The Way We Feel

Chapter 5

"Madelyn Jane, if you don't stop fussing over me soon, one of two things is going to happen. Either I'm going to pull all my hair out, or I'm going to say something to you I'm going to regret later."

I stopped and stared at her from behind.

Mom turned her head, and I had to admit, I was a bit relieved to see the amusement in her eyes-- even though the sight of the butterfly bandages over her brow, and the bruising beneath them, still put a knot in my stomach.

"It's a lot harder to go about this when you're breathing down my neck with every step I take," she said.

I didn't know what to say, so I took a step back and let her get on with it, watching carefully as she manipulated her crutches. After only a week of using them, I had to admit, she had really gotten the hang of walking with them. Still, I was a little affronted by her tone.

"Sorry for wanting to help," I muttered, picking up her fresh cup of coffee and following her into the den.

"You are helping," Mom said, heading straight for the couch. "Too much. Don't you want to spend some time with your husband?"

There was something like shame heating the lower part of my stomach, so the truth sounded almost like a lie when I said, "He had a meeting this morning. He texted a few minutes ago. He'll be here soon to pick me up."

Mom settled down onto the couch with a huff, and lifted her leg up onto the coffee table, where we'd already set a cushion for her to prop it up. It took a moment for her to get settled, and now I was all too conscious of fussing over her, so I set her coffee down and sat beside her, surreptitiously analyzing her to see if she might need anything else.

"Still..." she said, yanking the remote out from under one of her legs. "You shouldn't be spending your first week post-honeymoon with me."

"Mom, you were in a car accident," I said.

She waved the hand holding the remote in my direction to brush it off as nothing.

I wished it was as easy for me to brush it off. But news of her accident had opened a pit of worry in my stomach—a pit that had deepened so quickly, it was hard to enjoy our last day in Italy. Hard to notice and appreciate the quaint, narrow streets, the charm of the little shops, the beauty of the ocean views peeking at us around corners. It was hard to focus on anything but the way that pit was widening.

When Harry and I had gotten home last week, we went directly to Mom's from the airport. He knew I couldn't wait much longer to get all the details as to what had happened, and though neither of us had slept all that much on the plane, I think we both also knew that I wouldn't sleep until I saw her.

And she had been fine. Generally, anyway. She'd been happy to see us, but insistent that we shouldn't have come, we should've gone home, she could've waited to see us until tomorrow.

I'd tried to make it about missing her, about wanting to give her and Emily their souvenirs—I'd picked up a couple bottles of olive oil in Tuscany, a few decorative, ceramic bowls from the Amalfi coast, and a pair of leather gloves and a few silk scarves just for Mom. But despite the gifts, Mom was rather upset with us. She knew we were worried about her.

"You didn't tell me about the stitches," I'd said, unable to avoid the obvious reasons for my being there any longer, still alarmed by the sight of the deep purple bruising on Mom's forehead, covered by two measly bandages. I looked from her to Emily with an accusing glare.

Emily's eyes had gone wide, and she crossed her arms where she was leaning on the doorframe of the den. "I didn't want to worry you anymore than you already were. It was only a couple stitches and a bump on the head. No concussion, no permanent damage..."