Once we’re bathed of potential deadly pathogens, we move upstairs to the main floor. Eileen shuffles toward us and wraps her arms around her son, again reminding me how sturdy he is, especially compared to his diminutive mom. When he lets go, she cups his cheek with one hand, tucking her gray-and-brown bob behind her ear with the other. I remember her face—from the memorial all those years ago, the horror when she saw the blood pouring down the side of her son’s head.
“And Lara … a hug for you too.” She steps around Finan and pulls me into a tight, quick hug. She leans back, both hands on my shoulders as she examines my bare face and ponytailed, wet hair. “You are the spitting image of your mother.”
“Thank you for all this.” I gesture to the cozy sweatsuit she left for me in the bathroom
