Home Again

Madelaine smiled wearily. “I’d guess that means he’s a great kid.”

“He is … now. And see if you can find someone for Lina to talk to. I’ll keep trying, but she doesn’t want to listen to an authority figure.”

“Yes,” Madelaine answered. “I will. Thanks a lot, Vicki.”

After she hung up, Madelaine got to her feet and walked down the hallway She was at Lina’s room before she’d even formulated a plan. But the minute she looked at the closed door, she knew what she was going to do.

Someone to talk to.

She knocked on the door.

No one answered.

Steeling herself, Madelaine opened the door anyway.

Lina was sitting on her bed, listening to music through big black headphones and smoking a cigarette. She was wearing a sweatshirt that read: If you don’t like my music, you’re too frigging old. There were tears streaming down her cheeks.

The sight of her baby sitting all alone in her room, rocking back and forth and crying, was almost more than Madelaine could bear. She walked over to the stereo and clicked it off.

“Damn it, Mom!” Lina wrenched the headphones off her head and tossed them onto the unmade bed. “You have no right to bust in here and shut off my music.”

Wordlessly Madelaine took the cigarette from Lina’s mouth and crushed it in the littered ashtray on the floor. Then she sat down beside her daughter.

For a second they just looked at each other, and the wary resentment in Lina’s eyes hurt. Lord, how it hurt.

Madelaine reached out, brushed the ragged hair from her daughter’s eyes.

Lina flinched and drew back, laughing shakily. “I’m not getting another haircut.”

Madelaine sighed. So many misunderstandings. “I wasn’t thinking you needed a haircut, baby. I was thinking you need a father.”

Lina paled. “You said he doesn’t want to see me.”

“He thinks he doesn’t, but sometimes a person can’t see what’s right in front of him.” She gave her daughter a tentative smile. “Like you. I’m right here, I’ve always been right here, and yet you don’t see me.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t interrupt me. I haven’t been a good mother to you, Lina. I know that, don’t you think I know that? But it’s never been because I don’t love you.” She smiled softly. “I remember when you were born, and they set you on my stomach. You were so little, so perfect in every way, and I started to cry. Everyone thought I was crying because you were beautiful.” She stroked Lina’s damp cheek. “But I was crying because I was seventeen years old and afraid. I knew I’d never be good enough for you.”

“Mom, don’t…”

“Because I was afraid, I’ve been selfish. I’ve tried to keep you with me all the time, hoping that someday I’d get it right. But I haven’t gotten it right. If I had, you wouldn’t be skipping school and shoplifting and sitting alone in your room, crying. You need something I can’t give you right now.”

“I need Francis,” she said in a small, shaking voice.

“We both do, baby. And we’re going to keep on needing him every day for the rest of our lives. Maybe someday the pain will soften—everybody says it will—I pray it will. But for now, we have to go on with our lives, we have to grab for whatever happiness we can find. If there’s one thing I learned from Francis’s death, it’s how fast it can all be gone. One phone call in the middle of the night and your life is changed.”

“I want my old life back.” Lina gave her a watery smile and shrugged. “I know, I know, I hated it when I had it.”

Madelaine wanted to throw her arms around Lina in that moment and draw her close, but she was afraid it would end the conversation, and she still had a long way to go. Miles and miles. Instead, she cupped Lina’s chin in her hand and smiled. “I want to change where I’ve gone wrong.” She drew in a long breath and geared up for her next words. “I want to introduce you to your father.”

Lina’s eyes widened and she started to shake her head. “Not yet…”

“Yes. Now.”

“What will he do?”

There was the question, the stinging little fear that niggled inside and couldn’t be brushed aside. But the new honesty felt good, much better than all that hiding and pretending to be fearless and perfect. “I don’t know.”