I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the gust of wind that smelled so strongly of my mother’s scent. Running my hand along the wall, I find the switch and flip it on, illuminating the room in dim orange lighting. Instantly, my eyes latch onto the pictures littering the walls.
All the photos of me disappeared from my home, and now I see where they ended up.
Walking deeper into the room, my eyes move from the walls to find the only framed image of the entire collection. It’s of mom and me as an infant, cuddling on a checkered blanket underneath a willowy tree.
Slowly, I walk to the bedside table and lift the picture, wiping away the droplets of tears that fall onto the musty glass.
This picture was always on the nightstand at home too. Mom loved this picture, always said it was her favorite image in the world.
Setting it back in its place, I step back and take in the rest of the room. The shades are drawn, but I know if I were to peel them back, I’d have the perfect view of the moon up ahead.
All in all, this room isn’t too different from the one Roman, and I are staying in. It’s a little bigger, more lived-in, but it feels empty. It doesn’t matter that my life until I was fifteen is spread along the paint; there’s no life in the walls or love in the air.
This room is a mausoleum of loneliness… a casket of memories.
My claustrophobia kicks in, suddenly stealing my ability to breathe the longer I stay.
Stumbling to the window, I place my palms against the window sash and push, crying out when it doesn’t budge because it reminds me too much of home. After a few minutes of struggling, the glass finally moves, giving me enough room to stick my hands underneath and force the rest up.
The screen blocks my intake of air, so I shove it out and stick my head through, gasping in gulps of air until my lungs sing with life. Only when the cage around my throat loosens do I stick my head back inside.
I can’t find the strength to move very far, though, so I end up sliding down the wall until my ass hits the ground.
Unlike the bed in our room, there is space underneath this mattress, housing storage containers as large as me.
Fitting myself in the space, I grab hold of the first box and pull it towards me. Then, lifting the transparent turquoise lid, I see that it’s nothing but old records and essential documents. But at least I finally found my birth certificate and social security card. I was sure dad or Liam burnt them, so it would be like I never existed at all when they finally killed me.
The next box is filled with all her clothes and personal items that she took from home, including some of my favorite pieces of clothing I could never find. But the last box, that’s what has me freezing. Underneath all the photo albums is a large black book.
Hand raised mid-air, I lift the thick, hardcovered journal out of the container and place it on my lap, finger running over the small, delicately made flowers painted on the front before cracking open the spine.
All my letters are gone. The only note I kept was in my backpack that my father took. I never found it after that.
Seeing my mother’s delicately written script makes the tears swell in my eyes, and a choked cry bubbles past my lips when I read the first words written down
May 7, 2000
I got married today to the love of my life, and I had his sweet boy, one-year-old Liam, walk me down the aisle since I didn’t have either of my parents to do it for me. My friends in town have told me that twenty-three is too young to be getting married, but what do they know? They aren’t happy and in love. They warned me that Liam’s mom, Monica, left town after giving birth because he was a bad man, but the way I see it, his ex was a bad woman, the kind to leave her baby behind. I don’t know how any woman could do that to their child. When they see how happy I am, they’ll stop pestering me, and they’ll see I made the right choice for me.
Yet that’s what she did.
She left.
I think of where Liam’s mom could be now. Does she know her son is dead?
I can’t help but hope she really did take off and isn’t buried somewhere on our property, although I wouldn’t be surprised considering the type of man Gabriel is.
I wonder what kind of life mom would have had, had she listened to her friends. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, but she would have.
I skim through the first year of the journal until I find 2001, the year before I was born.
March 2, 2001
The pipe under the kitchen sink burst today, and I couldn’t reach Gabriel at work to see if he could come home to fix it, so I did the next best thing and hoped Gabriel wouldn’t be too upset at the expense.
Dominic Marcello showed up soon after I gave his office a call, begging for someone to come and help me before my kitchen was underwater. I didn’t expect it to be him personally, but I can’t lie and say I didn’t get a small thrill of excitement when his large body stepped through my door. I’ve always thought he was handsome, but I’m a married woman, and he’s a married man. Those thoughts can’t happen.
I watched him the entire time he was under my sink, my eyes roving over his hard, sculpted body until my lady bits sang. Of course, it was wrong of me to look at him this way when he has a wife and two boys at home, but Gabriel hasn’t touched me in months, and my body is screaming for some attention.
