“Eh, you’re only fifty-three. Happy Birthday, Mom.”
A rush of awe and tenderness she’d never felt before. “Wow.” The word came out in a dazzled whisper. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you call me Mom.”
“You’ll hear it a lot now. You might even get sick of it.”
Her laugh brimmed with delight. Before she could bring him in for another hug, his pained look stopped her. “I know. I owe you a million apologies. There’s so much—”
“Oona.” A voice from the other side of the room.
Her eyes shifted to the bed, where her mother lay nestled among a cocoon of pillows.
“Mom?”
Madeleine’s head looked shrunken, her body dwarfed by the creamy peach comforter she was tucked into, like a fragile figurine encased in bubble wrap. Her curly hair still thick and dark but with an artificial sheen. Apart from two pink circles colored onto her cheeks and matching lip gloss on her inflated mouth, her face was the color of ashes. Eyeliner and fake lashes didn’t do much to mask her lusterless bloodshot eyes. An attempt had been made to cover the bruises beneath them with concealer, but the shadows came through.
Oona rushed over to the bed and sat down, causing her mother to wince as she disturbed the mattress.
“Happy New Year, my sweet girl. And Happy Birthday.” Her voice, too, was sapped of its vitality; the words took extraordinary effort to articulate, like she’d just run a great distance. “How old are you on the inside?”
“Twenty-five.” How light her mother’s bony hand was as she took it, how prominent the veins, how little flesh beneath the skin. “Mom, what happened to you?” There was no mistaking the gauntness of Madeleine’s features. No amount of makeup could mask a weight loss this drastic.
Oona touched her mother’s hair. “Why are you wearing a wig?” But she didn’t need to be told, nor did she need an explanation for Madeleine’s diminutive appearance or her inability to hold a smile. Learning the name of the illness was secondary when a more terrifying question loomed. How much time did her mother have left?
“I’ll explain everything later,” Kenzie said, his hand on Oona’s shoulder a necessary anchor as she drifted away from the moment. “She insisted on champagne, but neither of us could bring ourselves to open it.” A nod to the silver bucket beside the bed.
“Yes, please, let’s have a toast.” Madeleine’s eyes grew heavy, her nod more like her neck was protesting her head’s weight.
How can you ignore a dying woman’s wish? Oona reached for the sweaty bottle and removed it from its icy bath. Her fingers fumbled with the foil and metal fastener, and she imagined herself as a glass bottle, a cork holding in frothy tears. She poured two full glasses of champagne and went to pour the third.
“Only a sip for me,” said Madeleine. “It’s the good stuff, no point in wasting it.”
The three held their glasses aloft. Only Kenzie’s hand remained steady.
“I’m sorry if it’s upsetting for you to see me like this, my darling,” Madeleine began. “Kenzie helped me get dolled up, but I know I look ghastly. Not that you’ll give me any bull about looking pretty when I don’t. That’s something I love about you.” She paused to take a few breaths. “I’d like to make a toast to the wonderful times we’ve had together, and the time we have left. When I first got pregnant and had to leave Pan Am, I saw motherhood as something that might hamper my life. Instead, motherhood completed it.” She aimed a dazzling smile at Oona, all traces of fatigue momentarily vanished. “You were a fascinating child and grew up to be an even more fascinating woman. You’ve given me … a marvelous life. Because of you, I got to see the world, something I deeply missed when I first became a mother.”
The hand holding the champagne glass faltered, but she tightened her grip on it. “As you got older, you developed your independence, but I never felt like you stopped needing me. I’m so grateful for that. It’s a bittersweet thing to see your child become self-sufficient, and it’s easy to slip into irrelevance. But that never happened with us. Even when you were technically older than me and arguably wiser, I never stopped feeling important to you. And you never stopped being important to me. I’ve gotten nearly everything I’ve wanted in this life, much of it thanks to you. My extraordinary girl. My best friend.”
“To Oona,” Kenzie said, his jaw trembling.
They brought in and clinked their glasses.
“And to Kenzie,” Madeleine continued. “My incredible grandson. You were handed a complicated family situation, and you adapted, time and time again. I’m so proud of the fine man you are today. I see the best of all of us—Oona, Shivani, Faye, even me—in you. But you’ve also become your own person. With so much compassion and strength and kindness.” Another pause to take a few breaths. “Thank you for coming back to us, believing our crazy stories, and forgiving us. Thank you for completing our family and sharing your beautiful self with us. I only wish…” But whether she lacked the will or the energy, she stopped there.
“To Kenzie,” Oona’s voice wobbled.
Another gentle clink of glasses.
“Oona, I have to apologize to you.” Her voice smaller and weaker now. “I did my best for you … but I couldn’t always shield you from so much pain.”
“Of course. None of that matters now.” And it didn’t. What mattered now was making sure Madeleine knew how loved she was.
“And, Kenzie, I owe you an apology, too.” Madeleine was down to a whisper. “For lying about who I was when you were growing up, and for not being able to save Faye and Shivani. Oona knew when—and I tried so hard, but—”
“No, Mom, I shouldn’t have put that on you. I—”
“Both of you, stop it, please.” Kenzie stepped between them. “Madeleine, you have nothing to be sorry for. You can’t hold yourself responsible for something like that. I’ve made peace with what happened—with all of it.” A look back at Oona, his eyes pleading for her to jump in.
But what could she say? Not many could claim such an exceptional mother. Words were flimsy, ephemeral, incapable of conveying how much Madeleine meant to her. Oona waited for the lump to form in her throat or the prick of tears, neither of which materialized. Instead her body felt hollow, as if her internal organs had been scooped out and replaced with dry ice.
A whispered “Mom” was all she could manage. Her mother’s gaze, ardent and steadfast, told her nothing more needed to be said.
“I hate to break up the party, but I need some rest.” Madeleine set her glass on the bedside table. “Please, take the rest of the champagne and celebrate without me. Yes, celebrate. I’m still breathing, so don’t you dare mourn me yet. Try to have a little fun tonight.”
“Have a little fun tonight? Really?” The air pulling out of her throat like a long silk scarf.
“I’ll clean this up and meet you in your study,” Kenzie said to Oona.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, braced for impact. But still no tears. Over the years, she’d wept at countless things less significant. How dare she remain dry-eyed now? She should be doubled over, blind and racked with sobs. She should be an open wound, an endless wretched wail. Because she got more than she gave, because she could never be the mother Madeleine was. Oona needed tears to drown out this self-loathing; otherwise, what would?