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HOLDEN
Idrum my fingers impatiently on the scarred tabletop. Sydney glances over at me but says nothing. She’s been biting her bottom lip for the past fifteen minutes.
Part of me is worried our mom won’t show. It would be incredibly on brand for her.
The rest of me is scared shewillshow.
I had to look up my mother’s phone numberonline. I knew what town she’s living in—or I did two years ago—and pulled up a landline. Called and left a message after a generic voicemail asking her to meet me at Roxbury Diner today at one p.m.. Maybe it was the wrong number. Maybe she doesn’t listen to her messages. Maybe she got it but won’t show. Who the hell knows?
It's 1:05 now.
The waitress reappears, asking if we want to order anything again.
I glance at Sydney. She shakes her head.
“We’re still deciding,” I tell the waitress. “Thanks.”
She sighs, nods, then leaves.
The bell above the door tinkles. I glance over automatically, not really expecting it to be her.
But it is.
Sydney inhales sharply next to me. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s recognized her or because she’s reacting to her appearance.
Our mom looks worse than the last time I saw her. Paler. Skinnier. But her gaze is alert and aware as she glances around the diner, her eyes landing on me first and then sliding over to Sydney sitting beside me.
Her lips purse before she says something to the man accompanying her. It’s the same guy who was with her in the hospital.
He takes a seat on one of the stools along the long countertop.
Our mom approaches us alone.
At least she didn’t just turn around and leave. That would have been worse than her not showing at all, I think. For all her faults, she’s never been a coward. She spent two days packing up all her belongings and left in the middle of the afternoon. She didn’t desert us in the middle of the night with only her phone and wallet. It was a calculated choice, not a panicked reaction.
Sydney’s knee knocks mine as it bounces below the table.
I have no assurances to offer my sister.
I’m not going to tell her it’ll be fine, but I’m expecting it won’t be. That this will break her heart more than it’s already been shattered.
There’s no welcoming smile on our mom’s face as she draws closer. None of our short conversations have given me the impression she wishes our relationship was anything different than what it is.
I conveyed that to Sydney, clearly.
But I know from personal experience that’s different from hearing it straight from the source. And I want to shield my little sister from that pain.
I can’t, though.
She reaches our booth, pausing at the end instead of taking a seat. “Hello, Holden.”
I nod in acknowledgment.
“Your voicemail didn’t mention Sydney was coming.”
“I’m surprised you remember my name,” Sydney says. Her anger is a tangible thing in the air, humming with tension.
“Thirteen hours of labor left an impression.”
