The word chokes around the lump in my throat, tears spilling over, my fingers wrapping around the wheel desperately like it’s my lifeline, the lifeline I need to keep from falling apart completely. I hold it like it’s Hannah’s hand and I can hold it tight enough to make myself feel better.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob.
She pulls me to her, my top half awkwardly folding over the center console so my head can rest on her shoulder.
“Clarity, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“But all ofthis,” I say. “It’s such a mess.”
She runs her fingers along my baby hairs, tucking them back into my braids. It’s so motherly, the motion slowly quieting my pounding heart.
“Did—did you tell Dad?” I ask, pulling back so I can see her face.
She just nods, and I buckle again.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I explain. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to embarrass you—”
“Clarity,” Mom says, her voice soft. She cups my chin, holding my face so that I’m forced to look at her. “We arenotdisappointed or embarrassed. Okay? Please know that. We love you. This doesn’t change that.”
She pulls me to her again, and I sob into her shoulder of smiling ducks. I can feel the fabric wet against my cheek, wet with my fear and all the heartache and the secrets.
“I’m sorry if we did anything to make you feel like we wouldn’t love you, Clarity. We love you so, so much,” she says, her voice wobbly in my hair. Her shoulders shake gently as she whispers, “You’re my baby,” over and over.
“I was scared because, at church, you agreed whenever Pastor would say things. And the Bible says—”
“The Bible tells me to love you, Clarity,” Mom says, her voice no longer shaky. She pushes me to arm’s length so she can look me in the eye, our tearstained cheeks mirroring each other. “Don’t youeverlet anyone tell you something different. The Bible tells us to love each other. And before the Bible, before God, myhearttells me to love you.
“You are my daughter. I don’t care who you love, as long as you’re happy and healthy and I’m in your life. Nothing will change that, okay?”
“Okay—I mean, yes,” I say, using the backs of my hands to wipe my face clean.
Mom tries to do the same, searching my car for a moment.
“You should keep tissues in your car,” she says, laughing. “Maybe we can get you some, and a couple air fresheners, or one of those little car oil diffusers,” she goes on, looking around like she didn’t test drive the car before she and Dad bought it for me and this is her first time seeing it.
We both come back to ourselves. Our faces are still sticky, but no more runny noses and tears.
“So,” she says after a while, “Hannah?”
“Hannah,” I say, feeling the contradiction between the salt water drying around my eyes and the smile taking over my face.
“How long?”
I feel the weight in her words, in the encouraging smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The question is like a sheer film covering,How long have you felt like you had to hide this from us?I see the hurt, and guilt presses between our palms as she gives my hand a squeeze. There is this distance between us, but it’s not because my parents are too busy for me.
It’s because I assumed that they were content being far away, and I didn’t make any attempt to bring them closer. I didn’t ask.
“Hannah was a counselor at Camp Refuge. We’ve gone to the same school for years, but we never really talked before this summer… and it turns out we had a lot to talk about.”
“That’s good, honey.”
“She saved the committee. I told her about how we didn’t have enough members, so she got the field hockey team to join so that we wouldn’t have to shut down. That’s why we’re copresidents.
“And that’s why I, uh, want her to be my date for the pumpkin chucking.”
“Yeah?” Mom says, her voice lightening up.
Her eyes are glassy, but her smile is full. I remember howexcited she got when she imagined me chucking a pumpkin with a guy. I wonder if she’s picturing it with Hannah now, if the idea of me happy with Hannah makes my mom happy.