“I’m going to get something to eat, Tucky. Can you manage for that long?” River calls from outside at that moment. “If so, knock on the door three times.”
I knock on the wood three times. Since when does he call me Tucky?
“Okay. And make sure you don’t sneeze, or the walls here will collapse like a house of cards.”
He jokes, as he always does when something is wrong. I know him better than he thinks—and yet not at all.
I hear the door close as I continue to stare at myself in the mirror. The silence that remains seems unbearably loud. It hums in my ears. Maybe it’s the air conditioning. At least, that’s what I’ve learned on our road trip through America. Almost every flophouse has rattling air conditioning and a smoke detector that doesn’t work properly. Thankfully, none of them went off when there was cigarette smoke.
I step into the shower and scrub the heat of the day along with the desert dust from my skin.
As the water hits the top of my head, I try to wash away my fears, but it no longer works. The girl with the red lollipop keeps appearing in front of my eyes, as well as the boys in the background. Fans? Friends?
After I’ve rubbed myself dry to the point of it being painful, I slip into my old jeans, which still have the signal generator attached. I wrap my hand around it for a moment, remembering the feeling of happiness when River gave it to me.
Since you can’t protect yourself, someone else has to do it for you. Especially when I’m... sleeping. He left something out.
I wish I could go back in time and start the journey all over again. I wish I could forget what happened at the gas station.
After a while, I let go of the signal generator and put on the sweaty bat blouse. My outfit is definitely not the best choice to wear to my mom’s.
Mom. The opening of the art exhibit is tonight at Caesars Palace, and the way I feel about her couldn’t be more strange. Funny. I always wanted to ask her why she just disappeared. There was a gap in my heart the size of a fist, but that gap closed this summer.
What could Mom say in reply? It was all a big misunderstanding, darling?
Thoughtfully, I open the backpack and take out the photo that I have stored in a zippered pocket. Next to it, I place the first newspaper I’ve been carrying around with me for weeks, as if it were a shrine.
I stare at the photo. Her smile is full of warmth, and she doesn’t look much older than me. She wasn’t much older when she left, just in her mid-twenties.
She looks so much like me, it’s scary. “Mom,” I whisper. “Why?”
“Why”was the first word I uttered in over a year, and it’s the word that has stuck with me for years. It’s such a tiny word but holds so much.
Why did Chester torture me so much?
Why didn’t anyone ever believe me?
Why doesn’t River just tell me who he is?
What do I actually expect from Mom’s answer? What explanation would be enough to truly satisfy me?
I was terminally ill and didn’t want you to see me suffer?
I heard voices and was afraid I’d kill you in your sleep?
Of course, it wasn’t like that—I know that much.
I was selfish and wanted to live my own life.
I carefully leaf through the crumpled newspaper for the article inside.
I don’t think there’s an answer to the “why” that will make me happy or tell me I’m still lovable enough. Still, I should ask her, because it was important to Kansas, who put it on the list at the beginning of the summer. I shouldn’t just ignore her wishes.
I pause in the middle of turning the pages, even though I see Mom’s picture on the next page.
Meredith Fox – A Portrait of an Unusual Artist
And below it:
