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She kissed me on top of the head, then curled her arm around me, giving me a squeeze.
“How long can you stay today? Please say a while.”
Smiling at her, I nodded. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
She let go of me and clapped her hands. “Oh, brilliant. Now, I made these muffins I found the recipe for in an old cookbook. You’re my guinea pig since Dad refuses to eat anything that might possibly be healthy. He’s lucky he’s got those hearty Scandinavian genes. All he has to do is drink some vodka and all his ailments are cured.”
She rambled on for a solid five minutes about that subject, even after the timer on the oven went off. I finally got up, put on a pair of oven mitts, and removed the pan from the oven. Mom didn’t stop talking or really watch what I was doing as I plated each of us a muffin.
I guided her by the shoulders to a stool, pushed her down on it, then took the seat beside her.
Maybe it was the smell of the cinnamon wafting up from the steam, but she snapped out of her monologue and turned to me.
“Do you need new clothing, honey? Should we go shopping?” she asked.
“No. If you can believe it, I don’t. At least not until the next Prada sample sale.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Since when do you care about sales?”
I threw back my shoulders. “I think it’s a sign of maturing.” I popped a piece of muffin into my mouth. “I’d rather just bum around the house with you anyway.”
“I have never seen you bum around anywhere.” She gently elbowed me. “Tell me about Helen and Zadie. Oh, and the boys next door. How is Julien doing? Is he healing? And that tall one with all the scruff? What’s his name?”
“That’s Lachlan—well, Lock. Everyone calls him that. And he’s…I don’t think he likes me.”
She scoffed. “Oh, I doubt that. My gorgeous girl could wind that big man around her pinkie finger with absolutely no effort. But I’m sure you don’t want to. He’s not your type.”
“No, he isn’t my type. I don’t think I’m his either.” I shrugged. “Julien is doing okay. He’s grumpy, but—”
“Understandable. That poor boy. I can’t imagine how hard it is for him to attend class while he’s trying to heal. Tell me if there’s anything I can do for him. Does he need a referral to a new doctor? I’m sure I know one who could give him another opinion on how he’s healing. Or does he need—”
“Mom.” I laid my hand on her arm. “Julien doesn’t really like anyone to fuss over him, but I’ll pay extra attention. If there’s anything I think you could help with, I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, Elena.” She leaned into me. “You are my sweet, sweet girl. Do you think any other mother is lucky enough to have a daughter like you? I really don’t think so.”
I hooked my arm through hers. “I doubt there’s any other daughter lucky enough to have a mother as sweet as you.”
She started monologuing again, and I tried really hard not to fully tune her out. My dad was mad about his wife, but he didn’t listen to her, not when she was like this. He never noticed the warning signs of a spiral coming. It was always me, questioning her meds, calling her therapist, pulling her back when she went off course.
Thankfully, by lunchtime, her mania had ebbed. She was still bright and chipper, but the glazed-over look in her eyes had receded.
She pressed her palms together as she peered out the patio door. “It’s beautiful out. Shall we walk the gardens and check on my babies?”
I’d rather dig up Nate and fuck his rotting corpse.
“Sure, Mom. Let’s go for a walk.”
The grounds our house sat on were expansive. We had a large patio and pool directly outside the rear of the house, and beyond that was a wide stretch of lush grass leading to my mother’s garden. We passed under a little ivy-covered archway to enter it, strolling along the path made by precisely trimmed hedges.
In the center of the garden was a fountain surrounded by a circle of bricks and two stone benches. On the edges of the circle were my mother’s babies: her rose bushes.
She greeted them each by name, stopped to sniff them, pet the petals, coo at them. An outsider might view this behavior as unhinged, and maybe it was, but I was so used to it, I didn’t blink. Each rose bush represented a pregnancy my mom had lost. It had been her way of coping, and I suppose it still was.
I was The One Who Lived. The only one. It wasn’t easy carrying that mantle and the expectations that came along with it.Ask Harry Potter.
My mother sat next to me on one of the benches. She wasn’t crying, so this really was a good day. With my hand in hers, we sat there for a while, letting the sun shine down and the peace of the garden seep in.
“How are you doing, honey?” she asked softly. “Really and truly.”
