Page 112 of Hidden & Held

“It’s okay” sits on my tongue and I swallow it back down. It wasn’t, and she would know I was lying. But I am tired of carrying it—tired of the weight of something from the past that can’t be changed. I want to put it down.

“Thank you.” I squeeze her hand again, letting it convey how I feel.

She squeezes back once, eyes uncharacteristically glassy. Blinking, she clears her throat, and lifts her chin, looking over my shoulder.

“Oh, Dr. Benton—” Her voice returns to full wattage. “Come meet my daughter.” A rounded-belly man with a severe receding hairline walks over.

“Hello, you must be Phoenix. Your mother speaks of you often.”

I warm at his praise, but before I can respond, Mom chimes in, “Phoenix is now managing all legal proceedings for the residents of the Durham Foundation. You have heard of them, right? They are the charity started by the Durham Corporation doing amazing work across the Central Oregon region.”

“My, that’s wonderful,” Dr. Benton placates.

“It is, isn’t it. What does your son do again, trade new cryptocurrency? Fascinating. Moving fake money around. World changing. Groundbreaking.”

I listen to my mother spar back and forth with an apparent work rival, not needed in their jabs. And yet, there is something comforting about her abruptness back into speaking of accomplishments. Maybe you don’t need someone to change entirely. Maybe adapting is good enough.

I catch her eye during a brief pause in their verbal contest—she glances at me, giving a small nod and I slip out down the familiar hallways while Dr. Benton is still midsentence.

The drive back to the gym is quiet as I mull the conversation with Mom over. There were no grand declarations, no sudden undoing of years of careful distance. No undoing of hurt. But something has shifted, even if only slightly. Even if only in me.

It would never be the kind of relationship I watched other women have with their mothers—the easy phone calls, the Sunday dinners, the instinct to dial her number first when something happens. I’ve made peace with that, mostly. But maybe it could be something. Something more than it had been this morning when I walked in.

Pulling into the gym’s parking lot, I find a spot as far from other cars as possible to avoid potential door dings and sit for a moment. Through the open gym doors, I can hear the squeak of sneakers on the court. Somewhere in there, Jackson and his family.

34

JACKSON

“And that’s the end of Jackson’s sophomore year of shows. Now let me find his junior year …” Mom closes the album, already peering around for the next one.

“Alright, I think that’s enough of that. Phoenix is bored, I’m sure,” I plead.

“No, I’m actually quite enjoying myself. I especially love the outfits. Who knew you were a killer Danny Zuko in high school?” she says with a corner of her lip turning up. She faces my mother. “Please make sure to send me the digital copies.”

Our grandfather clock chimes seven times in the distance. “We probably should get going though. It’s a bit of a drive back to Cascadia.”

“Fine, I get it,” Mother sighs, setting the album on the cherrywood coffee table Dad built for her anniversary. “But I’m visiting soon. Can we plan a Zentrology night for when I come into town?” Mom asks hopefully, standing and giving Phoenix a big hug.

“Of course, the girls wouldn’t dream of anything else.” Phoenix closes her eyes, soaking in the hug, and the sight loosens something in my chest. Even if she never forgives me, I would gladly share my mother with her. I don’t think I have a choice anyway.

Dad saunters over, clapping his large, calloused hand on my shoulder.

“Thanks for bringing her by. She’s fantastic. A real keeper.” He squeezes tightly, his flannel shirt brushing against my well-worn law school T-shirt I changed into after our game. The Longshots came in third by some miracle, and Daniel attempted to keep us all back, talking strategies for next year.

“John, thank you for having me over and showing off your workshop. It has me itching to get home and reorganize my tools. Please send me the link to that palm sander.”

As if that’s happening. I know what my parents will be giving Phoenix for her birthday. Dad beams. “Anytime. And send me a picture of the vanity you’re refinishing.”

He surrounds her in a bear hug, and she is momentarily taken aback before wrapping her arms around his middle. Stepping back, she straightens the invisible wrinkles from her blouse. “I will. Thank you for your hospitality,” she adds in a formal manner.

Dad’s arm automatically raises as Mom slides under, tucking herself in tight. Her smile for Phoenix is pure warmth.

“Anytime, Phoenix. You are a true joy to have around.”

Phoenix blinks her long eyelashes a few extra times and gives a tight nod. Turning toward me, she asks, “Ready to go, Danny?”

I laugh. “Don’t make me sing Summer Nights.”