Page 139 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“Let me know, Mom,” I interject; then I hang up the phone.

Alicia and I stare at each other, holding our breath, for so long that I choke on my next inhale. My lungs burn. My chest is tight. And my eyes are raw with tears that fell silently, without stopping, for the entire call.

But I did it. So why don’t I feel proud of myself?

“It’s not like in the movies,” Alicia finally says, her voice heavy with compassion.

I don’t have the energy to lift a brow. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, despite only making it a few steps across the porch. “What do you mean?”

“You know, where the hero wins the fight and rides off into the sunset, beating his chest in triumph.” The corners of her mouth dip as she rises, crosses the distance between us, and grabs hold of my elbows. “That only happens for Superman. Or men in general, I think, because life isn’t fair.” She snorts at her own joke, but her gaze is hard. “No one ever tells you that standing up for yourself involves killing off the version of you that allowed that treatment to go on all this time. It feels like shit because it’s murder, Delilah. A vigilante killing, but a killing all the same.”

My gaze flicks between her somber eyes. I suck in a breath; then I’m reaching for her. Pulling her in tight. She smells like jasmine and my childhood, all wrapped into one.

“I can’t believe you called me a murderer,” I murmur into her hair.

She pulls back enough to look me in the eye. “But, like, the good kind?”

I snort. Grief scrapes the surface of my heart, and I don’t just let it. I beckon it deeper. Because at least the pain means I wasn’t complacent. Stagnant. No longer a rock that the river runs through but the river itself, carving its own path forward. “Thank you for being here.”

“I’m about a decade late”—she taps my nose and smiles—“but I owed you one.”

“Better late than never,” I say, glancing over her head at Truett’s farm.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Delilah

“Are you ready?”

I shift my footing. Loose bits of rock scrape underfoot, fragments fallen from tires onto the faded cement of the parking lot. It grates my ears, almost as much as my voice when I say, “I’m trying to be.”

The edges of Dad’s eyes soften. “Take your time.”

Time. It unspools like sand through the threads of my fingers, spilling onto the ground beneath me. I made the mistake once of thinking I had a whole beachfront full of it, only to realize now that all along it was an illusion. The scene of a beautiful vacation, encased in the finite boundaries of a snow globe.

I shook it the day I came home. And here we are, looking at what was stirred up.

The grounds of Edgewood Assisted Living are immaculately landscaped. Square-edged bushes surround the red brick building, and large magnolia trees tower at each corner. Carefully pruned wisteria vines weave through gardening arches that line a walking path off to my right. The building itself is stately and classical, with large columns standing guard on the front porch and windows lining the facade, allowing light to pour in at every angle.

It’s an enormous complex, with the assisted living building up front and a dedicated memory care facility on the back. Dad would start in assisted living and stay for as long as he can handle some independence. The memory care facility is for when the disease outpaces therapy and meds and time, which I pray we have more of than we think.

Mom called me late last night, long after I’d tucked myself into bed and tried to sleep. I don’t know how long I tossed and turned, going over every word I wished I’d said differently. Analyzing each held breath, every sniped comment. When my phone lit up, I was sure she was calling to let me have it for being so disrespectful. And I was prepared to agree with her.

“You’re right,” she whispered through the receiver, something I’ve never heard her say before. Words I wasn’t even sure she was capable of uttering.

I had to stop myself from saying, I am? Instead I repeated the mantra that had been living in my head all day. It’s a murder, but a necessary one. Then I mentally thanked Alicia for the morbid pick-me-up, almost missing Mom’s words in the process.

“He said all they did was kiss. I know that. But I couldn’t believe it, Delilah. He had been so pissed that I said I was leaving him, but he had the nerve to do that? With her?”

“You were going to leave him?”

“Once you graduated. That was the deal I made.” She sighed, and I could hear the tears on her breath. “I was miserable there, Delilah. Wasting away. I had to get out.”

In the dark I reached for my heart. Fumbling through tangled blankets and the rodeo T-shirt I never gave back to Truett, I finally found my own skin. Pressed against my chest, my palm vibrated in tune with my pulse. Lifted on the tide of every breath. Up and then down. Inhale the truth, exhale the lie.

“I’m going to give you the money. You’re all I have left. I can’t lose you.” Her tone curdled, making otherwise sweet words rancid. “But I’m doing it for you. Not for him.”

Good enough, I thought. Then, and now. As I look up at the ornate building, with all its drama and flair, those words trumpet in my brain. Our shoes aren’t littering the front porch, but it’s good enough. There’s no crooked floorboard to greet you, but it’s good enough.

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