A Mother's Homecoming(28)
He’d relegated Pam Wilson and her role in his life to former love. It had never occurred to him that she might still be someone he could like.
FINALLY. FAITH HAD felt like her dad would never leave! Now that he was gone, she turned eagerly to study her mother across the table.
When Faith had been little, her father gave her a picture frame, the kind that held multiple photos and had a little kickstand on back so it would stand up on a shelf or piece of furniture. That frame held the only three pictures she had of her mom. One was a shot of her mom sitting on a picnic blanket by some water; another was of her dad and Pam’s wedding day. It hadn’t looked like a fancy ceremony—he was only in a jacket and tie, not a tuxedo, and the gown had been a simple yellow dress with lacy sleeves and beading on the bodice. They were so young, it looked more like someone’s prom picture than a wedding photo. But they’d been smiling happily at each other. Faith’s remaining picture was from right after she was born. Her parents were sitting on Grandma Gwendolyn’s couch, and her dad was holding her. She hated that one. No one looked happy in it, especially Faith, whose face was screwed up into a red scowl. She was obviously about to cry.
She’d asked Grandma Gwendolyn once if she’d cried a lot as a baby, but her grandmother assured her she’d been an “angel.” Faith wasn’t stupid. If she’d been such an angel, why had her mother left her? She could ask Pam that very question, but her stomach knotted. Faith wasn’t sure she was brave enough to hear the answer.
“You look different than I thought,” Faith said. “Different than in the pictures, I mean.”
Pam smiled, but it looked kind of fake. “Imagine how I feel. You look a lot different than in my picture, too.”
My picture? Surely Pam didn’t mean she only had one. “You’re pretty,” Faith said timidly. It probably sounded like she was just sucking up, but it was true. Even though Faith liked long hair, she thought her mom looked good with shorter hair. And although Pam wasn’t wearing makeup and was way older than she’d been on her wedding day, she was still a lot prettier than Morgan’s mom—a single woman who always flirted with Faith’s dad whenever he came to pick her up from her friend’s house.
Pam laughed, and her smile seemed more natural now. “Thanks. Back atcha, kid. So—” she toyed with the laminated menu “—you hungry? We could order food or split an appetizer if you want. Or just stick to the shakes. There’s nothing bad on this menu.”
“What’s your favorite flavor of milk shake?” Faith asked, hoping her mother would say cookies and cream. That was Faith’s favorite.
“Plain old chocolate. In my opinion, it’s hard to improve on a classic.”
“Oh.” Well, that was okay. Faith and Morgan didn’t like all the same stuff, either. “Just a milk shake for me, please. I already ate lunch.”
Pam nodded, then waved to the waitress. They started to place their order, but Faith interrupted, pulling out her phone.
“Hold on!” She hit the camera function on the menu screen. “I want the waitress to take a picture of us. You don’t mind, do you?”
Pam seemed surprised by the request, but not angry. “No, that’s fine.”
Faith breathed a sigh of relief. “Great.” Both of them leaned across the table, so that their heads were close together in the center, and smiled at the waitress. “Thank you.” Now I have four.
PAM WAS IN AWE OF the way her adolescent companion managed to down a shake yet never stop talking. Pam’s own milk shake had melted into a sad chocolaty puddle while she tried to keep up with Faith’s questions. Most of them were blessedly superficial—what was Pam’s favorite color, had any of Faith’s teachers taught at the middle school back when Pam was a student there?—but a few had been more heavy-hitting.
“Why did you …” Faith hesitated, bending her straw back and forth with such intense focus that Pam expected it to snap. “What made you agree to meet me?”
“It’s the least I owe you,” Pam said quietly. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised you wanted to. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.”
Faith frowned, then said with a directness that sounded much like her father’s, “Only sometimes.”
The two of them locked gazes, neither sure what to say. If Pam tried to explain the paralyzing depression that had engulfed her after she’d given birth to Faith, would the girl somehow feel responsible? Pam would rather say nothing and let her daughter be angry than risk Faith blaming herself.