Dan. Dan. Dan and the same woman. A couple with Dan and who I’m guessing is a pint-sized Cypress. Dan. Dan.
It’s a fucking shrine to Dan.
My chest tightens, as does my hold on Cypress. For a moment, she leans into my grip, relaxes against it. But just a moment. In the next, her shoulders and spine stiffen, and she steps out of my hold.
“Cypress?” An older woman appears in the hallway, a robe wrapped around her thin, almost frail frame. The resemblance is unmistakable. This must be Cypress’s mother. And she’s the woman in the photographs with a younger Dan.
Long black hair liberally striped with gray falls over her shoulders, framing one of those faces that only becomes more distinguished and elegant with age. It’s like God zipped down a partition and offers me a glimpse into the future of what Cypress will look like in twenty-five more years. But hopefully, weariness won’t radiate from her eyes and sadness won’t weigh down her mouth, flattening it into a line that seems like it never curves into a smile. God willing, disappointment won’t stoop her slender shoulders like the weight of the world is slowly crushing her closer and closer to the ground.
That tightening in my chest cinches like a vise, and denial roars so loud in my head, I miss Cypress’s reply to her mother, although I see her lips move. No way in hell can this vibrant, brave warrior so full of life end up a…shade, faded and gray as this poor woman standing in this sad memorial dedicated to a man who abandoned her more than a decade ago.
Cypress rushes forward and gently clasps her mother’s forearm, guiding her into the living room. I move toward them, but a subtle shake of her head stops me from helping her. But her mom must’ve noticed, because her attention shifts in my direction, landing on me. Those denim eyes that I know so well from her daughter widen, her pale lips forming a small “O.”
“Mom, this is a friend of mine. Uh…Jay,” she lies, shooting me a pleading glance. “He gave me a ride over.” She carefully lowers her mom to the couch, then crouches down in front of her, cupping one hand between both of her own. “Now tell me what’s going on. Can I get you anything? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I…” She pauses, glances at me, a haunted hollowness in her eyes. Jesus.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” I offer, softening my voice as if my normal volume might shatter her. “I can make you a cup of either one.” She obviously isn’t comfortable talking in front of me.
Her mother dips her head. “Tea would be fine…uh, Jay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods again. “Nice to meet you. I’m Brenda. The kettle is on the stove, and the tea bags are in the cabinet over it.”
“Got it.” I head into the kitchen that’s barely large enough for two people to move around in. Though a wall separates it from the living area, the apartment is small enough that I can still hear the conversation between Cypress and Brenda. And I eavesdrop without the least bit of shame.
“You haven’t mentioned someone in your life, honey,” Brenda says.
“He’s a friend, Mom,” Cypress whispers back, probably very much aware that I can catch every word.
“Well, he seems nice…”
“Mom, I’m not here to talk about him. What’s going on? I can’t believe Dan called you. How could he not know it would upset you?” Cypress practically snarls.
“Honey, you shouldn’t call your father by his first name. It’s disrespectful,” Brenda reprimands, but it’s without heat as if said out of habit. “And I told you. He wanted to check on me.”
I belatedly twist the faucet and place the kettle under the running water. Once it’s full, I switch on the stove eye and set the water to boil. And wait. Listening. This is a side of Cypress I haven’t met, and I’m too greedy for more to feel bad about violating their privacy. Besides, I would have to leave and go across the hall to the neighbor’s not to hear anything in this small apartment.
“What do you think this means?” Brenda asks, an urgency entering her voice. On silent feet, I move toward the kitchen entryway and peek around the wall. Cypress is kneeling in front of her mother, and Brenda is clutching her daughter’s hands now, bent forward so their foreheads are almost touching. “I asked him if he would come by for coffee. He said he’d think about it. Do you think he will? I’ve missed him so much. Maybe he’s finally coming back to me—”
“Mom, stop it,” Cypress cuts her mom’s desperate monologue off with an angry hiss. But underneath… I fall back from the entrance, returning to the counter and gripping it. Tight. Imagining it’s Dan’s neck. Because it’s his thoughtlessness—his casual, nonchalant call to this poor woman causing that bright, bleeding note of pain in Cypress’s voice. “It was just a phone call. You know he didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t even know about your heart attack until I told him.” A heavy sigh and the squeak of a spring creaking. “Mom, you have to let this go. Dan’s been gone for years, and he isn’t coming back. He has a wife, a family. This waiting and hoping…” A pause and a soft, but terrible sob. “Mom, please stop crying. You’ll only make yourself sick. And you can’t afford that.”
“Why?Why did he leave me? What did I do? I love him so much…”
I bow my head, squeezing my eyes shut. But that only sharpens the sound of the harsh weeping. Christ, is this a snapshot of what Cypress has endured since Dan walked out on her and her mother? Had he been playing stepdad to us while all that time his little girl had become a mother, a caretaker of the broken woman he left behind?
My arms ache to be wrapped around Cypress; my shoulders groan with the need to have her lean on them, carry some of the load. Justsomebecause as stubborn as she is, she won’t allow me to take more. Doesn’t mean I won’t fight to do it.
She’s survived so much. Has suffered and survived—a too-short childhood with adulthood forced on her all too soon; being on her own in a strange state at a new school far from her home; a job where she should’ve been valued, and instead was assaulted then punished for having the balls to report it; caring for her ill mother; working at any job so she could make ends meet and support herself.
People laud men for being strong. How dare those same people call women the weaker sex? They obviously have never met a woman like Cypress Winters. She puts all of us to shame.
The kettle whistles, steam flowing in a column from the top. Flicking off the eye, I grab a cup, saucer, and tea bag from the cabinets and prepare Brenda’s drink. Carefully and slowly, I reenter the room, granting both women plenty of time to recover from their conversation.
“Here you go,” I murmur, setting the cup and plate on the low coffee table in front of the older woman. When she lifts her head, I pretend not to see the tear stains dampening her cheeks or her puffy, pink eyes. Or the utter, soul-shattering sadness in them. “I didn’t add sugar or honey, but I can grab them.”
“No,” she rasps. Then, clearing her throat, she picks the tea up. “This is fine. Thank you.”
