She showed me mementos of her and my mother, and I repaid her by crying all over them. She wrapped me up in her arms, and it didn’t feel wrong. When the tears were dry on my cheek, she patted my back and told me story after story belonging to her favorite memories.
“This picture was from the year your mother and I won a talent contest together. I’m not much of a dancer, but your mother made sure the routine was as natural to me as breathing. After fighting about it, I convinced her that the trophy belonged with her. She wanted it more than I did.” I recalled a trophy my mother kept in the family room. I remember asking her about it, and she would only say it was a long time ago. “Ceci was quite the dancer,” Bea continued. “She could dance to any tune and captivate her audience with just the switch of her hips.”
“Did you truly love my mother?”
“I did, Mian. I know you’re wondering whether you can trust me after what I did, but a day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about her.”
“You didn’t come to her funeral.” You never came around after either.
“No.” She placed the pictures back in the box and ran her hand over the top before setting it aside and taking my hands. “I wasn’t sure she’d want me there, and I know it was silly, but even after she died, I still hoped to win her back by respecting her wishes.” I felt her hand tremble in mine, letting me feel her emotions. “That meant never meeting you.”
“I don’t think that’s what she would have wanted at all,” I argued. Bea was one of the last connections I had with my mother. Mom may not have forgiven her before she died, but I was selfish enough to do what she couldn’t. “My mother can’t hold a grudge in her grave.”
“You may be right. We both lost Ceci, and though no one will ever replace her, I’d like to get to know you. I lost fourteen years with you because of your mother’s stubbornness and my cowardice.”
“I’d like that.” I had to force the words from my throat even though I felt them in my heart.
She embraced me, and I found it natural to return her affection. Did I feel I was betraying my mom by accepting the love of a friend who betrayed her?
I wasn’t sure.
I could only hope that maybe I was giving my mom the chance to make it right.
After promising to visit again, I let Angel lead me away from Bea Knight and away from Crecia. We weren’t long into our drive back to Chicago when I whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you did.”
“And what did I do?”
I should have known he wouldn’t make this easy. “You gave me a piece of my mom back. Your mother is nice.”
“But?”
“But she seemed…” I struggled, but it seemed he knew exactly what I was searching for.
“Lost?”
“Yes. Why?”
He shrugged, but the clenching of his jaw told me he had an idea. He glanced at me but then turned away just as quickly when he found me watching.
I was fixated on the blur of asphalt and yellow lines as I spoke. “My mother was sad too until she became too sick for anyone to tell the difference.” The reminder of my mother’s fight with cancer and depression left me feeling low, but I couldn’t stop talking because I knew he was listening. “I would draw her pictures to try to cheer her up. At first, they would be true things like our house and our family and my friends at school.” I released a dry laugh. “But then I drew a picture of our dog.” I can still remember the smile that stretched my face at the promise of her laugh. It had been so long. “His name was Danger. He had a golden coat and was the biggest and smartest dog in the neighborhood.” When I handed her the picture of him, she barely glanced at it and told me it looked just like him.
“So? What’s so funny about that?”
“We didn’t have a dog.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Or maybe she stopped caring.”
He looked at me then but only for a moment, and then his eyes were back on the road. “Do you really believe your mother didn’t care about you?” His doubt annoyed me, so I returned the favor and shrugged. “Symptoms don’t only show when the person afflicted is aware they are sick. She may not have been herself, but I’m sure your drawings did more for her than you realize.”
“You could be right.” I dug my fingernails into my thigh to keep from saying more but then found the physical pain insufficient to ignore emotional suffering. “But it still hurt.”
“Because you rely too much on others for affection.”
“So I should be more like you?” I couldn’t keep the indignation from my voice if I tried.
“You can never be anything like me. I wouldn’t let you.”