Her failures made everyone look better. Everyone could be a great mom, wife, or friend if only they compared themselves to Elaine Calloway.
A part of me wanted to spread the truth I knew. It’d be so easy to scan the pages of my journal and print out a thousand copies. Our town was small and an afternoon at the copy shop and a couple of rolls of tape was all it would take to coat it in cold, hard truth. I wanted everyone to realize their mistakes, to feel the sting of embarrassment they’d forced my mother to feel, but I never could pull the trigger. Maybe because I knew firsthand that every person in that town would have to face their own truth sooner or later, or maybe because in my gut, I knew my desire for vengeance was dwindling more and more each day.
I carried two books everywhere I went during the end of that spring semester: my mom’s gardening book and the journal I’d filled with secrets and lies. They seemed to go hand in hand at first. I’d skim through them both, finding solace in the worn pages, but then one day, I skipped over my journal.
My mother’s words were like a salve on my heart, patching up the wounds I’d tried hard to cover up. Eventually I knew I wouldn’t need the journal any more, not if I really wanted to move on.
The secrets and lies of Blackwater weren’t my concern.
Not any more.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chase
Our first playoff game was scheduled for noon on Saturday. I held out no hope of beating our opponent, the reigning state champs, but I'd play my best and keep my head up high as we walked off the field. For most of my teammates, it’d be their last baseball game, but I had years of college ball left.
I was set to start and as I warmed up on the mound, the blazing sun scorched the skin on the back of my neck. I reared back, drew my leg up off the ground, and hurled a curveball at Connor. The ball collided with his glove with a sharp pop. I lived for that sound.
Conner stood, straightened his catcher’s helmet, and tossed the ball back to me. I caught it and moved back to take my position for another. I glanced up into the stands to find the Diamonds Girls in their seats, their matching shirts a dead giveaway. Parents and fans surrounded them, but I didn't see Lilah's short black hair anywhere, and if she wasn't there, then I didn't care who was in the stands.
I finished three more warm-up throws before the announcer spoke through the field’s scratchy speakers.
“Welcome to the 3A Region 2 playoffs! We have the defending state champs, the Lake Johnson Rattlers taking on the Blackwater Wolves. Starting for Lake Johnson we have…”
The announcer's voice carried on but I tuned him out as I lined up next to my teammates.
I’d just made it to the front of the line when two figures walking up the middle aisle of the stadium caught my attention. Lilah and my dad were walking up the ramp side by side. He was carrying a bag of peanuts and she had two sodas. She pointed to two open seats at the front of the bleachers and they slid past other fans to take their seats. When he turned, he scanned the field and then found me, staring up at him.
My throat tightened as he smiled and waved. It was a small, self-conscious wave; he was nervous about being there and I had no way to reassure him other than to smile, take my hat off, and wave back.
I couldn’t believe it.
My dad could change.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Lilah
I finished my mother's book the night before my eighteenth birthday. It was dark out, nearly midnight, and I lay in my bed illuminated by the soft glow from my bedside lamp. I’d thought I liked to garden because it was something I did with my mom. It was a passion we shared, and most of my happy memories with her took place in the garden.
But that's not why I continued to garden after she died.
I gardened because I was obsessed with the notion of finding beauty in the dirt. Dirt is chaos, gritty, full of bugs and decay, but from that dirt comes such immense beauty. Roses, tulips, tomatoes, peonies, raspberries, oranges, magnolias...and even me. I wanted to be made new. I wanted a fresh start. I wanted to take my past, with its sadness and torn edges, and turn it into something beautiful and worthwhile.
I'd been chasing spring ever since my mom had left me when I was seven. For eleven years, I’d poured my soul into my garden, planting and cultivating, thinking that if I made the garden beautiful and full of life, it would fill me with beauty and life in return.
But I was wrong.
In the end, spring sprung from the pages of an old book.
At the very end of my mother's book, there was a page a little more crinkled than the rest, a little more worn and forgotten. On it, I found this: