Chapter 29

On the lastSaturday of November, Georgia McCleary was released from the hospital.

She still had regular occupational therapy, a full schedule of appointments to follow through on. Dell installed a grab bar in her shower, helped move her bed from her upstairs bedroom to the living room, a temporary situation until the doctors signed off on Georgia navigating stairs on her own.

A temporary situation until Dell convinced her to move to Oregon.

"You know," he said as he put together, upon Georgia's request, the artificial Christmas tree she'd been using for years, "this could easily fit in the corner of the ADU. Although this one looks like it's seen better days anyway. We can get you a new one."

Georgia watched Dell fit it into its stand.

"More to the right," she instructed from the bed.

Georgia, for better or worse for Dell, had almost full speech capability again.

"Do you get yourself a tree?" she asked. "Out there in your new house. Do you put up decorations?"

Dell shrugged, adjusting some of the wire branches.

"I haven't gotten a tree the last few years. But I normally put up a few things. The things you've given me, mostly."

Georgia frowned.

"You should get yourself a tree, Dell. Don't they have lots of trees in Oregon? I bet you Mae loves a Christmas tree."

Before he could stop himself, Dell snorted. He could only imagine the kind of Christmas decorations Mae Kellerman loved most. Likely the ones most covered in glitter.

"When are you getting back to her?"

Dell's smile sank into a sigh. Georgia had started asking this with increasing frequency.

"You need someone with you, Mom. You might be out of the hospital, but you're still recovering."

"I do have friends, you know. Lots of ‘em, in fact."

"I know." The fridge was entirely stocked with casseroles for the next six months. Dell's diet was now composed of pasta and cheese. If being back in the UP had taught Dell anything, it was that Georgia McCleary had friends. "But I'm your son."

Georgia sighed. "Oh, Dell."

Dell sat back on his haunches.

"I don't want to fight while we decorate the Christmas tree," he said, voice quiet.

"I don't want to, either," Georgia said, after a stretch of silence.

"Okay. Then let's not." Dell stood, hauling over the first box of ornaments. "Come on. Adaline said trying to put these on would be good fine motor practice. Up and at ‘em, McCleary."

"You," Georgia grumbled as Dell handed her an ornament, "are a pain in my fine motor ass."

* * *

The next day, the first snow arrived.

And not even Christmas decorations could stave off the fight then.

Dell stared out the window at the sugar maple in the backyard, already fully covered in white, and worked his jaw back and forth.

"Mom," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Mom, you can't stay here."

Georgia turned from where she'd been working on a puzzle. Not one of the puzzles that still lived in the closet across from the laundry room, but a puzzle meant for children that Adaline had given them, with larger pieces, easier for Georgia's fingers to hold.

"Excuse me?"

Dell sighed.

"Mom, truly, no one should stay in the UP through the winter, but especially not someone recovering from a stroke."

"I have lived here my entire life, Dell," Georgia said, voice icy, "and snow hasn't stopped me yet."

"But maybe it should."

Georgia threw up a hand, turning back to the puzzle.

"I'm not having this conversation with you again."

Dell took a slow breath. He knew this particular iteration of the conversation had already gotten off to a rocky start, but he had to see it through.

"I'm sorry, Mom. But we need to have this conversation again. You shouldn't be alone. I know you'd still want your independence, which is why I built the ADU; it's your own private space. And I know you'd love?—"

"Dell, I swear to god. I've tried to be kind about this in the past, but I am never moving into that damn ADU, as beautiful as it is."

"Mom." Dell held his head in his hands. "I miss you, okay? I want you closeby."

"And you don't think it breaks my heart?" Georgia suddenly shouted, a puzzle piece flying through the air. "To have you so far away? You're my entire world, kiddo. You always have been. My whole world. And I need you to stop reminding me, all the damn time, that you are thousands of miles away. Because I already know. I feel it every single day."

A horrible silence crackled through the living room. Dell thought his chest might cave in.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Ah, shit." Georgia's voice wobbled. Dell looked over to see her covering her own face with shaky hands. "I'm sorry, Dell. Please, forgive me. I didn't mean to say all that."

Dell wanted to go to her. Wanted to stop being angry at her.

Wanted to stop breaking her heart.

But it was still snowing, and she was still recovering from a stroke, and he didn't know what else to do.

He'd just opened his mouth to make another point when she dropped her hands and, with a tear-streaked face, looked right at him when she sang, "We ain't angry at you, love." A line to a song Dell wished she didn't know. He knew it had been a mistake, introducing Georgia to Noah Kahan.

He rubbed a hand over his face, turning back toward the window. Turning his back on his mom.

"You know the history of the McClearys," Georgia went on, as if she had not just caused Dell physical pain. Of course he knew the history of the McClearys, having heard Georgia's and his grandparents' stories many times before, having seen the photo albums and family trees. McCleary was his mother's name; he had changed it as soon as he was old enough to do so himself, leaving behind the name of his father, whom Dell didn't even remember. Dell had never once thought about that old name again.

"We came in through the island, like everyone else," Georgia said, repeating the story anyway, as Dell knew she would. And Dell couldn't help but turn back to her, to finally walk over to her and sit at her side, in gratitude that her speech and her memory had recovered enough for her to tell this story once more. "But the crowds of New York overwhelmed us. So we started the slow trek west, but the coal mines and steel factories of Pennsylvania and the Midwest suffocated us. So we started north instead, until your great-granddaddy came here. Where the trees were big, and the view was clear."

Georgia reached out a hand, no longer tremoring, and clasped it over his.

"You just needed to keep on goin', Dell," she whispered. "You went until you found even bigger trees. Ain't no McCleary who could get mad at you for that. Including me. Please believe me about that, honey."

Dell sighed.

"You would like those bigger trees, too," he said, stubbornly.

"Oh, Dell." Georgia sighed in return. "I'm sure I would. But I've tried to tell you so many times. You know I'm a Yooper, through and through."

Dell had known, in some corner of his body, that every time she had, indeed, told him this before, she'd meant it. Even as he built an entire structure on his property in Oregon for her, that part of himself knew he was pursuing a useless dream.

But all the other corners of his body had needed to do it anyway.

"Mae's parents are from North Carolina," he said. "But they moved to the Oregon Coast, so they could be closer to their kid. So they could retire by the ocean instead of"—he gestured to the window, where the snow came down ever fiercer—"this."

He hated himself a little, as soon as he stopped talking. Didn't want to compare Georgia to Jodi and Felix, like some kind of parenting contest. He knew Jodi and Felix weren't better parents than Georgia.

Because Georgia was the best.

But he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Jodi and Felix, ever since he got on the plane to come out here. He'd spent so many minutes of recycled air in the middle of the sky being just so fucking angry about it.

"Well." Georgia shrugged. "I'm happy for them. But I'm not Mae's parents. I'm me. And this is who I am."

And something about the way Georgia said this, so matter-of-fact, made it finally, finally stick. Like a stitch in Dell's side, sharp and insistent, but with an inevitable dulling waiting in the future. Some folks were able to move easier. Some had deeper roots. Maybe there wasn't anything superior about either choice.

"I would like to meet Mae's parents, though," she said after a moment, voice turning thoughtful. "I know I can come out there and visit more, as easily as you could visit more here, too. I do apologize for that. You just know how I feel about planes." She waved a hand again. "Flying death traps. But I'll be better about that, now."

Except—dammit, couldn't she see she could barely complete a children's puzzle?—she couldn't visit just as easily as he could. He tried to picture her driving all the way to Green Bay or Great Rapids, sitting alone on a flying death trap, all the way to Oregon. What if another stroke struck her while she was driving? While she was sitting in the plane? What if the other passengers only thought she was sleeping? What if no one knew until it was too late?

Dell closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

No more fighting.

"You came when I needed you," he managed, after a moment. She had been there, at the hospital, after he'd been shot.

"I'll always be there when you need me," Georgia said. And then, tilting her head, as if remembering she had almost just died, "Well, I suppose as long as I can, physically. But the thing is, honey, we're both grown people. I love you, with my entire heart and soul, but I don't need you in the way you think I do. Just like I know you don't need me, either. I'm still always a phone call away when you experience a trigger, when you're having a rough day. You can get through the rest on your own. Sakes alive, Dell, you've been self-sufficient since you were fourteen."

And Dell couldn't help but laugh. And somewhere in the midst of it, he started crying.

Without a word, Georgia drew him in, wrapped a too-thin arm around his shoulder.

"Oh, hon," she said. "It's gonna be okay. Except," she added, "if you don't get the hell out of my house soon."

Dell couldn't summon a reply. Until later, when Georgia had completed the puzzle, and eaten some soup for lunch, and they both sat together in front of the TV while the snow continued to come down, rating the costumes on Let's Make a Deal.

"Make Rosemary come with you," he said during a commercial break. "Whenever you decide to come visit Greyfin Bay."

Georgia was silent.

"Or someone. Wait for me to come and fly out with you. Just…don't fly alone, okay? Please. I'll stop talking about the ADU. Promise. This is the only compromise I'll demand."

Another thirty-second commercial break later, Georgia patted Dell's knee.

"Okay, kid," she said. "Okay."

* * *

Time grew sticky as the air grew cold.

Some days passed fast, some dragged slow. Dell watched Georgia get better at some things, struggle with others. They bickered. He watched more TV than he had in years. They ate casseroles, the opposite of Dr. Collins's secondary prevention plan, but you couldn't stop the Midwest from being the Midwest. Couldn't let kindness, or cheese, go to waste. Georgia relayed stories he'd never heard before.

Dell worked on accepting it. That Georgia wouldn't join him in his After.

Some days, it felt like he'd been stuck here, in his oldest Before, for ages. He knew he should be communicating with Mae more, but he just felt so far away. From Mae, from the dogs, from Greyfin Bay. He could barely remember what it all smelled like.

Eventually, as the snow piled up, a new realization started to dawn.

Maybe he hadn't been working hard enough. At actually healing.

Maybe he needed to meld all of his Befores, all of his Afters.

Maybe he needed to stitch it all back together.

* * *

One morning while Georgia still slept, Dell opened his laptop. He logged in to MLS, the real estate database he'd used for the last twenty-five years of his life. He typed in his hometown.

A day later, through icy winds, Dell once more walked some property.

Some land he could borrow. A patch of the earth to conserve.

A new space to help him stitch himself together.

* * *

"Hey, Mom," Dell said one afternoon as he looked out the window of the living room. The sun was peeking through the clouds, slanting through bare trees. "Do you know what Michigan's state flower is?"

"You know, I don't believe I do," Georgia answered. "Or maybe I did one day, and my brain hasn't recaptured it. Google it for me, hon. That's a thing I'd like to know."