“I called her over the weekend,” I mumbled, knowing it wasn’t good enough.
Never good enough…
“It’s not the same, Han, you know that. She had a rough couple of days. Her seizures were particularly bad—”
“I’ll go by after work this week. Tell her that I promise.” My stomach clenched and I felt sick at the thought of seeing her.
My Char…
I could hear my mother’s heavy, burdened sigh in my ear. Noisy and full of silent condemnation. “Okay. I’ll tell her.”
“I’ve got to go, Mom.” I slipped on my shoes and turned off the light in the closet. Talking about Char was the reminder I needed. Even if I didn’t want to face it.
“Okay. Just remember—”
“Smile and the world smiles with you. Yeah, I’ve read that one before.”
“Don’t make fun, Hannah.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I love you.” I wished I could soften at her words. I wished I could say them back the way I was supposed to.
I wasn’t programmed that way. Not anymore.
“Bye, Mom.”
I hung up the phone, not feeling any more confident or assured than I had before the call. I should have known better.
I walked into the hallway and out to the living room. Past bland walls. Undecorative white trim. Builder basic. Nothing fancy.
Nondescript furniture. No extraneous knickknacks or crazy throw pillows.
One lone framed print on the wall. A photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. It wasn’t there because it held some sort of special significance but because it had looked pretty on the shelf at Target.
There was nothing in my house that screamed “Hannah Whelan.”
Who was she?
You wouldn’t be able to tell anything from the boring gray carpet and battered oak end tables.
I had a thing against personalizing.
There was most likely some kind of psychological meaning behind my inability to truly inhabit the space I lived in. It probably wouldn’t even take a therapist to figure out what my issues were.
It was hard to make a space uniquely your own when you wore so many different hats.
I went into the tiny galley-style kitchen. It was bright, at least. The sun shone through the grimy windows, unimpeded by the threadbare sheer hanging over the glass. It was the happiest room in the house. Which wasn’t saying much. I grabbed a Pop-Tart and broke it in half, shoving a piece in my mouth.
Without thinking, I opened my laptop and wiggled my finger over the mouse.
I had been up too late last night. I should have gone to bed before midnight. Big days required early nights. But as always, I’d gotten sucked into things. It was easy to do when you were on a crusade.
I glanced at the time on my phone. 8:02.
I had some time before I needed to leave.
And there were things more important than my job. More important than my reason for wearing lip gloss.
