Preston's Honor(94)

I smiled. “Preston’s a good dad.”

“Yes, he is. And you are a good mom.” Rosa glanced at my mama and looked back at me. “I heard what you said after the accident. Did you doubt yourself, cari?o?” Her wise eyes watched me with so much tenderness that tears burned the backs of my lids.

I let out a breath. “Part of the reason I left was because I thought . . . I . . . I wasn’t a good mother.”

Rosa took my hand in hers. “Oh Annalia, why did you think that?”

I looked down, biting my lip. “I tried to nurse him, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t get him to latch on, and he would just cry and cry.” I took in a shuddery breath. “I finally gave up and put him on formula, but then . . .” I blinked up at her. God, it was still hard to talk about this, but I needed to say it. I glanced over at my mama and when I began speaking again, I spoke in Spanish so she understood what I was saying. “When Hudson was four months old, I started having these . . . visions of him being hurt.” A small shudder moved through me. “I’d see myself dropping him, or I’d put him in his bath and envision him sliding under the water.” I shook my head, wanting to blot out the memory, the fear, the horror of the strength of the things I saw in my mind’s eye, the pictures that filled me with terror and a clawing panic.

“Oh, Annalia, that’s not unusual,” Rosa said, speaking in Spanish now as well. “Was it like, when you were carrying him down the stairs, you envisioned dropping him over the railing and so you held him more tightly and took the stairs as slow as a turtle?”

I blinked at her, drawing in quick breath. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, that’s—”

“It’s normal, cari?o. I think it’s the hormones running rampant through your system, but it’s really nature’s way of ensuring we protect our young. Those danger signals are particularly strong when we have infants, and they can be scary because the pictures we form in our mind are vivid. But they mean you’re a good mother. Oh, mi amor, you were so alone, weren’t you?”

I nodded, her words making me sad, but mostly, oh mostly, they filled me with relief so intense I gasped out. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, but . . .”

“We all need community. It is especially important for a new mother. There are so many questions, so many doubts.”

“Yes,” I said, glancing at my mama.

Rosa looked at my mama, too. “You haven’t had that either, have you, Gloria? Community?”

My mama looked surprised, but acknowledged what Rosa had said by shaking her head, her gaze lingering on me.

Rosa stretched her other hand out and grasped my mama’s hand. “It sounds like you had a very difficult time, too, Gloria. But you had Annalia. You were given an angel who worked hard and made sure you had everything you needed. An angel of a girl. How very, very blessed you are.”

My mama’s eyes lingered on Rosa for several moments and when her gaze moved to me, my breath came out in a soft gasping sound. I reached out my hand to my mama and she took it, forming a circle of the three of us. “Sí,” she said softly, a sound of confused wonder in her tone. Her expression was slightly stunned, and she looked at me for several long beats as if she was seeing me for the very first time. And perhaps she was.

“Un angel. Sí.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Annalia



I smiled tenderly at Preston when he entered the bedroom, sitting at my side where Rosa had sat a little while before. They had all packed up the coolers of food and loaded the cars just moments ago. Only a hundred tamales had been completed before the almost-accident with Hudson. It was less than they usually took to the event, but it was enough. Rosa assured me that being there, rather than in a hospital where we all might have been, was a cause for joy and celebration.

“Is he asleep?” I asked quietly.

“Sound asleep. Not a care in the world.”

I took in a deep breath and blew it out. “That was a close call, Preston.”

He ran a hand over my cheek, cupping it in his large, strong hand as I leaned into the comfort, the affection. “I know. I already called a couple of guys—we’re going to start building a fence tomorrow.”

I smiled on a breath, but nodded. “Apparently the little Viking slash Mayan warrior is going to need to be corralled more than we realized.”

He chuckled softly, leaning in and brushing his lips over mine, lingering for a moment.

When he pulled back, I met his eyes. “Preston, the way Hudson said Cole’s name . . . do you think . . . the way he reached out his hand and turned at that last moment? It was almost as if someone had . . . gotten his attention, had called him.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. He’s heard Cole’s name before. He might have just been repeating it for some reason that made sense in his baby mind that we’ll never understand.”

“Yes, maybe.” Somehow though . . . that didn’t feel exactly right. And by the hesitancy in Preston’s tone, I didn’t think that felt completely accurate to him either. I’d been right there . . . I’d sensed . . . something that I couldn’t explain, at least not in words.

Preston brushed a piece of hair away from my cheek. “My mother pulled me aside right before she left and told me to thank you. She said it again and again.” He tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “She seemed . . . shaken but so grateful. She lost her own son. And she watched you save her grandson’s life at the risk of your own. I think it shifted something inside of her. I hope it did.” He smiled a little bit wryly. “She said you should call her Camille.”