Ransom always did that; saw the upside in every situation. She often told him he was born old and Keira knows his maturity, the way he reasons and speaks comes from the role of confidant she’d forced him into. Sometimes she feels guilty that she’s depended on this kid for so long, that’s she’s asked him to bear the weight of her emotional upheaval, but he’s never complained. Just like now, Ransom takes what comes and deals with it.
He was so different than her. His heartache, pushed down, sacrificed for her and she feels pathetic, useless that she could not protect him from this loss, that he had to question and wonder in silence.
Keira’s heartache all those years ago had been raw and she didn’t have anyone either who could help her tamp it down. Back then, she’d only wanted to remember her breath, remember what it was to feel her lungs expand, to let the air shoot from her chest and out of her nose. But she couldn’t. The air had been too thick. Each inhalation was a battle and she wore her wounds inside, beneath the hard bristle of weight born the day she walked away from Kona. And it stayed there, grew larger, heavier until she forgot what breathing was, until she forgot what it was to relax, to rest, without the crippling weight caging her to the ground.
And then, one July morning, she remembered. She remembered to bear down, to hold steady, to push and so she did. And all that she buried in those eight short months—his touch, his warmth, the breath he gave her—sped forward in the blood and sweat and blissful pain of ten small fingers, ten perfect toes and then, just then, in a hospital in Nashville, Keira remembered to breathe.
Ransom had reminded her how.
Keira can’t help the small collection of tears that form in her eyes, and she blinks them away, knows that the one thing Ransom can’t ever take is her crying. “You are not a normal teenager.”
“Well, you’ve never been a normal mom. Besides,” he grabs her hand, gives her fingers a squeeze. “What have you always told me?”
He’d always remembered the conversation they had when he was five. He loved hearing it over and over. “It’s you and me, kid.”
His nod tells her that the small emotional catharsis is over and he returns to the island, picks up the knife and returns his attention to the cucumbers. “So, what did he say?”
“You mean after he stopped giving me evil glares?”
Ransom shrugs. “It had to be a shock for him.” Her kid is Pollyanna. Leann’s positive projection finally stuck with someone and though his “can do, see the best in everyone” attitude can be annoying, Keira is proud of the way her son chooses to see the world.
“To say the least.” She distracts herself with finishing the meal, prepping the serving dishes as Ransom reaches for a tomato. “He wants to meet you.” Keira comes to his side, scoops up the peelings into the trash and she watches him, checks his expression to see if that positive attitude falters. “You okay with that? I mean he’s been your hero since you were a kid.”
He jerked his attention to her, a waver of his smile and Ransom shakes his head. “No he hasn’t. He’s a phenomenal ball player, Mom, but he isn’t my hero. You are.” When Keira’s chin wobbles and that burn returns to her eyes, Ransom calls her on it, dismisses her emotion with a roll of his eyes. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that I’m gonna start talking about my boners again.”
“Please. God no.” She kisses his cheek, has to lift up on the balls of her feet to reach his skin. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yep. I’m good.” There is a moment when her son frowns, thinking of something he keeps to himself, but it passes as quickly as it comes and the teasing tone returns to his voice. “Now come on woman, feed me your guilt food.”
Kona’s mother had lied to him before. He’d caught her. At the time, he couldn’t stay mad at her. Tutu kane got cancer and it was terminal. Kona was playing in the AFC finals, happy, excited at the chance to be on a team that could land in the Super Bowl. It wasn’t until after they won when Kona was coming down off the high that his mother told him about the diagnosis.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” she’d said. “That game meant so much to you and Tutu kane didn’t want me mentioning anything to you. Not until the last moment.”
That last moment came two days before the Super Bowl. Kona hadn’t cared about the game. He only wanted to be with his tutu kane. But he’d made a promise. His grandfather wanted him to play. He wanted Kona to forget him, if only for a few hours. And so he did. He’d played. They’d won and shortly thereafter the last moment came as he held his Tutu kane’s hand, cried like a little boy as the old man took his final breaths. He forgave his mother.