Anne needed her at that very moment. Her mother possessed a maternal sixth sense as deeply engrained as her ability to enter a room with poise and confidence even under overwhelming pressure.
Anne turned and trudged down the corridor to the breakfast nook, the place where they had shared their best mother-daughter chats over tea with milk and an occasional butter cookie, only mildly aware of her mother’s prim footsteps behind her. She clicked on the fluorescent light above the breakfast table, washing the area in a harsh artificial glare that robbed the place of its hominess. Before, it hadn’t seemed to matter that much, but today she longed for warmth and solace. If only she’d insisted on buying the brightly colored Tiffany fixture, the one Jack had deemed too prissy for the contemporary surroundings. It wasn’t the only thing she had conceded to him. She had practically given up her soul, as well.
Collapsing into the oak barrel chair, she waited until Delia took a seat across from her. Then she let the tears flow, not bothering to hide them at all.
Delia clasped Anne’s hand and wrapped it in her own. “It will be okay, baby girl.” Her smile, motherly and forgiving, was the kind of smile Anne had hoped upon hope to present to her own daughter during a crisis. But lately her smile had been a charade due to the fatigue and frustration over not having enough hours to spend with Katie. A lonely smile that had grown only lonelier over the past few years.
Anne slipped her hand from between her mother’s and wiped at her face with one sweatshirt sleeve. “I’m okay.” She didn’t sound okay. She sounded terrified, unsure—and she hated it. She longed to be as strong as her mother. As Jack. She never had been.
Delia fished through her black leather bag, brought out a small plastic packet and offered it to Anne. After taking a tissue, she sucked in a draft of air and released it on an uneven breath as her mother continued to study her, waiting for her to speak, she supposed. Delia had always been a good listener and a friend in times of need. Anne needed her now more than any other time she could think of.
“Did Max tell you?” Anne managed to ask through a rogue sob.
Delia sent her a look filled with disdain. “Maxwell Crabtree and I don’t speak unless absolutely necessary, but I’m certain this probably thrills him to no end, considering how much he detests Jack. And that’s not only because he’s been pining for you for years between his marriages. He covets Jack’s career. Did you know he couldn’t make the grade in medical school?”
Anne wasn’t sure she could handle any more surprises today, and she certainly didn’t want to get into this now. “No, I didn’t. And I don’t care what you think of Max, Mother. He’s remained my friend over the years. He’s not cruel enough to wish ill will on anyone, even Jack.”
“Is that how you found out about Jack—through Max?” Delia’s tone sounded indicting.
“Hank told me.” Anne preferred to keep her earlier conversation with Max under wraps. “How did you find out?”
“Nellie Mills caught me outside the hospital luncheon.”
Anne couldn’t imagine why her mother didn’t spend her time someplace other than the institution that had been the center of her own husband’s existence. The place that had stolen their weekends and deprived them of being a close-knit family. Just as it had Anne’s married years with Jack.
But maybe her mother insisted on volunteering there to continue to connect with what had been her husband’s life. Anne could relate to that in a very personal way. She could have taken a job elsewhere, yet she still worked in the same place whose hallowed halls her ex-husband graced. Or had until two days ago.
Fresh tears threatened Anne, so she left the chair, walked to the stove and grabbed up the teakettle to put on fresh water to boil.
“How is he, Anne?”
Anne clicked on the burner beneath the kettle. “Hank just called. He’s out of surgery for repair of the aneurysm.”
“Why aren’t you there with him?”
“Because I’m no longer his next of kin, remember? Hank only phoned as a favor to me, not out of obligation.” Her obligation to Jack had ended two years earlier with a simple signature. “Hank says he’ll be okay if everything goes well the next forty-eight hours or so. But there’s some paralysis in his right hand and leg.”
“Oh, dear.” Her mother’s normally calm voice wavered. Anne couldn’t stand it if Delia cried. Not the one person in her life who handled crises like a four-star general, including Anne’s father’s death.
“He’ll get better,” Delia said. “He’ll go back to surgery eventually. Won’t he?”
Now her mother was relying on her for optimism. What a switch. Anne turned and feigned calm. “It’s possible, but we just won’t know for a while.”
Anne faced the counter again and absently placed two tea bags in two matching green ceramic mugs from the set of four she and Jack had gotten when they’d married. None had been broken. She wished she could say the same for the marriage. And her heart.
The whistling teakettle startled Anne, but she managed to dole the water into the cups without making a mess. Balancing them in her trembling hands, Anne made her way back to the table to give her mother the tea while preparing for her questions.
“Have you told Katherine?” Delia always insisted on calling her granddaughter by her given name, Delia’s mother’s name. She’d claimed it was much more elegant than Katie.
“Not yet.” Anne braced for the fallout, staring into her tea.
Instead of scolding, Delia said, “I’m sure you will when the time is right,” then added, “but don’t wait too long.”
Anne raised her eyes from the teacup. Her mother’s expression held no judgment, only sympathy. Delia was a master of sympathy. “I thought I would do it tomorrow.” Suddenly, Anne felt like a teenager again, explaining why she hadn’t cleaned her room.
And her mother responded in kind, like the disappointed parent, when she asked, “Why not now, Anne, while I’m here?”
“Because I don’t know what’s going to happen. If something should happen to him, then…” Anne let the words trail off, hating the thought of that something. Yet she couldn’t write off the possibility that Jack could bleed out again, and this time it could be fatal.
Now Delia looked worried. “You don’t really think—”
“I’m not sure what to think. I’m concerned.” And scared, but she didn’t need to voice that emotion. Her mother would already know.
Delia rimmed the cup with a neatly manicured nail. “I’m glad to hear you’re worried about him. Things have been so bad between you two since the separation.”
Divorce, Anne silently corrected. Her mother couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “I still care about what happens to him, Mother.” Trouble was, she still cared too much.
Anne sipped her tea for a moment, allowing its warmth to wash through her. All day she had been cold, moving through her shift in a state of shock until she’d asked to leave early. “Hank believes we should be actively involved in Jack’s recovery.”
“Of course we should.
