Page 87 of About Last Christmas
She gives a sad smile. “Yes, you should’ve. I deserved everything you said and owe you an explanation.”
“My main question iswhy? Why did you stay away for so long?”
“Because I was scared.” Her blue eyes dim. “And ashamed.”
“Of me?”
“No,” she admits quickly. “Never of you. I was ashamed because I had you so young. I was only fifteen when I got pregnant. I couldn’t even drive, and here I was having a kid. I don’t even know who your father is. What kind of mom can’t even tell her daughter who her dad is? There’s been a lot of shame for a lot of years.” Her voice shakes, but she holds my gaze. “When I would visit, I felt like an intruder, an outsider.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t overly curious about my dad’s identity. Gran and Pap never discussed it, and I never felt my relationship was solid enough to ask Mom. My dad has always been this fuzzy shadow in my mind’s eye. “But you’re my mother.”
“A mother who had no idea how to parent. I was a kid myself. As I grew older, I felt in the way and didn’t want to interfere with how your grandmother was raising you. A sense of failure hung over me every time I’d visit. When I’d leave, it would go away, but not the ache. The ache stayed with me.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I missed my child, but I feared messing up again. I know Gran thought I only wanted my freedom. Truth is, I was scared.”
I let her words marinate in my brain, processing. “So you were afraid of being a bad parent?”
She runs a finger over the handle of her teacup. “I didn’t want to mess up your life like I did mine. I was scared I would make bad decisions that would hurt you. With Gran and Pap, you were safe. I know it doesn’t make sense, but my mind wasn’t always in a good state.”
“And now?”
“I’ve been trying to get my life in line. I renewed my faith and have been going to counseling. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ve come a long way.”
I set the rest of my cookie on the plate. “I understand your fears and hesitations when I was a kid, but I’ve been an adult for several years.” I keep my tone free from accusation, but I’m sure Mom can read the emotion in my face. “You didn’t even try until Gran passed.”
“Gran didn’t want me around, and that was its own kind of pain. To know that I’m a disappointment to her. But I should’ve tried to repair our relationship. I could’ve at least been around you more. My fears held me back. I should’ve been brave, but I didn’t know how.”
I guess Mom and I aren’t too different in that respect.
“When your gran passed, I knew time was slipping away. I had to try. I know I returned like a whirlwind, swooping in and wanting to help any way I could. I thought if I could help you, then I maybe could learn how to be a mother along the way.”
I swipe a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to talk or act around you. I’m learning too.” I tell her about the counseling idea, and she readily agrees.
She grabs my hand and squeezes. “I hope you know that I love you. I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become.”
“Thank you, Mom. I love you too.” In time, I’ll learn to trust her. I’ll tell her stories from my childhood she’d missed.Eventually, I’ll inform her about Gran being the Silver Creek Secret Santa. An absence of twenty-five years can’t be healed in five months, but if we both put the effort in, I can see us growing closer.
I’m unlocking The Memory Bank doors on Thursday morning when my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming text. I already know it’s Tilly, but the uptick in my heart rate tells me I’d hoped it was Leo. After my talk with Mom Tuesday night, I returned to my apartment and repeatedly checked my phone for anything from him. Nothing. I kept my cell by me all Wednesday until finally I couldn’t stand it. I called him and got his voicemail.
These last three days have been an awakening of sorts. Past Greta would’ve projected her suppressed feelings on a new sewing project or binge-watching a Netflix series. Present Greta is healing. While dissecting my psyche has not been the happiest of pastimes, it’s been good for me. Good for me like doing cardio or drinking a kale smoothie. It’s not fun or even palatable, but future me will be grateful. I swipe to open my phone and read Tilly’s text.
Tilly
Operation Elana!
Ah, Elana Keller, the lady who nominated her neighbor, is at the café. This means Tilly is about to take her break and come cover for me. I don’t know what I’ll tell Elana, but I need more information about her neighbor. My goal is to at least get the name. Thankfully, I don’t have any customers, so I run back to the office and grab my coat and gloves.
Within a minute, the bell above the door jingles. “I’m here,” Tilly calls.
I’m shoving arms through my coat while hustling to the front where she’s waiting. “Thanks for doing this.”
“How many times did you listen to ‘Eye of the Tiger’ this morning?” Tilly tugs off her gloves. “Don’t lie.”
“Whatever you think is overkill, it’s one less than that.”
“Okay, basically, you had it on repeat.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You got this. Elana’s at the counter in a bright pink sweater. Platinum blonde. Can’t miss her!” She shoos me out the door.
The cold air stings my face. We haven’t had any more snowfall since Sunday, but the temps have been hovering around twenty degrees with a wind chill of negative hundred. Slight exaggeration. I dip my chin into my coat collar and do that scuttle-walk thing people do when they want to get somewhere quicker, but don’t want to break into a full-fledged jog. I’m so focused on getting to the café that I nearly bulldoze Fletcher Thomas.
He grabs my elbows, steadying me. “Good morning, Greta. It’s a little early for women to be falling into my arms.”
