Cain was part of the same club, and we know how that turned out.
"Does he treat you right?" she asks finally.
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"This man. This President." Her eyes are fierce, protective. "Does he treat you right? Does he respect you? Does he make you feel safe?"
I think about Leviathan.
About the way he looks at me, touches me, talks to me.
About the night on the roof, and the mornings in his arms, and all the small moments in between.
"Yes," I say. "He does."
She nods slowly. "Then that's what matters." She reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear—the same gesture she's made since I was a little girl. "I don't care if he's the President of a biker gang or the President of the United States. As long as he treats my daughter right, he's okay in my book."
I laugh—a wet, surprised sound. "That's it? No lecture about making good choices?"
"Sweetheart, you survived three years with a monster. You got yourself out. You're sitting here, alive and whole, telling me about it." She cups my face in her hands. "That tells me everything I need to know about your choices."
The tears come again—but these are different. These are relief and love and the overwhelming feeling of being seen, being accepted, being home.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, baby girl. Always have. Always will."
I stay for about four hours.
We talk about everything and nothing—her job at the hospital, the Steelers' chances this season, the neighbors' new dog that won't stop barking.
Normal things. Mundane things. The kind of conversation I haven't had in years.
She makes me lunch—grilled cheese and tomato soup, my favorite from childhood.
We eat together at the kitchen table, and for a little while, I'm just Ripley Tiernan again. Donna's daughter.
A woman with a family who loves her.
When it's time to go, she walks me to the door. "You'll come back," she says. It's not a question.
"As soon as I can."
"And you'll call. More than once every few weeks."
"I promise."
She pulls me into a fierce hug, holding on like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. "You tell that man of yours," she says into my hair, "that if he ever hurts you, he'll have to answer to me. And I know where to get a gun."
I laugh, even as tears prick at my eyes. "I'll tell him."
"Good." She pulls back, holding me at arm's length. "Now go. Before I change my mind and lock you in your old room."
I walk down the front path, lighter than I've felt in years.
Behemoth is still parked at the curb, exactly where he said he'd be.
I slide into the passenger seat, wiping my eyes.
