Page 78 of Maid of Dishonor

I swallow thickly. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words flying out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them.

She looks back at me, a little frown creasing her brow. “Sorry for what?”

I glance around the room—anywhere but at her—noting vaguely a smudge on the floor, a stain on the chair in the corner, the slight brown edges of the leaves on her flowers. “Sorry that you can’t go dancing anymore,” I say, trying to breathe normally. “And that you and Dad can’t live in the house together anymore.” My eyes sting as I go on. “I’m sorry that I wanted to get frozen yogurt that day. If I hadn’t—if we hadn’t—” But the lump in my throat makes it too hard to speak, and my tears finally break through my control. I wrap my arms around my middle—trying, maybe, to hold myself together as I fall apart.

“I’m sorry,” I say through my tears. “I’m so sorry.” Then I lean forward, letting my head rest on her shoulder, and sob.

And the tears are magical. They’re attached to my heart, and each droplet that falls pulls some of my pain and my heartache away from my soul, cleansing me. My confusion falls away, my frustration, my sadness, my guilt, until all that’s left is an empty girl, crying on the shoulder of her mother, ready to be reborn into something new. Something better.

“Samantha,” my mom whispers when my sobs have died down. “Look at me.”

I sit up slowly, wincing at the pain in my back from being hunched over for so long, and meet my mom’s eye.

“You never apologize. Do you understand? You never apologize for what happened. Not now, and not ever again.” Her voice is fierce, her eyes burning, as she goes on. “This was not your fault, and it was not my fault. Sometimes things just happen.”

I nod, wiping my eyes. “I know,” I manage to say. “I know. But I still feel bad.”

“Don’t,” she says. “I know it may not be that easy, but you don’t need to feel bad. I’malive, Sam. And I’m grateful for all the things I was spared. I can eat and breathe and speak. I may not be in the house anymore, but I still see your father every day when he’s not traveling. I have so much. I was being watched over. And so were you,” she adds.

I just nod again, because I don’t know what to say, and I’m not sure I can talk right now anyway.

We’re interrupted by a sharp knock on the door before a middle-aged woman steps in, wearing the uniform of the nursing home.

“Mrs. Quinn,” she says cheerfully. “Are you ready to work those arms?”

My mom sighs. “I’m ready, Sonya.”

Sonya seems nice, and I’m grateful for her timing; this conversation is much heavier than I intended when I came here.

“I’ll let you go,” I say, wiping my eyes again. Sonya is busying herself over by the window, and I can tell she’s just trying to give us a moment of privacy, so I go on. “Thanks, Mama. I’ll see you on Saturday, okay?”

She gives the slightest of nods. “I love you, sweetheart. Remember what I said.”

“I will. Love you,” I say as I stand. I hesitate, then bend over and give her one last hug before I leave, feeling like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

* * *

Six daysafter my talk with Carter, Maya calls.

“Hey,” she says without preamble, her voice tired. “Do you want to come hang out with me? Have a movie marathon or something? I’m bored and lonely and sad.”

I blink, surprised, because that actually sounds great. I’ve been feeling good ever since visiting my mom, but I’m missing Carter more than ever, and I know I’m going to crack soon and call him—if for no other reason than to thank him for the six-days-worth of flowers now displayed all over my apartment. He’s not making this easy on me. My mind is constantly volleying back and forth, trying to figure out what he wants.

“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely.” I hesitate before asking, “I totally need this. How did you know?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Maya’s answer is immediate.

“My horoscope said I should reach out to a friend,” she says matter-of-factly.

Of course it did. “Well, that sounds great. When do you want me to come over?”

“Whenever you want,” she says. “Oh, and you don’t need to worry—I’ve been feeling pretty good today. We’ll gather the trash cans just in case, but I think you’ll be okay.”

“Good,” I say fervently, because I don’t feel like vomiting. “I’ll be over in an hour.”

Which is how I spend the rest of the day on Maya’s couch, watching a chick flick and then some indie film that’s terrible but that she loves. There isn’t a lot of story going on, and I prefer my movies to be plot-based, but I don’t tell her that. It’s clear she’s having a hard time; she hasn’t thrown up once, but the corners of her lips have been tipped down into a barely noticeable frown the whole time I’ve been here.

“So how are you doing?” I finally ask, grabbing the remote and pausing the indie film. “Why are you sad?” I want to ask her about the tarot cards, but I obviously can’t; I’m not supposed to know about it. Still, you’d think she would have said something, right? To Carter, at least, since he’s the one she talked to about waiting for one more sign from the universe?

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