The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower #2)(2)

My room is a relic.

It’s literally exactly the same. For some reason, I expected my mom to have changed it in some way. It’s clean since both Georgia and I pitch in to pay a cleaning lady to come by weekly. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere. The bed is freshly made, the corners of the covers crisp.

Since my mom is sleeping and not going to be ready to watch a movie anytime soon, I unpack my clothes and toiletries, then call Caleb.

“Hey,” he says, his voice deep. “Did you make it in all right?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking.”

“How’s your mom?”

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Sleeping. She’s frailer than I expected.”

“I’m sorry.” I can hear the genuineness in his voice. Despite us falling apart, Caleb remains to be one of the kindest people I know.

“It is what it is,” I reply softly, sitting on the end of my bed facing the window I used to sit out on, often with Caleb himself.

“Someone’s trying to steal the phone from me,” he chuckles.

I laugh too. “Put her on.”

“Mommy!” My daughter’s voice is like a balm to a wound. With just one word she makes me feel better, more grounded.

“Hi, baby. How’s your day been?”

“Good. Daddy picked me up from school and we went to the grocery store. I got a lollipop.”

I hear Caleb laugh in the background. “That was supposed to be our secret.”

“Oops,” she giggles.

Seda was the unexpected surprise Thayer left me with. She’s been the gift I didn’t know I wanted or needed. Being her mom makes me feel like a superhero.

“I miss you already,” I tell her.

“I miss you, too, Mommy. Give grandma kisses—you always say kisses will make it better.”

Oh, fuck. I’m going to cry. I wish tears would make my mom better, but I don’t think magical kisses can fight cancer off.

“I will,” I say to my daughter. “I love you.”

“Love you, Mommy!” She hangs up the phone, the line going quiet.

When I make my way back downstairs, my mom is still asleep so I decide to go ahead and start on dinner. Georgia says Mom isn’t eating much these days, but I have to at least try.

Searching the cabinets I come across a bottle of wine, probably something Georgia stashed before she got pregnant again, and open it. Filling the glass, I drink as I cook. I’m not a huge drinker, but today calls for a little wine to soothe my nerves.

“Salem?” My mom calls and I turn away from the simmering pot.

“Yeah?” I call back, surprised she’s awake. I expected to have to wake her.

“Could you bring me some water?”

Filling up a cup with a straw, I carry it in to her and hold it to her lips. She drinks greedily, her eyes grateful. Setting the cup down, I ask her, “Do you need anything else? I’m making dinner.”

“No, the water was all.” She pats my hand lovingly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep before we could watch a movie.”

“It’s okay. I’ll put one on while we eat.”

She watches me, her eyes sad, and I wonder what she’s thinking about. “Are you happy, Salem? You don’t look like it.”

“I’m as happy as I can be right now.”

“I guess that will have to do.”

I smile sadly at her, backing out of the room to finish dinner.

When it’s ready I carry two plates of spaghetti and garlic bread into the living room. Propping her up, I fix a tray across her lap and get her comfortable before I sit down myself to eat.

The movie plays but I’m not paying attention.

I leave it going while I clean our dirty dishes. My mom barely touched hers, but I know she tried to eat as much as she could.

By the time I return, only a handful of minutes later, she’s fallen asleep again.

It’s getting late anyway, so I switch off the TV, cover her more fully with the blanket, make sure she has water, and that her phone is where she can easily access it if she needs me.

“I love you, Mom.” I kiss her forehead.

A tear leaks from the corner of my eye. Swiping it away, I quietly take the stairs and shower before heading to bed myself. It’s been a long day and I need my rest.





Returning from my morning run, I let myself in the side door into the kitchen and smile when I see my mom at the table. There’s a little more color to her skin this morning, more pink than gray, and I hope that means she got a good night’s sleep.

“Hey,” I smile, adjusting my ponytail. “Are you hungry?”

“I had some cereal,” she explains, flipping through a magazine.

“You know,” I say gently, “you’re not supposed to walk around without someone to help you.”

She’s a fall risk and she knows this.

But I guess if I was in her situation, I might be a little stubborn too at times. It has to be difficult coping with needing another person to help you do basic things like use the bathroom or wash your body.

“I had my non-slip socks on.”

“Mom,” I say in a warning tone, starting a pot of coffee. “You know that’s not going to cut it.”

She sighs. “I felt okay this morning. I wanted to move on my own.”