She and her mother clutched each other in the tiny chapel, laughing and crying by turns.
The last video froze with the twins grinning at each other after tag-teaming an overview of something called the Corn Palace, in South Dakota. So beautiful. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough. But it satisfied a deep, visceral hunger.
“I miss them,” Miriam said. “I miss them so much.”
Her mother hugged her.
“If I had one more day, I would … I’d do so many things differently. I wouldn’t clean a dish the whole day, I’d just—I don’t know … hold them so tight. Make sure they knew I loved them.”
“They knew you loved them, honey.” Sallie pulled back but didn’t let her go. “Everybody shows love in different ways. You know JoJo’s all about gifts—” She touched the string of pearls around her neck. “And Brad always wanted touch. He was so clingy. Sometimes it was all I could do not to scream at him to leave me alone. But you? You’re like me. We love by doing. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mira.”
The words vibrated in deep places within Miriam’s body that she’d never even known were there. It broke her heart to realize how many years she’d squandered, thinking herself not good enough. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said softly. “I wasted so much of my life being angry with you for something that wasn’t even real.”
“Shh.” Sallie stroked her hair. “There’s no untying that knot now. We were in the middle of a crisis ourselves. We should have realized there was more wrong than teenage rebellion. We were too focused on saving ourselves to save you. There’s plenty of blame to go around. I’m just glad you finally told me what’s been haunting you all these years.”
Well, some of it anyway. For the first time, Miriam thought she might actually like her mother’s take on the whole Gus situation.
Gus. Wow. He’d been totally off her radar for the past twenty-four hours. She’d been so angry with him. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, Gus’s offense seemed insignificant. So he’d talked to Blaise. So what? If it had been any other musical luminary, she wouldn’t have batted an eye.
If she’d just talked to him years ago, like Teo wanted her to do …
It was hard to stomach the thought of how much richness she’d closed herself off from all these years out of a fear of confronting the unbeautiful and uncomfortable. How different might her life have been if she’d had the courage to face the difficult conversations ten years ago—or even five, or two? How much less conflicted?
Impossible to know. What was certain was that, somewhere upstairs, Dayana had both a daughter and granddaughter fighting for their lives. A daughter and granddaughter Miriam cared deeply about and to whom she was connected.
We love by doing.
Miriam closed the laptop. “Mom,” she said, “I need to go back upstairs.”
Miriam walked her mother to her car and then headed to the NICU, where she found a window at one corner where she could look in. Tucked between cribs and plexiglass boxes, Dayana sat in a chair with her shirt partly unbuttoned and her granddaughter nestled against her skin. The baby had a tube in her nose, but the blanket wrapped around her hid any other medical attachments.
Miriam tapped on the window. It took a couple of tries to get Dayana’s attention. “Five minutes,” Dayana mouthed, holding up one hand, fingers extended, for extra clarity.
When Dayana joined her, she said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Me too.” Miriam winced. “Sorry.”
Dayana cocked her head, like a shrug. “Well, you came back, and that’s what counts.” She stared at her granddaughter through the window and then said, “Dicey told me she planned to ask you something … important.”
“To be Baby Girl’s godmother.”
Dayana nodded. She looked sad. It had to be hard, giving someone else a piece of your child when the piece you had was already too small. “I need you to tell me something, and I know it’s not my right to ask, but …”
Miriam waited.
“We were so close when she was small, you know. You couldn’t separate us. She’s been out of the house now, so I know what it’s like to live without her right there by me. But even so …” Dayana swallowed. “I need you to tell me what it’s like to lose a daughter. What I need to know.”
Miriam shuddered. “Dayana, you can’t think about that right now.”
“I’ve been thinking about that since the day my girl was diagnosed. It’s not a question of if. It’s just a matter of when. We’ve been on borrowed time for years.”
Miriam cupped her elbows in her palms. What she wanted to say sounded horrible, even in her mind. “Does it make me a terrible person if I say I almost envy you? Having had it in front of you your whole life, reminding you to savor every moment and not waste time looking over your shoulder.”
Dayana fixed a penetrating gaze on Miriam. “If anybody else said that, I’d punch her in the face. But I guess you know what you’re talking about.” The braided bun wasn’t as tight as Miriam had thought; the plaits bounced as she tossed her head. “Yeah, I guess when you got a child sick for years, you got a long time to prepare.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re ready.” Miriam reached out and tentatively rubbed Dayana’s back. “You’re never ready.” The view blurred. She waited until she could speak. “It’s awful,” she said. “Like a part of you died. Because it did.” Through the window, she watched the nurses move around the cribs, changing a diaper, changing an IV bag. “And there are so many
