The Mills & Boon Christmas Wishes Collection. Maisey Yates

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       Chapter Nineteen

      Parking the car, I killed the engine and headed on foot up Mom’s snow-covered driveway, slipping and sliding like I was on roller-skates. My screeches drew Mom’s attention – she wrenched open the front door, frowning at the noise.

      “Clio, golly, can’t you walk without tripping?”

      I grabbed hold of the bannister, and dusted my boots against it, clumps of snow falling to the ground. “It’d help if you salted the walkways at least.”

      “Come in before you hurt yourself,” she tutted, the way moms do.

      Inside was toasty warm, a fire crackling gently in the grate. “How are you, Mom?” Dark shadows played under her eyes, making them seem sunken, like she was ill. Her weight hadn’t improved, she was scarily thin, and it hurt my heart to see it. In the time I’d been home, her health had clearly declined, and I blamed myself. Inadvertently I’d stirred up the past and she was paying for it. Would she just fade away to nothing if I kept going? My chest tightened at the thought. What was I doing to her?

      “I’m good,” she said. “I’ve been a bit rundown, before you go pestering me about why I haven’t been out to see you.”

      “I’m not here to pester you. I just wanted to visit. Maybe we could have lunch? Make a pot of soup to warm us up?” Something, anything, to make her eat.

      I stepped past and went to the kitchen, checking the contents of the fridge. Mom was the type who lived on bare necessities if she didn’t feel like facing the world, and guilt gnawed away at me, making my gut roil. Why did I always presume she’d be OK, when I knew damn well how fragile she was? I played the should have game with myself while I searched for ingredients. Should have come over sooner, should have called more, should have…

      The world was a lonely place sometimes, especially for people like Mom, and I grieved for the life she should have had. A happy one, full of friendships, and laughter, and love. But instead she’d lost her husband and that had changed everything. My mom, who had always been a little vague, had become reclusive. I was young, but I remembered it well, because it had been like someone had switched a light off and things had become very murky at home, save for Aunt Bessie’s visits. As I’d got older and understood her grief better, I’d recognized the signs of someone fighting an internal battle every day, just barely holding on. Eating was a struggle for her, cleaning compulsive, her behavior erratic but excused as someone who was trying her hardest to stay here in the present.

      Staring into the fridge I wasn’t surprised to find it only held a range of condiments, half a liter of milk, and little else.

      “Why don’t I go to the store and buy some fresh fruit and vegetables? We can make a pot of hearty winter soup? We can freeze portions so you don’t have to cook if you don’t feel like it.” Mom’s cooking capabilities were on a level with mine so she never said much about the quality of our meals.

      “If you want to, Clio. But aren’t you busy with… things at the moment?”

      “Not too busy for you, Mom.”

      Her bottom lip twitched ever so slightly. “Well, then, that would be nice.”

      I swallowed a lump in my throat, sensing we had taken the first step. Normally she’d have said no outright, craving her solitude. Slowly but surely it felt like the walls were coming down and maybe her health concerns weren’t because I’d moved home. Baby steps were the way forward, and being careful not to upset the fine balance we were eking out together.

      “Want to come with me?”

      “No, no. I’ll wait here. I’ll… tidy the kitchen so we can cook.”

      I gazed around the pristine benches and said, “OK. I won’t be long.”

      “Take your time. I’ve got some washing that needs hanging up too.”

      Mom couldn’t relax if her chores weren’t done. When the washing machine beeped its end-of-cycle warning, the laundry had to be hung up to dry – it couldn’t wait an hour, it couldn’t wait a minute. As soon as it was dry, it was ironed, with creases so sharp they could take an eye out. The garden was immaculate, the car polished to a shine. Mom’s manic need to keep busy was almost a penance she did every day. Whenever we sat for five minutes you could see her gripping the arm of the chair, not ever able to fully relax. It must have been exhausting.

      I kissed her cheek, trying not to notice how hollow it was, “OK, then. Back soon.” Soup and maybe a glass of wine might help. I was determined to make her rest and recover and get used to СКАЧАТЬ