Quote 1
And then, after a while, she said, "Christopher, let me hold your hand. Just for once. Just for me. Will you? I won't hold it hard," and she held out her hand.
And I said, "I don't like people holding my hand."
And she took her hand back and she said, "No. OK. That's OK." (227.123-25)
This is the first time Christopher's mother has heard from, let alone seen, her son in two years. She's obviously very emotional, and she asks him for just the smallest morsel of physical affection in return. She knows she can't hug him, but she thinks maybe they can just hold hands, just this once. Christopher, despite how affected he's clearly been by learning his mother is still alive, doesn't hear this same plea in his mother's voice. The intensity of the moment doesn't change the fact that he simply doesn't like being touched – not even his hand.
Quote 2
And then I heard Mother's voice and she was shouting, "Christopher…? Christopher…?" and she was running down the road, so I came out from between the skip and the Ford Transit can and she ran up to me and said, "Jesus Christ," and she stood in front of me and pointed her finger at my face and said, "If you ever do that again, I swear to God, Christopher, I love you, but... I don't know what I'll do." (233.33)
Does this strike anyone else as sort of a strange thing to say? How do you think this sentence would end, if she were to keep talking? Just what is she thinking here?