The People We Choose, Katelyn Detweiler [best classic books of all time txt] 📗

it. She doesn’t flinch at the sticky berry film on my fingers. “Look at me, sweetie. Please.” I lift my gaze to meet her eyes. Brown eyes. Not blue like mine—or blue like Mama’s. Or Elliot’s. “This doesn’t change anything about our love for you. It doesn’t change anything about this family. You are just as much ours. Always a Silversmith. Always.”

“But you’re not upset that I asked to make contact in the first place?”

“Of course not. You had every right. I only wish you could have felt comfortable telling us your decision. But I understand why you didn’t. You needed to do it for yourself. I respect that. We both do, don’t we?” She gives Mama a quick glance.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” I say, needing more.

“I understand.” Mama puts her hand on top of mine. “I respect the decision. I don’t love it, but—I respect it. And I love you so damn much and all I can think about right now is how much I’m hurting for you. How unfair this is. Every man on this green earth and we picked the neighbor. You said he’s a serial cheater, right? And a terrible dad?”

I nod, inwardly flinching at the description. “Hopefully I only got the good genes. He’s a lawyer, you know. Probably had to put himself through school—I think he had a rough family life.” I leave it at that—decide not to elaborate on my potential murderer of a grandfather right now. One too many anecdotes for today, and my moms have heard the stories. Rumors, they always insisted, even if Mimmy was spooked by the Jackson house, too.

“Did we make the wrong choice?” Mama asks. “I don’t even remember why we picked his particular sperm now. It was probably no better than any other sperm in the bank.”

“Of course it wasn’t the wrong choice!” Mimmy slaps the table hard with her free hand. “If we’d picked any other sperm, we’d have a completely different daughter sitting in front of us. Or son. Who knows? It wouldn’t be Calliope, though. So no—no matter how awful everything seems right now, it wasn’t the wrong choice. I’d make it over and over again if it meant having you.”

“Thanks, Mimmy.” I give a weak smile. Just because it’s true doesn’t make it any less odd to think about—I am only here, I am only alive, because of Elliot Jackson.

“You’re right,” Mama says, “that was idiotic of me. I just can’t shake the guilt. I feel like we were in some way responsible. Our decisions led to this point. Maybe we could have picked a different house. A different town. I don’t know. Done something differently—just one thing. And then my baby girl wouldn’t have a battered heart right now.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say. I feel drained. Defeated. “And no one could have suspected sooner and stopped us from getting to this point. It’s not like Max and I look anything alike.”

As soon as the words are out, I wonder if that’s true. I haven’t let myself think about it before now.

It’s easy to say we look totally different. He’s Black and I’m white. He’s masculine, I’m feminine. But of course that’s too simple an answer. A cheap, lazy default. There is so much more to both of us. But analyzing all the other details—nose, eyes, lips, teeth, ears, hair, fingers, toes, bone structure—it’s too much. It’s one thing to find myself in Elliot. It’s another thing altogether to see those same things in Max.

“What can we do to help you right now?” Mimmy asks. Mama has taken her hand away, busying herself with sweeping up granola crumbs from the tablecloth, but Mimmy still grips me tight.

“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything any of us can do. Right now I just want to give Max a few days. He’s angry, I know. But hopefully once it all settles… we can be friends again.” Friends. It sounds so flimsy, even to my ears. Were we ever really just friends?

“He has no right to be angry, not with you,” Mimmy says, a subtle edge to her voice. “And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You do know that?”

I nod. She’s right. Of course she is.

“I’ll talk some sense into that boy if he doesn’t come around,” Mama chimes in, the edge in her voice far less subtle. “And what about Elliot? Should we talk to him, Mimmy and I? Have some kind of, I don’t know, introductory conversation?”

The thought of that introductory conversation makes me cringe. “No. Not yet. Maybe eventually we can all meet. But it feels too soon. There’s nothing to say to him.”

“Okay. Well. We could go on a trip somewhere, just the three of us, maybe camping in the Poconos,” Mama says, “even if it means closing down the studio for a few days. August is always a slow month.” Now that the crumbs are all cleaned, she’s unfolding and refolding a pile of linen napkins.

The idea is certainly appealing—running somewhere far away from our woods and the Jackson house. Pretending none of this is happening, that life is still good and normal. But Mama herself told me I can’t escape my problems. I’d always have to end up here. In this place, surrounded by these people.

I shake my head. “A wise woman once said that if something’s upsetting me, it probably won’t just go away. I need to be brave. Face it head-on.”

“That is wise. I don’t know if I’ve ever been prouder of you than I am in this very moment. Come here.” She opens her arms, and I rush toward her.

I fall into her lap, and she and Mimmy surround me with their arms.

I cry, and they cry with me. And then Mimmy makes banana waffles with her homemade maple whipped cream for dinner. We sit in front of the TV watching our old Anne of Green Gables VHS tapes until I fall asleep—dreaming of wild cherry trees and Haunted Woods and a magical place far