Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits #1)(87)

During her highs, my mother had appeared to walk on air. In her lows, she clung to the ground of the earth. Standing in front of me, she was neither high nor low. She just was.

She seemed almost normal. Like any other aging woman grieving at a cemetery. In this moment my mom wasn’t some out-of-control superwoman or a dangerous foe. She was just a woman, human, almost relatable.

Relatable or not, every instinct inside of me screamed to run. My throat swelled and I fought the compulsion to dry heave. My options were faint or sit. “Do you mind sitting down? Because I need to.”

My mother gave a brief smile and nodded while she sat. “Do you remember when I taught you and Aires to make bracelets and necklaces out of clover?” She picked a few of the small white flowers and knotted them together. “You used to love wearing them as tiaras in your hair.”

“Yeah,” was my only answer. Mom enjoyed the feel of the grass on her bare feet so she never forced Aires or me to wear shoes. The three of us loved being outside. She continued to weave the clover into a single strand as the awkwardness grew.

“Thanks for texting me back. Which letter did you get?” I’d purposely visited art galleries where my mother had once sold her paintings, leaving a letter for her at each one.

“All of them. It was Bridget, though, who convinced me to come.”

A quick spark of pain pricked my stomach. My letter hadn’t been enough to convince her?

“Do you come to visit Aires often?” I asked.

Her hands stilled. “No. I don’t like the thought of my baby in the ground.”

I hadn’t meant to upset her, but Resthaven had seemed safe. If someone spotted us together then we could say we just happened to stop by at the same time. No one could accuse her of breaking the restraining order.

I should just ask her about that night and leave, but watching her, seeing her … I realized I had so many more questions. “Why didn’t you call me back over Christmas?”

Last December, the grief of losing Aires became so unbearable that I called her. I’d left a message, giving her the number to my cell, to the landline. I’d told her what times to call. I never heard back. Then of course, in January, Dad changed the number to the landline, then my cell in February.

“I was having a rough time, Echo. I needed to focus on myself,” she said simply and without apology.

“But I needed you. I told you that, right?” At least I thought I had left it in the message.

“You did.” She continued to link one clover to another. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman.”

“Except for the scars.” I bit my tongue the moment the comment slid out. Mom stayed silent and my foot rocked back and forth. I yanked a large blade of grass from the ground and methodically peeled it apart. “I don’t know much about the restraining order. Surely it’s gotta end soon.”

Maybe the hole in my heart wouldn’t feel so huge if I could see Mom every now and then.

“Bridget showed me your artwork,” Mom said, ignoring me again. “You’re extremely talented. What art schools did you apply to?”

I paused, waiting for Mom to lift her head so I could look into her eyes. Was she evading me? A warm breeze blew through the cemetery. The length of Aires’ coffin separated us, yet it felt like the Grand Canyon. “None. Dad didn’t allow me to paint after what happened. Mom, did you read any of the letters I left for you?”

The ones that begged her to meet with me so I could finally understand what happened between us. The ones that said I missed having a mom. The ones that told her how broken I was because in a span of six months, I lost both her and Aires.

“Yes,” she said, so softly I almost missed it. Then she sat up straighter and spoke in her professional gallery curator voice. “Stop trying to change the subject, Echo. We’re talking about your future. Your father never understood us and our need to create art. I’m sure he jumped at the opportunity to cleanse you of anything that had to do with me.

“Good for you for sticking it to him and continuing to paint. Though I wish you would have stood up for yourself more and applied to a decent school. I guess you could try for spring admission. I have significant pull in the art community. I wouldn’t mind writing you a recommendation.”

Writing me a recommendation? My mind became a blank canvas as I tried to follow her train of thought. I’d asked about the restraining order out loud, right? “I don’t want to go to art school.”

My mother’s face reddened and an undercurrent of irritation leaked into her movements and words. “Echo, you aren’t business school material. You never have been. Don’t let your father bully you into a life you don’t want.”

I’d forgotten how much I hated the constant tug-of-war. Ironically, I spent my entire life trying to make them both happy—my mother with art, my father with knowledge—yet in the end, they both threw me away. “I take business classes at school and I’ve aced every single course.”

She shrugged. “I cook, but that doesn’t make me a chef.”

“What?”

Mom looked me square in the eye. “It means you’re just like me.”

No, I’m not, cried a small voice inside my head. “I paint,” I said aloud as if to prove that was our only link.

“You’re an artist. Just like me. Your father never understood me, so I can’t imagine he understands you.”