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“She’s mymother,” I hiss. “She’sourmother. Do you think Celine will thank you for encouraging her to throw in the towel?”
“Sweetheart,” Mom says, “come here.”
I watch as her hand falters and falls back onto the thin hospital sheets. Sobs are clotting up in my chest and the urge to scream is overwhelming. Then I look back up at Ilarion. His face isn’t emotionless, but it’s like I’m seeing that emotion through a thick wall of ice.
I need some of that in my life. Everything feels too hot and spiky andreal.He looks like he could stare Death in the face without blinking.
My mother’s eyes look more like mine than his. They’re liquid with fear. Not fear of death, but fear for what—and who—she’s leaving behind.
A wave of guilt crashes over me. I drop back onto her bed and clutch her hand. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You have nothing to feel sorry about,” she whispers. Every breath, every word is an effort, and I’m clinging to each one like it’s about to become the last. “You’ve been the best daughter. I couldn’t have asked for better girls.” She kisses my hand and then drops it. “Ilarion, I’d like to…” She stops short for a moment, wincing. “I want to talk to you.”
He steps up to her bedside. “I’m here.”
There’s something calming about his presence here. Ask me two hours ago, and I would’ve said he’s the last person on Earth I’d want with me in a moment like this. But now…Now, my world is spinning out of control, and he’s gravity itself.
He’s stable.
He’s solid.
He isn’t going anywhere.
“Celine will never admit it, but I’ve let her down more times than I can count.” Mom’s confession surprises me. “She was just such a strong, independent child that it felt like she didn’t need me. The truth is…I suppose I didn’t know how to mother her.” Mom closes her eyes for a moment. “Even when she was a little girl,sheused to makemebreakfast in the morning. She’d pour me a glass of juice and toast bread and bring it to me while I was nursing Taylor. That’s who she is, Ilarion. She doesn’t love easily, but when she loves, she loves hard.”
“She’s never felt neglected by you, Fiona,” Ilarion reassures her.
Something inside of me constricts. He knows so much about our family. He knows more about Celine than I thought possible.
“Then she’s done a good job of hiding it from you.” Mom attempts a small laugh. It comes out more like a series of wincing gasps. “But I know she feels like Taylor is the favorite daughter. She would never say so to me, or to her father, because she’s generous, in soul and in spirit. I may not have done as much as I should have for Celine, but I still know my daughter.” She winces again, and I can tell it’s taking a lot of effort to keep talking. “Promise me you’ll look after her, Ilarion. She deserves to be happy. She deserves to have someone take care of her for a change.”
He kneels down and takes her hand in his. I used to think the sight of her fragile fingers next to mine was jarring. It’s almost horrifying to see just how skeletal she is compared to him.
The whole thing is wrong on so many different levels. I’m watching something that doesn’t quite fit together the way it should.
It has nothing to do with them, though.
It’sme.
I’mthe problem.
Because every time I look at Ilarion, I’m not seeing my sister’s fiancé; I’m seeing the father of my child. And when I see him talk to my mother, I feel this strange sense of warmth that should belong to Celine, not me.
“I know you’re a dangerous man, Ilarion. But…” She coughs and starts again. “But I realized this morning that I don’t care if you’re a dangerous man—as long as you’re not dangerous to her.”
“You have nothing to worry about on that front.”
Mom sighs. Her body unclenches slowly as she fades into her bed. “Okay then,” she says, as though she’s signing off for the night.
I’m terrified she’s signing off forever.
“Mom.” I pick up her hand again. “Mom.Listen to me, please?”
She turns her face toward mine and offers up a dreamy smile. It’s a smile that’s already somewhere else, some place I can’t reach. So instead of doing everything I want to do—begging and pleading for her to stay with me—I just do the only thing left for me to do.
I lean in and hug her.
She hugs me back as best as she can. As frail as her arms are now, they still remind me of my childhood. We’d moved houses three times, changed cars six. We’d lost grandparents and pets and neighbors we loved. But those arms—those were always constant.
