I know you probably feel differently right about now, after everything you've found out. But even so, I wanted you to find these journals, to know everything there is to know about me, about us. I knew you had that journal of mine_the one I forgot at your house when we first got together. I had come to hang out at your place and your mom let me in. I was going to surprise you, but when I peeked my head around your bedroom door, I saw you sitting on your bed reading my journal. It's a green one, right? You were so into it. That gave me an idea, later, after the baby became a reality and I started getting sicker. I knew if I could find a way to leave you my journals after I was gone, you'd read them just as closely. You'd listen to what I had to tell you more than any video message or letter, because you'd believe the journal was entirely uncensored_a true glimpse into my thoughts. And you'd be right.
But I had to figure out a way to do it so you'd only get the information when you were ready for it. So I left the first one with Mabel, the one that says I never thought the chemo was working. I'd written those entries even before I decided on my plan, and I knew you'd see that message in those pages, when Mabel probably wouldn't. I figured that notebook would be the easiest to find, though it would take time to get to you. Time is good. The checklists in the back of the books were the clue that there were other journals, other things to be said_if you wanted to look for them.
The fact that you've gotten this far, that you're reading this, means (to my muddled, failing brain at least) that you were actively looking for the second journal when you found it and therefore ready to know the whole truth.
But it also means you haven't moved on. You're still looking backward. I don't know how long it's been since I've been gone, but you have to move on. If not today, then someday soon.
I love you, Ryden, I will always love you, but I'm not here anymore.
Her handwriting becomes shakier, less fluid, as I read on.
I hope you'll find great love in your life, the kind that lasts a lot longer than ours. If I still have the right to ask for anything at this point, that's what I want_I want you to move on and be happy.
I've enclosed a letter for Hope. Please give it to her when she's old enough to understand it. Maybe when she's seventeen, so you can tell her that's how old I was when I wrote it. And please make sure she knows I love her, that I wanted her more than anything, and that I wish I didn't have to leave her.
Aaaand there it is. I knew she would have included something for Hope. Some sort of mother/daughter thing. I guess her letter won’t help me any, since it’s all secret and shit, but I think I already gave up on that anyway.
Along those lines, I have something else for you. I know you don't like to talk about your father; I'm not even sure how much you think about him. But I've had a lot of time on my hands while you've been at school, so I tracked him down. I thought maybe learning about him would help you figure out what kind of father you want to be. But then again, what do I know?
I love you, Ryden. Always and forever.
Love, Meg
The next page has a sealed envelope taped to it with Hope’s name on the front. And the page after that has an address, email address, and phone number for Michael Taylor. How could she possibly have…?
You know what? I can’t think about that right now.
I close the book and sit back on the couch, trying to process everything I’ve read.
“Mom,” I say. I don’t really raise my voice, but I know she can hear me.
She comes out of her room.
“You didn’t read it?” I ask.
“No.”
“Well, I think maybe you should.” I hold it out to her.
She looks at me, unsure, but takes it and opens to the first page.
I stare out the living room window while she reads. Our neighbor across the street is putting freshly carved jack-o’-lanterns on her front stoop. I wonder if they’re going to bake the seeds. Mom and I used to do that when I was little and still into Halloween.
“She found Michael,” Mom whispers. Her face is white with shock.
“Apparently. How do you think she did it? How did she even know his name? Did she talk to you about it?”
Mom shakes her head. “She must have gotten a copy of your birth certificate somewhere. Can you find that stuff out on the Internet?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never tried.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe she hired someone?” I say. “To track him down? Maybe she used her parents’ money?”
“Maybe.”
There’s a long pause.
“Well,” Mom says, “what are you going to do?”
I let out an exhausted, painful sigh. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Chapter 33
I don’t go to school or work for a week.
I make Mom and me sandwiches for lunch and help her with her projects. Mostly I just glue stuff, since it’s pretty hard to screw that up.
Hope starts eating solidish foods—cheese and avocado seem to be her favorites—and she picks up the chunks with her fingers and feeds herself. I have no idea when or how or where she learned to do that. It’s like she woke up one day this week and just knew. She seems pretty damn proud of herself for it too. All smiles and squealing and bouncing around in her seat.
She’s got another tooth coming in, but Joni’s Washington Square Park soundtrack is helping.
I spend as much time at the lake as possible, since in a matter of days, it will be too cold. Hope comes with me, bundled up under lots of layers.