walk back toward the car, I glance at the headstone one last time.
The guilt is still there.
It always is.
Twenty-Three
