Ten Years Later.... Marie Ferrarella
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Now that was a new one. “Since when do you wear makeup to bed?”
“Since I had to call nine-one-one in the middle of the night,” she answered primly.
“You do realize that when they respond, they’re here to possibly take you to the hospital, not escort you to a party,” he told her.
“I didn’t want them to have to see an ugly old lady,” she said simply.
“You’re not an ugly old lady, Mom. You’re a pretty old lady,” he said, tongue in cheek.
“Remind me to hit you when I get better,” she answered.
That had been the test. Had she taken a swipe at him, the way she had in the past when the teasing between them had escalated, he would have felt that perhaps there’d been a false alarm, that she was really all right.
But her restraint told him the exact opposite. That she wasn’t all right.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You’re not an old lady, Mom. You know that. You look younger than women fifteen years younger than you are.”
She smiled at him, grateful for the compliment, even though she knew it was a huge exaggeration.
“Nevertheless, a lady should always look her best,” she maintained.
He shook his head, but unlike the old days, this time it was affection rather than impatience that filled him. That was his mother, determined to look her best no matter what the situation. He had to admire that kind of strong will.
And then he realized what she’d just told him. “You had to call nine-one-one?”
This was just going to be the first of many lies, Barbara thought, even as she reminded herself that it was all for an ultimate greater good.
“Yes. But it wasn’t so bad, dear,” she assured him. “The young men took very good care of me.”
There was genuine regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, Mom.”
She patted his hand, the simple gesture meant to absolve him of any blame. “Don’t give it another thought. You have your own life, Sebastian. And besides, you’re here now and that’s what counts,” she added.
“So tell me everything,” he urged. “What did the doctor say?”
“We can talk about all that tomorrow,” she told him, waving away his request. “Tonight I just want to look at you. You still like coffee?” she asked suddenly, then turning on her heel, she began to lead the way to the kitchen. “Or have you decided to switch to green tea now?”
“I still like coffee,” he answered.
“Nice to know that some things don’t change,” she told him.
Yes, but most things do, he thought, following behind her.
As the thought sank in, he could feel his heart aching. He should have come home a lot more, he upbraided himself. Even if coming home reminded him of all the things he’d given up and all the things he still didn’t have, he should have come home more often.
“Sure you’re up to this?” he asked his mother, concerned.
Barbara turned on the overhead lights, throwing the small, light blue kitchen into daylight.
“Putting water into a coffee urn? I think so,” she deadpanned. “And if for some reason I can’t, as I recall, you can.”
And then she paused to hook both her arms through his for a moment and just squeeze him to her.
“Oh, it’s so good to have you here. You’re just the best medicine I could ask for.”
Her words both gladdened his heart and pierced it with guilt. He switched the topic.
“Marilyn, huh?” The animal in question had followed them to the kitchen and had now positioned herself directly by the refrigerator, like a furry sentry who wanted to be paid in fish scraps. “Why Marilyn?”
“After Marilyn Monroe,” Barbara answered without any hesitation. “Because when she crosses a room, she moves her hips just like Marilyn Monroe did in Some Like It Hot.”
Sebastian pressed his lips together, knowing that his mother wouldn’t appreciate his laughing at her explanation. All he trusted himself to say, almost under his breath, was “If you say so, Mom.”
Turning away to look at the cat, he missed seeing the look of satisfaction that fleetingly passed over his mother’s face.
Chapter Two
“You look pretty, Mama.”
Brianna turned from the full-length mirror in her bedroom and glanced at the slightly prejudiced short person who had just uttered those flattering words. Sweet though it was, it wasn’t the compliment that had warmed her heart; it was what the little girl had called her.
Mama.
She wondered if she would ever get used to hearing that particular word addressed to her.
Certainly she knew that she’d never take it for granted, especially since, biologically speaking, she wasn’t Carrie’s mother.
But there was no denying that presently she was the four-year-old’s only family. She and her father, who, mercifully, had taken to the role of grandfather like the proverbial duck to water. He liked nothing better than doting on the curly-haired small girl and, in effect, being her partner in crime. Not only was Carrie precocious and the personification of energy, she also possessed a very active imagination.
“Least I can do after all you’ve done for me, Bree,” he’d told her when she’d commented on the unusual dynamics their family had taken on.
“You are my dad,” she reminded him, dismissing the need for any gratitude or words of thanks. “What was I supposed to do, just walk away and leave you to fend for yourself?”
He’d smiled at her. Brianna had never been one to take credit for anything. “A lot of other kids would have,” he’d pointed out. “And not many would have postponed their education—and their life,” he emphasized, recalling everything that had been involved that terrible summer when she’d stayed behind to nurse him after his horrific car accident.
An accident that his doctors insisted would leave him totally paralyzed, if not a comatose vegetable. Brianna had been his one-woman cheering section, refusing to allow him to wallow in self-pity or give in to the almost crippling pain. Instead, she’d worked him like a heartless straw boss. He gave up every day, but not Brianna.
She’d kept insisting that he was going to walk away from his wheelchair no matter what his doctors said to the contrary. She took nursing courses and physical therapy courses, all with a single focus in mind: to get him to walk again.
And during whatever downtime she had, between working with him and studying, she’d pitched in to help run his hardware store, working with his partner, J.T., whenever the latter needed to have some slack picked up.
By Jim MacKenzie’s accounting, his daughter hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours a night for close to three years. The day he’d taken those first shaky steps away from his wheelchair, he remembered that she’d looked at him with tears in her eyes, a radiant smile on her lips, and declared, “Looks like I can go to bed now.”
Brianna now looked at the little girl who was sitting on her bed, waving her feet back and forth as if channeling out her energy to the world at large.
“Thank you, baby,” Brianna said to the child she’d come to love as her own.
“She doesn’t look pretty, Carrie,” Jim informed the little girl as he left his post in the doorway and walked into the room to join the two women in his life. “She looks beautiful.”