Page 72 of Then There Was You
Idon’t think I’ve laughed this hard since . . . well, since Keats made me last laugh. But this was unexpected and so endearing that I hold the note to my chest.
“It was the simplest task.” My mom sits in the chair next to mine. I hadn’t noticed she’d been gone. “And Gregory couldn’t manage it.” She hands me a coffee. “I had to go get them myself.” The hospital has been a bit cold since I got here, but the chill of her presence has me tightening my coat. When she hands me a coffee, I’m still grateful. “Thank you.” I take a sip and swallow, keeping my hand huddled around the warm cup. “I thought you were out of town?”
“We were, but he was transported here for better care in the city.” Her gaze pivots to the entrance when a woman walks in. “I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Understood.”
When the distraction disappears and it’s just the two of us sitting here in this section of the waiting room, she smiles as if it’s the polite thing to do. I shift to hide the note, but hereyes home in on the small action, and she asks, “What is that?” There’s nothing personal or private I want to share with her, especially when it comes to Keats. Everything will be held and used against me how they see fit. I start to tuck the note in my pocket, but she asks, “Why are you hiding that paper from me, Sosie?”
“Because it’s mine and none of your business.” I kind of hate myself for snapping at her, though I believe some of my animosity is where it should be. She’s been tolerable since I arrived at the hospital and nice otherwise. A part of growing past the damage is changing my behavior if they don’t change theirs. I can only control myself, and I don’t want to be a miserable person. The note feels personal because Keats took the time to create it, but there’s nothing I should feel so protective that I can’t share a little joy in hopes of building a bridge for our relationship. Is that what I want with her? I can’t help myself, but I do. I hand her the note, and say, “It made me smile, is all.”
She takes the note and starts to read, giving me the opportunity to study her. It has been so long since I looked at her, much less this deeply beneath the surface, that I’ve failed to see how she’s aged. Kelly Stansbury is still stunning. She may no longer wear tiaras, but she could still win a beauty contest. It’s so hard to grow up the daughter of a beauty queen when you take after the paternal side. At least that’s what I think. Everyone else says I’m my mom’s twin. I could only be so lucky.
A sadness has settled in her eyes that didn’t used to be there. I wonder when that tragedy occurred. She flips the note around, and a smile tugs on the corners of her mouth. “Is this from Winifred the Wallaby?”
I scan the note again, just as tickled reading it as I was the first time.
Dear Mom,
I’m being well taken care of. I miss you. Can’t wait for you to come home.
Love,
Winifred
“It is.” I giggle.
“That’s darling.” She sits back, folding her hands together. “How did you get this? Do we have another case of Paddington Bear syndrome with Winifred?”
My smile comes easier the more time we spend together. “I loved Paddington.”
“I know.” Her laughter isn’t something I hear much of, especially in the past few years. “We had reservations for high tea in London when you were eight. We had just watched the movie on the plane ride over, and you had your mind set that he was going to be our guest at the tea.”
Seeing my mom act like the one I craved so desperately when I was young has my heart aching for the time we lost when it could have been like this. Genuine. “I don’t remember the tea.”
“Mmm.” She closes her eyes just long enough to recall a memory. “You were young. I should send you the photos we took.”
“I have that bear in my closet. He still has a Harrod’s tag on his coat.”
A smile is evoked, and then she says, “Hold on to him.”
Such a random request when she already knows I’ve moved out of the house. Our conversation drops off, so I check the time on my watch. “Any updates?”
“No.” A thread of concern runs through her tone that doesn’t suit her. “The nurse told me it shouldn’t be long now.”
“That’s good.” We sit in these chairs that lost their cushioning a long time ago. Silence is something I’m used to unless I’m in trouble. But it feels different between us this time. Anger is absent on my part, and she’s showing genuine interest on her side. Different, but I don’t let my guard down. Not fully anyway. But I am curious, and I really don’t feel like I have much to lose anymore. “Can I ask you something?”
She looks at me with stoicism. “You should just ask, not ask if you can ask. It wastes people’s time by unnecessarily dragging it out.”
The stroll down memory lane can’t erase all the other stuff that stands out so prominently in my mind. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Her jaw drops, and she stares as if this question came out of left field, but that can’t be true when hate is all I’ve ever felt from my parents. I just didn’t have the nerve to ask before. “What do you mean, Sosie?”
“Let’s not pretend, Mom.” Letting my head roll around my neck, I groan, “You know what I mean.” It’s not a bad thing to allow her to sit in discomfort. It might be new, but it’s needed for her to understand where I’m coming from.
“I don’t hate you. You’re my daughter.”
“Then why would you not stand up for me? Why would you not protect me? Why wouldn’t you want me to be happy?”
