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“You think he needs patience to put up with me?” I ask. And here I was starting to think she likes me.
“All worthwhile pursuits require patience,” she says loftily, as if she just added dense to her internal list of my failings.“So yes, Ruthie, I should say so.”
She wanders off, presumably to get her nicotine fix, but I continue to think about what she said as Shane and I make our rounds. As I speak with Mr. Freeman’s event planner friend, newly arrived, and lead him through all of the updates I’ve made to Vanny.
He’s interested, and Shane and Eden are like my own personal sales staff. They talk me up as if my bookmobile is a real, viable business, not just something I pieced together with scraps of construction paper and glue sticks. Then Izzy runs over from the book setup and hugs me around the waist. “Mom, this is the best project you’ve ever done.”
I’m feeling good. I’m feeling giddy, so of course that’s when I see my mother at the door.
I tighten my arms around Izzy. Shane follows my gaze to the front of the diner, and everything about him sharpens. I expect him to stomp over there and tell her to leave, or possibly inform her that we’ll be pressing charges.
I’ll have to hold him back. To tell him this is my battle to fight, and I’d like him to let me do it instead of treating me like a child.
But to my surprise he turns to me. “How do you want to handle this, Ruthie?” his eyes silently ask.
Although he doesn’t want to alarm Izz by saying anything out loud, it’s all there in his eyes. Warmth floods me, filling me with strength that doesn’t feel borrowed. He’s letting me handle this my way.
In that moment, with him so surprisingly agreeable, I’m tempted to let him take over. If he ushers her out, I won’t need to speak to her or look at her face. But that would be the coward’s way, and I don’t want to be a coward anymore. I want to be the woman I’ve been these last weeks, brave and hopeful.
“Why don’t you and Izz work on creating a book together, Shane?” I ask. “There’s something I have to do.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, giving Izzy a big grin. A salesman grin, but I don’t hold it against him. He’s keeping it together for her, and I’m struggling.
I watch them head toward the table in the back, where a boy of nine or ten is standing with a red-haired woman and a big man who are beaming at him. The woman’s holding a toddler who’s watching the boy with interest.
All day, the kids have gone crazy over my setup—as if there were candy buried into the floor pillows and cushions, an idea Shane jokingly suggested the other day.
My mother is here.
I consider looking for Danny, but it hits me that I need to do this alone. I need to know that I can face her by myself, without a filter or a helper or anything but my own will.
So I take a big breath and push my way toward her. She’s standing at the front of the restaurant, frowning at the crowd as if it offended her. That frown deepens when she notices me. Life has worn her down, dulling her features and her hair, pressing her frown lines into permanence, but she’s tried to fight back by dying her hair and using too much makeup.
I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Can she tell I’m happy? Is she hoping to ruin it?
When I get close, she says, “It’s a free country. You can’t keep me from coming in here.”
“You said you’d stay away from Izzy,” I remind her.
She gives me a sour look. “She’s my granddaughter. You’re my daughter. I have rights.”
“You don’t have the right to vandalize my property or break into my apartment,” I say. “Last I heard, that was illegal for anyone.”
Color leaks out of her face. “Who told you I did that?”
Not a denial, I note. “You left behind prints. Were you drunk when you did it?”
She glances around, her gaze lingering for a moment on Shane, who is watching us but hasn’t come over. Danny, who’s now standing with him and Izzy, only gets cursory notice from her.
“I need to talk to you privately,” my mother says.
I direct her around the corner to the hallway leading to the single-occupancy bathroom. There are a couple of people waiting in line, and there probably will be the entire time we’re here. It’s private but not too private.
Her expression suggests she doesn’t like it.
Good.
“Izzy’s grandparents want to give her money,” she says, trying to make it sound like she’s delivering welcome news.
