Chapter 6: What Diane Was Still Holding Back
I caught her at her car door.
"The postscript," I said.
Diane turned around.
She had her keys in her hand.
She looked at them for a moment, then looked at me.
"I wondered if you'd see it," she said.
"What didn't Carol have time to tell Hope?"
Diane didn't answer immediately.
She looked up the street, then back at me.
"Can we walk?
Just to the end of the block and back.
I don't want Hope to see us through the window and think something's wrong."
We walked.
The morning was cool, the kind of early autumn day that feels like a held breath.
Leaves just starting to turn at the edges.
Diane kept her arms folded across her chest.
"Carol didn't leave Hope at that airport entirely alone," she said.
"I told you she waited until she saw a flight attendant go in.
That was true." She paused.
"What I didn't tell you is that she knew your name."
I stopped walking.
"What?"
"Not personally.
But she had been watching the gate for almost two hours before she went into that restroom.
She saw your crew come in off the Denver flight.
She saw your name badge." Diane stopped beside me.
"She chose you specifically.
Not just any flight attendant.
You."
The street was very quiet.
"Why me?" I said.
"Because she had watched you for those two hours.
She saw you help an elderly man with his bag when no one asked you to.
She saw you crouch down to talk to a little girl who was crying at the gate.
She saw the way you looked at that child." Diane's voice was steady.
"Carol said she knew in that moment.
She said — and I'm using her exact words — 'that woman already loves children she hasn't met yet.
She'll love mine.'"
I put my hand on the nearest garden wall because I needed something solid.
"She watched me," I said.
"For two hours."
"She made a decision about me based on two hours in an airport."
"Yes." Diane looked at me directly.
"And she was right, wasn't she?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
"There's more," Diane said.
"I'm sorry.
I know this is a lot."
"Tell me."
"Carol kept a journal.
She kept it from the day she left Hope until three weeks before she d*ed, when she couldn't write anymore.
Eighteen years of entries." Diane reached into her coat pocket and took out a small USB drive.
She held it out to me.
"She asked me to give this to you.
Not to Hope.
To you, first.
She said you should decide how much of it Hope reads, and when."
I looked at the drive in Diane's palm.
"Why me first?"
"Because you're her mother," Diane said simply.
"Carol was very clear about that.
She said — 'I gave birth to her.
But that woman is her mother.
That decision belongs to her.'"
I took the drive.
It was lighter than I expected.
Lighter than eighteen years of anything should be.
We walked back to the house in silence.
At her car, Diane stopped and turned to me one more time.
"I need to ask you something," she said.
"And you don't have to answer now."
"Ask."
"Marcus — Hope's brother — he's not doing well.
He lost his mother eight weeks ago.
He has no father in the picture.
He's twenty-four and he's alone." She looked at me carefully.
"He doesn't need anything from you.
I want to be very clear about that.
But Hope is the only family he has left.
And I think — I think meeting her might matter to him in a way that's hard to explain."
"You're not just asking about Hope meeting him," I said.
Diane was quiet for a moment.
"No," she admitted.
"I suppose I'm not."
I looked at the drive in my hand.
Then at Diane.
"Give me two weeks," I said.
"Let me talk to Hope.
Let me read enough of this to understand what we're walking into." I met her eyes.
"Then we'll figure out the rest."
Diane nodded.
She got in her car.
I stood on the pavement until she drove away.
Then I went back inside.
Hope was at the top of the stairs.
"Who were you talking to?" she asked.
"Diane." I held up the USB drive.
"She left us something from Carol."
Hope came down two steps.
Her eyes were fixed on the drive.
"What is it?"
"A journal," I said.
"Eighteen years of one."
Hope sat down on the step.
Just sat, right there on the stairs, like her legs had decided for her.
"She wrote about me?" she asked.
"I think she wrote about you every day."
Hope put her face in her hands.
I sat down on the step below her, my back against the banister, and waited.
There was no rush.
The cake was still on the counter.
The blue candles had been lit and blown out.
The birthday had become something neither of us had planned for, and it wasn't finished yet.
May you like
But we were still in it together.
That, at least, had not changed.
