Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“You know what they say about coincidences,” Mom says, trailing off as she swirls her fork in the angel hair pasta that came as a side with the meal.
A sailboat cuts across my view of the harbor, its white sail bright against the darkening sky. I focus on it, pretending I didn’t hear her. Maybe if I keep her waiting long enough, she’ll finally let this go.
Another stretch of silence follows, broken only by the clink of silverware around us and the delivery of my second glass of Pinot Noir.
“Well, Einstein said coincidences were God’s way of remaining anonymous,” Mom finally continues. “But me? I say coincidences are bullshit.”
I glance up sharply.
My mother never cusses. Never. Not a single time that I can remember in all my childhood and adulthood.
Her lips curve in a thin smile. “I thought that might get your attention. Just tell me the truth, son. I can handle it. If what I did came between the two of you, I need to know. It will help me to know better than to make a stupid mistake like that again.”
I exhale, slowly and completely, determined not to give her any sign that the responsibility for this lies at her feet.
It doesn’t. Elaina is the one who chose to keep the secret, and she was in her right mind at the time, not weighed down by years of fighting for her life and the knowledge that she only had a short time left. Mom wasn’t thinking clearly when she confided in Elaina. I can understand and forgive that, but I can’t forgive Elaina.
Not now, not ever.
There is no future for us, no way to make this better. Letting Mom know what really happened would only cause her to feel guilty for absolutely no reason, and I’m not a fan of pointless suffering.
So, with a gentle note of exasperation into my tone, I assure her, “No, Mom. Stop this. Elaina and I fought about something totally unrelated to you or the secret you asked her to keep.” I add more firmly, “But what we fought about is private, and not something I’m prepared to share with you. So please, let it go, okay?”
She studies me for a long moment before a smile stutters across her face. “Okay, if you promise.”
“I do,” I lie.
I promise not to tell her anything different, anyway, and that’s a promise I intend to keep.
“Well, good. That’s nice to know. A real relief.” She exhales a soft laugh. “Speaking of relief, I’ll be right back,” she says, her smile widening as she scoots her chair away from the table. “I need to visit the ladies’ room. If they come by with the dessert menu, I’d love to take a look.”
“I’ll ask for it,” I assure her, skewering the last bite of my lobster’s plump claw.
I watch her wind through the tables as I chew, noting how much stronger her stride is now. The surgery was successful, the chemo finished the job, and against all odds, she’s in complete remission. She still has one more round of precautionary chemo this spring—just to make sure they haven’t missed any last lingering cells—but her prognosis is good. She could have another ten years, maybe even twenty. Her grandmother on her father’s side lived to be ninety-seven.
It’s an outcome I wouldn’t have imagined possible when I approached Elaina with my bargain.
Things have worked out for the best.
My mother has a future, Elaina and I broke ties before we ended up bound for life due to an act of desperation, and I will eventually stop thinking about the brat who had me wrapped around her finger for a few weeks one summer and move on.
It’s just a matter of time.
A high-pitched squeal draws my attention across the room. A woman with bright red hair beams as she takes a picture of her husband and baby on the other side of the booth. The little girl has fistfuls of pasta clutched in both hands, red sauce all over her cheeks, and appears to be having the time of her life making a mess no high chair or bib could hope to contain. Her parents are both laughing, caught up in their daughter’s joy as she discovers the magic of spaghetti.
My chest aches at the sight.
I would have been a terrible father. The fact that Elaina made me doubt that for even a day or two is proof that it’s best we went our separate ways.
If only we’d broken up before this longing seeped beneath my skin, making it itch every time I see a couple with a new baby. Making me wish things had ended differently, and I’d been given the chance to prove myself wrong…
I’m so busy watching the family—and reminding myself of all the reasons I would have let a child down, sooner or later—that I don’t realize Mom’s been gone too long until the waiter finally swings by, offering the dessert menu.