Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
She looks at me with stoicism. “You should just ask, not ask if you can ask. It wastes people’s time by unnecessarily dragging it out.”
The stroll down memory lane can’t erase all the other stuff that stands out so prominently in my mind. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Her jaw drops, and she stares as if this question came out of left field, but that can’t be true when hate is all I’ve ever felt from my parents. I just didn’t have the nerve to ask before. “What do you mean, Sosie?”
“Let’s not pretend, Mom.” Letting my head roll around my neck, I groan, “You know what I mean.” It’s not a bad thing to allow her to sit in discomfort. It might be new, but it’s needed for her to understand where I’m coming from.
“I don’t hate you. You’re my daughter.”
“Then why would you not stand up for me? Why would you not protect me? Why wouldn’t you want me to be happy?”
A tsk snips at her tongue, and she feigns offense. “That’s quite the barrage of unsubstantiated accusations. And it’s alarming you feel this way.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be mean, but I am a Stansbury after all, and sometimes I take after my father. So you can act like this is news to you, but you know how he treated me, took away things I loved, and manipulated me into conceding to his demands. I was a good girl, but you both made me hate myself, and for what? Access to more wealth. You don’t even care about the Lafoons, just as I don’t love Gregory. So why would you force my hand in marriage to that man?”
She tries to lift her gobsmacked mouth off the floor and anchor it back in place. But her lips are still parted as if the shock hasn’t retreated yet.
The truth should come quickly, so her lack of response is an answer in and of itself. Whether I like it or not, I need to accept that. It was pointless to think I’d get actual answers anyway.
Just as I angle away from her, she says, “I never hated you. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” An apology is the last thing I expected. An argument, a tit for tat, even a threat, but not an apology. I watch as she shifts in the chair as if this is a new situation for her. With me it is. There’s no stiff upper lip or taking it on the chin. She looks me straight in the eyes with sincerity encircling the pupil, and adds, “I hope one day you can forgive me, but I also hope that you’ll understand the circumstances I was under as well.”
I don’t owe her anything anymore, much less understanding, but she’s been honest with me and sounds genuine. Instead of holding on to the pain, I release it and give her the grace I think we both need. “I hope so as well.”
“Mrs. Stansbury?” A nurse approaches in lavender scrubs with an e-pad in her hand and wearing a smile that I take as a good sign. I have such a tangled mess of conflicted feelings regarding my father that I don’t know how to individually compartmentalize them. It’s not worth sorting through the past anymore for answers I’ll probably never get when I have a present that matters more to me and a future to look forward to now.
My mom stands, looking at me. “I’ll make sure you can see him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.”
“And Sosie.” She waits for my eyes to meet hers to say, “I like your hair. It always looked so cute short.”
I automatically touch the back where I know it’s uneven, which I thought she’d hate. “Then why were you always making me grow it out?” Although I asked, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m past caring what they think of me. I’ll enjoy the highlights, like the story she shared, without needing anything from them. Because all I could want or need is waiting for me back at his apartment.
“I’ve made mistakes.” The nurse pulls her gaze when she calls her name again, and then she follows her away from me. Just when we were getting somewhere, but an inkling of hope remains that maybe we’re not so far gone that we can’t find our way to neutral ground one day.
With too much time on my hands, I open the suitcase, thinking I’ll be entertained by what Keats thought I would need for one night at the hospital. It’s an interesting assortment of items, but the collated book tucked inside one of my shirts is what I reach for next.
“Across the Bridge by Keats Matthews.” The heaviness of my heart doesn’t sink but floats into my throat, where it’s determined to stay lodged. The corners of the printed cardstock cover are bent, and chaotic creases run vertically from repeated use. It’s thick and looks like it was printed at a printing center. How am I holding the original manuscript? Why would he give me something that means so much to him?