Page 90 of The Late Hit
“Mom?” I rasp out.
Carolyn Cabot-Wilder is standing in front of me. Shock doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.
Clutching her hands to her chest, her eyes squint as she takes me in.
“Brinley, is that you?” Nodding my head, I slowly make my way toward her. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to Bryce and Asher.”
She nods her head at my answer. The look of surprise is evident on her face. For a moment, neither of us says anything. I take the moment to look at her, really look at the woman who made me. Deep lines are starting to crease near her eyes. She looks as elegant as ever, but older, like she’s more exhausted than normal. I’ve heard that the hospital is doing well and is the number one trauma hospital in the suburbs of Chicago. I’m sure she sees a lot.
“How long are you here for?”
“I just came for the day,” I answer, turning and stepping closer to Bryce’s spot. “I was actually just coming back to say goodbye to Bryce.”
She nods her head. That seems to be the only reaction that she gives me. Bending down, I kiss the cool stone as I did to Asher’s. Pulling out another photo of me and Quinton, I attach it to his grave, hoping he can see it.
“I love you, Bryce. I miss you so damn much. Keep an eye on me,” I whisper, leaving one more kiss.
Standing upright, I’m not sure what to do. To say that I’m shocked to run into my mother would be an understatement. I never would’ve imagined that she visited his grave, especially since she has not once visited me. Her child who isstillalive. Pausing, I wait to see if she says anything.
Nothing comes.
I go to move around her when her hand reaches out and touches my forearm. My arm jerks in reaction, not from fright but from shock. She jerks her hand back at my reaction.
“I’m sorry,” she rushes out.
“It’s fine,” I answer, locking eyes with her.
She takes a deep breath, and I watch as her chest rises and falls.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been a good mother to you, Brinley. Actually, I’ve been a horrible mother for quite some time.”
Taken aback by her comments, I eye her cautiously. “You have been a terrible mother,” I respond.
She flinches at my response, but it’s the truth. And today seems as good as any to get it off my chest.
“You acted like I was gone too, Mom. You forgot about being a mother to us long before Bryce died. When he did die, you said horrible things. You were terrible to me. You—”
“I was grieving,” she retorts, cutting me off.
An exasperated sigh leaves my lips. “So was I,” I shout. Tears well in my eyes, but I fight like hell to keep from shedding them. “I was grieving my twin brother and my boyfriend. And then I was grieving the loss of my parents. You told me you wished it was me. How does a seventeen-year-old come back from that?”
Tears are streaming down her face leaving a trail of black mascara.
“I’ve been seeing a counselor. It hasn’t been long, but she’s helping me deal with my problems—problems I’ve been facing for many, many years.”
“That’s great, Mom. Good for you.”
And I really mean that. Quinton and I have been having conversations about me setting up an appointment with a therapist. I think everyone should find the time to talk to a professional.
Life is hard, and it’s messy. It’s full of challenges, and it doesn’t hurt to seek help from an outsider. Even if it’s just being able to speak freely with someone who doesn’t know you or your history. It’s healthy, and I love that so many people are finally starting to talk about their mental health struggles. Professional sports are pushing mental health on top of physical health. Maybe we won’t have so many problems in the future if we end the stigma about mental health and seeking treatment—whether it be from prescription medicine or talking to a therapist.
“Do you think we can move past our issues?” Mom asks, vulnerability lining her words.
“Do I think we can move past them? No,” I answer, her shoulders deflating at my response. “But I think we can work on healing our issues. It’s going to take a lot of time to heal these wounds, Mom. But if you’re willing to truly fix our relationship, then I’m not going to deny you. I miss having a mom.” I choke out that last thought because it’s true. I miss having a mom to call when I need advice or just want to share something exciting that’s happened in my world.
Another sob escapes Carolyn Cabot-Wilder, and I’m shocked at the emotion she is so openly expressing. She rushes me and pulls me in for a hug. My arms stay still at my side. I haven’t had a hug from my mother in ten years.
