Beta: Frannie
Prereaders: Jill, Pearly, and Ariel
My heart: Full if love for my readers and reviewers.
No matter how busy shit gets at work, Sundays are always saved for Mom. I swear I tried to leave the office at a reasonable hour so I could get at least a few hours more rest than I was used to. I tried to give my mother as little to worry about as possible, so if I showed up in my normal tired, scruffy, greasy state after living off coffee and nicotine for God only knows how long, she'd do nothing but fret over me the entire visit.
She had enough to fret about. She was going to get better, and she needed all her energy for that.
Of course, this time, I didn't succeed. Watching Bella as closely as I had been meant I had fallen behind on my other cases, and I spent all day Saturday playing catch up and generally feeling like an idiot. I felt off-kilter, like everything in my world was shifting against my will, and I was desperate for some control. I needed to get my ass in gear and get back on track before everything I cared about slipped through my fingers.
Yes, I kept Bella as a case because it was better for her safety. That didn't mean I didn't have other people I was in charge of that needed protection just as badly as she did; and if I weren't watching, I wouldn't catch it, and someone would get hurt.
I wouldn't be able to live with myself if that happened.
I did manage a shower and a trim of my stubble-turned-beard before I headed to Mom's. I still looked rough, but at least I didn't smell like the sewer I looked like I crawled out of. Less than eight hours of sleep in three days will do that to a person.
Mom and Dad lived on the outskirts of Seattle, in a quaint little area that kept them away from the insanity of city life but close enough to make all of Mom's appointments and to keep me, Rose, and the grandkids close by. I was always able to feel a change in the air when I drove out here; a sort of peace the city just didn't offer.
When I pulled up to the pristine Cape Cod-style home of my childhood, I was happy to find all the doors and windows open and nineties country music pouring from the house. Today it was Garth Brooks.
You didn't hear much country music in the Pacific Northwest, but Mom was born and raised in Texas, and I grew up to Sunday mornings full of this music blasting from our speakers while she cleaned. I was a classic child of the nineties, in love with all things grunge, and spent a lot of time complaining about her choice in music. But not today. Today, Country music was my favorite because it meant Mom was having a good day.
Dad had the door open before I made it to the porch, his blond hair now mostly gray. Unlike his friend, Aro, he was still fit for his age. He still got up every morning to run at least five miles, as well as strength training in the gym in their basement. Mom and Dad may be in their late fifties, but they were still the best looking—and happiest—couple I had ever seen.
"Son, you look like hell," my father stated, pushing the screen door open.
"Thanks, Dad, love you too," I clapped him on that shoulder in the way men tend to do, but he pulled me into one of his trademark hugs anyway.
"I'm not going to give you hell for it. Your mother will do enough of that for the both of us."
Grateful for that, I had a smile on my face when I pulled away from him, looking around the inside of the house that smelled of Pine-Sol and elbow grease.
"She's doing well today?" I ask, crooking an eyebrow at my dad.
He's kept up on the housework while Mom has been sick. It was part of why he retired. But no matter how hard he tried, it never got the Esme stamp of approval until Esme did it herself. It had been the same growing up, Rose and I would spend all day cleaning the house as a surprise for Mom, and we would still catch her cleaning after we went to bed. Not to say she wasn't thankful, of course, she was; she was just a neat freak to an extreme.
"My family deserves a clean and happy home," she would say.
"It's been a great day. Great few days, really. The doctors put her on this new trial, and it seems to be working. But we don't want to get our hopes up, of course."
I nod silently, wise enough to keep my mouth shut. I've always been the glass-half-empty type. The guy who only sees the rain cloud, without the silver lining, who's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I learned very early on in Mom's diagnosis that cancer leaves no room for my pessimistic bullshit.
That's why I'm positive she will survive this. She's too good. She has too.
"Is that my boy, I hear?" My mother's voice comes drifting through the halls, and fuck if I don't feel a lump in my throat when I see her.
Today she looks like the old Esme. Thinner, paler, and a colorful scarf instead of the shiny auburn hair she passed onto me, but her light is back on.
I'm not a crier. Hell, I'm hardly a feeler. But I have a soft spot for my mama.
She's small and frail when I pull her against my chest, but there's a strength to her that wasn't there last week.
"How's my favorite girl doing?" I inquire.
"Oh, I'm doing just fine. Come here, let me look at you."
We do this every week. As if I've magically stopped working my ass off. She knows what she'll find, but I let her poke and prod. She squeezes my ribs, ruffles my hair even though she has to get on the tips of her toes to do so, and then her chilled hands frame my cheeks, and she looks deep into my tired eyes.
"Holy shit, Edward, there's a girl."
Wait, what?
