Page 121 of Jonesing for a Spy

“I did what anyone would do in that situation. I brought him inside when his condition was active and told him whatever story would stick to keep him safely in these four walls.” She looks around the house as if a younger Strider still runs through these halls. “When remission came—and understand remission was easily seventy-five percent of the time. Flares were few and far between but were rough on him and scary for me when they showed. So when he was in remission, he had carte blanche to be a crazy boy.”

“Except for jumping from the roof,” I put in.

“Exactly.” Her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. “I’m a reasonable woman, Mirren. I knew there would be broken bones or, God forbid, pregnancy scares. With Sam I had to worry about toxic paints absorbing into her skin. The walls were covered. We knew which battles to pick and her bedroom walls weren’t it. She was so talented. Why not give her a room-sized canvas. Lorien and her chemistry, the same. You get my point. But when he was ill…”

“He took that as lying…” My tone is plain with no hint of judgment.

“I mean, technically. Yes. But what should we have done? Sat him down that young and say ‘your body is attacking your blood. You could die at any time with the wrong move’? That seemed a bit cruel for a kid to hear, when we could protect him.”

I nod, not in agreement, but in understanding. From ten thousand feet, it’s so easy to see both sides of this. Strider’s hatred of lies and secrets. Being kept in the dark. Not having agency in his life. And in Diane’s desire for him to have a normal childhood, void of the things that are parents’ worst nightmares.

“We made the wrong choice. He’s been very clear about that. But we didn’t know any better. We were young, navigating an illness that was largely unknown. I don’t think I heard the word ‘autoimmune’ in the wild again for twenty years after his diagnosis. In groups of scared moms, sure, but in common conversation? He was out of college by the time the world caught on.”

“I don’t have a dog in this fight, Diane. I’m not judging. I can’t tell you I’d have any clue what to do, even now, and my generation tends to talk things out, ad nauseum, and emote.” I shrug. “There were downsides both ways. You know that.”

She nods and washes her hands. “I do. And I don’t know if Strider would feel equally as strongly if we’d done the opposite. He tends to be passionate about issues and people that interest him.” She levels her gaze on me. “You, for instance.”

I blush under her scrutiny. “Will you share that lemon cookie recipe with me? I don’t presume I’ll make them correctly the first time, but if they’re Strider’s favorites, I’d like to have them in my arsenal.”

“It’s a recipe. No fail, I promise. Just follow the steps. Don’t tell Lorien I said that. She really wants to be a baker. I mean, she tries, but somehow”—she throws her hands wildly about—“my brilliant daughter can manage to mess up the simplest of cookies. And, yes, I’d love for Strider to have this kind of love in his new home.” Her face goes sad, but her tone lies through it. “And we’ll bake when we get together. New recipes each time. That work?”

“I’d love that.” I hope the sincerity on my face and in my voice reassure her that it’s the truth. “Plan to come down for Mardi Gras if you can. It’s more family friendly than New Orleans and nothing like Rio. You’ll love it, and we’d love to have you.”

“We’d love that, sweetie. Now, twenty-four hours is best, but we’ll let it chill a while and see if we can’t sample our cookies after dinner.”

Our cookies? I did absolutely nothing but perch on a stool and listen to her tell me how much she loves her son. If I get credit for that, then okay, but truly, I get the better end of the deal.

“I won’t argue. They smell divine.”

She puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the living room. “And they taste even better.”

“Ladies and gentleman, we’re beginning our descent into Austin. Please return your seats and tray tables to their upright and locked positions and stow all of your carry-ons. Flight attendants will come through the cabin one last time to collect all remaining service items. As always, thank you for flying with us and welcome to Austin.”

As I come back to the present, I’m struck by two things. First, how different my childhood was from Strider’s. I’m the baby; he’s the oldest. I had five older brothers. Bruised and brave is an apt description. Mom trying to contain them would’ve been as challenging as Diane doing so for her son.

And two, while I’m technically a spy like my parents, what I did for the Army, was the same as Diane. Strider’s mom was a nurse before she retired. How peculiar is the world, that the man who hated being sick, ended up with a medic for a fiancée.

I pray he never needs those skills.

52

flirting with danger

Mirren

Mom and I do as previously discussed, exiting the plane and making our way in different directions. We’re not cohorts or mother and daughter right now. We’re simply passengers who took the same flight. She heads to the rental car counter, and I shuffle down the escalators—slouching and looking shifty—past the huge guitars at baggage claim to the ride-share area.

Fitzgerald Young is no Uber driver, but no one needs to know that. The lit signage in his blacked-out SUV will let others believe the story I’m making sure they see, that is, if anyone is bothering to watch.

“You Barry?” I ask with a fair bit of attitude but enough apathy, again, keeping up the act.

“Get in, Jones.” A huge man’s whiskey voice grumbles through the cracked window.

I slide into the back, and we’re away from the curb before I can get my seatbelt on.

“How was the flight?” His eyes behind dark aviator shades meet mine in the rearview mirror. Or so I assume.

“Fine. I tried to sleep.”