Page 117 of Existential
A phone number.
I look up at Hooch, and frown. “I don’t get it.”
“Here.” He passes me his phone over since I never have mine on me—old habits. “Facetime. They’re expecting you.”
I sit frozen as he retreats to sit on a display made of hay a few feet away, caught up in the nostalgia of the last time I saw him atop a bale. He gives me a gentle nod, coaxing me to do it.
One by one, I enter the numbers, working through the possibilities in my mind. Nothing. I’ve got nothing. The screen changes to the camera, my concerned expression mirrored back at me. I give Hooch one last glance, and his smile sets me at ease.
If he’s okay with this, then so am I, because this is a man who wouldn’t knowingly do a thing to hurt me.
The recipient answers, and for the longest moment I hold my breath, disbelieving what I see staring back at me.
My mother.
“Hello, Dagne.” She smiles, and I falter, caught in the new age lines, the natural grays that have weaved themselves into her hair, and how tired she looks.
“Mom.” It’s all I can say. After so many years of being denied contact. How?
“Spin me around so I can say hello to that man of yours,” she says. “I’m guessing he’s close by.”
I turn the phone in a daze toward Hooch. He raises his hand in greeting. “Hi, Fiona.”
“Thank you,” is all she whispers before I spin the phone back around.
I can’t hold back; I ask the burning question. “What made you change your mind?” Obviously, Hooch is involved, but how?
She fusses off camera, the scrape of paper coming through the speaker. “I got some mail, last week.” She lifts a square of paper into the shot, but I can’t see what’s on it. “Normally I’d throw out unsolicited letters, but this one …” She sighs. “I don’t know. Something made me open it.” Her fingers gently fidget with the edges of the paper before she lifts it to the camera so I can read it—even if it does come through backwards.
Thought you should at least know what you’re missing out on.
She smiles sadly as she spins the square around. It’s me. A photo Beth snapped on her phone and posted to Instagram a couple of months back after the dust had settled. I’m laughing at Crackers’ joke, and I look … carefree. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m truly happy, and it shows.
I glance up at Hooch as he sits leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth. He watches me with such intensity, such relief.
How did I luck out with this guy?
“He’s right, Dagne,” Mom says, drawing my focus back to her. “I didn’t block your calls because I didn’t believe you, I blocked them because I was too guilty to face the truth.” She dabs her finger beneath her eyes, sighing as she tries to regain composure. I’ve caught her at work, the setting behind her giving it away. “Your father told me the truth before he died, and I felt so ashamed,” she stresses, “that I chose to deny it was my fault you left rather than face facts and try to make things right.” She bows her head, shaking it. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, fighting tears of my own. “That’s all I wanted to hear: sorry.”
She nods briskly, her lips sealed in a firm line. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to fly down there next week and say it in person.”
My heart races, my hands once again shaking as I lock the phone in a vise-grip. “I … I guess.”
So much going on that I wasn’t prepared for. So much.
“I’ll make arrangements and let you know.” She smiles. “I know this is hard, Dagne. Hell, I’m sweating bullets. So, I’ll let you wrap it up and deal with things one step at a time, huh?”
“That would be good.” I chuckle. “I just wasn’t expecting this … at all.”
“I know.”
We say our goodbyes and Mom disconnects first. I smile at Hooch, his expression mirroring mine.
“Why?”
“Because you deserved an explanation at least.” He stands and crosses over to me as I rise to my feet also. “You know I love you, right?”