She reaches out a hand.
I squeeze Conor’s hand, then let it go and close the distance to her bed. I clasp her hand, bend over, and give her a kiss on her cheek and an awkward hug, considering she’s laid up on the bed all hooked up to stuff. More memories swamp me as I inhale her scent—still the same soap and perfume, though blunted by the general odor of hospital.
I squeeze her arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Been better.”
She looks over my shoulder, and I turn around and wave Conor inside. “Mom, this is Conor.”
“Nice to meet you, Conor. Sorry it’s like this.” As always, she’s all proper, and she manages to look regal and poised despite being laid up in a hospital bed connected to all these devices.
“I’m sorry too, ma’am. And the pleasure’s all mine.”
I turn back to my mom. “What does the doctor say?”
“I’ll be fine. Mostly shook up.”
“What exactly happened? They just told me you were in a car accident.”
“Some jerk T-boned me running a red light. Air bag deployed, so it’s mostly bruises and scrapes. I did hit my head on the side of the car, so they’re keeping me for observation, but I’m supposed to be released tomorrow.”
“Why did they keep you so long then?”
She looks to the side.
“Mom?”
“Turns out I had what they’re calling a ‘mild cardiac incident.’ Some kind of blocked artery. There’s a stent in there now, and it’s all repaired. Doctor said that it was fortunate I had the accident because they might not have caught it otherwise.”
All I can feel is relief. At all of it. “That’s good.”
Conor clears his throat. “Would anyone care for some tea or coffee? I’m going to make a run for myself.”
My mom and I shake our heads, and Conor looks at me with an eyebrow raised—a silent question.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper, and he nods.
As soon as the door closes, I turn back to my mom. “Why are you in Denver?” I ask softly, feeling guilty that I don’t know the answer.
“I moved here two years ago for a job.” Her eyes range over my face, and then she starts crying. Given that it’s my mom, they’re genteel tears, not great, ugly sobs, but they’re real.
“I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t know.”
I cock my head to the side. She knew I was sick.
“What I put you through when you were growing up. I just…I just wanted what I thought was best for you, but…it wasn’t until after you cut yourself from my life that I went to see a therapist.”
“You did?” That floors me, because my mom used to call them quacks.
“Yes. She helped me see what I did by pushing you like that. I was just…scared. Money was tight, and I…”
“You thought the Olympics would be a great way to secure our finances.” And “tight” is a relative term. We were solidly middle class.
“Yes.” She swallows. “Can you forgive me?”
I pull in a deep breath. “Yes. And I’m sorry. For leaving and cutting you out of my life. I had to, to…” Now it’s my turn not to be able to finish.
Mom squeezes my hand. “To protect yourself. I understand. I didn’t have the right…coping tools to help you get better.”
There’s still healing to be done in regards to my mom, but…
But this is progress.
And maybe, just maybe, I can also forgive myself for having to do this. For having been too weak to do anything other than cut her completely from my life.
At a noise at the door, I turn and see Conor’s head peek in, and warmth blooms in my chest. I could have faced coming here on my own. But I’m also really glad he’s here too. Conor gets me, and I’m still my strong self.
Which is an amazing gift.
Conor
I’d waited until I heard the murmurs inside the room quiet down. Until I heard some tentative laughter. Then I’d pushed open the door. I wanted to give Claire space with her mam.
And I’m ready to leave and give her more if she’s wanting that.
But Claire turned to me. Now she smiles, but it’s a weak thing, barely lifting her mouth, and somehow I know the wet of tears I’m seeing in her eyes isn’t about me, but more for this situation with her mam, and I’m welcome to come in.
A nurse comes in behind me, and I step aside.
The older woman asks Claire’s mam her name and birth date, checks her vitals, and records them in some handheld digital thing. Then she gives her some meds.
She turns a stern eye on Claire. “She needs her rest.”
“What time will she be discharged tomorrow?”
“We won’t know until the doctor clears her tomorrow.”
Claire steps to her mam. “We’ll see you in the morning, okay?” She kisses her cheek.
Her mam pats her hand and murmurs something I’m not hearing. I hold my hand out, and Claire places her palm into mine. I clasp it, enjoying the connection with herself again, and lead us out of the room.
When the door closes behind us, I slip my arm over her shoulder. “Let’s go, stinky feet.”
Claire gasps then laughs. “I don’t have stinky feet.”
“Sure I know, but I still love picturing you at the airport, legs all bent and looking like you were catching a whiff of your own feet.”
“I’ll never live that down, will I?”
We stroll down the hallway, and I pull her up snug against me. She feels grand by my side.
“Nope.” I lean down and kiss that spot right behind her ear. On cue, her neck turns pink. As we find our way into the cool Denver evening, I whisper in her ear what I’d like to be doing when we get back to the hotel.
And while her reaction is everything I could wish for, what I really love is this feeling right now. Here. In this moment. Because I find myself more comfortable, and more myself, next to her than ever I have before with anyone else. That’s giving me hope that together we’ll sort out whatever issues we might face.
This connection with her—I’m not sure I believed I deserved it on its own. Not without feeling like I had to earn it.