I paused halfway down.
“Rosemary?”
“The florist said it means remembering.” He looked extremely pleased with himself. “And I remember promises.”
My heart sank.
Mom made a small sound behind me.
When I turned, her eyes were wet.
“Mom?”
“Upstairs, Chrissy.”
This time she didn’t ask.
“And I remember promises.”
***
The second we entered my bedroom, she shut the door.
Then locked it.
“Okay, you’re scaring me, Mom.”
She faced me.
“You can go with Noah tonight, but only on one condition.”
Anger hit me before fear did.
“If this is about Noah having Down syndrome, I swear to God…”
“Okay, you’re scaring me, Mom.”
“No.”
“Because I’m 18, Mom.”
“I know.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“I know that too.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Mom pressed her lips together.
For several seconds, she couldn’t speak.
Finally, she sat on my bed.
“Do you remember the year your father left?”
The question caught me off guard.
“He’s my best friend.”
“What does Dad have to do with prom?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are we talking about him?”
“Because there’s something that happened that year.”
I folded my arms.
“What?”
Mom looked toward the floor.
“You were 12.”
“I know.”
“You stopped eating lunch.”
My arms slowly dropped.
“How do you know that?”
“Because there’s something that happened that year.”
“Noah told me.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“He found me one afternoon.”
“Where?”
“In the school parking lot.”
Something in her expression made the room feel suddenly smaller.
“He caught me crying in the car,” Mom admitted.
I sat beside her.
“Mom…”
“He found me one afternoon.”
“I thought nobody saw me.” She rubbed her palms together. “But Noah did.”
Downstairs, faintly, I heard Noah laugh at something my aunt said.
Mom heard it too.
Her face crumpled for half a second before she controlled it.
“What did he say to you?” I urged.
“I thought nobody saw me.”
She looked at me.
“He asked me if you were broken.”
My breath caught. “Why?”
“Because you weren’t eating, sweetie. You weren’t laughing. He said you sat by yourself sometimes.”
I looked toward the door.
I’d forgotten most of those lunches.
Apparently Noah hadn’t.
“What did you tell him?”
“He asked me if you were broken.”
“I told him you weren’t broken.” Mom swallowed. “Then he said something I’ve remembered for six years.”
“What?”
Her fingers closed around mine.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t know how to fix people. I only know how to stay.’”
I couldn’t speak.
“I don’t know how to fix people. I only know how to stay.”
Mom squeezed my hands.
“For six years, Noah has kept a promise to me that you never knew existed.”
My heart began pounding.
“What promise?”
Whatever came next was the truth she’d dragged me upstairs to hear.
And suddenly, I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.
Whatever came next was the truth she’d dragged me upstairs to hear.
Mom’s voice cracked.
“I asked Noah to promise he’d look after you.”
I stared at her.
“You… what?”
“I was falling apart, Chrissy. Your father had left, you barely spoke to me, and Noah was the only person who seemed able to reach you.”
I froze.
“I asked Noah to promise he’d look after you.”
Mom wiped her cheek.
“He said, ‘Okay.’ Just like that.”
Downstairs, Noah laughed again.
Mom looked toward the door.
“And then I did something I’m ashamed of.”
“What?”
“For six years, I worried you were sacrificing too much for him,” she admitted.
I went still.
“I did something I’m ashamed of.”
“Every time you waited for Noah, defended him, changed plans because he wasn’t invited, I wondered whether you felt responsible for him.”
“Mom…”
“I kept measuring your friendship by what Noah might need from you.” Her mouth trembled. “I never bothered measuring it by what he gives.”
Suddenly I saw six years differently.
“I kept measuring your friendship by what Noah might need from you.”
Ice cream after my driving test.
That stupid dinosaur in his locker.
Lunches when I couldn’t talk.
A porch when my heart was broken.
Noah hadn’t needed me to carry him.
We had simply kept showing up for each other.
“So what’s your condition?” I whispered.
Noah hadn’t needed me to carry him.
Mom smiled through tears.
“Don’t go tonight because six-year-old Chrissy promised him.” She squeezed my hand. “Promise me you’ll go because 18-year-old Christina chooses him.”
I laughed.
“Mom, I wasn’t going because of the promise.”
“I know that now.”
“The promise is just why Noah bought a bow tie four months early,” I said.
“Promise me you’ll go because 18-year-old Christina chooses him.”
That finally made her laugh.
We went downstairs.
Noah looked between us.
“You took a long time.”
Mom walked directly toward him.
“Noah, may I have the first dance?”
His eyebrows shot up.
“Mrs. Jane, this is not prom.”
I burst out laughing.
Mom put music on anyway.
“Noah, may I have the first dance?”
For 30 awkward seconds, Noah counted steps while Mom repeatedly stepped the wrong direction.
Finally he sighed.
“Mrs. Jane, Chrissy dances better.”
“That’s why she’s your date.” Mom’s voice softened. “Thank you for staying.”
Noah frowned as though she’d thanked him for breathing.
“She stays too.”
“Thank you for staying.”
Mom closed her eyes.
That was the answer she’d needed for years.
***
At prom, when the first slow song began, Noah held out his hand.
“Chrissy… You owe me.”
“Twelve years?”
“Yes.”
He stepped on my shoe within five seconds.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“Your dress is badly designed.”
“Chrissy… You owe me.”
We laughed until people stared.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
Nobody applauded us.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
***
Afterward, Mom waited outside.
Noah carried my heels because my feet hurt.
I carried his jacket because he was feeling hot.
At the car, he opened my door.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
I climbed inside, leaned across the seat, and opened his.
Mom watched us in the mirror.
For years, she’d seen me beside Noah and thought one of us was taking care of the other.
She finally understood.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
Nobody was fulfilling an obligation.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
We were just two people who had figured something out at six that adults sometimes spend their whole lives learning.
When somebody matters to you, you stay.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they stay too.
When somebody matters to you, you stay.
