Twenty-nine

Prue

After I apologized to Tracy half a dozen times, I politely rushed her out the door, successfully avoiding her attempts to not-so-subtly pry into what happened between Milo and me.

Once I had the door closed and managed to catch my breath, I did what felt most natural. I snuck upstairs to check on Mom. Except, this time, it was less to make sure she was okay and more for my own comfort.

Mom's bedside lamp is on its dimmest setting, casting her room in a golden, cozy glow.

Her breaths are steady. Her room isn't too hot or too cold.

Her hair is brushed neatly into a low bun, the way she likes it, and there's a glass of water by the bed like I usually leave for her.

I make a mental note to thank Tracy once more as I unzip my boots and softly drop them at the end of my mother's bed.

Then, I climb in beside her and curl myself against her back, pressing my face between her shoulder blades. I breathe her in, let her warmth seep into my chilled skin, and, once the events of this evening catch up to me, I begin to gently weep against her pillow.

I can't do it, I tell her telepathically, reaching out to press my fingertip against a grayed curl laid next to me on the pillow.

I can't keep you here. I'm so sorry. I tried so hard.

Dad is sick. Dad is sick and so are you.

Dad is sick and so are you and neither of you, or I, can make it right.

I'm so sorry. It's not fair. None of it is fair.

I love you. I love you. "I love you," I whisper, unable to contain it all.

"I love you too," my mother returns softly, rolling over to face me. I blink at her, stunned, before draping my hand across her stomach.

"Hi, Mom." I hear my father's bedroom door down the hall close. He's home.

Mom's eyes remain half closed as her face points toward the ceiling. "Bad dream, little one?" she asks, her voice far-off and sleepy but still so lucid—so her.

"Yeah," I answer. I hope so. How much better would it be if this was all some terrible dream?

"D'ya want to tell me about it?"

More than anything.

I want to tell her about the boy with the dark eyes, who she already is so fond of, and what he means to me.

I want to tell her how much space he now occupies in my heart.

How afraid I am that I'll never be able to reclaim it, despite everything.

I want to ask her why she kept his painting all these years.

I want to ask her advice. I want to ask if she'd forgive him or not.

I want to ask her if forgiving him would make me weak.

I want to ask if it would make me strong.

I want to know how she felt when she realized that she could not fathom living without someone for the first time.

I want to know if it ever gets any easier.

If, maybe, it doesn't have to be easy. If loving someone this much is wrong or too much or just scratching the surface.

I want to tell her about the man she loves, and what he's done.

How desperately he needs her here to guide him because somewhere along the line, he's made a real mess of things.

Mostly, despite my anger, I want to tell her that he's probably frightened, and hurting, and is going to need a batch of her famous fix-everything soup and a tender hand to hold come January.

I want to ask her what I'm supposed to do now. How I should balance my anger and my fear and my resentment and my love for Dad all at once. I want her to tell me if I'm able to hold all of those feelings in my chest.

I want to ask her if this is all, somehow, my fault.

Ask her why she thinks Dad couldn't trust me.

If I truly am the scared little girl he seems to think I am.

And if so, I want to ask how to grow out of that.

How to care less. How to stand on my own two feet.

How to let them both go when all I want is to stay by their side.

And why is that so wrong? Is it wrong? How could it be wrong?

I don't know how to love less, I want to tell her. And I don't think I want to know.

I want my mom.

"No, that's okay," I answer. "Go back to sleep."

"Okay, baby. We'll talk about it in the morning?" she asks, then yawns.

"In the morning," I return, cuddling into her side. I fall asleep listening to her heartbeat, telling myself with every thump that I will clean up my father's mess. That I will do what I always said I was going to. I will keep this family together, one way or another.

I wake up when dawn begins to creep in around the edges of Mom's curtains. She doesn't stir when I get up and make my way to the bathroom. I wash my face, unable to rest any longer with the sticky residue of slept-in makeup left on my skin.

It's early, probably before six, but when I leave the bathroom I hear my father rustling around in the kitchen downstairs. The familiar sounds of the coffee maker being opened and coffee grounds being scooped up and dropped against the paper filter.

I take a long breath in, allowing my eyes to close as I do, and then make my way down the stairs—unable to stop myself from fondly remembering who mended the last step as I step onto it.

"Hey, Dad," I say, lowering into a chair at the kitchen table.

"You're up early," Dad says, looking over his shoulder. His expression changes once he sees me, then he turns his body to face me as well. "Prue, what's wrong? You're wearing what you wore last night, and you don't look so—"

"I know, Dad. I found out last night."

He blanches, blinking rapidly as his limp hand finds the corner of the counter between us and leans onto it. "Know what, darling?"

I turn to face away from him, staring at the circular burn stain on the center of my parents' table, marked before I was even born.

"I know about the cancer. I found out last night when I came back to help Tracy find Mom's pills.

Your medication was on your desk and…" I sigh, my lips quivering as I fight to maintain a steady voice.

"When I opened the computer, I saw emails from your doctor. I read everything, then I talked to Milo."

The chair to my left scrapes against the kitchen tile before Dad drops into it, his breathing low and heavy.

I turn to him with tears in my eyes, finding him cradling his face in his hands. "I really wish you would've told me," I say in a broken whisper.

"I didn't want you to find out this way," he whispers back.

"It seems like you didn't want me to find out at all, Dad."

His eyes close, and he runs a hand down his face before dropping it into his lap. "I wanted you to have a choice. To leave or stay. I wanted—"

"I was never going to leave." My voice shakes, but I sit up straight next to him, looking him in the eye. "I would've done whatever it takes to stay. That was and was always going to be my decision. I told you that. Why couldn't you accept it?"

"I promised your mother—"

"That you would never let me put my life on hold for her sake, I remember. But I'm not. And if I am, it's not for her sake or anyone else's, Dad. It never has been. I'm trying to do what I want."

"You used to be so, so…" He shakes himself, then swallows. "You wanted so much more than this small town, darling."

"I was a kid," I say quietly, pleading with him just the same.

"I was a kid who thought she could go off and do things and call home to tell you and Mom about them. I wanted to send postcards, like Aunt Lucy did. But you and Mom, and this house, and this town, it was always going to be where I came back to, even when I dreamt of leaving. Those dreams were never about trying to get away from you all. They were about getting to come back. To tell you stories. To make you proud."

Dad nods, slowly, running his fingertips back and forth over the table's wood grain. "I—" He sighs deeply, his lips beginning to tremble. "I'm so sorry, Prue. I—"

I reach out and fold my hand over his, squeezing tightly. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry you've been going through all of this by yourself. I'm—" I hesitate, my body desperately not wanting to say it aloud. "I'm sorry you're sick, Dad."

Dad places his other hand on top of mine, and pats twice. "I've got good odds, Prue. I'm going to be okay. The treatment is intense but other than that—"

"I saw," I interrupt, offering him a soft, crooked smile. "I read all of the emails, remember?"

"Right." Dad sighs, hanging his head. "My girl…"

"I really, really wish you'd told me. I'm hurt that you didn't, and I'm hurt by who you did tell."

"Milo was sort of in the wrong place at the right time," he confesses quietly. "But he is a good one, Prue. He cares so deeply for you. I hope you don't think—"

"That he kept a secret that was going to heavily impact my life and therefore lied to me? Yeah, I do, obviously. But that's for him and me to figure out."

"I've made a real mess of things," he says, tightening his grasp on my hand as he grimaces. "I am so sorry, kid."

"That's just it, Dad. I'm not a kid. Not anymore. You need to stop treating me like one."

Dad locks eyes with me and nods twice, a determined look on his face as if he is finally planning on hearing me. "I know, darling, I do…I just…It's hard to explain."

"Try me." I lean back in my chair as he smiles crookedly with an otherwise wistful expression.

"When you were freshly born," he says slowly, "still pink and covered in gunk, the midwife hoisted you from between your mother's legs and showed you off to us.

" He pauses, smiling fondly at the memory.

"It felt as if the world came to a stop. Realities shifted, shattered, and re-formed in an instant. And I knew my life would be forever divided into the time before you and the time after you. That revolutionary memory, to this day, is still only comparable to the seconds after laying eyes on your mother for the first time." He clears his throat, then bows his head as he pauses to collect himself.