Chương 15
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I was exhausted.”
“Mom.”
“I was scared.”
“Did you say it?”
She looked toward Dad.
He looked back at her.
For the first time in my life, neither of them seemed willing to rescue the other.
Finally she said, “Yes.”
The word was quiet.
It still filled the room.
I nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Her face crumpled.
“Conor, listen to me.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already decided what I meant.”
“I asked what you said.”
“I did not regret you.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because I regretted everything.”
Her voice cracked.
“The marriage.”
“His hours.”
“Three children.”
“My job.”
“Your grandmother calling every day.”
“Being thirty-four and feeling like my life belonged to everybody else.”
She wiped at her cheek angrily.
“You were one day old.”
“I know.”
“I looked at your father and said I had made a mistake listening to him.”
“That’s not much better.”
“I know.”
The admission caught me off guard.
Mom looked at the box.
“What he did with that sentence afterward was his choice.”
Dad’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
The word came weakly from the bed.
Mom turned toward him.
“And what I did by letting him keep saying it was mine.”
Silence.
She sat in the second chair.
Her hands shook in her lap.
“I should have stopped it the first time.”
I waited.
“I should have told you the truth when you were old enough to understand.”
I looked at her.
“Why didn’t you?”
Her answer came without hesitation.
“Because by then I was ashamed.”
That, too, I believed.
She looked at the envelopes.
“And later, I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That if you knew how it started, you would hate both of us.”
I almost smiled.
“So instead you let me think neither of you wanted me.”
Her face folded.
“Yes.”
The ugliness of that answer seemed to surprise even her.
Dad turned his face toward the window.
Mom covered her mouth.
Nobody cried dramatically.
Nobody made a speech.
We just sat there with the truth occupying the room like another family member who had finally arrived and had nowhere else to sit.
My mother stayed in the chair while I put the letters back into their envelopes.
Nobody tried to touch the box.
Dad’s breathing had grown heavier, and every few minutes his eyes closed long enough that I wondered whether he would open them again.
Mom stared at the floor.
“I didn’t know he kept all of that,” she said.
I snapped the lid shut.
“You knew about some of it.”
“Yes.”
“The letter Josh found.”
She nodded.
“Why did you take it?”
Her fingers twisted together.
“Because I panicked.”
“That seems to be the family answer for everything.”
“I know how that sounds.”
“It sounds accurate.”
She accepted that without defending herself.
Dad made a small noise from the bed.
Mom looked at him automatically.
For decades, the two of them had moved around each other that way, irritated and loyal at the same time.
I had always mistaken familiarity for stability.
“I was afraid you’d find out what I said after you were born,” she continued.
“And I thought you’d decide I never loved you.”
“Did you?”
She looked up.
“Of course I loved you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her face tightened.
“You’re asking if I regretted you.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Then she added, “But there were days I regretted becoming a mother at all.”
That was harder to hear and easier to believe.
Mom rubbed her palms against her pants.
“I loved you kids.”
“I still hated parts of my life.”
“Both were true.”
I looked at Dad.
His eyes were open again.
He was watching her.
“You two spent thirty years protecting yourselves from one ugly conversation.”
Mom nodded.
“And I got to carry it.”
“Yes.”
There was nothing useful to say after that.
I stood.
Dad’s left hand moved weakly over the blanket.
I looked down at him.
His lips formed my name again.
It was clearer this time.
“Conor.”
I stepped closer.
He swallowed.
“Sor…ry.”
I had heard apologies before.
Mostly after people wanted something.
Mostly padded with explanations.
Dad had spent his entire life explaining himself.
Now he had two syllables.
I sat beside him.
“I believe you’re sorry.”
His eyes filled.
“I’m not going to tell you everything’s okay.”
A tiny shake of his head.
“I’m not going to tell you the last thirty years don’t matter because you’re sick.”
Another shake.
“But I’m here.”
His fingers moved toward mine.
This time, I took his hand.
It felt strange.
Not profound.
Just strange.
His skin was dry and warmer than I expected.
He closed his eyes.
Mom started crying quietly beside us.
I didn’t comfort her.
That was new.
A few minutes later, Nora came in to check his monitors.
She looked at Dad, then at me.
“He needs rest.”
I nodded.
Dad tightened his fingers weakly.
“I’m not leaving the hospital.”
His grip loosened.
“I’ll be outside.”
His eyes stayed closed.
I took the blue box with me.
Josh and Lily were sitting across the hall.
Josh stood when he saw Mom behind me.
Nobody asked what happened.
Mom walked past them toward the elevators.
Lily watched her go.
“Should I follow her?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Lily almost smiled.
“Okay.”
Josh looked at the box.
“Did you open it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I sat down.
“It’s complicated.”
“That means bad.”
“It means complicated.”
He sat beside me.
“Was I right?”
“About him lying?”
“Yes.”
“Mostly.”
Josh rubbed his face.
“I hate mostly.”
“Welcome to adulthood.”
Lily leaned forward.
“What’s actually in there?”
“Letters.”
“About all of us?”
“Some.”
“Can I read mine?”
I thought about it.
“They’re addressed to you.”
She stared at me.
“You’re giving them to me?”
“They were never mine.”
That sentence changed something in Josh’s face.
“What about mine?”
“Same.”
I opened the box.
May you like
Lily took her two envelopes.
Josh took his.
