Page 38 of Catching Sparks

My heart grows frantic in my chest as I turn into the kitchen, worry piercing my armour. The first person I see is Margaret, the gentle-natured woman who has become a pivotal member of our lives over the past two years. She spins to face me when I step through the threshold, her mouth curling in a smile that settles some of my worry.

“Cynthia, your son is here,” she says, a hand moving to cup my mother’s upper arm.

I blow out a long breath of relief when Mom twirls, steady on her feet, and stares at me. The tears instantly filling her eyes shatter my heart, pain striking deep. She moves quickly toward me—too quick—but for the first time in a long time, I don’t chastise her for it. I accept the running hug she gives me and soak in the comfort of it.

My mother is so small in my arms, so fragile and breakable. The top of her head only reaches my collarbone, and the full length of her arms hardly wraps fully around my middle. I set my chin to her crown and close my eyes, rubbing a hand up and down her back as her tears wet my shirt.

“You and your tears.” I clack my tongue.

She pinches my side, and I jump, laughing. “Don’t start with me already. Can’t a mother just be excited to see her son?”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

Stepping back a step, she wags her finger at me. “It was all in the tone.”

“The dramatics have already arrived, and I’ve only been here for two minutes,” I tease.

Mom gasps, one hand flying to her throat before she glances at Margaret. “Do you see how he treats me?”

“So, so cruel,” Margaret snickers.

“Two-on-one isn’t a fair fight.”

“Oh, you poor baby. Will a cookie help soothe your sore feelings?” Mom asks, already strolling back to the silver pan on the stovetop lined with a pink silicone mat and a dozen cookies.

“Always,” I say before reaching over her head to grab two. They’re hot, burning my fingertips as I curse and set them on the marble countertop.

“Careful, they’re hot,” she sings, a too-knowing grin on her face.

It’s good to see her this happy. There’s always the hope that she is, but unless I’m here, watching her like this with my own eyes, I can’t be certain. The last time I didn’t take her safety seriously, she wound up in the hospital with a broken ankle and collarbone and, a day later, an osteoporosis diagnosis to match. That was two years ago, but not a day has passed since where I haven’t stressed over her. Even with Margaret here to help.

My new stay in Cherry Peak has become a hindrance to the frequent visits I like to pay throughout the week.

I carefully nip at the side of a cookie, narrowing my eyes at her. “Thanks for the warning now.”

“You’re very welcome, sweet pea.”

“How was your week?” I ask after finishing the first cookie and moving on to the second.

Mom’s slippers slap the kitchen floor as she moves to the fridge and pulls a full jug of juice from the shelf. I’m moving at the same time Margaret is, but I get there first. With a scowl, I take the jug from her thin fingers and carry it to the island.

“Garrison Beckett, I was getting that myself,” she scolds, jutting her chin up at me before I spin to face the other way.

I ignore her, keeping the fear ripping through my stomach hidden behind clenched teeth. My inhale is sharp, my exhale long. Grabbing three glasses from the cupboard, I set them on the counter hard enough to ping and fill them with deep red juice.

“Don’t ignore me,” she says.

“Cynthia.” Margaret meets my mother’s stubborn tone with one of her own.

I take all three glasses in my hands and carry them to the table in the other dining room. The windows are tall in this room, looking out to the firepit and custom-made outdoor barbeque. With the green grass and tall trees, you’d hardly be able to tell it’s still only early April.

Only one set of footsteps sounds behind me, and I swallow, tucking my hands into my pockets. Mom sighs, the sound sad, tired.

“I’m sorry. I understand why you were upset about what I did,” she says, stepping into my side with a hand to my back.

“You can’t be—” I cut myself off before the rest of my angry words escape. “I know that you’re capable of doing things for yourself. That doesn’t mean that you need to. Not when you have Margaret and me to help.”

“I’m not weak. A bit more breakable than some, sure, but I’m tough,” she jokes, but I don’t laugh.

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