She takes a breath and says, “You know, when I was growing up, my mother always told me, ‘Don’t marry someone you can live with. Marry someone you can’t live without.’”
“Uhhh… okay,” I say, unsure about the relevance of this advice to my life. “Are you and Dad getting a divorce or something?”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“So is that how you felt about Dad when you met? That you couldn’t live without him?”
“Your father was… very eager to get married. We were young. And I thought he’d be able to give me the life I wanted. This house, my clothes. I didn’t have all this when I was your age.”
I pause, considering her answer. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Will, honey,” she says, putting a hand on my back. It feels unnatural coming from my mom, who’s usually so much more, well, annoying. But I don’t shrug it off. “It seemed like you were happier when you were with Cecily. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy, at least not since you were little, before you figured out that you were different from the other kids.”
“Well, it’s over now,” I say bitterly.
“I know it’s none of my business, but does it have to be?”
“Yes, actually,” I say. “She left. She went to California.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Her dad lives there, and he’s sick. My friends and I would drive out to see her, but we can’t afford it.”
I wouldn’t normally tell this kind of stuff to my mom, but I feel so defeated that I have no energy to keep my guard up. Plus, I want to express what I’m feeling. At the moment, Mom is the only one near enough to listen.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
She really does sound sorry.
We sit in silence for a few moments, and then she leaves and I return to my staring at the ceiling. After a while—a few minutes, a few hours, who knows—I get bored and scratch a few of the stickers on the wall, noticing for the first time the colors and designs printed on each one. I text Cecily. No reply. I call her. Voice mail. As always.
It’s early evening now—I can tell because the light coming through the window is all but gone—when I hear another knock on my door.
“Will?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Mind if I come in again?”
“Sure.”
She sits down. “Here.”
I reach out, and she pushes an envelope into my hand.
“Feel inside.”
I open it and flip through. The bills are already stamped with braille.
“Where did you get this?”
“I sold the Tesla.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“I sold it. I couldn’t get top dollar on such short notice, but I have a friend from the club who I knew wanted one, and I gave her a good deal for buying it right away.”
“That must be thousands of dollars.… I can’t take that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not giving you all of it. Just enough for the four of you to drive to Los Angeles and back.”
“Why didn’t you just go to an ATM?”
“I thought about it, but my ATM limit isn’t high enough to fund a cross-country road trip. At least, not unless you were going to stay in seedy hotels and live off cheap junk food.”
I still can’t believe it. The Tesla was, like, her most prized possession.
“Mom, I really can’t take this.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, really. Go get the car back. You got ripped off.”
“That’s why I know she won’t sell it back to me. So you might as well take the money.”
“What’s Dad going to say?”
“Nothing if you leave before he gets home.”
“Like, right now? For LA?”
“Unless you want your father grounding me and you.”
“Um, wow… uhhhh… okay. Okay. Yeah. Let me just text my friends.”
“The money comes with one stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to stop at the Grand Canyon on your way there. It’s the most beautiful place in the world, and I want you to have the opportunity to see it.”
“Mom, there’s something I should tell you about my operation—”
“I already know,” she says softly.
“You do?” I ask, surprised.
“There was a problem with an insurance payment, so I had to call Dr. Bianchi’s office. He mentioned the fluid buildup. Asked me how you were doing.”
I’m silent for a moment. “Oh.”
“That’s the other reason I got rid of the Tesla. I know how upset you were about it. I’m sorry I don’t always take your feelings into account. So if there’s a chance you’re going to return to total blindness, I’ve decided we shouldn’t have a silent car around.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And that’s also why I want you to see the Grand Canyon before it’s too late. I want you to see the whole country. Now, while you still can. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, I will.”
She kisses me on the forehead.
“This is your journey. I can’t guide you anymore.”