I lunge from the couch. “I have to go after him. I have to tell him I didn’t mean it!”
“Shhh,” Lucy says, and she gently eases me back onto the couch. “Amanda’s got him. She’ll tell him.”
“What if he doesn’t believe her? What if he thinks—I kept saying I wasn’t sure if I could stay—what if this time, he isn’t willing to give me another chance?”
I can hear the near hysteria in my voice.
Barb is standing quietly, watching us. Not saying anything. I wonder what she thinks now of this madwoman who is the mother of her granddaughter. But her face is nonjudgmental. Soothingly gentle and kind. It makes me feel a little calmer.
“This is Kane we’re talking about,” Lucy says. “He’s got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. And he doesn’t make snap decisions. Deep breaths. You’re not your best self right now. Calm down, and then you can talk to Kane.” She pats my arm and smiles at me. “You know what I did when Willow was four days old? I got in the car and started driving away.”
My mouth falls open.
“Yup. I got two miles before I pulled over, burst into tears, and drove home again. I like to think that was as far as that umbilical cord was going to stretch.”
“But you? You tried to leave?”
She shakes her head. “I never would have done it. Not in a thousand years. And neither would you.”
I pull my knees up, hugging them to myself. “How do you know? How can you know that if even I don’t know it?”
“I think you do know it.”
“My mother left. How do you know I won’t do that?”
Lucy sits down on the couch beside me. “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“Oof. That’s rough.”
“She hated holding still. Still does. Always has to be on the move. That’s how I’ve been, too.”
“You’ve been holding still for a while now,” Lucy says quietly. “How long have you been in Rush Creek? Almost two months? That’s a lot of chances to leave if you wanted to leave. And yet you’re still here. Are you hating every minute of it?”
Tears pour down my cheeks. “No,” I say. “I’m loving every minute of it. Except maybe the last couple of hours.”
She smiles. “Understandably. Look. I used to hate small towns. I didn’t think I could ever live in one again. But love changes you. It anchors you. It holds you and buoys you and makes things possible that weren’t possible before. There’s a lot of love here. Kane’s, and Zara’s, and mine—”
“And mine.”
I’d almost forgotten Barb was there. I turn to find her smiling tenderly at me.
I sob for a few minutes while they both wait patiently. Barb finds a box of tissues and hands them to me, one at a time, and when I start to rise to throw away the ones I’ve used, she holds out her hand.
I protest, but she gently wrestles them out of my grip and makes them disappear.
“How about you get some sleep?” Lucy asks. “While Z’s asleep?”
“Z,” I say. “You gave her a nickname.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, that was presumptuous.”
“No. I like it.”
“I’ll watch out for her. You sleep. And we’ll wake you up when she needs to nurse again. She fed a lot earlier, right? I bet you’ll get two hours.”
She leads me into the bedroom and tucks me in. And she’s right. I fall asleep right away, and I sleep hard, harder than I have since Z was born.
When I wake up, Lucy’s gone. Amanda sits in a rocking chair on the front porch, doing something that looks very involved on her laptop, and Barb is on the couch, holding Zara, who’s just starting to stir. I feel like a different woman. Still exhausted, but calm.
And sheepish.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Barb. “That was—”
“That was par for the course,” she says, and pats the couch next to her. “I have something else to say to you, sweetheart.”
“Of course.”
I brace myself for a lecture. Kane’s her baby, and she probably wants to make sure I’m not going to hurt him. Or maybe she wants to make sure I see a therapist about my post-partum stuff—which, I’ll be honest, I should probably do. I make a mental note to call someone once Barb and Amanda leave, and maybe set up a couple of check-in visits.
“Not having your mom around when you have a baby is tough. I know, because mine died seven months before Gabe was born. Having him without her was the second hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
I don’t have to ask what the hardest was. Kane told me about her fight with breast cancer after her husband’s death.
But now I understand why she’s being so awesome. She sees herself in me, somewhere, somehow. We couldn’t be more different—the sturdy, well-rooted Pacific Northwestern grandma versus me… a butterfly who never lands.
Except I seem to have landed, haven’t I?
She touches my cheek. “So if you need anything—anything—please reach out to me. I can come over here even if it’s just to give you and Z a big hug. Or hold her while she naps. Obviously I’m talented at that.” She gestures at my sleeping daughter.
“I don’t want to… be a bother,” I whisper.
She tilts her head. “Oh, hon. That’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? Being afraid you’re a bother. That we’ll only tolerate you if you’re easy and no trouble.” She purses her lips. “I imagine that’s the hardest thing for someone who got left behind. Believing that you’re lovable—no matter what.”
I burst into tears again.
Because she’s right.
She’s shaking her head. “But all you have to do is let Kane prove it to you. Let all of us prove it to you. That’s all. Just hold still and let us love you and Zara. Think you can do that?”
I can’t actually speak.
The tissues come out again, and in the interim she’s found an empty paper bag for the used ones. She knew this would happen again, and she was ready.
When I’m just hiccupy, she touches my hair, pushing it back from where it’s stuck in the tears on my face.
Just then, Zara gives a squawk. I take the opportunity of there no longer being a sleeping baby between us to give Barb a gigantic hug.
“Thank you,” I say. “Just—thank you. And yes. I can do that. I can let you love us.”
She beams at me.
“Let me just change her,” she says. “And then I’ll give her to you.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s bad enough that you had to throw out my used tissues—”
She gives me a stern look. “Mari,” she says. “I’m only going to say this once, but I want you to listen carefully. I know it’s not the same as having your mom around, but I have big mom energy and I’m not afraid to use it. Used tissues are nothing, and neither is newborn poop. Let me change the goddamned diaper.”
In that moment I know for sure what I’ve been suspecting for weeks now: There’s nothing fiercer or better than Wilder love.
“Barb,” I ask. “Can I ask you and Lucy and Amanda for one more favor?”
She grins.
“Absolutely.”