I spin the ring on my finger—I have no idea how I’ll change Jonah’s mind, but I won’t disappoint Mr. Donnelly. I won’t fail my dad.
The hallways are nearly deserted, and I’m grateful. I’m itchy in my skin, fidgety in ways I haven’t been since I was little and Mom lectured me about standing still. I need to keep moving, keep making progress toward home. Take a few minutes in my room, maybe even climb into bed and pull the covers over my head.
But Amelia’s Land Rover is still in the parking space next to my car: the Audi Roadster my sister, Evy, picked for her sixteenth birthday four years ago. I hate how conspicuous it is—like a bright red jelly bean. I open my door and climb in, lowering my window when Amelia opens her passenger door to talk. Peter’s behind the wheel. He calls his greeting across her and turns down the radio.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say, but I’m touched that she did. She shrugs this off and asks, “What time is the memorial tomorrow?”
“One.” It’s that squeaky voice from English class.
Twenty-one hours and fifty-six minutes from now. Not enough time to prepare.
“Want me to come over before?”
I wish I could get out of the car and hug her, but I can’t without crying. If Amelia sees a single tear, she’ll never let me leave. And my mom needs me. “Thanks, but that’s okay—I’ll see you at the church.”
She ducks under the shoulder strap of her seat belt to lay her head on Peter’s shoulder. “If you change your mind, call me. And call me later.”
“Sure. Have fun tonight.”
But her attention’s on Peter now.
I watch them for a minute before I raise my window and put the car in reverse. It only takes six minutes to drive home; I still might have fifteenish minutes to decompress if Mom’s running at all late.
After eight minutes of impatient stop signs and pausing to let joggers, dog walkers, and baby strollers cross at every corner, I pull into the driveway and hit my garage door remote. Mom is waiting at the top of the stairs. She’s still in a gray pencil skirt and white-collared blouse, but she looks rumpled. Her sleeves are rolled up, and wisps of dark hair have escaped from her bobby pins. So much for fifteen minutes. Or even five.
I want to turn around and retreat to my car, to make up an excuse and go get the mail—anything to create just a minute of me time. Instead I notice her nervous energy, the way she’s half reaching for me, as if she’s going to pull me up the last step and into the kitchen. I take a deep breath, close the space for a quick hug, and manage a calm voice: “You’re home early.”
She laces her fingers together and looks down at the toes of her pumps. “I took a half day. It was too hard to focus. I keep thinking about tomorrow. I need everything to be perfect for your father.”
I look beyond her shoes to the mess she’s already created in the foyer: her coat slung over the banister, a coffee mug on the antique bureau, her purse on one stair, her briefcase on another, and her keys—for some reason—on the floor.
“How about we stay home? I’ll make tea and you can change out of your work clothes.”
Mom looks up. Almost-formed tears cling to her eyelashes as she blinks with surprise. “But it’s Friday, we’ve got manicures. And look at that chip on your nail.”
“I can just touch it up. We could reschedule. What if we go on Monday?”
“We always go on Friday. We’ve got appointments.”
I open my mouth to protest, but a smudge of mascara under her left eye stops me. She’s been crying. “Okay.”
Mom nods. “Go on, put away your bag, then we’ll leave.”
I obey, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hanging my bag on its hook on the back of my door, swapping my wallet and phone into a purse, and grabbing that instead. I allow myself one forlorn glance at my bed, flipping over the pillowcase so I can’t see the mascara tear stains from last night. Then I head downstairs to where Mom is waiting, keys in hand.
7
Jonah
2:29 P.M.
HALF-PAST GUILT
Mom meets me at the door wearing my baby sister in a sling around her neck. She’s also wearing a burp cloth, a splatter of baby spit-up, and a frazzled expression. She looks like a walking advertisement for birth control, but she claims to love her new life as a stay-at-home mom.
“Jonah, buddy—” she begins, reaching up to unwind the sling and smiling hopefully.
I step to the side before she can get it off. “Hey, Mom. I’ve got to get going, I’m meeting Carly.”
“Could you change your plans? Have Carly come here instead?”
“No way in hell—”
She cuts me off with a disapproving frown and mouths the word “language” while covering Sophia’s ears.
I look around for Paul, because Mom’s still rational most of the time. I don’t see him. “She can’t even talk yet.”
“But she can listen. Is that the example you want to be setting?” She’s smiling though, so at least she recognizes she’s being insane.