My phone vibrates on the table as I talk, and when I get a look at the caller on the screen, I stop, my heart springing into my throat. I can think of only a handful of times Lovie has ever called me when she’s been at my house with my mother, and almost none of the reasons were good.
I hold up a finger to Monica in apology and put the phone to my ear quickly, my voice shaking. “Lovie? Is everything okay?”
“Hannah, honey,” she says in a rush. “Sherry is lucid.”
“What?” I ask, tears instantly hitting my eyes as I shove back in my chair and dig in my purse for some money.
“I know, honey,” Lovie responds, dropping her voice to a calming lull. “And I don’t know how long it’ll last, but if you can make it home, you should. Just ... don’t rush, okay? Be as safe as you can.”
Yeah. Go slow. Right.
“I’ll be home soon.”
“Okay, hon,” Lovie says, her voice so soft with understanding it nearly breaks me.
These moments don’t come often—in fact, it’s been more than a year since the last one—but the thought of it happening now and me missing it is almost too much to bear.
“I’m so sorry, Mon, but I have to go,” I say, dropping my share of the bill by my discarded salad and frantically gathering myself to step away from the table.
Monica is confused, understandably, but she’s also supportive. “Of course. Don’t worry about it at all.”
I almost promise that I’ll explain later, but to be honest, I don’t know if I will. Talking about my mom—admitting all the things I desperately wish weren’t true—to other people is something I’ve never quite mastered.
And I don’t know if I ever will.
2:05 p.m.
The drive home was long and tense, and the traffic getting out of downtown was nearly enough to send me into a mental spiral, but I’ve made it.
I jump out of my Civic and run for the front door, my mind racing with hope and heartbreak and trying to prepare itself for both.
The door chimes as I shove it open and then click it closed behind me. I take the stairs to the second-floor living area two at a time, practically jumping to ensure my short legs will best the distance.
Lovie and my mom sit at the kitchen table, both of them with a sheen of tears in their eyes. When Sherry’s gaze meets mine, all the air I’m holding leaves me in an overwhelming rush. I drop my keys and purse on the floor, and my mom stands from the table, awareness in her gaze.
Mom.
Both of us rush forward and crash into a hug, and emotion pours out of me like a waterfall. I clutch her warm body to mine, and her hands squeeze my back as she sniffles into my neck. I want to stay in this hug forever—when she doesn’t know who I am, it never happens—but at the same time, I’m desperate for conversation with the woman I’ve loved all my life.
I push back slowly, holding on to her arms to keep us close as I do. “Mom,” I say, testing out the rusty word on my thick tongue.
“Oh, baby,” she says, her face dissolving into full-blown tears.
I shake my head and push the hair out of her face, wiping and catching tears as they crest over her cheeks. “No, no, come on. Don’t cry.”
She shakes her head, and a tear spills from the corner of my eye, too, the feelings of how big this is unstoppable. “I’m so sorry, Hannah.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mom.” My voice vibrates with a raw energy I can’t describe. “It’s just so good to see you.”
She nods, and I slide my fingers down her arms to take her hands in mine. I know Lovie is still here looking on, but I don’t see her, and shedoesn’t try for a second to change that. She knows what this moment means. Sheknows.
“God, honey, look at you,” my mom says, tucking my hair behind my shoulders before taking my hands again. “You’re so grown. So beautiful. I can hardly believe it.” Her focused but tearful eyes lock with mine. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” I whisper, and a few more tears drip down her cheeks.
“Twenty-five,” she whispers. “I hate this, Hannah. I hate knowing that I’m missing so much. That I’m—”
“We’re together, Mom. We’re always together, even if you’re not fully aware.” I cut her off with words I feel like she needs to hear.
