“Nothing happened to Britta, Mom. We’re just not together.”
“No. With Libby.”
I stilled.
“It’s not your fault, Chris.”
I patted her hand, shifting to stand. “I know.”
“No.” She moved both hands over mine, holding me in place, her eyes widening in what looked like panic and her voice hardening. “No,” she repeated, her voice returning to normal. “Don’t walk away. You think it’s your fault. I know you do, and I blamed you for being at school. I know I did.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I . . . I’ve messed up a lot, and I know you took care of her the best you could, better than I did.”
“Mom, we don’t have to talk about—”
She held up her palm. “They make us talk here all the damn time, but there are things I want to say to you.” She lowered her hand to mine again. “You couldn’t help her. She grew up hard, same as you, but she wasn’t ever tough like you. Libby ran away for a lot of reasons, and a lot of them were me, but none of them were you.” Mom gripped my hand, clinging to me. “It wasn’t your fault, baby.”
I let her keep holding me in place, and my voice came out almost a whisper. “I could have done something.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I should have tried harder to find her.”
“You tried. I know you did. I know you still try.” She swiped at her face, pushing tears away. “It’s not your fault. I should have told you all this a long time ago, but I’m telling you now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and ran my free hand through my hair. “I do still try to find her, to save her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t need saving.” Mom looked at her lap, then at our joined hands. “My responsible boy. Always taking care of things. Don’t let it eat you up until there’s nothing left. They make us talk about shit in here, so I don’t have a choice, but maybe you should talk to someone out there.” She squeezed my hand again and stood, eyeing the clock and knowing the time for visits was short. “I grabbed this for you. They had some lying around.” She thrust a flier with AL-ANON printed across the top. “It’s like AA, but for kids and families and stuff.” She glanced away, uncertain or maybe embarrassed at handing it to me. “I don’t know. Maybe it would help. I think you’ve got a lot in your head.”
I tucked it in my pocket. “I’ll check it out, Mom.” I stood to leave, giving her a hug.
Her grip was weaker, and she kissed my cheek. “And bring that girl to visit again. I liked her.”
* * *
AS I WALKED to the car, I chewed on what she’d said and opened the thread to Libby.
Wes: Mom is in rehab. She’s actually doing okay with it.
Wes: You don’t have to respond. You’re an adult and you have your own life, and I know you don’t need me and Mom, but no matter what, I’m here. I’ll always be here, and I guess I just needed to say that.
In all the times I’d sent messages, it had always been about finding her, taking care of her, and trying to get her to come home or to accept money. I’d never said anything that plain. In my personal life, I’d looked for distraction after distraction to take away the guilt, but I’d never even considered forgiving myself. If someone told me that by the end of the day, Mom could be pushing me to get professional help, I would have thought they were high. I remembered how Britta’s hand had felt in mine at the hospital, the way she’d known when to show me she was there.
Wes: I miss you every day, Lib. I know you had to leave to take care of yourself, and I know you don’t want to come back, but if you’ll ever let me come to you, or know you, it would mean the world to me. There will never be a time I’m not there for you when you need me.
Bouncing dots I hadn’t expected to see popped up.
Libby: We’re okay. I’ve been in California since November.
We? I leaned against my car, my eyes wetter than I wanted, a whoosh of breath leaving me. A minute later, she sent a photo, a selfie, the ocean in the background and wind blowing her hair around her face. She was smiling and squinting into the sun, and she was holding a baby.
Libby: I’ve been busy. You have a niece. Hazel is eight months old.
I stared at the photo in disbelief, emotions I couldn’t even name flooding my system. Libby was a mom. Had she been alone? Did she have support? I stilled my fingers, knowing me going into protective mode always scared her away. I zoomed in on the photo of the baby’s tiny face. Her eyes looked like mine, like Mom’s. A few texts and a photo wasn’t much, but it seemed like everything in that moment. Those same feelings I’d had with Britta, of things fitting into place, returned to me.