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I sprinted past Peter, through the open door, and she was climbing out of hers.
She was there.
She was thinner.
More frail.
But it was her.
It was Chrissy.
It was my mom.
She looked up. Her eyes trailing up the stairs, to me, and there she was.
“Mom!”
“Honey.”
She was sobbing.
Tears were probably streaking down my face.
I waited. I still waited. I needed an indication that if I went down there, I wasn’t going to break her.
Her arms lifted, and that was all I needed.
I flew down the stairs, and I was on her. Arms around her neck. Around her waist. I kept hugging her. Burying my head in her neck. Smelling her.
She wasn’t a figment of my imagination anymore. I wasn’t smelling her ghost.
She was real and alive. Flesh. Blood. Bones. Ligaments. The whole bit.
Chrissy Hayes just rose from the dead.
“Mom!” I couldn’t let her go, no matter how tight I was squeezing her. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. No one could make me—but no one was trying to.
She was holding me back just as hard, and whispering to me, “You are so beautiful, honey. So beautiful and kind and strong. And I love you. Your mother loves you so much. You sweet, sweet girl. Oh, my goodness.” She pulled back, framing my face. Tears were glistening over her entire face. She didn’t care. She was taking me in as I was taking her in. She breathed as if she were afraid to let go of the air. “If it was possible, you have gotten even more stunning.” She was blinking rapidly. Her hand cupped the side of my face. Her thumb swiped over my cheek. “Oh, honey.” She melted, and her forehead moved to rest against mine.
I was holding her.
She was cupping the side of my face, and she was smiling at me.
Our eyes were so close our eyelashes were almost touching, but neither of us cared. We were breathing each other in, we were that desperate.
“Mom,” I whispered, biting back tears. “What happened?”
“Oh, baby.” She lifted her head, winding her arms around me, and she tugged me to her. She held me gently in her arms now, as if already shielding me from what she needed to tell me. “We’ll get to that. I promise.”
I felt her head lifting. Turning.
She tapped my arm softly. “You tend to your man, because you’re not the only one who saw a ghost today.” She stepped back, but her gaze was trained over my head, toward whoever had been waiting for our reunion to finish. She squeezed me once more before stepping away. “I need to see to my man, too.”
She was the one who ran this time, going up the stairs toward Peter.
His hand hadn’t moved from the doorknob, like he was scared to let it go. But then she was in front of him, and he leaned back.
She stopped.
