“No need to apologize,” she says quietly as she brushes past me. Familiar yet bittersweet wafts of perfume curl around me. “If anyone should, it’s me. I didn’t call ahead to see if you’d even be home.”
I lead her to the living room and we stand there, awkward in the bare bones of the new foundation we’re building together, me with my hands twisting together like I’m still a little girl in her presence, her gripping the plant. Finally, she says, “I brought you this. Thought you might like it.” She glances around at the mostly empty room. “Plants always seem to make new homes feel lived in.”
I take it from her and set it down on a nearby drafting table the renovators left behind. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” And I do—really, sincerely do. My mother has brought me a gift. A housewarming gift. The sky is no longer blue and I’m upside down and everything I know suddenly feels very different than it did just two minutes before.
Her smile is hesitant yet sincere. “Any time you want any plants, just let me know.” A quick glance at the balcony has her adding, “Roses would be beautiful out there. I have some species that are very hardy and well adapted to Annar’s seasons. I’ll have some sent over, if you like.”
I motion toward the couch I made just this morning, one Jonah and I picked together after perusing couch websites for a good hour in bed the night before. When we sit down, there’s space between us, several feet of it, but my gods.
I’m sitting on a couch with my mother.
Picking at stray potting soil on her slacks keeps her fingers busy. “I came to see you last week.” She clears her throat. “I’m really glad to know you’re doing much better, Chloe.”
Jonah told me that she’d come nearly every day before she had to go on a quick mission. Just her, never my father. She was quiet during those visits, unsure of her place or right to be in the room with everyone else. Still, pleasure blooms through me, even if I temper the hope that comes with it.
Little steps. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I make us tea and we talk for about a half hour. Every word, every gesture of ours is tentative and carefully made. I think we are both terrified of taking the wrong step with the other—me especially when I ask, “How is Dad?”
It’s frustrating that my mind and mouth still refer to Noel Lilywhite as Dad. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me in over a year now, not even during Council meetings. He’s barely even spared me a glance. I’m his greatest disappointment, after all. And that cuts to the bone, even though I’ve long come to accept this is how our relationship is. Because, despite how Noel Lilywhite and I may be related by biology, Cameron Dane is more my father than he ever was or will be.
My mother sips her tea slowly. “As he always is, I suppose.”
As I figur—Wait. She supposes? I set my own tea down and ask warily, “Why does it sound like you don’t know?”
Her nails click quietly against the china mug as her lips purse together. Finally, she says, “Your father and I are currently not residing in the same house. But as he is fairly consistent in his health, I am assuming he is the same as always.”
It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down, because HELLO? WHAT?
“But,” she says more firmly, “that is not a conversation for today. That said, I want you to know that, no matter what, you must never fear you are to blame for anything that happens from here on out between your father and I. We have made our choices in our lives, just as you make yours.”
I fear my jaw has come unhinged.
Jonah comes strolling into the room, pages spilling out of one hand while in the other he holds his cell phone to his ear. But the moment he sees my mother, he cuts off whatever conversation he’s in the middle of and says, “I need to call you back.”
“Hello, Jonah,” my mother says.
He looks to me first before saying, “Hey, Abigail. What brings you by today?” The papers and phone are deposited onto a stack of boxes nearby as he comes over to where I’m sitting.
The question rattles my mother. While polite, it’s also got just a hint of warning: he’s in no mood to tolerate any shenanigans, especially as he currently can’t pinpoint my emotions to ascertain how I’m dealing with her visit.
I take his hand and squeeze it lightly; I’m okay, I reassure him silently. “She brought us a plant for the apartment.”
He doesn’t look at the beautiful plant, though. His attention is solely on her.
“It’s a lovely place you two have here,” she says calmly. “I bet you’re looking forward to decorating it together.”
I tug him down next to me; now I’ve shifted much closer to where she sits. “We are, actually.” And then, hesitantly, “Where are you staying right now?”