“My mom was very smart about life issues. When I wanted to write she encouraged me to make it happen. On a teacher’s salary it was hard to afford everything and some of the writer’s conferences I wanted to attend were prohibitively expensive. I think money was still kind of tight then for her, but she found ways to help. My birthday gifts were plane tickets or conference fees. Then she listened to me for hours after I came home. For a long time I had to write and teach—even my first contract was barely enough to keep me for a month. She would bring dinner to me a couple of times a week.”
“Any reason you didn’t live with her?” he asked.
“We wanted to be independent. I wanted to be independent, especially once I recovered from Dixon. But I chose a town house very close to her house. We talked at least twice a day, but we only saw each other two or three times a week. There were a few times we’d get together, kill a bottle of wine and I’d stay overnight rather than drive. We’d have a sleepover. That didn’t happen very often, not even once a month, but we were very compatible even though we didn’t live together by choice. We had our own routines; we needed our own space.”
“How was it when you eventually moved back in?” he asked.
“It wasn’t very long after she was diagnosed. She stopped getting around as well. She was fatigued. Maybe a little depressed. I didn’t think I’d lose her. But I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. She didn’t need me as a caregiver; there was home health care. But I needed to be there, to go to doctor’s appointments, to make sure she wasn’t ever left lonely or afraid. She fell once in the bathroom in the night, and she wasn’t badly hurt, but I was so glad I was there. It was what was in my head, not hers. She was never afraid. She was all courage to the last. But I gave up my town house in October, moved some things into her garage and rented a storage unit for other stuff and moved into what had been my old room. I set up my office in a guest room. My mom still tried to work, to at least watch her company if she couldn’t run it. She hung on to that to the end, too.”
“And then…？”
“In December she had a meeting with her partner and the lawyers, finalized her will and her trust, arranged for her partner to buy her out. She said she was too weak to even advise and that she wanted to spend what time she had left with her family. By that time she had informed my father and he was starting to get in my way, wanting to be around all of a sudden. I told him to go spend all this newfound time and energy with all of his other families. That’s when I learned those other families had pretty much washed their hands of him. Apparently my mother was gracious and forgiving. She was classy. I’ll never be as classy. I’m kind of mean. I hold a grudge.”
He smiled at her. “You don’t have to.”
“Tell that to my grudge!”
They refilled the wine once and kept talking about the late, great Meredith, and Kaylee yawned a couple of times. Her lids threatened to close. He pulled her closer and asked a few soft questions while she leaned against him. What was your mother’s favorite celebration? Restaurant? Beach? Holiday? What was her favorite food? When were you most in awe of her? When did she make you angry?
She answered but she yawned.
“Kaylee, time for you to go to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess it was the wine…”
“It’s the emotional exhaustion,” he said, standing and pulling her up, disturbing Tux, who looked unimpressed. “Let’s get you to bed. You’re going to sleep like a rock tonight.”
He held her hand and escorted her to the bedroom. He kissed her brow. “Thank you for sharing all those special things with me.”
She gave a huff of laughter. It had been so wonderful to have someone ask! She had wanted to talk about her mother and it always felt so awkward. She didn’t want to force her discomfort on people. “It felt good, I think.”
“It will feel good to sleep now,” he said.
“It also felt good to be held. Want to lie down here and hold each other a while longer?”
“That would be good.” He sat on the edge of the bed and took his shoes off. He lay down on the bed and pulled her closer. “Cuddle up here.”
She put her head on his shoulder and snuggled close. “This is much better.”
“Do you want to tell me one of your favorite memories? Or maybe tell me a story? Like the story of the book you’re writing?”