Page 26 of The Time It Takes
We’ve spoken over the phone, yes, but that’s much different from seeing her. This feels oddly like a reality check. The woman practically helped raise me. The last time we spoke face-to-face was about seven years ago. She flew out to the city and demanded I grab a coffee with her. It was the same day I told her the truth about what happened that night.
I made her promise not to tell anyone no matter how badly she wanted to. She set me up with the best—and most expensive—therapist, because apparently, the one I’d met on Craigslist wasn’t going to cut it. She still pays for all my sessions even though they’ve slowed down a lot since then. No matter how many times I tell her I can afford it, she insists, and if there’s anything to know about Colleen, there’s no point in arguing with the woman.
“You should make sure to lock up at night, dear. There have been a few breaking and entering’s the past couple of years.”
“What so Dean becomes a cop and suddenly the crime rate increases?” I ask, arching a brow.
She smiles brightly, nearly blinding me with her pearly whites. “I’m glad you’re feeling your usual chipper self.”
I let out a harsh sigh. “I’m trying,” I tell her honestly. Though “chipper” is the last word I’d describe myself as.
Colleen nods as she looks me over. I know I must look awful after flying and then spending the night on the floor. I should probably bathe sometime soon. She opens her mouth and I think she’s going to mention it but then she closes it. Before I can react, she’s pulling me into her arms. The warm embrace makes the back of my eyes sting.
A mother, that’s what she feels like.
She rests her chin on top of my head, and I allow myself to breathe in her overly sweet perfume. She runs her hand over the back of my tangled hair.
“Your mother told me you didn’t take the news well.” She pulls back to glance down at me. She’s wearing high heels, so she has about four inches on me. Concern fills her eyes as she asks gently, “Are you well now?” She brings my hair in front of my shoulders and combs it with her fingers. The small gesture is too much.
I nod with a jerk. “I’m ok.” I look behind me into the empty house, clearing my throat. “It’s just been a while is all.”
When I glance back at her she offers me a solemn smile that’s filled with a hint of pity I’m sure she thinks she’s hiding well. “I wanted to tell you sooner and I would have if I’d known your mother was going to wait so long to mention it.” Something bitter flashes across her face, but it’s gone by the time I blink.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, heading toward the kitchen.
I can hear her follow me silently. She leans against the counter as I look for water—or anything—that’s not here. I debate filling glasses with dirty tap water just to have something to do with my hands.
“So, I take it you saw Dean.”
I nod as I stare into the sink.
“How was that?”
I turn around and rest my hips against the counter. Looking at the ugly tiled floor, I shrug. “He was more forgiving than he should have been.”
She presses her lips tightly together, clearly disapproving of my statement. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Willow. You know that, right?’
“But don’t I?” I ask warily, my voice sounding as defeated as I feel.
She crosses her arms and gives me a stern motherly look. “What exactly do you think you have to be sorry about?”
I shrug as if I’m not sure, but I still find myself saying, “Leaving and not looking back.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” she says, giving me a knowing look. “You know what I think?”
I jerk my head toward the sink. “That there’s no way you’re drinking anything from that tap.”
Her head tilts to the side, a forced smile playing on her lips. “I think that you looked back every day and that yes, you’re sorry but not for that reason. You’re not sorry that it hurt when you left, and you did it anyway. You’re sorry because you know what you left behind. You’re sorry that you looked back every minute of every day and it still wasn’t reason enough to come back. I’m sorry it’s taken being on the verge of losing something else to do it.”
Barely reigning in a wince at her words, I drop my head back so that I’m staring at the ceiling, filling with the shame I’ve tried to ignore. She’s right. The woman is always right. I press my lips in a tight line and shake my head. I force my eyes to meet hers. “How is…” I clear my throat. “How is, uh, everything?”
Colleen gives me a knowing smile, but it’s sad. “We talk on the phone, Willow. Why just ask me about my son now?”
Maybe because I want to know how he is, but I never knew how to ask. Maybe because there’s a chance of seeing him again and I won’t know what to say or how to act.
Instead of saying any of that, I fix her with a lighthearted look. “Because I’m here now and I’m ridden with guilt?”
“Oh, enough of that.” She waves a hand in the air.
