“But you did. And she elected to take on the responsibility.”
He leans forward, eyes intent on me. “And I can be helping her with that. But she won’t see her way clear to it.”
Something else is at work. Something he might not even be aware of.
“Has she asked for help in the past?” I’m trying to figure out why he feels like he has to help. If she fell into some trouble before and he bailed her out…
“No.”
“So she’s never needed your help?”
His jaw clenches, and he glances away. “No. Hasn’t once asked me for help. And I’m clear over here. If I can’t be there mending fences for her, or helping with the feeding or any of the other physical chores, it’s the least I could be doing, yeah, to be sending her money.”
Siobhan seems as if she’s doing fine, and Conor has engaged Brother Mode a bit too hard.
“You like to help. She’s lucky to have a brother looking out for her.” I didn’t mean to reveal anything with that statement, but he looks at me sharply.
His eyes wander my face. “You have a brother or sister or two?”
I push the last bite to the side of my plate. “No. I sometimes do wonder what it would have been like to have one.” And when that happens, I quickly snuff that thought, because most likely the sibling would have steamrolled over me too, or tried to micromanage like Conor’s doing with his sister.
But maybe it might have played out differently with me. What if I had a sibling who was supportive but not take-charge. Would my life be different now?
It’s rare that I take a trip down pity lane, but I allow a tiny fantasy of having a brother or sister who was there for me when my life fell apart. Hell, a sibling who would have helped me see the danger sooner. Or at the very least, wanted to help me rebuild when I left Mom and Pensacola. I’d have still turned away any financial assistance and worked the two jobs to put myself through the local community college in Sarasota, but it would have been nice to know that security net was there.
To have someone familiar by my side during that scary-because-I-could-mess-up time.
Conor
I help Claire clear the table, and we take up our spots by the sink for washing up.
But as I’m drying plates—she took up wash duty this time—I find I’m on edge about her questions regarding the farm and Siobhan. I’m not upset at Claire, and that’s what’s got me on edge. I don’t know what is bothering me about it.
I shove that aside and put away the first plate. The domesticity feels odd, but also…nice. I’m not used to this sharing or taking time out of the day to savor a meal.
It makes me wonder…what if we continued this when we return to Sarasota? She has me wanting to know more about her.
It could get awkward since we’re both in the same league, but I’m starting to see that opening up to someone isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe that’s what’s got me on edge? That I’m not balking at opening up?
Chapter 12
Claire
We’re quiet as we put away the dishes, but it’s a contemplative quiet, not an awkward one.
I hand the last glass to Conor, and my phone rings. I dig it out from where it had fallen in the seat cushions and glance at the screen. A number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?” Normally I don’t answer a strange number, but with the weather emergency, I make an exception. I’m ready to hang up, though, if it’s a telemarketer.
“Claire Hitchins?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“This is the nurse on call at Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver.”
Denver?
The nurse continues, “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Constance Hitchins.”
My stomach evaporates as cold sweat pops onto my skin. “She’s my mom. Is she okay?” Panic and worry have made my voice higher, and it cracks on the last word. Yeah, I had to cut her from my life to protect myself, but she’s still my mom and I don’t want her to be hurt.
But what is she doing in Denver?
“She’s stable,” the nurse announces with practiced calm. “She was in a car accident and was taken to the ER. She was admitted to ICU and was just transferred to a ward. She should be released by the end of the week. We tried reaching you earlier but couldn’t get through.”
My chest eases a fraction. “Thank you,” I whisper, my relief stealing the volume from my words.
“Do you want her room number?”
“Oh. Yes. Hang on.” I dash into my room and grab the pad of paper and pen from the hotel. “Okay, I’m ready.”
I take down the information and thank the nurse. I’m not sure how long I stand there after hanging up, but my hands are shaking, the pen still tight in my grip. I collapse onto the bed, my knees weak. Then guilt floods me anew when I realize that I’m not immediately making plans to go see her. She’s in the friggin’ hospital, yet my mind didn’t go straight to logistics.
I tell myself that I cut her from my life for a reason and that reason hasn’t changed.
The bed shifts, and Conor’s strong hands are gripping mine, which are still shaking. “You’ve gone white. What’s the story with your mam?” Conor’s voice pulls me into focus.
“She’s been in a car accident.”
He squeezes my hands. “Shite. How bad is it?”
I stand up and move to the window, though I can’t see anything beyond them. “They say she’s stable and should be released by the end of the week. The storm must have knocked out the cell service for a bit because they tried to call me earlier.”
“Fuck. And here you are stuck in Atlanta without a way to be seeing her.”
I look out the window. That guilt is now like a knife, cutting up my throat.
“Yeah. Too bad,” I manage to say, throat tight.
“Maybe the weather will clear soon, and you can still fly there. Or rent a car and drive.” He closes the distance between us in two strides and takes my hands again, turning me to face him. Mine feel like cold lumps. “Where is she keeping herself?”
“Denver,” I croak.
“That’d be one hell of a road trip, yeah.” He picks up his cell. “Let me ring some folks.”
Panic hits me, and I pace into the kitchen and back. “Who?”
He looks up from scrolling around the screen. “The airport. Delta. Maybe we can find out when they’ll be getting clearance to fly again. At least then you’ll know when you’ll be likely to leave.”
I snatch the phone from his hand, and he startles.
My palm feels sweaty holding it in my tight grip. “I don’t need you to do that.”
His forehead pulls down in a frown. “And why would you not be needing it?”
“Because…” I swallow and take a deep breath. “Because I’m not planning to fly out there,” I finish on a rush.
He stands there staring at me. Then blinks. “Your mother’s bloody banjaxed her car and herself, and you’re not wanting to visit?”
I flinch and turn away, not wanting to look at his face as he judges me. “No.”
“But ya have ta be goin’.” His accent has grown thicker. “Who else will be sittin’ with herself?”
“I can’t. You don’t understand.”