Desmond sat down heavily in the chair beside my hospital bed, both hands pressed against his face now.
“I need a minute,” he said. “I need everyone to just give me a minute.”
Renee, still holding back tears of her own, sat down beside him and put a hand on his back, though I could see, even through her own visible fear, that some part of her was watching him carefully, waiting to understand exactly what kind of minute he actually needed.
“Desmond,” she said quietly, “I need you to explain something to me. When you said you can’t take her home — did you mean you can’t take her home at all? Ever? Or did you mean something else, and you just said it wrong, in shock?”
He was quiet for a long moment, still holding his own head in both hands.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I looked at her, and for about three seconds, all I could see was Mom’s hospital bed. I said the first thing that came out of my mouth, and I don’t think it came out the way I actually meant it, but I also don’t fully know yet what I did mean by it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Renee. I’m sorry, Mara. I don’t think I’ve fully grieved Mom the way I thought I had, and apparently it took meeting my own daughter to find that out.”
