Page 133 of Westin

Her eyes are soft. “I don’t want to lie to you, baby. You are so much like your father.”

My head isn’t on straight right now. Maybe I came here wanting her to tell me I was nothing like him, that all my self-perceptions were wrong. But my mother has always been honest. She told me the truth I already knew.

Now, I just have to live with it.

Neither of us feel like talking about my father anymore after that. It occurs to me that I want to ask if she thinks he was faithful, but I don’t have the courage. I don’t think it matters matter anymore.

I stay for lunch and have more coffee as she cuts the roses and sets them on the table. When I leave, she hugs me goodbye, and I feel a tremor in her arms.

“I won’t take so long to visit,” I say.

She steps back. “Bring your girl next time.”

I pause, in the doorway of my truck. “What?”

She taps her neck. “You’ve got a hickey there, Westin.”

I swing inside. “Listen, Mom, I need a little time.”

Her face falls. “Okay. I won’t rush you.”

“It’s not you,” I say firmly so she knows I mean it. “This is about me and…all the bullshit I have in my head. Just give me a little time, and I promise you’ll meet her when I’ve sorted myself out.”

She nods, her smile fragile. I get out of the truck again and go to hug her. When she pulls back, she pats me on the cheek and gives me a teary kiss.

“I’ve never been able to guess what’s going on in that head, baby,” she says. “But I can be patient.”

I pull her in one last time. “I want you to know, nothing was ever your fault. Nothing.”

“Oh, darling,” she whispers.

“I mean that. I want you to tear it up, go out with all the bankers you want, alright?”

She laughs as she lets me go. I touch her face before heading back to the truck. My head won’t straighten itself out. I do a grocery run, trying to get anything I think Diane might want, and pack it into the cold back of the truck. Then, I go to the general store and head to the fabric counter, because if I can’t use my words, gifts will have to do.

I stop short, floor creaking under my boots. There’s somebody already there, leaning on the counter, chatting up the lady at the register.

“Deacon,” I say.

He swivels. “What are you doing here?”

I shrug and lean on the other side of the counter. The lady stands between us, glancing back and forth. She’s got a bolt of pink dottedcotton rolled out. Deacon and I look down at it and then back at each other.

“That looks like church girl fabric to me,” I say.

“Aw, shut the fuck up,” he says.

I laugh, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders. “Listen, you want to get some coffee? I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

He shrugs. “Sure. Let me finish up here.”

The lady folds the pink cloth and puts it in a bag for him. Then, I pick out several bolts of fabric I think Diane will like. Just as I’m being rung up, my eye falls on a soft, glossy cloth edged with lace. It’s creamy white, and the lace is pale yellow.

“What kind is that?” I ask.

The cashier pulls the bolt down. I can feel Deacon smirking behind me.

“It’s a satin blend,” she says.

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