It had nearly scared me to death.
Now, certain rooms had locks on the doors. However, we kept a snack bar in her bedroom in case she woke up wanting to snack. But she loved cooking. Therefore, I came over often and cooked with her.
We pulled out Grandma’s old recipe book and made some of the dishes I’d grown up on. Those were some of my favorite moments with her these days. Whether she remembered me while we cooked or not, I loved watching her smile as she did something she loved.
But her smiles were becoming fewer and fewer, and I hated that I couldn't stop this from happening to her. All I could do was watch as she got lost in her mind, a place even my love couldn’t reach her.
I stopped outside her bedroom door and took a moment to compose myself. After a couple of deep breaths, I knocked on the bedroom door and waited for Nancy to answer. The door opened a few seconds later.
The first thing I noticed about Nancy was that her hair was no longer gray. She’d dyed it back red. It was strange because I hadn’t seen her hair this vibrant red color in years. The second thing I noticed was her expression. Relief washed across her face when she saw me.
"Thank goodness," she whispered.
I immediately knew it was bad. Stepping inside, I closed the door quietly behind me. My gaze moved around the room, noting that items from my mom’s vanity table were strewn all over the floor, and a comforter was tossed into the corner.
Nancy must’ve given her another one after calming her down. My gaze moved to the bed. Mom was sitting upright against a pile of pillows. At the front of the room, the television was playing a rerun of her favorite game show.
A blanket rested across her lap. Her salt and pepper-streaked hair was slightly disheveled, and her hands twisted nervously together. The moment she saw me, she froze. For a second, neither of us moved. Then she tried to scramble out of bed.
“Mom!” I yelped, rushing forward.
“It’s okay, Cami,” Nancy was saying in a soothing tone as she straightened up the room. “She’s here. Look at her, she’s just fine.”
Reaching my mom’s side, I sat down on the edge of the bed, placing my purse behind me. Her hands trembled as she slowlyraised them. She reached forward and cupped my face in her palms, gently, as though she needed to confirm I was real.
“You’re here,” she whispered.
“I’m here, Mom.”
She surprised me when she frantically turned my head from left to right.
"Mom?"
Her hands moved from my cheeks to my shoulders. Then her fingers traveled down my arms, searching, checking, looking for something.
"Mom, what are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed my wrists and turned my hands over, checking those too.
“No blood. No bruises,” she muttered. “No injuries.”
My chest tightened. She was checking to see if I was hurt, just as she used to do when I was a kid. She looked up at me. Really looked at me. And what I saw in her expression shattered something inside me.
Relief. Pure relief. That’s what I saw in her eyes. The kind of relief that only came after pure terror.
"You're alive," she whispered.
My throat tightened.
"Of course I'm alive, Mom,” I told her, trying to sound happy, excited. “I’m alive and healthy."
A sob escaped her.
"I thought..." Her voice broke. "I thought they’d gotten you."
My heart stopped, and I could barely hold my own tears back. Mom clutched my hands tighter.
"I thought I’d lost you, Little Flower."
