A/N: Oops, so it turns out the first half of this story is set more in late-January '23-ish than in spring '23, like I thought. I forgot that detail until I reread this chapter. Not a big deal, but I wanted to correct it to keep it straight in my own head as much as y'all's. The second half of the story is somewhere in the early-April vicinity. Phew, now that that's cleared up. I decided to go ahead and post this a day early, since tomorrow is a holiday in the US. Happy Fourth to my stateside friends and happy reading to everyone! (Oh, and I'm sorry is being a butt and hiding my story for some of you guys. I hope they get their shit together soon.)
3. Stars Around My Scars
. . .
Olivia felt like Mrs. Dalloway, deciding to buy the flowers herself.
She hadn't read the book since high school, and remembered very little about it, outside that famous opening line and Woolf's penchant toward long-windedness. Mostly, she had tackled the troubled author's work to please her mother, who quoted it like scripture, but she had found To the Lighthouse and A Room of One's Own quite enjoyable. Both books, along with what she presumed to be the entirety of Virginia Woolf's oeuvre (yep, there was Mrs. Dalloway farther down on the left), were wedged into the large bookcase that presided over the room. Alphabetized, naturally.
That's how Serena had arranged her shelves too.
"Is it Rapunzel?" Tilly asked, hopeful and endearing as always. To be fair, the book Olivia was tilting down from the rest by its spine, taking a peek at the cover, did sort of resemble the packaging of most Tangled merchandise. Royal purple, swirly fairytale text. And Tilly would know—between herself and Jesse, the sisters had just about every collectible item ever made of the Disney animated film. But this tale, or rather, work of epistolary nonfiction, was decidedly not a part of that group.
"No, sweetheart, it's . . . a little different from that."
Simply entitled Love Letters, it appeared to be an anthology of Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West's love letters to each other. Olivia was intrigued, but she snapped the book back into place quickly and scooped Matilda up in her arms at the sound of the study door opening. She and Amanda were trying to encourage some independence in their preschooler, who had become a bit clingy over the past few months, but right now she wanted her little girl close, for her own security. Not that she was frightened or anything. Just nervous.
Very nervous.
"There, now, isn't that better?" Meg Hawthorne stood in the doorway of the cozy room, which too late Olivia realized reminded her of a psychiatrist's office (hadn't there been an armchair in Giacomo's office just like the one by Meg's reading lamp and coffee table?), presenting a vase full of dahlias and anemones like a baseball trophy. She gazed at them with the same sort of pride. "Something this pretty deserves to be on display."
The damn flowers. They were the ones Olivia had decided to buy en route; the ones that inspired her little walk down memory lane just now, with Virginia, Serena, and the Dalloway broad. Like an idiot, she forgot to bring a vase to put them in. She had actually flushed as red as the reddest petals in the bunch when Meg showed her into the study and hurried off to put them in water. Normally, she had the courtesy thing down to an art, but here she was, showing up at a dying woman's house uninvited, bearing flowers and no vase, and staring dumbly on while the woman fussed over the colorful spray, moving it place to place in search of the perfect spot.
Meg had dropped so much weight since Olivia last saw her at Serena's graveside the previous May, her arms seemed too frail to carry the small burden, no matter how lovely it might be. Olivia felt a sudden, terrible certainty that if she had decided to postpone the visit with her old friend for another week or two, she would have been too late.
"Here, let me get those for you," she said all at once, trying to drown out the thought.
A weathered brown hand, ashen at the fingertips, waved away the offer of assistance, and Olivia noticed that Meg had also aged considerably since their last encounter. This time she looked her full seventy-six years of age, and then some. But Olivia had no room to judge, really. Her fifty-fifth birthday was fast approaching, and after last year, she probably looked a little worse for wear herself. Amanda swore she didn't—that she was as beautiful as ever, and the shorter hair actually made her look younger somehow, softer—but on the rare occasions she studied herself in the mirror these days, she surely did not see it.
Not that she'd ever been particularly enthralled by her own appearance. Her features, deemed "exotic" or "striking" by others, had always been a bit overdone for her liking. The eyes just a bit too wide set, the breasts just a bit too large, the strong jaw, the strong hands, and don't forget the expressive, sensually curved mouth that never ran out of things to say. It all attracted attention, yes, but seldom the good kind. She'd spent her entire life watering herself down so others would find her acceptable, and what had it gotten her? Nothing but more grief.
"Oh, go on with you," Meg said, lightly shooing Olivia's approaching hand from the vase and waving her toward the armchair. "You've got your own sweet load to take care of. Have a seat, babies. I'm not so weak I can't handle a few flowers and some imitation crystal." She knocked on one side of the vase, and had to grip it suddenly so it didn't fall out of her other hand. Olivia cringed, expecting the whole arrangement to go crashing to the ground. Fortunately, it did not, and she wasn't left with much choice but to sit and wait for the other woman to join her.
"We can't stay long," she heard herself saying, though she and Tilly were under no real time constraints. Amanda had stayed at home with the older kids and the baby to entertain Daphne, who had popped by for a visit—probably what had inspired Olivia to do the same to her old friend—and wouldn't think much of her wife and daughter being gone for a couple of hours. They were supposed to be spending some quality time together, having dinner at Tilly's favorite restaurant (it served grilled cheese), and Olivia had promised to call if anything went wrong. That much was a given, but it had prevented her from phoning to inform Amanda of the change in plans when they stopped off at Meg's. She hadn't wanted to frighten her wife with an unexpected call.
Then again, if Amanda still had that tracking app installed on Olivia's phone, all it would take was a glance at the location screen for her to see that Olivia and Matilda weren't where they were supposed to be. That was reason enough to keep this meeting brief. It was one thing for Amanda to practically break down the door of a sleazy therapist's office to rescue her during an undercover op, but if she came pounding on the door of an ailing elderly Black woman, it probably wouldn't go over too well with the house's other inhabitants or the neighbors.
"Well, now, that's a shame," said Meg. She had finally found the flowers a place of honor on the vintage wooden teacher's desk which occupied a large chunk of space in the not exceptionally large room.
For some reason, the desk made Olivia uncomfortable. Maybe even a tad claustrophobic. She was literally sweating, for God's sake. Her anxiety was affecting her little empath Tilly as well. The girl squirmed in her lap—Tilly never squirmed—then cried out in protest and clung tighter when Olivia tried to shift her onto the seat cushion.
"I stay with you, Mommy," she whispered in Olivia's ear, and as sweet as it was, that worried Olivia too. Tilly had been reverting to baby talk more and more lately, despite having what her pre-K teacher called "the vocabulary of a very bright first-grader." It hadn't come as much of a surprise to her mothers, not with a chatterbox big sister like Jesse and ever-patient big brother Noah there for Matilda to emulate. If she wanted to keep up with the two older children, she had to learn fast. But now she chose Olivia's company almost exclusively, wanted to sleep in her and Amanda's bed, and spoke at the level of a two- or three-year-old at times.
It was probably just a delayed reaction to the baby, Amanda had suggested. Tilly saw Sammie getting all the attention, wanted in on it, and regressed just enough to remind everyone she had been the original baby of the family. Olivia hoped to God that was the case, and not a sign of a deeper problem, psychological or cognitive, brewing for the four-year-old. None of her kids were misbehaved, but Tilly was by far the most easygoing, the sunniest, the most affectionate, a quality that had earned her the nickname lovebug.
Olivia couldn't stand the thought of that changing; of her issues affecting one of her children. She forced herself to sit up and breathe in a normal rhythm, angling her body away from the desk so she wasn't facing it head-on and could relegate it to her peripheral vision. Amazingly, when she wasn't looking at the old piece of furniture, her pulse stopped racing and she no longer felt like searching for a handkerchief to pat against her brow. "Mommy's not going anywhere, sweetheart," she assured her daughter, relaxing considerably when Tilly's grip loosened around her neck. "How about you sit here beside me? See, you'll still be close."
The exchange had taken place softly, apparently at a volume too low for Meg to hear, because she had continued her half of the conversation, the tail-end of which Olivia caught while she was helping Matilda nestle into the spot next to her. "—hoping you'd have a chance to meet Naomi. She shouldn't be gone much longer. And Maya." Meg clasped her hands together against her chest, as if she might go a step further and bow her head in prayer. Thank goodness she didn't, but there was a watchfulness in her eyes, a fondness, as she studied Olivia, that resembled the reverence of prayer, and Olivia wished for it to stop. "My daughter. She stops by to check on me each night, on her way home from work. I'd so love for you girls to get better acquainted."
A tight-lipped smile was the best Olivia could summon under the circumstances. She had thought she was over the jealousy she felt for the young woman who got to grow up as Meg Hawthorne's daughter, a position Olivia had coveted for the majority of her youth, but here was its familiar pang inside her chest, like a poorly struck chord. She knew next to nothing about Maya Olivia Hawthorne, beyond the sound of her voice over the phone (it had been the daughter who called to update Olivia on Meg's declining health), and she wouldn't mind leaving it that way. Why would she want to get to know the girl who had been more worthy of Meg's love than she herself? What good would it do to see the kind of life she might have had with Meg as her guardian?
In spite of all the challenges and trauma, Olivia couldn't wish away the life she'd ended up with. Without it, she might have missed out on Amanda and their children, and no amount of motherly love, acceptance, or safety was worth that trade-off.
Still didn't mean she wanted to be best friends with Meg's daughter.
"I spoke with her over the phone," Olivia said. She already regretted moving Tilly out of her lap; a four-year-old wiggle-worm was a great excuse to fuss and fidget and not make a lot of eye contact. Meg's steady, perceptive gaze was unnerving. Like knowing you were being observed from behind one-way glass. "She seems lovely. It was so thoughtful of her to keep me informed of your . . . progress."
Progress? That had to be the stupidest way she could have put it, as if breast cancer were a goal you worked toward, little by little, until it was too advanced for treatment. Progress! She'd meant to say condition, but second-guessed herself at the last second and blurted out that stupid, insensitive word instead. If there had been room to curl up behind Tilly and hide in the big armchair they shared, she just might have given it a try.
"Oh, yes. Yes, she is a dear. I must confess, though . . . " A modern office chair in blush-colored velvet stood behind the wooden desk—Olivia looked away quickly—and Meg wheeled it out and around, locking it in place across from the armchair. She pulled the sides of her long, flowy wrap in at the waist, tucking them tighter as she sat. On her head she wore a brightly colored scarf that twisted like a bun at the back and concealed what hair, if any, she had left. The cancer had stolen none of her style or the easy elegance that had so captivated Olivia as a child. Not yet, anyway. "I asked her to call you. To be honest, I think she's been a little intimidated by you, all these years. Perhaps a little jealous too."
For the first time since arriving at Meg's brownstone, Olivia felt all the tension and pent-up emotion drain from her body. At least temporarily, as she tried to comprehend what she was hearing, and forgot how on edge she was, how out of place with this woman she had once called family. "Jealous. Of me? But why?"
"Oh, you know how competitive girls can be, especially when they're teenagers. Some of it's probably my fault. I talked about you all the time—how bright you were, how wise beyond your years, and determined to stay on a good path, even when you were young. I thought you'd be a shining example of what a woman can accomplish if she sets goals for herself and doesn't let anything get in her way." Meg had that look again, like Olivia was a beloved old photograph she'd happened across in a family album. "You are. But I pressed too hard sometimes. Maya didn't feel like she could measure up to you back then. Some of our worst fights were about you, believe it or not. She used to say you were the daughter I always wanted."
"I'm sorry I was such a bone of contention for the two of you," Olivia said, the guilt for her petulant tone setting in immediately. She had experienced the same phenomenon in Meg's presence last time—the phenomenon where she regressed to about the age of fifteen and behaved like a total brat. It was a side of herself she didn't like at all, and one she, thankfully, had very rare occasion to express. Namely with Meg, the only person who had been there for her at that age, and the very first to abandon her. (Hollister didn't count; he was never around to begin with.)
Expecting Meg to respond with contriteness, for which Olivia would then have to apologize too, she was caught off guard again when the older woman gave a heavy sigh. Olivia knew that sound because she occasionally made it herself, and Amanda made it at least five times a day, but louder and more dramatic. That was the sound of a mother exasperated with her child. The rebellious teenage fire within Olivia was reignited by that extended breath. Meg had been no mother to her, and she didn't get to play the part now.
"You're still angry with me, I see." Meg didn't wait for an answer, just shook her head and smoothed the skirt bunched loosely in her lap. "You have good cause, I won't deny it. I failed you, Olivia, and I am deeply sorry. The biggest mistake of my life was not fighting harder for you. But, baby girl, I need you to let that go now, and forgive me."
Stunned out of any pretense by Meg's direct manner—she was speaking to Olivia as if she really were still that little girl, and as if her authority would naturally be heeded—Olivia huffed. "Excuse me? Let it go? Oh my— Do you even know how long it took for me to get over what you did to me? How many years I spent undoing the idea that I was unlovable and everyone would leave me, like you? To this day I question whether my wife might—"
From the corner of her eye, halting mid-gesture, she spotted Tilly gazing up at her with wide, wondering eyes, and immediately dropped the expressive hand back into her lap. It was bad enough she was losing her cool in front of her daughter; she wasn't going to spill her guts to a virtual stranger (what else did you call someone who had once been your biggest confidant, your closest friend, and chose to walk away?), telling her things she hadn't even admitted to a therapist yet, while Tilly hung on every word. She'd be damned if she would do that, even though it was all bubbling to the surface, longing to pour out. The lid was staying on.
She folded her lips together tightly, forcing the blood out, and gave her head a fierce little shake. "How dare you," she said, gradually regaining composure. More or less. "How dare you put that on me. I was a child." The claim still tasted bitter in her mouth, as though she were admitting a terrible flaw rather than stating a fact. She had never felt like a child, even when—legally—she was one, and only in the past year or two had she been able to accept that she'd experienced many of her traumas while underage. Some when she was not much older than Noah. A baby, really. "You don't get to tell me how and when to forgive."
The thought crossed her mind to scoop Tilly up and depart the brownstone just as spontaneously as she had arrived at its door, but Meg must have remembered her tendency to flee during arguments—Serena often left her no choice. "You're right, you're right," Serena's old buddy said, holding up her palm. For silence? In surrender? "That came out much too bluntly, and I apologize. It's not my intention to put anything on you. It's just that I . . . I don't have a lot of time." Sadly Meg looked to Matilda, another child she would never get to see grow. "Things need saying now, I say them. That's one benefit of terminal cancer, I guess, is it forces you to cut through all the bull."
Olivia didn't know how to respond, or if she was even supposed to. Her head was beginning to throb, a familiar nausea stirring in the pit of her stomach. The migraines were back full-force, and this visit was proving to be one big fat trigger for the brain-splitting headaches. It didn't take much these days. But she was determined not to let the unpleasant pulsing at her temples interfere with this confrontation, which was nearly forty years in the making. Besides, she couldn't exactly use migraines as an excuse with a woman who was being eaten alive from the inside.
She concentrated on breathing through her nose, to calm her heart rate and, subsequently, the pounding in her head that seemed to beat along with it. Normally, she loved the smell of flowers, but right then the scent of the damn bouquet she'd brought made her want to puke. If there had been any windows in the study, she would have gotten up and cracked one herself.
"But in spite of all my newfound gumption, I must admit I'm a bit frightened," Meg said, a false note of optimism in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried to smile, but it was tremulous and didn't last very long. Simply reaching for a tissue from the box on the coffee table caused her to shrink back, cringing, and abort the effort, empty-handed.
That did Olivia in. No matter how angry or how hurt she was by Meg's abandonment, she couldn't stand to see her old friend—oldest, actually—in pain. She patted Matilda's tiny hip, letting her know she wasn't going far, and pushed up from the chair, extending the Kleenex to Meg. At the last minute, she thought better of it and plucked out the white plume of tissue on top, before handing the box over and resuming her seat. In spite of what her dry eyes and take-charge attitude conveyed, her emotions were not the most trustworthy right now. Even at her toughest, she had seldom been able to watch someone she loved cry without tearing up as well.
The thought echoed in her brain as soon as she registered it: loved. So, she still loved Meg after all.
Of course she did. Of course she always would.
"Not of death, mind you," Meg said, picking right up where she'd left off, as if there had been no interruption. Her memory was slipping, perhaps, most likely due to illness, or else she was just cutting corners again, eager to skip formalities and anything that consumed time. Because it was running out. "I've made peace with that, as best I can. My affairs are in order. The thought of leaving Naomi . . . Maya . . . " She had the far-off tone of someone drifting in daydreams as she said the names of her wife and daughter, but she came back to reality all at once, as if fingers had been snapped in front of her face. She passed a tissue under her nose, and sniffed. "That's hard. But it's you who's weighing on my mind the most, Olivia."
For the second time in minutes, Olivia asked, "Me? Why?" a hand splayed on her chest. Heat flooded her cheeks—her entire body, head to toe—and at first, she wondered why she was having a hot flash. Then, noting her rapid pulse and shortness of breath, she realized it was panic, not menopause. She was sure she knew where Meg was going with this, and her aversion to the subject was so strong it had triggered a panic attack. Fantastic.
She kept one ear open while internally talking herself down, a useful skill she thought she might have picked up in grade school, allowing her to fret about Serena (How much was she drinking today? Had she fallen down again? Would she be dead when Olivia got home?) and absorb her lessons at the same time. It turned out she needn't have gotten so worked up, though, because Meg had taken a completely different tack than she expected. By the sound of it, the other woman didn't even know anything had changed for Olivia in the past year, and as far as Olivia was concerned, it could stay that way. Her guard must have slipped then, from sheer relief, making her more receptive to her friend's plight, for she stayed in her seat and didn't run for the door, as she kept replaying over and over in her head.
There should always be an escape plan.
"I'm afraid of what will happen if I pass on with you still hating me," Meg said, looking sheepish in spite of her matter-of-fact delivery. She had been quite formidable in her younger years, at least from Olivia's adolescent viewpoint, and it was almost as shocking to see her less assured side as it was to see her so physically diminished. Shocking and painful. A deep-down, perpetually young and unsullied part of Olivia wanted to go to her and hug her tight. "You know I've never been a religious person, or particularly superstitious, but I feel that, if I leave this earth not having mended things with you, I'll never truly find peace. And if I don't give you the chance to forgive me . . . or not . . . I'll be leaving you with a terrible burden. I've already done that once, and I won't do it again. I don't want that to be how you remember me."
Her voice trembled, but she kept her tears in check. She showed her palms in a meek, apologetic shrug, all her cards on the table, Olivia to do with them what she would. It was categorically unfair. After waiting so long for someone who had harmed her in the past to ask forgiveness, Olivia found she didn't want the option. She'd never had it, and didn't know what to do with it now. Where did forty years of hurt and resentment go if you decided not to hold it inside any longer? Maybe it went out into the atmosphere, causing chaos and natural disasters. Or maybe it just grew into something dark and malignant that turned around and gobbled you up when you stopped feeding it.
"Are you sad, Mommy?" Matilda asked, her little hand offering comforting pats to Olivia's thigh, her little brow furrowed in concern. As usual, she might not understand the adult conversation going on around her—she'd been so quiet these last few minutes, Olivia had practically forgotten she was there—but she was most definitely picking up on the emotions that were driving it. "I give you hugs?"
Olivia found the answer to her quandary right there in her daughter's innocent blue eyes, gazing up with such love and sincerity. Tilly wanted only the best for her, expected only the best from her. What kind of mother would she be if she didn't set a good example and forgive the woman she had once looked at like that? Suppose she made a mistake that caused Tilly to one day be faced with the choice of forgiving her or withholding that final bit of comfort? Just the thought of her baby girl ever giving up on her or thinking ill of her broke Olivia's heart.
"Mommy's okay, lovey." She stroked the fluffy ginger curls back from Tilly's temple, dotting it with a kiss, then scrunched the little girl against her side in a child-size hug. "But I can always use one of these from my sweet girl. You know what else . . . " Olivia sat back enough for Tilly to see into her face; to see all the love that emanated from it. Then she turned that love on Meg, her almost-mother and long-lost friend. It had been there all along, she realized, just obscured by the ugliness she'd encountered on the way. "I think Grammie Meg might need one of your special hugs too. Would that be okay with you, bug?"
Matilda mulled over the request for a moment—she and her siblings were accustomed to being asked for consent to give and receive physical affection, something Olivia was particularly proud of; she'd never had that option growing up—then scooted off the armchair cushion, leaving her skirt hiked up in the back, clinging to the seat of her tights. The cartoon print of her underpants was crumpled beneath the stretchy nylon, showing through in colorful splotches. Olivia told herself it didn't matter, to just leave the kid alone, but it took every ounce of self-restraint she had not to reach out and fix the minor wardrobe malfunction.
She's fine, it's fine. That voice, the one Olivia heard in her head when she was talking herself down from needless fussing and fretting, sounded an awful lot like Amanda's. She suddenly couldn't wait to be home with her wife, who somehow managed to keep her grounded no matter what the situation. Be it something as huge as the events of last spring or as small as their daughter's skirt not covering her bottom.
"May I hug you?" Matilda asked around the finger hooked into the corner of her mouth. She had developed a bit of shyness with the regression, especially around people she didn't know well, but nothing too unusual for her age. A healthy dose of caution around strangers was a good thing, anyway. Another one of Amanda's maxims of motherhood.
"I think that's just about the sweetest offer I've heard in quite a while," Meg said, and though it likely wasn't without pain, she leaned forward and spread her arms for Tilly to walk into. Slight herself, she still engulfed the tiny little girl with the embrace she folded her up in. (Olivia felt it at her own shoulders—like a phantom limb—her memory of Meg's hugs were so vivid, so strong.) "Mm-mm-mmm. I do believe I'm feeling better already. I bet you brighten things up wherever you go, don't you, honey?"
"Uh-huh. I'm the sunshine!" Tilly forgot her reservations and the babyish behavior then, and began serenading Meg with the first verse of "You Are My Sunshine," her unofficial anthem, as designated by her mothers and siblings. They all sang it to her with such deliberate regularity, sometimes overlapping and trying to outdo each other, it had become a running joke in the family. She's my sunshine; no, she's my Tilly-Billy Sunshine. Amanda was the only one who could carry the tune worth a damn, although Tilly was showing some promise in the vocal department as well.
Meg seemed to think so, too. "Oh my goodness," she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. "Listen to you! You sound just like a little angel. Turn around here and let me check you for wings, Miss Sunshine."
Twisting side to side and giggling as Meg prodded her shoulder blades, Tilly craned her neck, attempting to catch a glimpse of her imaginary wings. Olivia didn't have to see them to know they were there. If ever angels really had existed, she was sure her children were close descendants of the heavenly beings. They were her angels, in more ways than she could count, and though she loved the work she'd devoted her life to, they were her greatest accomplishment. They gave her life meaning, when so many others had tried to take it away.
She wondered if she had ever inspired those same feelings in Meg. They had been as close as a mother and child for a while, and Meg had followed her career trajectory since graduation from St. Winifred's, she'd said so herself during their last visit. What years they had lost, and all because of Serena's selfishness and jealousy. What precious little time they had to make up for it.
It was decided, then: Meg was forgiven. Olivia didn't have the luxury of putting it off even one more day, drawing it out as some sort of warped payback. Nor did she want to. Her heart had been yearning for this moment so very long—her true family coming together, love passed down through the generations instead of violence, alcoholism, shame, lies—and she hadn't even known it. Her only regret was that Amanda and the rest of their kids weren't here to share in the laughter and the warmth of Grammie Meg, who would undoubtedly adore each of them as if they were her own grandchildren.
As for regretting letting all the hurt and anger go—well, it was simple, really. She didn't.
While the girls were still giggling of sunbeams and angel wings, not looking her way, Olivia dried the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. And when Meg's arms finally opened to her, hoping, hoping, she went, forty years of pent-up love carrying her swiftly to her dear old friend. "Oh, Meg, I've missed you," she said, on her knees to be embraced at the same level as Tilly had been, requiring less movement from Meg. "I've missed you so much. Please don't leave me again. I still need you as much as I did back then."
"That much?" Meg asked, drawing back to cup Olivia's face in her hands. It was indulgent, as if Olivia were a young child exaggerating her desperation for a new toy or a hot fudge sundae, but somehow, Meg saved it from being patronizing or mocking in tone. She'd always had that mother's touch.
And Olivia had always yearned for it. She couldn't help herself; she responded in the manner of a child, for that's what she had been the last time she put her heart in Meg's hands. Seldom since had anyone but Amanda gotten to see this side of her, so vulnerable and so ready to believe whatever she was told. "Well, I have my wife and my kids now, so I'm not alone anymore. But . . . I want you to be there, to know them. We can't have been brought back together just to be torn apart again. That's not how it's supposed to work. You have to stay. You have to get well."
It was such a silly, childish thing to say, not to mention the unfair expectations it placed on the ailing woman, but Olivia didn't care. She had her Meg back, and she couldn't—wouldn't—lose her again. God owed her this one. She was willing to let some of the other things slide if he would give her just this one damn thing. Basking as Meg stroked her face and hair, Olivia wrapped one arm around the woman's knees—she had the oddest urge to kiss both of the bony kneecaps, but she kept that impulse in check—and one around Tilly, and she prayed for a miracle.
"I'll try, honey. I'll surely try." Meg gave her a sad smile that Olivia recognized because she often smiled that way too. Usually when she was putting on a brave face for the kids or trying to throw Amanda off the scent of whatever was troubling her at the moment. Meg didn't believe she could survive her cancer battle, that much was clear.
So, Olivia would just have to believe for her. Fight for her. She knew a little something about feeling hopeless and wanting to give up, making her an ideal candidate for offering advice and support, though she'd never experienced a serious illness of her own. With any luck she never would. It was tempting to knock on the wooden coffee table after that thought, just to be on the safe side, but she kept it to herself. She didn't have much use for superstition.
And besides, her daughter and her old friend were smiling now, conversing about the scarf around Meg's head ("Pretty," Tilly noted, stroking the silken fabric; Meg lightly guided Olivia's hand down when she started to discourage the admiring touch). Olivia didn't want to miss another minute with either of them.
. . .