I shake my head. That was a slip worthy of Freud. “In the broadest sense,” I say. “At some point, we have to accept people for who they are and where they are. And they have to own their own happiness.”
“That sounds easy,” she says sarcastically.
“Oh, yeah. Simple.”
She gives me a half smile, and I shiver again.
“It’s 55 degrees,” she says. “How are you so cold?”
“Because it’s 55 degrees,” I say. “This is winter.”
She laughs. “This is not winter. This is barely fall weather. Do you need a blanket?”
“How do you not?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“You Midwesterners have ice in your veins.”
“You Southwesterners are soft.”
“Say that again when you’re burning to a crisp in 122 degrees.”
“It’s a dry heat.”
“So is a forest fire.”
She laughs. “If you’re so cold, why have you stayed in Chicago this winter? Why not go home?”
I don’t like where this question is headed. “Because my doctor and rehab is all in Chicago. The more I travel, the more I risk messing something up,” I say.
“I bet you miss your parents.”
“All the time,” I say honestly.
I will never, ever resent my mom for her illness. It’s hard, and it’s left a mark on me, but I wouldn’t resent her if she had cancer, and I won’t resent her for mental illness, either.
But it is hard.
On all of us. But especially on her.
She’s missed so much. And if it were up to me, she’d never miss out on anything again. But afteralmost twenty years of watching her struggle with it, I’m past trying to fix her. My only job is to love her.
Even if the only thing I’ve ever wished is for her to come to one of my games. Or even to my house for Christmas.
“You know,” I say, hiding behind a yawn. “The one thing Chicago has over Arizona is that it’s way more Christmasy.”
She groans, yawning, too. “Oh no. You’re a Christmas fanatic, aren’t you?”
“I have a Santa cowboy hat. Is that even a question?”
“Bah humbug,” she says. She stretches out her arms. “Should we get back to work?”
“Lead the way.”
She does, and I follow. And for the first time tonight, I don’t mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
