Page 56 of Last Chance Christmas
Anthony’s phone rang.
He glanced down at the name on the screen and quickly denied the call.
For a moment he waited. The road noise did nothing to cut the tense silence in the car.
“Do you need to call her back?” Della’s words were soft. He probably looked like a jerk, refusing to talk to his own mother.
But, “No need.”
Talk about ruining the moment. His mother had a habit of doing that.
“So…I take it you’re not close?” she asked. He glanced over. She gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I saw it was your mother. You don’t have to explain anything.”
The muscles in the back of his neck throbbed. The beginning of a headache if he didn’t take meds soon. But none of that was Della’s fault. He sighed. “I’m not on the best of terms with my mother. It’s complicated.”
“I get it.”
“You do?” He glanced over.
“Well, not really. I’d give anything to talk to my mom again.”
Yep. He was a world-class heel. But he was a sucker to hear how real families functioned. What a childhood could’ve been if he’d had a normal mother and actual father. “What was your mother like?”
“She loved color. She was an artist. She told the most wonderful stories and fairy tales. And any time I was scared, we would play a game. It helped calm me.”
“What game?”
“We would list names or titles of God using the alphabet. I would be so busy trying to come up with one for the letter Q that I’d forget whatever I was afraid of.”
“She sounds pretty special. Was your father into art too?”
“No, he was a scientist, but he adored us both. They gave me an amazing childhood.”
“I wish I could say that.”
Without thinking, the words had fallen from his mouth. A wish he’d wished for so long, for a different childhood. Della said nothing. But a warmth on his arm made him look down to find her mittened hand resting on his arm.
“I’m sorry it wasn’t.”
Aw, great. He couldn’t have her pitying him. Now he needed to explain. “It’s not like my mom didn’t try. She’s not a bad person or anything. It’s just—” How did he put it? “When people are kind, they would say she marches to the beat of her own drum.”
“So she’s eccentric?”
“Very. She was born in the wrong era. She would’ve made a great hippie.”
“A hippie?” Della asked. “Like she wears bell-bottoms with peace signs or something?”
“Oh, her wardrobe was definitely part of it.” Anthony winced, remembering her outrageously ugly shawls and scarves over long, flowy skirts. The dirty overalls she often wore as she worked in her garden and the thrifted outfits she would make him wear. “But we also lived on a small farm, off-grid. She homeschooled me. We had our own little world. If she went into town, it was usually to protest something. She was caught up in conspiracy theories, convinced of everything from aliens to nanorobots in the water supply and stuff like that. You name it, she was probably on board with it and on a mission to educate the public too.”
“She sounds like quite the character.”
That was a nice way of putting it. And Della’s soft smile melted some of the resentment inside. “You could say that.”
“And your father? Was he ever in the picture?”
“In the beginning. But they fought all the time, and eventually he left us when I was nine.”
“I’m so sorry.”
