30

LATER THAT NIGHT, I STAND WITH MY HAND HOVERING IN THE air outside the tiny alcove off our dining room that my mom turned into her (very cramped) home office when I was little.

Partly the hovering is habit. Mom’s rule for Alex and me was always, “Pause here and consider whether whatever you need is worth interrupting me for. If there aren’t bodily fluids involved, I expect your conclusion to be no.”

And partly it’s sheer apprehension.

Knock, knock.

“Come in!”

I turn the knob and enter, my pulse racing. Which is ridiculous, it’s just my mom. It’s not the person who has me nervous, though. It’s what I’m about to ask her.

“Is that popcorn?” she asks, her eyes widening.

“Air popped with spray butter. Zero Weight Watchers points.” I use my free hand to slide my iPad out from under my armpit and set the bowl on her coffee table. Mom clears aside a slew of file folders to make room for me next to her on the leather love seat.

“I must have been really into my project—I didn’t even hear that popping,” she says.

“Whatcha working on?”

She gestures at the piles of paperwork. “Trying to get things in order to pass on some of my caseload to a coworker.”

Hearing her talk about giving up her cases makes my throat ache a little, but far less than it did last week. Selfishly, I want my mom around right now, and I guess I’m finally ready to admit it. Although if she’s going to suggest moving to Tennessee next, I will have something to say on the matter.

But she merely glances at my iPad. “Did you want to show me something?”

“Kind of.” I bite my lip, buying time.

Bravery, not bravado. Be vulnerable—it’s your mom. There is no safer person to test the waters with; she’s obligated to love you no matter what.

I straighten my back against the cushion. “Actually, I wanted to see if you might have time to watch a few things with me.”

“These aren’t soldiers sneaking into their kids’ school assemblies in mascot costumes, are they? Because I am fresh out of tissues in here.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that, but we still might need to track some Kleenex down at some point.”

She tucks a leg under her and scoots closer. “Well, I don’t know whether to be intrigued or scared. Let’s see it.”

I don’t turn on my screen just yet, though. Instead, I force myself to get out the words I’d rehearsed in the kitchen while I waited for the kernels to pop.

“So you know how you said that thing the other night—morning, I guess—after the hospital, about not being able to be stronger for me? How you wish you had all the answers?”

She’s taken aback. She shifts now, tugging down her skirt and glancing to the side before settling her gaze back on me. “Yeah?”

I inhale, then force out my breath. “The thing is, I don’t have any answers either. Which will surprise exactly no one, I know.” My laugh is weak and Mom’s eyes soften on mine, waiting for me to go on. So I do, following a shaky exhale. “But the bigger part is, I, um, I also haven’t been letting myself ask the questions. And, uh, I think I have to start doing some of that now.”

I need to look away to get these words out, so I busy myself unlocking my iPad screen and opening up the YouTube app. “I, um, I bookmarked a bunch of TED Talks by people who’ve had near-death experiences or been diagnosed with terminal diseases and, uh, a couple by people explaining different religions’ takes on what happens when, uh, when someone dies, because . . . because I think I need to let myself go there and, um, I was hoping—” I’m too choked up to continue and when I pause to collect myself, Mom’s hand settles over mine.

It’s exactly the encouragement I need to get the last bit out. “I was hoping maybe we could learn how to let it be personal together.”

Mom’s eyes are already filled with tears threatening to spill as she nods over and over.