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Madison grins from ear to ear. “You think I’m hot?”
His eyes widen. “Moving on,” he says loudly.
Christine and I settle on the patio furniture, watching them. Madison laughs again, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. He smiles down at her before walking to the next plant. “This one here,” he says, faking a posh British accent, “is the Tyra, a form of banksia. Named after Tyra Banks, of course. Latin name—”
“Let me guess,” Madison cuts in. “The Jaxbeatoffalot.”
He barks out a guffaw. “No, young Madison,” he says, patting the top of her head gently. “Nice try. It’s called the Jaxspankbanksimus.”
I turn to the sound of Christine laughing next to me. She’s watching them, but I need her to see me. “Ma?”
She tenses. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“You wanted to talk?”
She sighs, then pushes her shoulders back, gearing herself up for what she’s going to say next. I find myself copying her, choosing to ignore the thumping of my heart. Then she looks at me with those eyes that are so familiar and everything else fades away. “I’m sorry, Ky.”
Confusion blurs my mind. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one that left.”
She swallows, fighting back the tears threatening to fall. “I’m the one that let you.”
“Ma—”
“No. I’ve waited five years for this conversation, Kyler. I have it memorized, so please let me get it out.”
I nod—the lump in my throat refusing to let me speak.
“I was meant to be your mother. Your rock. But I failed you. When Jeff died—”
“Ma—”
She holds up her hand and continues. “When Jeff died—” she breaks off with a sigh. “I should have been there for you. I was so consumed by my own loss that I didn’t think about you boys. I didn’t see how much you were suffering, and then Steven...I should’ve paid better attention—should’ve taken better care of you, Ky. Do you hear me?”
Her gaze holds mine while I clear my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You were just a kid. You were hurt and lost and desperate. I shouldn’t have let you leave...and then when you did—”
“You didn’t know—”
“I knew where you were stationed, Ky. I knew when you deployed.”
“Then why didn’t you call me or something?”
“Because I was ashamed, Ky. I was guilt-stricken and I was ashamed. And when my friends would ask me how you were I told them you were great—that I sent you packages often. How insane is that? I was lying to everyone, and I was lying to myself.”
“Ma, you can’t blame yourself. You were going through the same thing. I chose to leave you behind. You and Jackson—you needed me, and I just left.”
“But you were suffering more than just the loss of Jeff and your brother. You were heartbroken...and I wasn’t there for you.”
“You knew?”
She shakes her head. “Not at first. Jackson found out at school and he told me—and even then I couldn’t bring myself to care about anyone but myself.”
“Come on, Ma,” I comfort..
She wipes her eyes. “Thank god for Jackson,” she says, looking over at them.
I follow her gaze. Jackson’s throwing handfuls of dirt from the garden toward my old house while spewing immature profanities. “You piece of shit on a stick!”
Madison’s holding her stomach from laughing so hard.
“Yeah,” I say, “thank god for Jackson.”
He throws another handful. “You shit stinking whore face!”
Madison laughs harder.
“You try it,” Jax says, dropping dirt in her palms.
“Try what?”
“Just yell whatever you’ve always wanted to, and throw it.”
Madison looks at the dirt in her hands, then back up at Jax.
“Seriously,” he encourages. “It feels so good.”
Madison nods, a slow smirk developing. Then, as loud as she can, she yells, “You child-abusing, alcoholic, dick of a cunt!”
***
We leave soon after Madison dropped the C bomb. Christine pretty much declared her love for Madison right then and there. Jackson too. But to be honest, I passed that stage a long time ago.
We spend the car ride home feeding Madison stories from when we were kids. It feels good—better than good—to be able to sit back and laugh about the good times, instead of just remembering the bad. Because there actually wasn’t that much of it—bad, I mean.
And Madison—she’s living proof of that.
***
It took Madison coming into my life for me to let go of the past—of the guilt that I’ve carried with me since the day Jeff died. How can you thank someone for giving you that gift—the gift of being able to breathe again.
I’m quiet as we take the elevator up to our floor. I can see her watching me—waiting for me to say something. But I don’t, because I can’t.
We stay silent as we walk into my apartment. She steps in behind me—apprehensively closing the door behind her. “Ky,” she starts, then breaks off when I turn to her—my gaze pinning her in place. “If you’re mad at me for overstepping, get it out now. I’d rather you yell at me than not talk to me again.” She chews her lip—her gaze lowering.
Say something. “Madison.” It’s all I can say. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t do her justice. ‘I love you’—well, it’s close.
