Where the Stars Still Shine(72)

“I have to go with her.” Even my own words sound as if they’ve been dredged through maple syrup, and I’m shivering. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “I told her I wouldn’t leave.”

“I’ll drive you.” Greg says, taking a blanket from the backseat of the SUV and wrapping it around me. Beyond him, the paramedics are closing the doors of the ambulance and the flashing red lights blend in with the Christmas decorations on the house across the street.

“But—”

“We’ll be right behind them,” Greg says, opening the passenger door. “I promise.”





My eyelids are thick and sticky as I open them, and the only familiar sight is Greg, sitting in a chair beside me. I’m not sure where I am, but his presence is comforting. The worry lines on his forehead relax and he smiles. “Hey, hi,” he says softly. “You’re awake.”

“Hi.” My throat is dry and it takes almost too much effort to speak. “Where—?”

“We’re at the emergency room.”

Everything rushes back in bright flashes of memory. Airstream. Mom. Paramedics. Overdose. I try to sit up, but my body is heavy with a weariness that feels as if I’ve lived too many lifetimes. “Mom? Is she okay?”

Greg nods. “She’s in recovery right now. Stable condition.”

“I promised I would stay with her.”

“You wouldn’t have been allowed, Cal. They had to, um—pump her stomach. And you were in shock, so I had one of the nurses administer a sedative to help you relax until they let us see her.”

“Can we?”

He nods. “Soon.”

There are dark circles under his eyes and I wonder if he’s slept, or if he kept vigil beside my bed all night.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now.”

“I want talk about it,” I say. “I love it here with you, and Phoebe, and the boys, and—I love you, Dad. I don’t want to leave.”

He brushes my hair back from my forehead the way Mom does and I allow myself to take comfort from the gesture, instead of feeling as if I’m betraying her. I’m doing what Kat suggested. This is what I want. He smiles. “I don’t want you to leave, either.”

The privacy curtain around us slides open, and a doctor comes in. His name, Dr. Labasilier, is embroidered in blue on his white lab coat. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Better.”

“I like the sound of that.” His accent is French Caribbean, and it reminds me of the vending-company guy who used to collect the money from the machines at the Super Wash. He was one of those people who could whistle high notes without losing the tone, and his smile made me feel as if my insides were made of bubbles.

“Also, I’ve got good news for you.” Dr. Labasilier straps a blood-pressure cuff around my arm and begins pumping the bulb. “Your mother is awake and you may see her in thirty minutes. You’re welcome to wait, but I might suggest you’ll feel more refreshed if you go home, wash up, and have a bite to eat.”

The cuff releases with a whoosh.

“You’re free to go,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”





Chapter 23


“I’ve never missed church on Christmas before,” Greg says as we ride the elevator up to the hospital’s third floor, after a quick trip home for showers and breakfast. A note on the kitchen counter from Phoebe explained that she’s taken the boys to Christmas services with her family and that she’ll meet us at the hospital later. I feel bad that all the Christmas Day presents from Santa are still waiting, unwrapped, under the tree, and I don’t know when Tucker and Joe will have the chance to open them.

“I’ll be okay,” I tell my dad. “If you want to join them.”

He shakes his head. “I think God will understand that my daughter needs me more than he does.”

My mom’s room is the first on the left, and a nurse is checking her chart. My dad hangs in the doorway as I enter the room. Mom’s eyes are closed, but I can see the rise and fall of regular breathing, and a monitor beside her beeps softly along with her heartbeat.

“Mom?” I say it softly so I won’t startle her, and touch my fingers to hers. They’re warmer now and a tube stretches up from her hand to a bag of clear fluid. Her eyes open, and a tear escapes from the corner, trickling down toward her ear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I reach for a tissue and wipe away the trail the tear left behind. Another follows and I erase that one, too. There’s no strength in her grip as her fingers curl around mine, but I can feel the plea in them. I can see it in her eyes.

“Forgive me.”

Forgiveness has never been something I’ve had to consider. Never an option. I’ve always granted it because she is my mother, but the price I’ve paid for her choices has been high and I have a right to be angry. Except choosing anger, choosing blame, won’t bring back all that was lost. The only thing I can do is hold on to what I have right now, so that it can’t ever be lost again.

My fingers answer first, squeezing back gently, and I lean over to whisper in her ear.