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“There’s no forgiving what you did. I’m only here because Sydney wanted to see you.”
Our mom finally looks at Sydney.
“You went to see Holden. Years ago, after Dad died. Why didn’t you talk to me?” Sydney asks.
Our mother’s voice is even and calm, but I can feel the emotions radiating off of her. “Because Holden was like me and you were always like your father.”
Her tone is matter of fact, stating out loud what I’ve told myself many times before. What I spentyearstelling myself.
“Holden isnothinglike you,” Sydney hisses. “He’s loyal and—”
“It’s fine, Syd,” I say.
I don’t need her to defend me. I don’t care what my mom thinks, what assumptions she’s made about similarities. She doesn’t know me. The only reason I’m here is for Sydney.
“Holden got tested, you know. Youabandonedus without a second thought, and what did Holden do when he found out you were sick? He went to the hospital to get tested to see if he was a match and could donate his own liver to save your miserable life. He’snothinglike you.”
Dr. Meyers obviously didn’t say anything, because there’s a clear flicker of surprise on my mom’s face.
“You didn’t evenbother to see me, the one time you showed up in the past decade, and I would have gotten tested too. Would’ve helped you too. Except I can’t, because I’m pregnant!”
More surprise.
The mask she showed up wearing is slowly splintering.
The waitress appears. “Are you all ready to order yet?”
It’s almost funny, her expression twisting uncomfortably as she registers the total, awkward silence around the table.
I clear my throat. “Uh, we’re still deciding,” I say.
“Okay.”
She leaves quickly, and I’m guessing she won’t be back.
“Holden, can you give us a minute?” Sydney asks quietly.
I scan her expression, reading the determination there. “Yeah, sure.”
I slide out of the booth, glancing over my shoulder once before heading for the long countertop. Sydney is leaning forward, talking. I’m uneasy about leaving them to talk alone, but I’m not sure my presence was helping much anyway.
After a moment of deliberation, I take the stool one down from Vincent.
He looks up at me. Sips more coffee, still looking shockingly unbothered by the family drama he’s here with. “Want me to order you a cup? It’s decent joe.”
I’m startled by the offer. His demeanor is a complete one-eighty from our last conversation in a hospital hallway. “No, I’m good.” Reluctantly I add, “Thanks.”
Paper rustles as his attention returns to his article.
I study the Formica countertop for a minute before speaking again.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “About my mom’s health. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. But never knowing…I think that would have been worse, the more I think about it. So…thanks.”
A long beat of silence follows.
“There are some decisions that are so big you can’t take back,” Vincent tells me. “Can never undo them once they’re made. And our instinct is always survival. I guess, what I’m trying to say, is that regret is a lot to carry.”
If you told me weeks ago, months ago, years ago, that I’d be sitting with a stranger in a diner and nodding along to his assessment of my mother, I’d have thought you were crazy. But I get what Vincent is saying.
