Pulled (40 page)

Even though I was incredibly excited to see Mom, I was nervous and unsure of how to handle things with her. I stil carried resentment, even more so now that I’d learned Daniel had gone to Dal as and she’d never let me know.

But I was going to do everything in my power to see past al of it and repair our relationship. I knew it was going to be hard dredging up old issues and memories, though it was

necessary if we were ever going to get past this. We both needed forgiveness, and we both needed to give it. I knew it wouldn’t be easy on either account.

I spent the rest of the day transforming the downstairs den into a second guestroom for my mother.

Until that moment, I hadn’t real y even considered the fact that I’d be sleeping apart from Nicholas while Mom was here. If this didn’t give her a clue that my marriage was on the eve of its demise, then nothing short of tel ing her would, and I wasn’t planning to do that until the day she left.

I figured we’d have the beginning of the week just to, I don’t know—talk—maybe reminisce a little about my childhood? I felt like we had to reestablish our connection, reform our mother-daughter bond, and build a belief in our love for each other. Otherwise, I would never trust her enough to go back to our past issues and just ask her why.

She could never take back what she had done, but at least she could
explain
why, apologize, and take some responsibility for what she had done. Then maybe, just maybe, I could trust her enough to tel her about Daniel.

I spent the night in a fitful sleep, nodding off only to jolt upright in bed, my body in constant upheaval. I’d study the clock to find only minutes had passed between each unwelcome arousal, and I was never able to settle into comfort. I’d hoped to sleep away most of the morning, or else I’d be pacing the floors, waiting her arrival. Final y, I gave up and hauled myself out of bed at six-fifteen. The sky was stil dark, the roads stil silent on this early Sunday morning. I wrapped myself in my satin robe. Thanks to the lack of sleep and my frayed nerves, I was al too eager for my morning pot of coffee. It was going to be a very long day.

After Nicholas left to play golf, I busied myself with smal chores around the house. I organized my office desk and sifted through e-mails. I cleaned out the refrigerator and cooked a little—anything to keep my hands busy. My eyes constantly watched the clock, wil ing it to move faster. I hated feeling so agitated. I mean, my
mother
was coming to visit; I should be thril ed, not fil ed with so much worry and apprehension, which only grew as afternoon approached. I just couldn’t help it; there was too much riding on this visit.

At just after four-thirty, the doorbel rang. I raced across the living room, only to stop in front of the door, giving myself an internal pep talk.
“It’s going to be okay.

She wants this as much as you. She’s your mother.”
My hand trembled against the knob.
“Open the damn door,
Melanie!”
I screamed at myself. I inhaled deeply, finding enough strength to turn the knob, and stood back to al ow the door to swing open. I stifled a sob that had gathered in my throat when I saw her. My feet were frozen, unable to move as her gaze met mine.

Mom.
I had missed her more than I ever understood until this very moment. She stood in front of me, her hair piled on top of her head and streaked with gray, her waist noticeably thicker, and her eyes sad.

“Melanie, sweetheart,” she whispered. I could feel her eyes probing, penetrating through my exterior, searching me. There was a peculiar expression on her face as she drank me in.

“Mom.”

That was al it took for her to drop the luggage she had in each hand, throw her arms around me, and hug me to her. Her hands held my cheeks while her thumbs wiped away my tears produced by the sudden onslaught of affection; affection I’d craved, missed, needed. The affection in my mother’s touch I would never outgrow. Her words sounded heavy and penitent as she told me over and over, “I missed you...I missed you.”

“I missed you so much, Mom.” I hugged her back hard, clinging to her.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

I pul ed back, shaking my head as I squeezed her hands in mine. “Not yet. I know we need to talk, and we wil before you go, but can we just please just enjoy each other for a while?”

She nodded and pul ed me to her again.

“Whatever you need. But I’m not leaving here until you and I are okay.”

I laughed through my tears, nodding, thankful she was here for the same reason I wanted her to be.

“Here, let’s get you settled.” I gathered her bags, handing her one, slinging the other over my shoulder, and pul ing the large suitcase behind me.

“Are you tired? I can go and start dinner while you take a little nap.”

“Yeah, that sounds great. Are you sure you don’t need help with dinner?”

I shook my head. “No, just get some rest. I’l come get you when it’s ready.” I gave her another quick hug, and I left her in the room, closing the door behind me and going into the kitchen to finish dinner. I’d made meatbal s during my day of mania, now only needing to make sauce and noodles for the spaghetti I’d planned. I figured I’d let the sauce simmer for a while to give Mom enough time to recuperate from the long flight.

I found myself at ease in the kitchen, my unrest settled the moment I’d seen Mom. Every worry I’d al owed to work me into a frenzy had been soothed by her very presence and the promise she would stay until we worked things out.

I felt my phone vibrate in the back pocket of my jeans. I smiled because I already knew who it was, his sweet words asking if I was okay.

I looked over my shoulder just to ensure that it was clear, my fingers quick across the smal buttons as I told him everything was perfect and I couldn’t wait to see him again.

It was surreal just how perfect everything was.

I quickly deleted both messages and tucked the phone back into my pocket. After adding the noodles to the boiling water and stirring the sauce, I quickly set the table and pul ed the prepared salad from the fridge. I waited until the last minute to wake Mom. I popped my head in the door, and she stirred under the blankets when I cal ed to her. “Hey, Mom, dinner’s ready.”

She looked up, stil sleepy-eyed and tired, but her mouth turned into a wide smile when she realized where she was. She rubbed her palm over her face and through her hair, yawning as she threw back the covers. “Coming.” She excused herself to the bathroom to wash up while I went in and placed the food on the table. Reluctantly, I went upstairs to summon Nicholas to dinner. I hadn’t made him dinner in weeks, but I couldn’t see sitting down to eat without him while Mom was here.

“Peggy.” Nicholas walked into the room wearing his careful y crafted façade, the one he wore for those he wanted to impress, for those who he wanted to think more of him than he real y was. He pul ed her into a condescending embrace, patted her on the back, and kissed her cheek. My muscles recoiled, watching him delude her into believing he was something he was not. I knew it shouldn’t bother me that she thought so much of him. She didn’t know him, and why should I expect her to?

I’d kept her away al this time. Why would she not believe I was happily married, that Nicholas was a good man, and that I wanted to be here?

“So nice to see you again, Nicholas.” She smiled tightly at him as she halfheartedly returned his hug, pul ing away quickly to find her seat.

I sat confused, my mouth dropping open as I looked between the two of them. Could I real y have been

that blind? Did my pain leave me in such a haze that I real y hadn’t seen. Al these years, I had believed that Mom loved Nicholas, thought he was perfect for me, thought he was better than Daniel.

But it was clear now that my perception had been skewed because my mom’s feelings for Nicholas were unmistakable.

She hated him.

“Could you hand me that, sweetheart.” Mom pointed to the measuring cup closest to me.

“Sure.” I smiled and handed it to her over the island. I turned back to stir the milk into the potatoes and pul ed the mixer from the cupboard to whip them. We both moved effortlessly about the kitchen. It was clear that cooking had been a love I’d inherited from my mother, and we’d done a lot of it this week. We’d baked and laughed and talked, finding refuge in the best room of the house.

We’d start our day off in here over coffee and breakfast, and cap it off with dinner, the two of us growing closer with each meal. We stil hadn’t had
the talk,
but we knew it was coming. Instead we just savored our time together as mother and daughter, not as two strangers, but as we had been years ago.

She clearly was aware that something was up.

That first night after we’d wished each other goodnight, I’d gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, only to find her lingering in the darkened living room.

I’d stood fidgeting with the hem of my pajama top, not sure what to do. I’d realized then she was asking me to give her a glimpse into my life—asking me to trust her. I’d walked quietly across the room, my face trained on the floor, stopping to look back at her as I opened the door to the guestroom, pausing to find her eyes. She’d simply given me a single nod of understanding and withdrawn into her room, closing the door behind her. She’d never mentioned it once, though over the week, she’d watched. It was not because she was judging me, condemning me, or finding some fault in my actions. Her eyes were soft and tender as they fol owed me through the room.

“How’s that turkey coming?” Mom grabbed a towel and patted her hands dry, leaning down to peer into the oven over my shoulder.

“Looking pretty good. I’d say we have about another half an hour before we can pul it out.”

“Smel s good.” She placed a loving hand on my shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze as she went back to the green beans simmering on the stove.

I basted the bird before closing it in the oven, then crossed the kitchen to begin pul ing the china from the hutch. Even with our backs to each other, I could feel her become rigid, her muscles tighten, and her back stiffen.

“Wil you ever be able to forgive me?” Her voice was soft, so soft I almost wondered if she’d wanted me to hear. I stil ed, before lowering the plates to the counter.

Resting my hands flat on either side of them, I searched for a way to answer her question. I was stil so angry. But after this week, the time we’d spent, the things we’d shared, everything had changed.

“I think I already have.”

I felt her release the breath she’d held, and we turned at the same time, ready to final y face the past, only to be interrupted by Nicholas rushing in through the door from the garage. Flashing a fake smile, he declared how delicious everything smel ed. My face flushed red, angered by his mere presence. Mom saw my frustration and smiled meekly before she mouthed, “Later,” as Nicholas left the room to head upstairs. I nodded, and continued pul ing the rest of the dishes out and took them into the dining room to set the table.

“Melanie, sweetie, could you come and help me in here?”

I fol owed Mom’s voice back into the kitchen, finding her struggling to pul the huge turkey from the oven. I giggled at how ridiculous it had been for us to decide on such a large turkey for three people.

“Here, let me get that.” I nudged her aside, taking the mitts and straining to pul the pan out and wrestle it to the counter, both of us fal ing into a fit of laughter at our physical inadequacy. Mom chuckled as she whispered conspiratorial y, “Wel , that was the first time I actual y wished Nicholas was around.”

I looked at her, stunned, clapping my hand over my mouth before cracking up al over again. I quickly composed myself when I heard Nicholas coming down the stairs, but I was stil snickering under my breath.

“Nicholas.” Mom’s voice stil hinted her

amusement. “Would you be a dear and carve the turkey for us?”

Nicholas was far from a dear, and it would have made me cringe had I not known of Mom’s disdain for him.

She was apparently just a little bit better at hiding it than I was.