After a moment, he clears his throat. Apparently he’s collected himself, gathered up the pieces of surprise and discomfort. “I imagine that came as quite a shock. But, Luce, there’s a lot to the story. And right now we need to focus on your mom’s health.”
“I agree. But can you just tell me this one thing? Have you guys hidden anything else from me? Any other siblings? Please just tell me and get it over with right now.”
“Nothing else. Truly.”
I survey his panicked face. He’s suffered enough, I think. Too much. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Based on his tone, I don’t think he believes me.
“Yep. I just want to see Mom.” I step toward the hospital doors, but he remains frozen in place. “I’m okay, Dad. It was a long time ago. I just wanted you to know that I know.”
I wonder if anything feels as grown-up as not blaming your parents. Understanding where they’re coming from instead of waiting for them to see your side. We walk briskly to my mom’s room, where a nurse has me scrub my hands and arms with antibacterial soap. She already has an infection! I want to yell. Just let me see her! But of course I’d never do anything to put her in danger.
Rachel leaves the room as I enter, swooping in to peck my cheek. How did she get here so quickly?
My mom is stretched out on a bed by the window. It’s a muted-over scene—the off-white walls and beige plastic hospital bed and the dull blue blankets. My arms feel chilled even though I dried them off. And any anger I felt on the car ride dissolves like mist.
“Hey, Mom.”
“There she is.” Her smile curls up beneath the nose tube. “I was just thinking about you.”
Is this how it happens? So fast, one summer later, in an anonymous hospital room? It can’t be.
“Bryan drove you?”
“Yeah. He’s parking the car, but he’ll be in to . . .” Rehash the sordid details of your shared past? Discuss the daughter you mutually created? “Say hi.”
I glance away, overcome by my awkward pause, and her grip tightens. “You know, don’t you?”
Only after I nod can I look her in the eyes. “Since about an hour ago.”
Her lips make a small circle, whistling out air. It’s a sound equivalent to the phrase Oh boy. “How mad are you?”
I think I want to be mad; it would be easier. But hospitals shift things into perspective. Nothing in the outside world really matters now. “I’m not mad.”
“Would you be mad if I didn’t have a nasal cannula and a central line?”
“Maybe.”
“Fair enough. Bird, I wanted to tell you. But there was never a right time. You always seemed too young, and then by the time you weren’t . . . it felt unfair to drop it on you.”
I’ve gone over this in my mind, enough that I can truthfully say, “It’s okay, Mom.”
“I’m glad you know.” She runs her thumb across my hand. “No more secrets. Okay. Now, cheer me up. Tell me about your campers, will you?”
I obey. She’s smiling—even laughing—at the updates on Thuy’s swim lessons, about Sofia’s animals, Payton’s colors.
“It would be petty of me to say I told you so,” my mom says. “But I knew you’d be the most wonderful counselor. You’re a natural teacher, Bird.”
Am I? I do like helping people learn things—swim strokes and makeup contouring and simple piano chords. Teaching is what everything I do has in common. How did I not see it before? Leave it to my mom to drop a casual epiphany into a conversation meant to cheer her up.
I can tell the moment Bryan walks in because her gaze moves over my shoulder. The smile falls into lips-parted surprise.
“Bry?” She sounds so young, even in that one syllable.
“Hi, Mari.”
He’s standing with Rachel, hands clasped like a supplicant. Bryan, who knows my mother. Who loved my mother, once upon a time.
My mom reaches her hand out to him, her eyes filled with tears. In front of him, she crumbles. All this time, I’ve begged her to be real with me, but I confess: seeing her overwhelmed is gutting.
I step back to give them room. Or to give myself room. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
He goes right to her, taking both hands in his. At first they don’t speak, just look into each other’s older faces, wide eyes glistening.
“I changed my mind, Bry,” she says. “I need to know about her. Just in case I don’t—I mean . . .”
“It’s okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed, so they’re closer to eye level. “She’s okay, Mari. She’s great.”
Tears dribble down my mom’s cheeks. “She found you?”
“She lives in Chicago with her husband.” Bryan’s breathing stutters, as if he’s crying too. “She works at a nonprofit and just finished her MBA. Great relationship with her parents.”
My sister, the businesswoman. I badly wish that I had a mental image. Will she want to meet me? Would we get along right away or would she feel like a stranger?
“What did they name her?” my mom chokes out.
“Elena,” he says. “And they kept our name too. Elena Grace.”
“Elena.” My mom whispers it, a fervent prayer. “Elena.”
“Come on, Bird,” Rachel says quietly. She clasps my shoulders to guide me out. “Let’s give them a minute.”
“But—” I begin. But I want to hear more about my sister. Elena. I have a half sister named Elena. Haven’t I been kept in the dark long enough? But I know my mom deserves privacy. Is this—being able to consider your mother’s feelings above your own—what growing up is?
There’s a bench outside the room where my dad is sitting, staring into nothing. I sit beside him, exiled from our own family.
Wow, am I working up a flair for drama.
“How ’bout I track down some decent tea?” Rachel asks.
I nod blandly and assume my dad does the same. Once she’s down the hall, I glance at him, at his linked hands and wrinkled button-down. “Are you okay?”
“That’s supposed to be the dad’s line.” He looks over as if he’s going to try to smile. He can’t quite manage it. “I’m so sorry about all this, Bird.”
“It’s all right, Dad. I mean, I assume you’ll pay for my therapy into adulthood . . . but.”
The joke fizzles, even as my dad huffs out a laugh.
“Your mom worried that it would be harder to guide you, morally, if you knew her past. She carries a lot of guilt from that time in her life.” His gaze pushes hard against mine. “Very misguided guilt. She didn’t do anything wrong, you understand?”
“Yeah. I do. Must be weird for you, though.”
He shrugs, not exactly denying it. “I’ve known about Grace for almost as long as I’ve known your mother.”
“So, it doesn’t bother you, Bryan being in there with her?”
“No, honey. Your mom’s life is with us. But Bryan’s a big part of her story, and he was always so good to her.” He looks over with a mock grimace. “Though, I admit, it would be easier if he’d aged poorly.”