“But the one person you’re not forgiving, sweetheart, is you. Don’t you hear that in what you’re saying?” she asks, voice gentle. “You seem so willing to forgive everyone but yourself.”
Stunned, I can only stare back at her and blink. My mother’s peeled back every pretense I’ve been using to shelter myself for the past three years. If it’s not my fault, then I lose my last element of control, because the only aspect of the attack I can manage is my own part in it.
“Well, I guess it’s easier to blame myself,” I answer after a moment, “than deal with the fact I’ll never act again.”
Weariness fills her clear gray eyes. “Rebecca, I can’t tell you how sad it makes me that you’ve given up on your dreams, precious. You’ve always been my beautiful dreamer.”
“I still dream, Mama,” I answer, thinking of Michael and our bookstore conversation. “But nothing turned out to be real.”
“Sometimes our dreams come true in ways we don’t expect.” She drops her voice conspiratorially, leaning close across the table. “But that doesn’t mean those dreams aren’t real.”
Was it real that I spent a month in intensive care with a breathing tube stuffed down my throat? That I almost never sleep through the night without at least one terrible dream? That feels pretty darn real to me. But the notion of a cruel God doesn’t, and that’s what I’m forever wrestling with.
“Why did God let Ben do that?” I ask, not looking up. “Why’d He let him come after me?”
“I can’t answer that, Rebecca. I wish that I could. All I know is that somehow, someway, everything works for the best, even the painful, terrible things.” She’s quoting Scripture to me, but being subtle about it. That’s another lifelong maneuver of hers: to cloak God’s truth in plain speaking. I’m still not sure I believe those words, about all things working together for good, but I’d like to get there eventually.
“What’s happening on Labor Day?” I ask, thinking that a subject change might be smart about now.
She blinks at me, and seems caught off-guard. With her pencil, she taps the open calendar page, Labor Day weekend already circled in bright red marker. “Daddy and I are going back home.”
“To visit?” I’m not certain what she’s really saying.
“No.” She shakes her head, staring out into the crowd of strangers, all potentially dangerous threats for her only baby girl. “We’re moving back to Georgia for good, precious. That’s what I was going to tell you tonight.”
“Good.” I nod decisively, taking a sip of wine, even though I feel anything but brave on the inside. “I think that’s good, Mama.”
She searches my face, trying to read me. “If you want us here, Rebecca—”
I cut her off before the regrets can begin. “Mama, I’m the one who said I’m ready for you to go back. You’re right to go. I’ve got to stand on my own now.” I picture Michael Warner’s warm brown eyes, the flecks of gold flirting with hazel. Then I think of those faded T-shirts he always wears, and imagine pressing my face into one, burying myself against his chest and crying as long as I need to. He’d let me, too; he’d smell like earth, his hands would be large and safe. Even the bad dreams might stay away for a while.
Then I imagine my old-fashioned Methodist mother’s reaction to his postmodern sexuality, and want to rush her right on out the door.
Chapter Twelve: Michael
Stepping out the front door of my house, I’m met by Casey’s landscape crew, armed with leaf blowers and lawn mowers like it’s an army work detail. Casey’s scrambling onto the back of their trailer, and looks up when I close the door. For a moment, neither of us smiles or says a word, until he gives me a curt nod. He climbs down, bracing a giant planter against his chest, and I meet him by the driveway.
“What’s that?” I gesture toward the bright spray of purple and gold in his arms.
“Brought this for your front steps,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.
“Didn’t order that, you know,” I remind him, even though I realize it’s one of his famous peace offerings. He moves past me, depositing the flowerpot at the foot of the front steps.
“Yeah, I know that, man.”
He kneels there, tugging off a few damaged leaves with expert precision, and I ask, “So what’s it gonna cost me? ’Cause I don’t really have anything extra in the budget right now.”
“Look, Mike, you know it’s not going to cost you a dime,” he explains gruffly, positioning the planter. “These are just a gift.”