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I hold her eyes and shake my head.
“I don’t think that last part is wholly true.”
I rear back, confused.
“My sweet girl, not the deserve part… The knowing exactly who you are part. It certainly is the case that you know exactly who you want to be. But I’m not confident that you know who you are.”
I want to argue, tell her I know my own mind. I want to remind her that I know my worth since she reminded me of it so often.
“So, I want to tell you…
“You’re kind and funny. You’re brilliant and compassionate. You are the heart you wear on your sleeve, even if it’s held under lock and key. You’re the wisdom of your father and—unfortunately for you, but so, so lucky for me—the passion of your mother. You’re his tried-and-true nature and my willful stubbornness. You’re all woman and still strong enough to go toe-to-toe with any man. I admire that about you.” A smile beams from her too thin face. “You’re stubborn. And you are amazing.”
“Mom—”
She taps my hand and continues as if I haven’t interrupted. “But you’re wrestling yourself silly.” She pauses when she sees my face, lifting her palm to tap the top of my hand before resting it back there, as if she doesn’t have the energy to keep lifting it. “Shhh. Let me finish. Sometimes you remind me of an alligator wrestling his own tail or an ouroboros that never stops gnawing, trying to eat more from the end, but choking on what it’s got. Make peace with yourself, Bright.
“Make peace with yourself. When you do, give that away to someone you find worthy. Until you find that peace, you won’t be a good wife or partner. And one day, I hope you have a great husband… someone who deserves the amazing woman I birthed, someone who recognizes your strength but also the vulnerability it masks. Someone who looks past the sarcasm and sharp tongue to see the hurt and fear underneath. You, my darling daughter, are everything I could dream up times a million. I am so proud of you. I did a great job with you and I can be proud of myself for that.”
A lone tear streaks from her eye, dipping into the hollows of her face before running for her ear. I reach up and brush it away.
“I love you, Mom. I had a great example to look up to. If I can be half the woman you are—”
“Don’t you finish that sentence, Brighton.” Her tone is sharp for her weakened state. “To be half the woman I am, you’d have to go back in time. You’ve far exceeded me, sweet girl. Far exceeded. I am so proud to be your mother. Thank you for choosing me, if that’s the way it works.”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Do you need some rest?”
“A little. I’d love for you to tell me about what’s happening down the hill? How’s your newest baby? Tell me everything.”
I hold her hand and regale her with stories from the barn and how Marron is coming along. I tell her about a new litter of barn cats and the mischief they’re finding.
“Luna got curious about a skunk the night before last—” I look up and see her asleep. I never finish the story about Luna and the wretched smell that still lines my nostrils. “I love you, Mom. Greatest gifts I’ve ever been given were your love and encouragement. I’m not ready to lose you.”
My voice breaks and instead of being sucked under by the emotion of loss, I remember what I still have. I slide my butt down and lean on my side, spooning back into her. I might as well be four years old and scared of a thunderstorm, curled up in my parents’ bed, reminding myself of their ability to save me from monsters and booming thunder.
And all the other dangers out there lurking.
Except cancer.
No one can save any of us from that fiend. It takes and takes, devouring everything in its path.
Taking my heart… and my Mom with it.
TWO
IF I COULD STAY, I WOULD
BRIGHTON
Iturn my Jeep onto the gravel drive, watching the sun rise over the ranch. Barbara Mandrell sings my mantra, and I sing along. I feel Barbara. I was country when country wasn’t cool, too. I still am and have no plans of changing that.
My windows are down. My hair is strewn over my face; my dashboard is covered in dust. I’m one with nature.
Besides, there’s no point in showing up for work primped and with coiffed hair. I’m going to be sweating within the hour, no doubt smelling a bit rough, and, if history is anything to go by, probably covered in some kind of juice or byproduct.
But Barbara understands.
So does Dolly.
