The Truth About Forever(101)

"I'm worried about Mom," I said to Caroline as we tried to push the huge, oak-framed couch in the living room a foot or so backwards. Even with both our weights, it wasn't even budging. "I don't know how I can help her."

"You can't," she told me. "It's not worth even trying."

"Caroline." I stopped pushing. "God."

She pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. "Macy," she said. "There's nothing you can do."

Just then, I heard the front door open and someone's heels clack into the foyer.

"Good God," Kristy said. "What the hell is going on here?"

I let my arms go slack, grateful for an excuse to do so, and turned around. There she was, standing in the foyer, carrying a stack of foil-covered pans. Monica was beside her, holding a cooler with a couple of cutting boards balanced on top. Bringing up the rear, carrying several long loaves of French bread under each arm, was Delia.

"We're having," I said to Kristy as the lights flickered again, "a little bit of a crisis."

There was a rattle, then a clank, as Bert appeared in the door, forcing Delia to step aside as he pulled one of the banged-up stainless-steel carts over the threshold. Outside, the rain was still coming down sideways.

"Crisis?" Delia asked. "What kind?"

Then in the powder room to her right, there was shriek, a crash, and everyone fell silent, the only sound the rain pelting the windows. Then the door opened, and my mother emerged.

Her cheeks were flushed from all the exertion of moving things, her lipstick smeared in one corner. She was still wearing my shoes, which were markedly too small for her, and there was some sort of dirt stain on the hem of her skirt. She looked tired. Beaten down. Or maybe even just beaten. And in her hand was the decorative soap dish from the powder room, which was now in two pieces.

It was just a soap dish, innocuous enough that I couldn't even remember when we'd gotten it. But my mother, staring at it in her open palm, was for some reason close to tears. I felt something rise up in my chest, and realized I was afraid. Terrified. I was used to seeing my mother many ways, but never weak. It made me feel small enough to disappear.

"Mom?" Caroline asked. "Are you—"

But my mother didn't seem to hear her, or even notice that any of us were there. Instead, she started down the hallway to the kitchen, taking slow, deliberate steps. She reached up, wip-ing her eyes, as she turned the corner toward her office, not looking back at any of us. A second later, I heard the door shut with a click.

"Oh, my God," I said.

"It's just a soap dish," Kristy offered helpfully. "I bet she can get another one."

Beside me, I could see Caroline already turning to follow, assuming, of course, that she would be the one to handle this. But I'd been waiting for a chance to talk to my mother for too long, always finding myself thwarted in one way or another, by my fears or her own. It was time to try again.

So as Caroline started down the hallway, I put my hand on her arm. She looked up at me, surprised. "Let me," I said, and then I went to my mother.

When I pushed the door open, she was standing behind her desk, her back to me. And she was crying, her shoulders shaking. The sound of it immediately brought a lump to my throat, and I wanted to turn and run. But instead, I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

She didn't turn around. I wasn't even sure she knew I was there. But as I stood watching her, I realized how truly hard it was, really, to see someone you love change right before your eyes. Not only is it scary, it throws your balance off as well. This was how my mother felt, I realized, over the weeks I worked at Wish, as she began to not recognize me in small ways, day after day. It was no wonder she'd reacted by pulling me closer, forcibly narrowing my world back to fit inside her own. Even now, as I finally saw this as the truth it was, a part of me was wishing my mother would stand up straight, take command, be back in control. But all I'd wanted when she was tugging me closer was to be able to prove to her that the changes in me were good ones, ones she'd understand if she only gave them a chance. I had that chance now. And while it was scary, I was going to take it.

I crossed the room, coming up behind her. I had so many things I wanted to tell her. I just didn't know where to begin.

Finally she turned around, one hand moving to her face, and for a second we just stood there, staring at each other. A million sentences kept starting in my head, then trailing off. This was the hard part, I thought. Whatever was said next started everything, so it had to be strong enough to carry the rest that would follow.

She took a breath. "I'm—"

But I didn't let her finish. Instead, I took one step forward and slid my arms around her neck. She stiffened, at first, surprised, but I didn't pull back, moving in even more and burying my face in her shoulder. At first I didn't feel her own arms sliding around me, her body moving in to enclose mine. I could feel her breath in my hair, her heart against my chest. After all this time, it could have been awkward, all elbows and hipbones. But it wasn't. It was perfect.

And as I held her, I kept thinking back to that night at the clearing, and what I'd told Wes. For once, I'd just let her know exactly how I feel, without thinking first. Finally, I had.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, down the hallway, I could hear Caroline's voice. She was in the kitchen, explaining our crisis to Delia, detailing every little thing that had gone wrong. As she did so, my mother and I held tight, leaning into each other. It was like that part of the roller coaster where the click-clack-click stops as you reach the top of the hill, and you know for sure that the uphill part is finally behind you, and any minute you'll begin that wild rush to the end.