More silence.
“I think,” I say, “she wanted us to know that, for some reason. Or at least she wanted you to know that. That’s why she left the book in your room.”
Mabel gives a small little laugh. “That’s my sister. Always planning ahead. She used to write these pro/con lists all the time. Did you ever see her do that? They were about things as stupid as whether she should have Mom buy long grain or short grain brown rice. They would be all over the house. Whenever the cleaning lady came she would collect them and leave them in a little pile on the kitchen table.”
I smile. “So now you see why I need to find those other two journals?”
“Let me try to figure out how to get into the storage unit,” Mabel says. “I’ll call you back.”
? ? ?
Two hours later, Mabel still hasn’t called. That’s not that long, right? It’s fine. It’s totally fine.
I toss the phone onto the floor in frustration. It lands in a pile of dirty clothes.
Stop freaking out, man. You’ll get your answers when you get them. It’s not like Meg’s going to magically be brought back to life if you find the other two journals within a certain time frame or anything.
True, but there could be information in those journals that will help me with Hope. Bottom line, if there’s a journal out there with a check mark next to my name, I want it.
Must distract myself.
I change Hope’s diaper, cover her in baby sunscreen, dress her in her onesie with the ladybug pattern, strap her into a carrier on my chest, and grab her diaper bag. She’s not crying, exactly, but she’s whimpering and fidgeting, like a cat who doesn’t want to stay still long enough for the vet to listen to its heart or check its ears or whatever.
Mom’s outside, pulling weeds out from between the cracks in the driveway. She’s got her earbuds in and is dancing around to the beat of some unheard song. It’s probably Alanis Morissette. She loves Alanis Morissette. All angry female rockers actually.
I watch her for a second undetected. She looks so happy, like our lives aren’t completely fucked. A lot of my mom’s friends don’t have kids yet. Some of them are married, some aren’t, and the ones who have kids, they’re little, like a baby or a four-year-old. But most are blissfully child-free. They come over sometimes for “movie night.” The living room gets overrun by six or seven thirtysomething women, most of them still pretty hot, drinking frozen margaritas and talking and laughing and not really paying any attention to whatever movie is on the screen. A few times, I’ve overheard their conversations. They’re usually talking about sex or the gorgeous new barista at the Starbucks on Fourth Street or how the men on the online dating sites are hopelessly disappointing. Not mom stuff at all.
And it always hits me, in those moments, how my mother’s life would be different if not for me.
The guys she’s dated, the ones I’ve met anyway, are all losers. They seem fine at first, not particularly spectacular but nice enough. Then they find out she has a teenage son and come to the conclusion that they’re “not ready for that kind of thing.” Now that she’s a grandmother too? Forget it.
I’ve never seen my mother in love. I’ve seen her hoping desperately for the possibility of love. I’ve seen her with a tear in her eye and a dreamy smile on her face when she reaches the end of one of her vampire romance books. I’ve seen her come home the morning after staying at a guy’s house, all moon-eyed and floating on air, telling me, “This could be the one, Ry. I feel it.” I’ve seen her introduce me to a guy and watch him and me intensely, trying to gauge our reactions to each other, hoping for a “click.” But I’ve never seen her completely, truly in love.
I don’t think she’s been in love since Michael.
I look down at Hope. She’s watching Mom dancing around too, and she’s sort of smiling. I wonder if she’s old enough to find things funny.
Mom looks up then and sees us standing there. “Hey, buddy,” she says, dumping a handful of weeds in a pile on the side of the driveway and wiping her hands on her jeans. She takes out her earbuds. “Where you off to?”
Anywhere that will distract me from obsessing over Meg’s journals. “Dunno. Just need to get out of the house.”
She nods. “Well, can we talk tonight? I’ll make eggplant parm.”
That’s my favorite. She only makes it on special occasions or when she’s trying to butter me up. I know what this “talk” is going to be about—the same thing she’s been trying to get me to talk about seriously for the whole summer. The Great Day Care Dilemma.
“All right,” I say. “When do you need me home?”
“Seven-ish?”
“’Kay.”