Page 28 of Everything We Give

“Your mom?” Aimee’s stiff demeanor deflates like a sail that’s lost its wind as the fight in her leaves. “Really?”

“Yep.” Now that I said it out loud, I realize this is something I need to do that I can no longer put off.

“What brought this on?”

I shrug, rolling my lips over my teeth and biting down. I’m not going to mention Lacy’s card, because if I do, I’ll have to mention James. I’ll prove to Aimee I don’t always bring him up.

“You haven’t talked about looking for her since Mexico. Why now?”

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. I see a lot of her in Caty.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“So was my mom.”

Aimee rolls her eyes. “I know. I was talking about your mom. You’ve shown me pictures. Thereisa lot of her in Caty,” she says as she wanders around the desk. She reaches for my hand. “There’s a lot of her in you, too. So, will you hire a PI? A legitimate one?” she quips.

The corner of my mouth pulls up. We can laugh about it now, but it wasn’t funny six years ago when Aimee hired an investigator to search for James. The PI fed her lies and absconded with her money.

“I haven’t thought this through yet.”

“When are you going to start looking?” she asks. I don’t immediately reply, finding fascination in the tiny scars on her fingers. Battle wounds from years of working in a commercial kitchen. I turn her hand over and trace her life line with my thumb. She groans my name, tugging her hand from mine. “You’re still going to Spain, right?”

“I’m not sure.” Once I get an idea, like for one of my next photo expeditions, I’ll exhaustively research it, and that worries me. I won’t be able to focus on my assignment until I make progress with my mom.

Aimee gives me a hard look, then gathers her purse, keys, and phone. “Let’s get my car. I’ll have Trish close up.”

Her tone gives my heart a shove. It beats faster. I’ve made her angry. “You’re mad.”

She stops at the door, hand on knob. “No, I’m not. I’m confused.”

I cross my arms. “You don’t think I should look for her.”

“I didn’t say that. I support your decision one hundred percent. I’ll even help you. What I’m thinking, though, is that we need to discuss this tonight.” She zigzags a finger between us. “Because I want to understand why you need to do this now. Why it can’t wait until after Spain. Why are you willing to give up your dream of working withNational Geographicto go after a woman who abused and neglected you?”

Sarah didn’t abuse me, not intentionally. Jackie, the monster inside my mom, was a different story. Aimee knows I spent my childhood caring for my mom more often than the other way around. How she’d shower me with love one moment and shout her hatred of me the next. I grew accustomed to having her read me a bedtime story in the evenings and throw her books at me in the morning when she couldn’t find the car keys she’d hidden from herself. Bedlam was the norm in the Collins household. I adjusted to the shifts in temperament as smoothly as she switched personas.

What is difficult for outsiders to understand, as I think is the case with Aimee, and I sometimes wonder myself, is why I still love my mom. It’s my belief that had she not had such a traumatic childhood and had I not played a role in exacerbating her mental illness, she would still love me. She would not have left me. Given the chance to apologize, I could change things with her. Not her illness, unfortunately. I cannot fix that. But maybe she can find a place for me in her heart again. She can forgive me.

I drive us to Nadia’s garage to drop off Aimee and Caty. After I agree to be home by dinner and they’re in Aimee’s van, I head to the gym. We’re talking tonight, which means I need to figure out the answer to Aimee’s question. Why must I search for my mom now?

I do my usual routine of dead lifts, squats, and burpees, then run a fast 5K on the treadmill. When I finish and my body is still a tightly coiled roll of film, I slip on a pair of gloves and work over a punching bag. I deliver several solid blows, wind up for a fourth, and nearly hit Erik’s grinning jaw.

He swings his head aside at the last second. “Whoa, watch the aim.” He grabs the swinging bag.

I point a gloved hand at him. “Good thing you’ve got quick reflexes. I would have sent you back to the orthodontist.”

“Not a chance.” He runs his tongue along his gleaming piano-key set of teeth.

“Warn me before you spot.” I huff the words. I drag my forearm across my damp forehead.

Erik stabilizes the bag. “You’re on a roll and look like you want to murder someone. Have at it. I’ve got you covered.” He braces his legs.

For the next ten minutes, I take the last three months out on the bag. The Rapa in Spain. James’s arrival while I was there and his repeat return. My overwhelmed and overworked wife who’s done much better than I have with James’s revival. I think of our daughter, who every day looks more like a blend of my wife and mom, which makes me think of the business card I’d left at home. What’s Lacy’s role in all this? Of course, thoughts of her bring me full circle to James and the Rapa, reminding me of the photos I took and who I thought I saw through my camera lens sitting in the stands. That’s when I know why I’ve been on edge since June, and it has nothing to do with James and Aimee, not directly. That one slightly out-of-focus image among thousands of photos I took at the Rapa has been quietly at work in the back of my mind, stealthily fueling my frustration and disappointment in myself. And I’ve been taking it out on Aimee, using her history with James as an excuse for my inaction.

I deliver one last punishing blow, the impact of which vibrates up my arm and rattles my teeth, and back off from the bag. I owe my wife a serious apology.

Hands clasped behind my head, chest heaving, I walk a tight circle.

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