Page 130 of True Colors

“Anouk.” He clasps my hands in both of his. “I’m so glad you came.”

I swallow. “I didn’t come for her. I came…”—For what, I wonder, and then because I know, I say, “For me.”

His compassion is open and honest. He nods. “Good.”

He leads me to a chair by the bed. “Would you like to sit a while?”

I turn to look at Luther and Finn, who are at the doorway where I left them. “What should I do?” I ask them, my voice is that of a child.

They both rush to me. Luther reaches me first and wraps me in his arms.

“You do whatever you want to,” Finn says.

So, I sit a while on the plastic chair by the hospital bed where my mother is dying.

She’s barely conscious. There are no apologies, explanations, or final confessions like in the movies. There is just the soft rasp of breath, the faint rise and fall of her chest.

“I’m not angry,” I whisper after what feels like forever. My throat is dry, and the words have to be pushed out of me—it’s laborious, but I don’t stumble on them.

“I’m also not sad.” I don’t know who I’m talking to—her, myself, Luther, Finn, or the universe.

Her eyes move under closed lids. A tear slips from the corner of her eye.

I watch it dispassionately.

Maybe it means something. Perhaps it doesn’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

We stay until the machines stop beeping and the doctor comes in to record the time of death.

It feels like when a movie ends, and the sign comes The End—though these days almost every film seems to have a sequel. But not this one. And that’s a good thing.

The chaplain wants to talk to me about the funeral.

I shake my head. I can’t do this. I don’t want to.

I hear Luther speak to him in low murmurs while Finn keeps his arm around me, so I can lean my head on his shoulder as we stand in the room where my mother lies dead, the woman who killed my childhood.

When we leave, the world feels brighter. I know it’s not because anything has been resolved—I think it’s because I don’t have to wait for her to die any longer.

“I’ve got an early shift.” Finn rubs the back of his neck once we’re back in San Francisco, night pressing in. “And if I don’t sleep, I turn into a real asshole. Nobody wants that.”

“That’s not true,” I tell him automatically.

He snorts. “It absolutely is.”

He pulls me into a hug. It’s anchoring. Reminds me I’m still here, that he’s always been there for me, no matter what. But today, he wants me to lean on Luther, not because he doesn’t want to take care of me, I know that. It’s because he knows that I need Luther more right now.

“You okay?” he asks into my hair.

I shake my head against his chest. “No.”

He leans back, studies my face the way he’s done since we were kids, searching for cracks. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because his mouth tilts into a small, proud smile. “But you will be.” It’s not a question.

“You’ll take her to your place,” he tells Luther.

“I will.”

Finn kisses my forehead before he heads for his truck. He doesn’t look back. It almost feels like a handover. It’s cute. It’s Finn.