What if I don’t get there in time? What if she’s scared and she needs me to be there and I’m not?
I push my legs harder, pumping my arms. I’m moving so quickly that the sweat on my forehead cools. What’s a fast time for a mile? Six minutes?
I burst into the clearing and up the path, where I see a crowd has gathered by the chapel. I’m coming, Mom. Whatever happens, I’m going to be there with you.
The ambulance sits with open doors, belligerently red in a world of oaks and evergreens. I can’t see through all the kids and adult counselors waiting in a wide circle. I can’t see her. Two people in navy blue EMT clothes are crouched low, strapping a gurney.
“Mom?” I call, trying to duck through people.
Every head snaps up, staring at the crazed stranger who just emerged from the woods. But it’s not my mom on the gurney. It’s a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sheepish look on his face.
It’s not her. It’s not her.
My mom steps forward, arms crossed. I didn’t even notice her standing near the third EMT. “Lucy? What’s wrong, honey?”
It’s her. It’s her. With her dangly earrings, with her face creased in concern. She looks sicker than last week—her face a little puffy, her hair thinner.
“Oh, thank God. You’re okay.” My panting turns into sobs of relief. “We heard the ambulance, and I thought—I thought—”
I clutch onto her, needing both comfort and affirmation that she is really in front of me. Fine. Whole. Here.
“Oh, honey.” My mom rubs my back. “Everyone’s fine. One of the pastors from Conley Lutheran threw out his back doing relay races.”
In response, I sob into her shoulder. It’s the adrenaline, I hear Miss Suzette say in my mind.
“You ran here? Oh, Bird. I’m fine. Just fine.” She watches as I feel around in my shorts pocket for my inhaler. Of course this is the morning I forget to grab it. “I’ve got a spare in the cabin. Let’s go inside, okay?”
“Okay.” My legs tremble beneath me, and she wraps an arm around my waist. Everyone is still gawking, but only now do I feel a twinge of embarrassment. My heavy breathing sounds more like a panic attack than an asthma attack, but honestly, in this case? They’re one and the same.
“They must think I’m insane,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
Back at our cabin, the inhaler helps relax my throat and lungs, and my mom puts the kettle on. I slump at the table, where my elbows can barely fit between the stacks of Tupperware.
She kisses the top of my head. “I’m gonna give Rhea a quick call. Have a few muffins.”
On our tiny kitchen table, there’s a pile of food: Miss Rosa’s muffins, zucchini bread, brownies. I crack open the nearest container and stuff a mouthful of banana walnut goodness into my mouth. The cinnamon crumbles are the magic part, I think. Miss Rosa brings them to every church event: retreats, Bible studies, funerals. With my second taste of buttery muffin, I almost expect to smell her powdery perfume, hear the click-click of the low heels she always wears to church.
Of course our church family would be sending food back with my dad on Sunday. Or maybe leaving it at the house for when my parents stop by after doctor appointments. So many people know the code for our front door—honestly, it’s probably not safe. But we’ve never been robbed, only gifted.
I’m on my second muffin when my mom returns. She makes two mugs of ginger peach tea, and I follow her to the living room.
“Is Rhea mad?”
“No, no. Of course she understands. She said to stay a bit.”
“I’m so embarrassed. I just . . . panicked. I didn’t even think. I left my fellow counselors and all the campers. I probably scared the heck out of them.”
She blows on her tea, thoughtful. “Having an almost-adult daughter is new to me, you know. Once, when you were quite small, I was watching as you explored the playground at the park. And I felt it in my bones that you were going to fall. I was there like a flash of light, hands out to catch you. You’d already caught yourself, so you just smiled at me. But that was the first time fear gave me this super-human mom speed and heightened instincts.”
I sip my tea, confused about where this memory came from. Where it’s going.
“It never occurred to me that one day you’d be almost grown and sprinting toward me.” She smiles happily, as if flattered by my crazed appearance here. “Motherhood and growing up, full of surprises. Highly recommended.”
She says this lightly, but I burst into renewed tears. I want her to live to see me grow up all the way. And how could I ever, ever be a mother myself without her around?
“Oh, dear,” she says, taking my tea from me to set it down. “I’ve moved us in the wrong direction. Though I have to admit, I’m a little relieved.”
“Why?” The question comes out in a ridiculous, whiny tone. My own third-grade campers wouldn’t dissolve like this.
“Because, Birdie, this is the first time you’ve cried since before my diagnosis. We’ve been a little worried you weren’t processing it.”
I wipe my eyes. “It’s not the first time.”
“Ah,” she says. Her voice is gentle and slow with understanding. “I see. You just haven’t cried in front of me or your dad.”
“I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Honey, nothing about you has ever or will ever make things worse for me.” She pulls me close. “Well, your all-night screaming during the first year of your life wasn’t my favorite. But even then, I was so grateful for a healthy, if angry, baby. Usually.”
It almost makes me laugh, but nope—I just cry more as she rocks me there and tells me about when I was a baby. It’s hard for me to imagine her as a nervous new mom. There’s something comforting about imagining her calling my grandmother at 2:00 a.m. to ask a question. There’s something comforting about knowing my mom needed her mom too.
“I wish I could remember Nanny and Pops,” I whisper.
“Me too,” she says, smoothing my hair. “I wish I’d had more time with them too. But they were in their sixties when they adopted me. I was just glad they got to meet you at all.”
I fall asleep on my mom’s lap, sprawled out and cried out.
By the time she drives me back to Daybreak, it’s late. I soak in the feeling of being in the car with her. It was how we spent so much time for the first sixteen years of my life—her driving me between piano and swimming lessons.
“Well, I’m so sorry you had a scare.” She stops the car right where she and my dad dropped me off weeks ago. Time is so slippery these days, gone like water through my fingers. “But I think the Lord knew I could use a little extra Lucy time.”
“I’ll accept any explanation that makes me sound less unglued.”
She laughs and leans over to peck my cheek. “Love you, Bird. See you Sunday.”
“Love you too.”
I watch as she reverses out, waving back at me. Then it’s just me and the humming porch lights and the faraway flapping of insect wings.
And Henry, sitting on the lodge steps.