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Every time we’ve played this game, I’ve run, and Chris has matched me stride for stride, but today he’s taking a different approach. Slow, silent movements laced with practiced control for every one of my frantic ones. He’s stalking me.
At some point, probably when I was knee-deep in an anxiety spiral, she woke up, exchanging her peaceful slumber for a trip into my troubled psyche.
“Celeste Walker,” she says my mother’s name like it doesn’t belong in her mouth. Like the syllables are foreign and unwelcome. Like she hasn’t said them in years and has just decided, while she’s standing in front of me, to test out their flavor.
Her face cracks wide open, fine features dissolving into a mask of sorrow. There’s so much pain there, honest, genuine despair that makes Mallory suck in a shocked breath beside me.
She keeps glancing back at the woman, her features screwed up in a mix of panic and possibility I don’t want her to feel, let alone entertain.
“How did you know about the journalist?” Chris’ voice is quiet, a near-silent clap of thunder as he storms into the kitchen.
I didn’t say it to Celeste when she asked, but I believe her. I believe her with everything in me, and the longer I sit here in this room, watching her watch him, agonizing over his agony, I know that believing her is the right thing to do.
The relief that I feel at the mention of the journals is nothing compared to Chris’. His whole body sags, a release of tension at the exact time a sob breaks free from his chest. Celeste and I move
simultaneously, but I force myself to sit back down, so she can have this moment with her son. Their embrace is the sweetest one I’ve ever seen. Chris wraps his mother up in his arms, curving his broad, shaking shoulders over her petite frame, burying his face in her hair while she sobs into his chest. Before I know it, I’m crying too, weeping into my hands because the last time I heard Chris cry like this was when Margaret died.
“I have a mom.” “You do. How does it feel?” “Like a dream. Am I dreaming, princess? I’ve got to be, right? Because there’s no way I get to have this. A life with you. A life with my mom.
“And yet, she’s still alive.” I turn over, facing him. “She’s a survivor, Chris. A strong, brave woman who gave birth to a strong, brave man. She might not have been able to raise you, but somehow you still have her fighting spirit, her inherent goodness.” He blinks, setting a big, fat tear free. It falls on my chest, soaking through my shirt. “Princess—” “Shh. You need to hear this, baby. Your whole life has been spent trying to make a woman you thought you’d lost proud, and today you got something most people don’t ever get to have: confirmation.” He shudders, short breaths skating over my
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Just me, her, and a love too strong to exist between strangers but too foreign to live between a mother and son.
When I’m done, shock has a vice grip on her, and it only refuses to break when she bursts out laughing. It’s not a joyful laugh, though it’s not completely sad. Hysterical is a more accurate description. A loop of rage, joy, disbelief. Laughing, crying, looking like she wants to throw something.
Her lips quivering when she says, “Mom.” The word pierces the air, and then it’s drowned out by their sobs. And their sobs are mine, and Mallory’s, and our home is filled with the sounds of reunion, my heart full in ways I never thought it could be.
The celebration of our love with the people who held us together when holding each other wasn’t an option. And now I’m wondering if I can live without it.
