How, he’d wondered, could this be his mother’s fate? It seemed incredibly unfair that someone so good should be handed such a brutal sentence.
He’d given his landlord and the administrators at his school in LA notice, telling them he’d leave as soon as the fall semester ended. Once he’d fulfilled that commitment, he’d rented a U-Haul truck, packed it with his belongings, and driven across the country as if zombies were chasing him.
When he’d arrived at his childhood home after three marathon days behind the wheel, the house had glowed despite the late hour. Mom had waited up for him, just like in the old days when he’d gone over to his buddy Andrew’s house and stayed up till midnight playing video games.
She’d met him halfway between the U-Haul and the front door and wrapped him in a hug. She loved all three of her children fiercely, but he secretly suspected he was her favorite. The two of them were the most alike in their family. Even and dependable.
He’d pulled back and looked at her. “Mom,” he said, throat tight.
In the way of mothers, she seemed to understand all of his despair and fear. And in the way of mothers, she acted quickly to comfort him, even though he wasn’t the one with the crushing diagnosis.
She gripped his shoulder, her gray eyes steady. She looked tired, yes, but not racked with fear. “This isn’t what I would’ve chosen, but I can’t complain, either. I’ve had a wonderful life. A life I love. There’s been heartache”—he knew she was mostly referring to his dad—“but I have you three and so I count myself to be one of the most fortunate women in the world.”
Emotions heaving, he’d said nothing.
“I intend to keep on living to the fullest,” she continued, “for as long as I can. God has brought me this far and I trust Him to bring me the rest of the way. I’m going to take it one day at a time. And that’s what I want you to do, too. I want you to live to the fullest. Trust God. And take it one day at a time.”
He stood tall and unwavering, strong for her, though tears filmed his vision.
“We’re going to get through this,” she promised. “It’s going to be all right.”
He saw then that she viewed the remainder of her life as her crucial final act of mothering. She was determined to shepherd her children through her death in a way that enabled them to emerge as healthy and whole as possible.
“I’m only sorry you felt you had to give up your life in California,” she said.
“I’m not sorry.” She needed someone to move in and take care of her. His older sister was married with three young kids. His younger sister lived out of state and was married to her job as the CFO of a start-up. But even if his sisters’ circumstances had been different, no one would have doubted, least of all him, that he was the one to do this job.
His sisters were loud, bossy, dramatic. He was none of those things. He had the type of personality that could weather hard conversations with doctors, endless appointments, and the administration of medicines.
He wanted to be her rock, as she had been his.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here,” he’d told her.
All his life, he’d witnessed her courage and grace. But never more than in the two years that had followed his homecoming.
Sometimes, ALS took people with gut-wrenching speed. Sometimes, it moved more slowly. His family had expected the worst at the outset, but so far, the progression of the disease had been gradual. God had gifted his mother with additional time.
She wore leg braces and walked with a cane. She took oral medicine and rounds of IV medicine. She dealt with physical therapy and testing.
She’d been a librarian at the city library her entire career. When her boss learned of her condition, he’d invited Mom to work by the hour—as little or as much as she desired. Mom still went to the library for a portion of each weekday.
She took the same approach to housework. He’d repeatedly told her that she didn’t have to do anything around the house. She’d repeatedly shown him that helping out soothed her. It made her feel she was contributing and gave her a connection to the rhythms she’d been practicing for years.
Every time he’d had a vacation from work, they’d traveled. Sometimes with a sister or two and the grandkids. Mom had chosen the destinations and chosen well. They’d been to Aspen in winter. Maine and Montana in summer. Lake Tahoe and Santa Fe for spring break.
Except when one of his noisy sisters was on the phone or in the house, he and Mom lived peacefully. They understood each other. She accepted his help. He respected her independence.
He no longer felt the sharp edge of anxiety that had initially consumed him. But at times, the heaviness of her prognosis wore him down. He struggled with loneliness, which was strange because he was surrounded by kids and fellow teachers at work and spent time with Mom after work. Turned out that serving as the caregiver for someone deteriorating from ALS brought with it a unique kind of loneliness that wasn’t easy to explain.
She eased into a chair as he finished putting away the last of the dishes. He started setting the table.
“Have you heard any updates on the live nativity?” she asked. For the past fifteen years, she’d organized Misty River’s live nativity. It ranked just below food and above travel on her list of passions. She still attended most of the nativity committee meetings, though volunteers had lifted almost all the responsibilities from her shoulders.
“I meant to tell you earlier and forgot.” He’d spent the last several hours in his studio, lost in painting and thoughts of Shay. “In addition to the donkey and sheep, Sam Turner told me that he’s confirmed an alpaca and a miniature cow.”
Her mouth dropped open and a hand pressed to her heart. “An alpaca! A miniature cow!”
Connor hadn’t known there was such a thing as miniature cows. And he definitely didn’t think that there’d been alpacas in Bethlehem. But Sam had agreed months ago to host the nativity at Sugar Maple Farm, his historic property on national park land. Connor was so grateful to the guy that he wasn’t about to question either animal.
“We’re going to have the best nativity ever this year,” Mom said.
“The very best.” Her primary goal this month was to pull off a meaningful live nativity. Since that was her goal, it had become Connor’s.
“You know who I’m going to contact, to see if she’d be interested in a character role?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Shay Seaver.”
He paused with silverware in his hands to cut a look in her direction. Her profile was a mask of innocence as she considered her perfect burgundy nail polish.
“Oh?” He set the silverware on napkins. As much as he liked his mom, he did not want her butting into his love life.
“I think she’d be fabulous. There’s something so . . . bright and endearing about her.”
“Mm,” he said noncommittally. Inwardly, though, he agreed. In a rush, he remembered how she’d looked last night at the Christmas tree lighting. The sweep of her thick eyelashes. The small earrings sparkling in her ears. The fabric tied around her delicate throat.
Longing chased the memory, deep and true.
Chapter Three