by Whitley Cox
She blew out a breath. “What?”
“Why does Adam have custody of Mira?”
Her mouth opened, but he cut her off.
“I mean, not that I think he shouldn’t, because the dude is a great father, but you seem like you have all your shit together too. You’re a great mom.”
Oh, if only he knew how little shit she truly had together. It was rather laughable really.
They came to another red light. He glanced her way, worry in his emerald eyes. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I realize now I may have stepped out of line.”
Paige pressed her tongue into the side of her cheek, and she met his stare. “How much has Adam told you about us?” She’d be a fool to think Adam hadn’t disclosed even the CliffsNotes version of their relationship and the dissolution of it to Mitch. People say women gossiped and hashed things out to get over them, but so did men. They just did it differently.
Color seeped into Mitch’s cheeks beneath his scruff. “Enough.”
“Then you know I wasn’t in the right place … mentally to be a good mother.”
His lips flattened out in thought before he spoke again. “But you are now, right?”
“I’m better, but I’m not back to normal.”
He made a noise in this throat like he disagreed. “Define normal. I’ll never get back to normal. My wife died. When you lose a piece of your heart, you never get back to normal. That piece doesn’t grow back. You don’t replace that piece. The hole remains, but slowly, over time, the hole might get smaller, or new pieces to the heart might get added, making the void not seem so big and all-consuming. But the hole is always there. The heart will never grow back to being normal.”
Her bottom lip dropped open, and she simply stared at him.
Did her heart have too many holes though?
And then, as if he read her mind, he continued. “And no, your heart does not have too many holes. It’s still capable of so much love. Love for yourself, love for others, others to love you. You have a few holes.” He paused. “Four?” She nodded once. “You have four holes, but you have a big heart, so over time, you will be okay.”
Holy crap.
They sat there at the stoplight, their gazes locked. Mitch’s eyes said everything. They held so much. Sorrow, pain, loss, fear. But also hope. He still carried hope with him.
Paige needed more hope.
The sign for the hospital was up on the left. The light turned green, and he hit the accelerator.
He pulled his eyes from her and put them back on the road.
She was equal parts relieved and disappointed.
She looked straight ahead. “Thank you for that.”
“My pleasure.” His voice was soft, but there was a lightheartedness to his tone that made warmth spool through her like tiny threads caught on a summer breeze.
“I’ll do the catering for your grand opening.”
They turned into the parking lot. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know where I’ll do it or how I’ll do it, but I’ll do it.”
His grin was all the encouragement to achieve the impossible that she needed.
She unbuckled her seat belt and had to stop herself from opening the door and doing the ol’ tuck and roll. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t received my invoice yet.”
His warm chuckle wrapped around her like a cashmere throw. “I think we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
7
Once they knew that Mira was okay, Mitch left the hospital. Paige and Adam needed some alone time with their daughter, who was hooked up to an IV and drinking her weight in apple juice, and Mitch needed to go see his own child.
After gathering Violet and Jayda back at the house, Mitch drove them all to Paige’s restaurant—correction, former restaurant, and Violet drove Paige’s car to the hospital. Mitch left Violet there, and he and Jayda continued on to his mother’s house.
The Benson family had been hit with quite a blow over the last year and a half. First, Violet lost her partner, Jean-Phillipe, to a nasty tumor in his spine, then Mitch lost Melissa in the car accident, and not nine months ago, they lost their father to pneumonia.
They say things happen in threes. And Mitch hoped to God that they were right, because he wasn’t sure his family could handle any more loss, any more death.
From the outside looking in, it might appear that he had his shit together, that he was getting over Melissa and the massive hole her death had created in his world, but appearances can be deceiving.
He had a daughter to raise. Jayda needed her father present and accounted for. She didn’t deserve a shell of a man who was so grief-stricken he couldn’t get his ass out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work. She needed him now more than ever.
So he grieved in silence.
He grieved alone.
When the house was quiet, the sky dark, and he knew his child was safe and warm in her bed, he grieved. He missed his wife. He cursed the world, the semitruck driver who fell asleep at the wheel and rolled his big rig on the highway, crashing into his wife and pinning her in her car for hours before she died en route to the hospital. He cursed and cried, screamed into his pillow until he let sleep take him.
Then in the morning, when the house was up and the birds were chirping, he plastered on a happy face, made his daughter breakfast, brushed her long, blonde hair, helped her get dressed, and started a new day.
And as the seasons changed and the days continued, things did get easier. He didn’t cry every night. He didn’t let the grief consume him the way he used to. Because Melissa wouldn’t want him to. She would want him to be happy, to find the joy in life and each and every moment, just the way she did.
Violet was doing better too. She’d found love again with Adam, and although Mitch knew she could never replace Jean-Phillipe, she didn’t have to. Adam added something new to her life; he didn’t take anything away, didn’t diminish the memory of Jean-Phillipe or all that he’d given Violet over the years. He simply made her life richer. Mitch saw that firsthand.
Their mother, however, wasn’t there yet. And she condemned Violet quite violently when she’d first started seeing Adam, accusing her of treating Jean-Phillipe like no more than the family dog, easily replaceable—all you had to do was wash the dog bed before you brought the new one home or something heavily offensive like that.
They got it. She was grieving. Their father had been her first and only love. They’d been together for nearly forty years, and she couldn’t imagine moving on at her age. Understood. Mitch was the last person to tell someone how to grieve or for how long, but the way his mother was handling the loss of their father worried Violet and Mitch. Mitch more so because he had moved Jayda back to Seattle from Arizona to be close to her grandmother, close to her family, and at the moment, Mitch wouldn’t leave Jayda with his mother if she were the last breathing person on earth. At least he wouldn’t leave her with his mother at his mother’s home.
He didn’t bother knocking before he opened the front door of his childhood home. Though once it was open, he rapped his knuckles lightly on the door just to be courteous.
“Mom,” he called out, making his way through the dark house, weaving around the stacks of boxes and bins.
“Nana!” Jayda stumbled, but Mitch caught her before she ate linoleum. He paused their voyage to check to see what she’d tripped over.
Son of a bitch.
It was a goddamn mousetrap.
Fuck.
“What’s that?” Jayda asked, wrinkling her cute little nose as Mitch picked up the sprung and empty mousetrap—scratch that, rat trap, off the floor.
Mitch shook his head. “Nothing, sweetheart.” He took her hand. “Stay close to me.”
He hated that he had to protect his kid from his childhood home as if they were making their way through an enchanted forest and feared a beast might jump out at them at any moment. But after what he just found on the floor, a beast j
ust might.
“Would it kill her to open the blinds once in a while?” he muttered, watching the dust particles float in the air in the sliver of light that snuck through a crack in the brocade curtains. “It’s stifling in here.”
“What does stifling mean?” Jayda asked.
“Hot. Stuffy,” he replied. They continued on through the house. He knew they’d probably find his mother in the living room in front of the television. That’s where she spent most of her time.
The delightful warble and cheep of Rhodo, his mother’s new parakeet, a rescue, echoed throughout the house. He hoped that bird kept her swearing to a minimum while Jayda was here. He’d yet to hear her curse words, but his mother had certainly been privy to them and was none too pleased to find out she’d been gifted a recycled foul-mouthed feathered companion.
They rounded the corner into the kitchen-slash-living room, and Mitch nearly fell flat on his ass.
This was not the kitchen he remembered being in last week. Or the week before. The living room was a million times different as well.
For starters, they were both clean.
The drapes were drawn open, letting in the summer sun. The windows were open too, and the big oscillating fan in the corner swept the breeze clear across the room, ruffling the hair that tumbled over Mitch’s forehead.
“Nana!” Jayda said, finding Mitch’s mother sitting on the floor in a pile of papers. “Thank goodness you opened the windows. The house is stifling.”
Mitch snorted as he walked toward his mother, running a hand over the back of Jayda’s head when he came up behind her.
“Mom, what’s gotten into you?”
His mother still hadn’t lifted her head. She was busy studying a piece of paper in her hands. “Hmm?” she asked, not really paying attention. “What now?”
“The house … it’s … clean-ish … -er. It’s cleanish-er than it has been in … well, a long time. What’s come over you? Did you hire a cleaner?”
Finally, his mother lifted her head, tipping her glasses up into her hair. “Your sister has been coming over when she can to help me sort through boxes and chunk out. Marie-Claude also stayed in Seattle for a week and helped.”
“Marie-Claude? As in the Marie-Claude, Violet’s former dance instructor?” He scratched his head, then dragged his hand over his face, finally pinching his chin in confusion.
His mother nodded as she pushed herself up to standing with the aid of the couch behind her. “The very same. When she came out for Violet’s performance at that Art in the Park thing, she came by to see me. After the show, she came back here, and we had a very long conversation. She helped me see that although I am certainly allowed to grieve however I choose, that what I’m doing is not fair to you children either. If something were to suddenly happen to me, I would be leaving you with quite the mess. And you both already had your own”—she paused before blowing out a breath—“for lack of a better term, your own messes to clean up. Your own lives to turn right side up again after losing Jean-Phillipe and Melissa.”
Mitch’s head slowly shook in disbelief. He could kiss Marie-Claude. “Wow, Mom, that’s … that’s incredible. And then she stuck around for a bit and helped you clean?”
“She did, yes. We started in your father’s study, then worked our way into the kitchen and living room. I’ll tackle the front room, hallways and bedrooms last. Violet’s been coming over too.” Even though she was a good foot shorter than her son, she still managed to stare down her nose at Mitch. “And don’t think I didn’t know that you’ve been secretly taking things to the Goodwill and the recycling depot for months now. I’m not stupid.”
Mitch’s cheeks grew warm. “I just keep having these nightmares that there’s going to be this huge earthquake and you’re going to get buried alive in an avalanche of boxes.”
She pursed her lips, not seeming to find the cause for concern or humor in any of it. “Yes, your sister told me. She also told me you’ve been calling me a hoarder and watching a show with the same name.”
He’d have words with his sister later.
“We’re just worried about you, Mom, that’s all.”
Jayda was sticking her fingers in the bird cage, and Rhodo was playfully pecking at the tips. He wandered over and opened up the cage, allowing the bird to hop out onto his finger. Once she’d found her perch, he brought her out, then transferred her to Jayda’s finger. The little girl giggled, then carefully sat down in the nearest chair and watched as Rhodo bobbed along her short digit, murmuring in her deep and raspy bird voice.
“I understand you’re worried about me, son, but I am doing better.”
He took in the somewhat clear and tidy living room, save for the pile of scattered papers on the floor beneath their feet. “It looks like it. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Marie-Claude said something similar happened to her mother and father. Her mother died first, and her father didn’t do a thing with their property in France. Let the house fall into complete disrepair and let his grief consume him. So when he finally passed, Marie-Claude, who was living in America by that time and who was also an only child, had a big pile of work on her hands. She said it took her months to sort through all her parents’ belongings and get the house in a state to sell. I never want to saddle you children with such a task.”
“Well, thank you.” Relief didn’t begin to describe how Mitch felt. Thoughts of the mess he and Vi would be stuck with if his mother was buried alive in a pile of boxes had become a recurring nightmare. He nodded at the piece of paper in her hand. “What’s that?”
A slow smile crept across her mouth. “An old love letter from your father.”
“I didn’t know Dad wrote you love letters.” He’d never really considered his father a romantic at heart. Yes, he knew he’d loved his mother deeply, but showing affection was never his dad’s strong suit.
She nodded, studying the letter again. “Not very many of them, but he did, back when we were courting and he would go out on the fishing boat for weeks. He’d write me a letter, then leave it and a bouquet of flowers on my doorstep.”
Stories like this warmed Mitch’s heart. Particularly because his mother was able to talk about his father without becoming wracked with grief and shutting down completely.
This was real progress.
She took one more look at the letter, then carefully folded it up and tucked it in her pocket, lifting her head back up to Mitch’s face. “What have you guys been up to today?”
Once again, his mother nearly knocked him flat on his ass. She hadn’t asked him how his day was or what he’d been up to in ages. She really was getting better. She looked better too: better coloring, her hair was done, her face washed, her clothing clean.
He let out a sigh of relief before filling her in on the terrifying news about Mira.
“And why did you think it was your job to go and get this Paige?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him after he’d finished his story.
Mitch could tell Rhodo had had enough of Jayda, so without saying a word, he took the bird back and placed her inside her cage. Jayda, being the agreeable child she always was, didn’t even make a peep in protest and just grabbed a puzzle from the bottom of the bookshelf and opened up the box.
Mitch turned back to face his mother, ready for whatever opinions she was going to throw at him. “Because we’ve become friends. She’s Mira’s mother, Adam’s ex-wife, Violet’s dance student. Our paths cross—a lot.”
“And you’re interested in her.”
Mitch’s eyes flicked down to Jayda, who had stopped what she was doing and instead stared up at him with big blue eyes. The same eyes as her mother’s.
Mitch swallowed hard. “It’s new. That’s all I’m going to say. She’s dealing with some of her own losses right now, so I’m going her speed.”
His mother blinked a few times. Was she preparing her barbs for him, the way she had for Violet? Or had she accepted that unlike her, who swore she’d never love
again, her children were different? They were younger, and they wanted to find love and happiness again. They deserved to find happiness again.
Finally, after he was nearly ready to pass out from holding his breath, she spoke. “Good idea taking it slow. Nowadays, everybody rushes relationships. There’s something to be said for the slow burn. The wooing. The courting. The dating. Nowadays people jump into”—she brought her voice down low and just mouthed the word bed—“so quickly that it’s no wonder the divorce rate is so high. Sure, you’re compatible that way, but it’s all the other ways that fill up the rest of the day. You need to be compatible there too.”
Mitch’s lip twitched. “Spoken like a true romantic, Mom. Solid advice. I’ll be sure to send Jayda over and you can give her the same talk when she has her first boyfriend. Which will be when she’s thirty-five.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear about little Mira. I hope she’s okay.”
“She’s okay,” Jayda piped up, having gone back to her puzzle. “She ate the wrong berries. I told her not to, but that girl is stubborn.”
Both Mitch and his mother struggled not to laugh.
They knew another girl who was also quite stubborn and sassy. And far too mature for her age.
“So, I’m opening up a new studio,” he said, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water. He brought Jayda and his mother one too. Even though the fan was creating a bit of breeze in the house, it was still really warm. Every night he hoped they’d wake up to clear skies. That the winds would shift overnight and blow the smoke out to sea. So far, no such luck.
His mother thanked him for the water. “A new studio. That’s wonderful. Where?”
“In the same strip mall as Violet’s dance studio.”
“Oh, perfect.”
“I hope to open it by the end of August. I just got the keys yesterday, so I’m going to head there tomorrow and see what has to be done, maybe start painting.”
