Page 182 of Always Meant for You
My breath catches, but I don’t let on.
“Chicago went fine,” I say, voice tight. “Thanks to that trip, we’re working with restaurants in two major cities and contributing to food pantries. Mabel’s shaping their social media. I’m helping with menu suggestions. You know what happened. We briefed the town council.”
Betty doesn’t flinch. “I’m not talking about that trip to Chicago.”
My shoulders tense. “What are you talking about?” I barely manage the words. There’s a pressure low in my chest. Heavy and familiar, but far away too—like hearing your name in a dream.
“I’m talking about when you lived in Chicago many years ago, when you were a little boy.”
The air leaves my lungs. “You knew me then? When I lived there with my mother?”
She nods slowly. “I did. And when I visited, you never wanted to leave your mother’s side. You were protective of her. Watchful. I remember asking if you wanted to take a walk. You said, ‘No, thank you, ma’am.’ You always had manners. Sabrina made sure of that. But you clung to her hand like it was the only thing keeping you upright.”
A memory shifts at the edge of my mind, blurry and shapeless, but it hums with something real. A face. Betty’s face. Not as many lines. Her hair was a little longer. But it was her.
“I think I remember your visits.”
Betty offers a soft smile. “I came as much as I could. I was worried about you both.”
I look past her, to the far end of the counter, where Mabel used to stand. “My mom worked here.”
“She did. That’s how we became close. My sisters and I adored Sabrina. The modeling scout found her here. Did you know that?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
Betty sighs and rubs at a smudge of lipstick on her mug. “She took a wrong turn and ended up in our little town. And when she told your mother that she had the potential to make millions and be famous, she lit up. Now, your grandparents wanted her to finish high school and go to college. But she didn’t want to miss the chance. She was smart, determined, and driven, but she could be hardheaded. She was a lot like?—”
“Mabel,” I offer, not meaning to cut her off.
Betty lifts an eyebrow. “Like you, Cal.”
I sit up straighter as a chill works its way down my spine. “You think that I’m like her?”
“I do.”
I glance down at my mug. “Did you know what happened to her?”
“She left for Chicago. We didn’t hear from her for six years. Then one day, the diner’s phone rang. It was your mom. She made me promise not to tell a soul she’d called. Not your grandparents, not even my sisters.”
“What did she want?”
Betty remains quiet, allowing my question to breathe.
“She wanted a better life for you, honey.”
I stare at the counter, unable to speak.
“I went to Chicago,” she continues. “I stayed with you for two weeks so your mom could begin detox and addiction treatment. Then I helped get you both into a housing program.”
“The brick row home by the food pantry?”
She nods. “When I saw the address of the community center, I knew it sounded familiar. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize it.”
“I did.”
“You lived there about a year. Your mom called me every month for a while. Things were good at first. Then the calls stopped. I suspected she’d started using again.”
The air thins as more memories return.
