“I don’t have children with Buck Wells, Kennedy. I don’t know what his wife is, or was, going through.”
“Shouldn’t someone trust more when it’s the father of their children at stake?”
Mom’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “Things were different back then. I was different, and Roland was different. I was too close to the situation, and you are too young to understand.”
“Oh, am I?” I challenge. “I’m, what, two years younger than you were when you got pregnant with me?”
I’ve only seen my mom cry a few times in my life, but it looks like I’m about to again. Her eyes water and she looks to the ceiling. “Matt’s dad hasn’t walked away from the family, has he?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, they all live together …”
“Your father walked away from you, Kennedy.”
“That’s old news, but thanks for rubbing it in. Why’d you let him?”
“I was hurt, Kennedy. I loved him very much. He was my first love …” she trails off, sitting again on the edge of the bed. “I know Dan told you what he thinks,” she says out of nowhere.
I sit next to her. “Thinks about what?” I feign ignorance.
Mom looks at me and rolls her wet, teary eyes.
“He told you that he talked to me?”
She nods. “Yes. Believe me, we fought about it for days.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t call me with some ranting explanation.”
“Even though he involved you, it really was between Dan and me. Bringing you in would have just made things worse.”
“Is he right?” I ask timidly.
Mom’s head jerks toward me, and I watch her lips tremble as she considers my question.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, placing my hand over hers. “I just … I really need to piece together where I come from, Mom.”
“I did love Roland, Kennedy. Very much.”
“And, is it like they always say about your first true love? Does it stick around in your bones?”
Her nod is slow at first, but as her tears fall more rapidly, so does her nod speed up.
“You still love him?” I ask in a shocked whisper.
Mom sniffs, rubbing her sleeve on her nose. “It’s not the kind of love that would make a relationship now. It’s hard to explain. But, yes, a piece of me will always love Roland. I mean, how could I not? He gave me you.”
I smile, allowing her to pull me into a hug. “It’s not just about me, though, is it? I mean, if you hadn’t gotten pregnant with me, would you have tried to stick it out with him a little longer? Like, if there wasn’t an infant about to be involved, would you have tried to save him?”
She takes a deep breath, her tears drying almost instantly. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she admits, almost sadly. “But what I do know is, Dan and I love each other with an intensity that I know will stand the test of time. I never had that certainty with Roland. It was all fire and gasoline.”
“So why do you … I don’t know … reminisce about it?”
“Roland told me about the first outburst you had at his house. When you yelled at him for not being there for you when you were little.”
I’m not surprised anymore about the interactions these two have. Seems like they’re a lot chattier behind the scenes than I gave either of them credit for.
“Okay,” I say, prompting her.
“That’s how I feel every single time I see him. I see the life we could have had flash before my eyes and I get angry, resentful, and hurt. It’s like losing the charismatic basketball captain all over again.”
I grin, needing some levity. “What if he took the same path?” I ask. “What if you stuck with him and he still felt Jesus calling him into ministry? I mean, you were a Women’s Studies major who went into public policy. At some point, it would have given out, don’t you think? Or would you have been his wife? A pastor’s wife,” I reiterate for emphasis.
Mom takes a cleansing breath and lets out a satisfied moan. “And, that’s where my trips down memory lane always lead me. We were star-crossed in some ways, I guess. Never meant to be.”
In one swift sentence, my church-going, Episcopalian mother downplays the importance of the role Roland plays to thousands of people every single day. She could sit in the pew, but doesn’t, somehow, believe enough to have maybe married her true love, when he was called to God?
What does she even believe? If you’re not all in, why wade around?
My internal thought, a line from one of Roland’s most recent sermons, startles me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, standing again.
I nod, quickly, not wanting to challenge my mother’s spiritual beliefs at this point in time. “Just tired.”
She stands and places her hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for being the kind of mature, rational daughter with whom I could have a conversation like this.” She smiles, and it reaches her swollen, tired eyes.
I nod, kissing her on the cheek. “Of course.”
“Get some sleep,” she says when she reaches my door. “I love you.”