“Oh, Lindy Lou.” Mama envelops me in the kind of hug that only loosens up everything inside me. She’s like an expert lock-picker, her kindness just one of the tools in her kit.
“There’s a guy, Mama.”
Might as well let it all hang out. Alllllll my secrets. Even if they don’t fit into the timeline she’s living on.
“Tell me all about him, baby. But first—spare me the tension. Should I hate him or tell you to forgive him?”
I laugh and sob at the same time, clutching to Mama like she’s all I have. Because, at this moment, that’s how it feels.
“He isn’t the one who needs to be forgiven. Maybe a little, but not really. I messed up, Mama. A lot.”
Oh, how I miss being able to talk to her like this! And maybe she doesn’t know what year it is, or where she is, but she is always the one person I can trust with anything, and at this moment, I need her more than she knows.
“Oh, I doubt you messed up that badly.” She waves a hand in the air, and a few birds scatter away from the feeders.
“You’d be surprised. I know how to sink a ship.”
“Nonsense. Tell me about it,” she says. “I’ll give you my honest assessment.”
“I love him.” It feels so, so good to say it out loud. “I really, really love him.”
Her smile is wide and warm. “Well, that’s good to hear. But are you keeping him at arm’s length the way you always do?”
Was I doing that, even back then?
Mama continues. “I know my girl. And as wonderful as you are, you seem determined to make yourself like Fort Knox and keep everyone locked out. Don’t push this man away, Lindy Lou. Not if you love him.”
“I already pushed him away, but not because I don’t want him. I was just … scared. And overwhelmed. Things have been hard lately. I haven’t had a lot to give, and I feel like I’ve taken too much from him without giving enough back.”
“I know your father and I didn’t have the best relationship.”
Understatement of the decade.
“But before he left, he was different. We had a good thing for a time.”
This is all news to me. Mama almost never talked about my father, and we kind of drew our own conclusions. I mean, a man who leaves his wife and two daughters without writing or calling, barely paying child support—it’s kind of a no-brainer to assume the man is a loser. I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the idea of him and Mama having anything good, ever.
“With a relationship, you aren’t always on the same page,” she continues. “The important thing is to make sure in the grand scheme of things, the give-and-take is mutual. If you had a hard time and he was there for you, that’s a sign of love. Now, you just need to give that love right back.”
She makes it sound so simple. Could it be that simple?
“Have you told this young man you love him?” she asks. I shake my head, and she brightens. “Well, then, start there.”
“That’s just it, though. Telling him I love him doesn’t seem like enough. He loves big things, drama. After all that he’s done for me, I want to make some kind of grand gesture. I need to show him I love him, not just tell him.”
“I don’t need a grand gesture.”
My head snaps to the door, not believing what—or, rather, who—I see. Pat stands there, holding a big bouquet of flowers. He looks rumpled and sleepless and like he needs a good shave. Though day-old stubble is a great look on him.
“What?” I whisper.