WHEN I WAS a child, my mom was always obsessed with the sun. Not by the sunset that signaled the end of the day, but by the sunrise that brought about the miracle of the new day. I don’t know if this is because she was an optimist, a joyful soul who celebrated every new day, or because as a pessimist she feared that every day could be the end.
She used to wake early, wake us all up and take us to the lake, where we would watch the sunrise together. As we got older we refused to get out of bed during the week, and then we just went on weekends. Then it was just Sunday mornings, and as we reached our teenage years and didn’t want to go at all, she went alone.
Just to keep her happy she planned what she called her “sunrise days,” days planned well in advance of when we would accompany her. But our company was begrudging. Sleeping on pillows in the car, sometimes refusing to even get out, which angered or hurt her depending on the day. I remember watching her from the car one day, all bundled up and feeling so frustrated that our weird mother had taken us from the comfort of our warm beds for this, but when I conjure that image of her now I feel guilty for not sharing it with her.
It also makes me smile. The picture in my head of her with the sun rising before her makes me feel calm, fills me with love for her.
She would send us photographs of the sunrise from all around the world, from wherever she was doing modeling shoots. The sun coming up over Milan Cathedral while she was at Milan Fashion Week, over the rooftops of Montmartre during Paris Fashion Week. Rising over the Manhattan skyline or at London’s Camden Market. Dad would grumble that she was probably only on her way home.
She’d fill photo albums just with these photographs, try to get as many of us with the sun rising as she could, and she would study them, mainly at night by the fire, curled up in her pajamas while the rest of us watched TV. It must have lifted her soul. I don’t think I ever asked her why. It seems such an obvious thing to ask her now, but ever since I’ve had to leave my family behind I think of a thousand things a day that I want to ask or tell them. Even Ewan, who’s only eight. I realize there is so much about his little life that I don’t know.
After Carrick and I get our hands on the snow globe in Mary May’s house, we quietly sneak away, terrified that she’ll catch us. We don’t call Raphael Angelo yet to collect us, as we promised him. Instead, we send a text message to my mom to meet us at the lake.
There are a number of reasons why I contact Mom. First, I need to see her before she charges the Whistleblower training center that holds Juniper. Second, I need her to help me with the next part of my plan. But mostly it’s because I miss her. I want my mom. I want to touch her, smell her, feel her. I want her to make everything okay just as she always has done for me, or at least make me feel like everything is going to be okay. Help me with that extra armor for the world. I know I’m old enough, but I need her. Just like Mary May needs hers. Just as Art cried every day when he lost his, and how Crevan fell to pieces when his son lost his. Just as Carrick risked his freedom to find his.
I want Carrick to meet my mom. I want this so much.
We wait on the sand. It’s 2:00 AM. I’m sure she will be awake, with her duty of charging into the Whistleblower base to get Juniper only hours away. I’ve no doubt she is plotting and planning, rehearsing and running through it over and over again with Dad, who no doubt wants to be the one to do it, but it can’t be him, it has to be Mom, the mother.
Thirty minutes later, headlights appear. We hide. She pulls into the parking lot; no one follows her. She makes her way down to the sand, wearing an oversized cardigan, carrying a blanket and bag in her hands. We come out of our hiding place and she sees me. Her face crumples before she even gets to me. She opens her arms wide and I’m lost in that oversized cashmere cardigan, feeling her body heat. I feel like I’m in a cocoon. I can finally breathe, relax, cry.
“Mom, this is Carrick.” I sniff.
“Oh, Carrick.” She lifts her wings again and bundles all six feet of him inside, and the two parts of my life come together.
“I brought food,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” we say in unison.
We wolf down the sandwiches, while she watches us.
“Can you taste yet?”
I shake my head but shovel the sandwiches into my mouth anyway.
“Look at you.” She moves hair from my face. “You look so grown up.”
“It’s only been, like, three weeks.” I laugh, then self-consciously share a look with Carrick.
She looks at him then, and as if realizing what has happened between me and him, she studies him in silence.
Carrick chews slowly, sensing her eyes on him. He looks up at her and then away quickly.
“You cut your hair,” I say, taking in her cropped style.
“I always thought it was such a cliché when women cut their hair, thinking it was like some kind of brave and strong thing to do, as if the hair is of any importance at all. Well, I was wrong. I had to keep it long, for the hair-care contracts. Keep it long, keep it blond, keep it this, keep it that. Half the time it was extensions because that’s what we wanted to project, healthy hair. That beautiful means lots of hair, that perfect means fuller hair. I got tired of it. So I shaved one side for the Candy Crevan housewarming.”
“I remember.”
“After you left I dip-dyed it pink, but I hated it. I looked like Barbie’s grandmother. So I cut it. We’re supposed to think that long hair is feminine. The perfect look for summer, beach hair. I told them all to suck it.”
Carrick and I laugh.
“You sound like Juniper.”
“Your dad doesn’t know what to think.” She smiles. “But he likes it.”
My throat tightens and my heartbeat speeds up at the mention of Dad. I feel Carrick’s eyes on me but I can’t go there yet. Carrick senses we need some time alone and announces he’s going for a walk.