“Yeah,” I said, and for a second, that was all I could manage. “I’m here.”
She tried to smile, but it looked like it hurt. “You better come in. Your father’s not home yet.”
I stepped past her, into the house, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The air was thick with dust, and there was a smell underneath it—something sharp, like bleach or hospital sanitizer—that made my throat close up.
Like the rest of town, everything was the same, and everything was different. The same threadbare carpet, the same cracked leather sofa, the same horse blankets folded on the chairs. But the photographs were gone, replaced by pill bottles and medical paperwork and a stack of unopened mail that leaned against the wall like it was afraid to be noticed.
I turned back to look at my mother. She had always been thin, but now she looked like a collection of bones held together with rubber bands. Her hair, once copper-red, was nearly white, and her skin was so pale it looked translucent. She wore a robe over a flannel nightgown, and she hugged it around herself like armor.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the couch. She lowered herself into the armchair across from me, moving slow, like she was afraid of breaking.
Neither of us spoke for a long time. I stared at the floor, at the way the sun made a square of light on the carpet, at the faded outline of where the coffee table used to be. I could feel her watching me, but I didn’t dare look up.
Finally, she said, “You got taller.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Happens.”
“I watched your company on TV,” she said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “They said you were a billionaire.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “They exaggerate.” They didn’t about this, but I wasn’t about to brag to my mother. Speaking of, “You know I sent money, right?”
She looked down, fiddling with the frayed hem of her robe. “You should know your father wouldn’t take none of that. Ripped up each check your accountant sent.” The way she said accountant made my eyes want to roll, but I kept them trained on her.
“Yeah, well . . . I tried.”
She nodded, as if she’d expected nothing less. “I know.”
Silence stretched for a minute, both of us wondering what the hell there was to talk about.
“I saw them talkin’ about Red Downs on the news. That equine therapy Walker’s doing seems like a good addition.”
“‘Spose so. Your father doesn’t turn the news anymore,” she said, picking at the arm of the chair. “He says there’s nothing on it worth seeing.”
I grunted. “Is he around?”
She shook her head, the movement barely perceptible. “He’s at the fields. Still checking the fence, even though there’s nothing left to keep in.”
I winced at that, but didn’t argue. “How are you feeling?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She hesitated. “Some days are better than others. Today is . . . not great. But I’m glad you came.”
I nodded, fighting the urge to look away. “Me too.”
She touched my wrist, her hand feather-light. “You don’t have to stay long. Just tell me about your life. Anything.”
So I did. I told her about California, about the house I bought but never unpacked, about the company I sold and the company I was supposed to help run now, about the sushi Miles thought was a big deal. I even told her about the bakery in town, about Lily and Sutton and the cinnamon rolls, about getting punched by Damon and how it felt like old times.
She laughed at that, a dry, rasping sound, but a real one. “He always did have a temper,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Another silence, this one heavier. Then: “He misses you, you know.”
I snorted. “Sure he does.”
She met my gaze, and I saw a flash of the woman I used to know—the one who taught me to read, who made cookies fromscratch, who sat with me on the porch at night and told me the names of all the stars.
“He does,” she said. “He just doesn’t know how to say it.”
