Page 85 of Rescue

“I think we should go back,” I whisper, not meeting her eyes.

“To the inn? Okay, that’s totally fine with me.”

“Not the inn. To London. I think we should forget this whole thing.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, just brushes her fingers across my hands. “I think you might regret that, Lennon. You’ve been having a rough time for a few weeks now, haven’t you?”

I nod.

“And that has to do with your mother.” It’s not a question. “So maybe this will help. Talking to her. I mean, it was important enough to you to come all this way.”

Because I have no argument against any of that, I tell the truth. “I’m scared.”

“Of course you are. You haven’t seen her in what—fifteen years?”

“Seventeen.”

“I think that would scare just about anybody. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do.”

I swallow a few times, trying to get my heart rate under control. “Do you think we could go see her now?” I ask, even though it’s the last thing in the world I want to do. “If we get it over with, then maybe we could enjoy the morning before we have to head back tomorrow.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” she says, smiling at me. It makes me feel a little better, the ease of that smile. “Let’s get it over with.”

So we stand and leave the garden, walking down the winding streets of Giverny. It’s a beautiful fall day, the sky blue overhead, the air cold enough to bite but bearable. A few of the trees are still holding onto their colorful leaves high above the little stone buildings of the town, contrasting with the solid green of the pines on the hills in the distance. It really is a beautiful place. I imagine being here with Haylee in some alternate universe where I can just enjoy myself, ignorant of how close my mom is.

“Maybe we could come back here too,” I blurt out, my voice sounding panicky. “When we come back to go to Montmartre.”

“Maybe we could,” she says, but her eyes tell me she knows the truth. I won’t ever be enjoying a day in Giverny again. “Do you have the address?”

I hand her the scrap of paper from my pocket. I don’t tell her that I’ve been carrying it with me the entire time we’ve been in Europe. But maybe she can tell—the thing is creased and soft with wear, evidence of how many times I’ve unfolded it just to stare at the words.

It was a private investigator that found her. It was one of the first things I did when we signed our record deal and I had a little cash. I wasn’t sure why I did it. It wasn’t like Iwantedto see her. There weren’t many positive feelings toward our mom in my family. She had left us. She hadn’t wanted us anymore. But it was the kind of thing that got into my head and wouldn’t leave. The idea of knowing. Where she was. What she was doing. What life she had chosen over us.

Finding out she had been in Europe was a shock. She had no family there, no friends that I was aware of. But it wasn’t like I would have really known. My dad didn’t talk about her, not ever. The investigator had photos as well, but I didn’t take those. I didn’t want to see her face.

Yet here I was.

“We’re pretty close,” Haylee says, her voice gentle. “Just down this road here.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and follow her down the sidewalk. The houses on this road are small and tidy. Brick cottages behind brick walls, postcard-sized gardens in the front. They all look fairly similar.

I know which one is hers before we see the address. Maybe it’s the wind chime hanging from the front gate. Or the birdhouse in front of the wall. There’s a little sign on the gate, words about home being the window to your heart. I swallow, and Haylee tightens her hold on my hand. I’m grateful she doesn’t ask me if I’m okay, that she doesn’t give me any out. Because I know there’s no way I would have swung that gate open if she wasn’t standing there next to me, silently holding my hand.

More wind chimes hang in the small garden, along with several sculptures of wire and glass. The feel is funky, a little eclectic. I have a flash of her walking through the grass at our house in California, barefoot, her sundress swinging around her legs, and I have to stop walking to catch my breath.

“I’m right here,” Haylee says softly, and somehow I make my legs move again. Then I’m knocking on the door, and I can’t breathe, and I’m praying that she isn’t home, that the investigator was wrong, that a French woman will open this door and I can run away and pretend none of this ever happened.

But that’s not how life works. When the door opens, it’s not a stranger standing in the foyer looking out at me with wide, knowing eyes. It’s not a stranger bringing her shaking hand to cover her gaping mouth. It’s my mother.

“Lennon,” she whispers. “It’s you.”

***

I don’t know what I imagined when I tried to picture her house, but it wasn’t this. The cottage is tiny, the living area smaller than the one on our tour bus. She’s filled the space with comfortable, slightly worn furniture. The walls are painted vivid shades of blue and green, splashed with bright color from paintings and tapestries. She has vases of flowers everywhere and more wind chimes inside.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, once we’re sitting on a creaky little sofa. “Tea or coffee? Water?”

“Tea would be good,” I hear myself say, my voice strange in my ears. I don’t really want tea, though a shot of Jack Daniels sounds pretty good. All I really want is her out of the room for a minute. So I can pull myself together.