There’s way too much to unpack with all that she’s dropped on me, but I am clear on a few truths. “I don’t want you to feel guilty or ashamed or anything like that. We all tried our best, and all of us fucked up in one way or another, okay?”
“Mostly me.”
“Hey, I got tossed out of the mall for swearing about a letter key on my laptop. No one’s perfect. We all make choices. Not all of them positive.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Her laugh is genuine and filled with relief. “For me, grief has been like an iceberg that takes time to melt. It takes years. Coming back home is the blast of heat that I needed.”
When I pull her in for a hug, she reciprocates too tightly, and it’s still the best feeling we’ve shared together in as long as I can remember.
“Any chance you can pull out one of those breakfasts you’ve been serving?” she asks with a sniff. “I’m starving.”
“A step ahead of you. I prepped last night.”
She raves over my custard-soaked French toast that I topped with the macerated strawberries, and she even asks for a second serving.
After she’s inhaled her food and complimented me repeatedly, she asks, “So, would it be okay if we took Mary Ann up on her invitation to visit the farm? I haven’t been there in years, and it’d be fun to go back.”
“Totally.”
Later, Mom wanders the fields, petting the animals and enthusiastically picking produce. Her elation when she emerges with a basket full of fruits and veggies is so similar to what I experienced when I first walked through this sublime farm. Seeing her joy? It’s like watching trauma come undone and subsequent healing finding its way, all in real time.
While I drive us home and while I’m still reeling from the past twenty-four hours, I manage to remember that I had a whole brunch planned to welcome her that I need to get started on.
“I have to do some baking when we get back. I hope that’s okay. It’s not a big deal, but—”
My mom cuts me off, “Itisa big deal. I get it. Mike’s mother used to host these kinds of things. Carrying on traditions is wonderful.”
I navigate the Pathfinder over the bumpy roads, and I notice my mother grinning. “What is it?”
“This car. Your dad was obsessed with this car.” She glances down. “Holy shit. All of his ’80s mixed CDs are still here?”
I laugh. “Oh, yeah. Danny and I love them!”
She shuffles through a few and pops one in. “I think this calls for some of The Cure.” Moments later, “Why Can’t I Be You?” and then “Just Like Heaven” blasts through the speakers, and I laugh again when she turns up the volume.
“Danny did this?” she yells and waves around. “Got this up and running after all these years?”
I nod and call back, “He did.”
“Mike was going to teach him to drive.”
“I know.”
She lets the wind blow back her hair for a moment before she turns to me. “Your father would have loved that you’re driving his car and also that Danny made that happen.”
Damn, she looks happy.
“Why didn’t you sell this after we left?”
It’s a long pause before she answers. “Same reason I didn’t sell the house, I guess. Too attached. Probably hoping for a reason or excuse not to sell either. And I’m glad they’re both still here.” She pats my arm. “I love that this Pathfinder is still so alive and fun.”
We pull in front of the house, and the music cuts out.
“Sounds to me as though this boy has cared about you for a long, long time,” she says.
I correct her, “He’s cared about ourfamilyfor a long, long time.”
“Yes, maybe. But he cares about you in particular now, right?”
