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I could write something really profound here, but the only thing I want to say to you is:
“I love you with my whole heart for my whole life.” —Unknown
Whoever wrote that read my mind, because it’s exactly how I feel for you.
—Ben
I hold the paper to my heart and close my eyes as tears leak out. “Me too, Ben,” I whisper. “Me too.”
I grab a tissue and clean up my ruined makeup before refolding the paper crane and sticking it in my purse.
I cradle the ultrasound photos protectively in my hand and heft the heavy purse onto my shoulder.
When I reach the door, I hesitate a moment before knocking, but I finally raise my hand to the door and do just that. My feet shuffle against the porch as I wait.
The door opens and Jacob stands there in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Seeing Jacob is like a kick to the gut. He looks so much like Ben, only a little older. His hair is a similar golden shade, only a little bit darker. His face is more carved, whereas Ben’s is—was—more boyish. Jacob’s eyes are nearly the same color blue, but his now boast small wrinkles at the corners. Whereas Ben had the dimples in his cheeks, Jacob has one in his chin.
“Hey, Blaire.” He holds the door open for me. “How are you?”
I shrug. “I have good days and bad days.” I don’t tell him that there are more bad than good. “How are you? Why aren’t you working?”
“I’m doing okay.” He ruffles his hair before closing the door. The inside of the house is dark, like there aren’t any lights on. Normally, the house is so warm and cozy. Not today, though. Today, it feels empty and lifeless. “Mom was having a bad day so I decided to work from here.”
I nod and bite my lip, looking up at him through my lashes. “I should have called her or something …” I trail off.
“She could’ve called you too,” he reasons, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve both been through a lot. Don’t beat yourself up over this too.” He reaches for my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “She’s this way,” he says, and leads me through the house to the kitchen.
“Whoa,” I mutter under my breath.
“Mom bakes when she’s sad.” He shrugs.
The kitchen is covered in flour, sugar, and all kinds of other baking things. There are finished pies lined up on the table, cupcakes, cookies, and what looks like fudge.
“Jacob, can you take one of those pies to Maryann? I think she’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Mom,” he says. “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” She turns away from whatever she’s working on now. “Oh, hi, Blaire.” Her lips turn down in a frown like she’s not happy to see me.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called or been by.” It seems like the right thing to say.
“Oh, that’s fine.” She waves a hand dismissively. She wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron. “Let’s sit in the family room.” She motions us out of the kitchen. “Too much clutter in here.” She turns to wash her hands in the sink and removes her apron, getting flour on her hands again in the process. She curses—in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her say one bad word—and washes her hands again. She runs her fingers over her frizzy hair that’s trying to escape the confines of a clip. “Want a cookie?” she asks suddenly. “I have chocolate chip, raisin, oatmeal, sugar—”
“A sugar cookie would be great,” I say, not wanting to turn down her offer.
“Here, take the whole plate,” Jacob says. “She’s already made more.”
“Um, thanks.” I take the plate from him when he hands it to me.
“I’ll get you a baggy,” Loraine says, opening a cabinet drawer. I can tell she’s just trying to busy herself. “Here you go.” She brings me a gallon-size Ziploc bag.
I dump the cookies inside and hand Jacob back the plate. Loraine promptly takes it from him and starts for the sink to wash it. Jacob wraps his hand around her upper arm to stop her. “Mom, we should go sit down. You can wash that later.”
She nods. “Right. Yes. I’ll wash it later,” she says in short, clipped sentences. I’ve never seen Loraine so unhinged, and I don’t like it. She’s always been such a strong woman—someone I’ve looked up to—and to see her come undone like this hurts. If Loraine is still doing this badly, it doesn’t bode well for me.
We all move into the family room, and I immediately hate the choice of venue. The beige walls are covered in family photos. Pictures of Ben from a tiny infant to a grown man cover the walls. It’s like looking at a timeline laid out of his life—one that ends abruptly and all too soon.
I take a seat on the dark-brown chair that matches the couch Jacob and Loraine sit on.
