I believed her. I couldn’t forgive her, but I believed her.
She was caught up in her retelling, shaking her head at the memories before she continued. “By then, years had gone by. I couldn’t quite believe it. I wanted nothing more than to try and make things right. But after so much time, I knew it was too late. I never thought you, or your brother, or your father… I knew that you had built your own life together. I knew I wasn’t a part of that. By then, there was nothing left of me in you kids. You were all his, and he deserved you. He earned it from you. You, especially. You and your father were always so much alike.” Her eyes were glistening with genuine tears as she added, “But I did love you—so much—and I am sorry. Truly, Layla.”
Okay, fine, yes, I was crying. I admit it.
I wasn’t feeling badly for her, exactly. After all that time, there was no way I was going to feel sympathy for her after what she’d put us all through. And even in that moment, I knew it was pretty damned unlikely that we’d be able to salvage any kind of relationship after something like that. And trust me, I wasn’t looking for one. This was a chance encounter. It’s not like she tracked me down to tell me these things. I was only willing to give her so much credit.
I was simply crying from the sheer waste of it all. The utter helplessness, the lost time, the alternate life. I was crying because I understood her regret, her indecision, her insecurities. I was crying because that was my mother standing there in front of me, for the first time in almost twenty years, practically begging for some sign that I might someday forgive her. Absolve her guilt. Maybe even lose just a smidge of my long-held hatred for her.
Sometimes, you just have to learn when to let go.
I made the decision that I could toss her just the slightest morsel here. I couldn’t grant her my absolute forgiveness—I’d spent too many years cultivating my anger to give that up so easily—but I could at least give her something. I could at least leave her with just the smallest bit of peace.
“Thank you for that.” I swiped my eyes and met hers as I added, “You’re wrong about something, though, you know. I look a lot like Dad, that’s true.” My hand reached out on its own as I laid it against her arm. “But he always said I was more like you.”
Chapter 29
EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED
I really wanted to call Trip, hear his voice, tell him about my day. But not like that. Not by using the encounter with my mother as an excuse to talk to him. I could tell him everything once things between us got squared away.
If they got squared away.
Right then, what I needed was a dose of my best friend.
The twins would be in school for a couple more hours and Pickford was at work, so I probably couldn’t have planned a better time to have a breakdown. I went right to Lisa’s house and came in through the sunroom door at the back. She turned from her seated position in the middle of her family room, and I could see that I’d interrupted her in the middle of packing up her winter clothes.
I was familiar with this ritual, as I’d seen her perform this task twice a year, every year, since the day we met. She had towers of clear, plastic bins stacked around the room, labels informing her as to the contents of each box. And not just boring categories like “shorts” or “sweaters”. No. Lisa’s bins sported terminology like “Kate Spade Summer Bags” and “Ass-tastic 7 Jeans”.
She was excited to see me after so many weeks and lunged across the room to give me a laughing hug hello. I hugged her back, happy to see her, but gutted from the day’s events.
That’s when she saw my face.
She knew I was there for something big, even before I said the words. “I just saw my mother.”
Her eyes went buggy, but then she promptly put her hand in the air, halting further speech. “Hold that thought.”
If I weren’t feeling so miserable, I’d have laughed at the torn label she was holding in her hands: “Marc Jacobs Fuck-me Heels.” I guessed it was time to re-categorize now that the twins were learning how to read.
She led me to the kitchen and poured me a big ol’ glass of wine, then we settled in on a couple stools at her island. Lisa ignored the clothes explosion in the adjoining room to give me her undivided attention. She propped her elbows on the granite surface in front of her, rested her chin in her hands, and said, “Okay. Spill it.”
So spill it I did.
I told her everything that had happened at Beth Israel, every single word of the bizarre conversation, every thought that had run through my mind during the whole encounter. Lisa offered wide eyes or questions or words of comfort throughout my tale, helping me to sort out the myriad of emotions racing through my brain.
As I neared the end of my story, I actually felt a hundred times better than I had only moments before.