After a beat, I ask, “Mom, why didn’t you get involved with another man?”
She exhales a protracted breath. “I was frightened of getting attached… of you getting attached… and it not working out. And then I got used to the rhythm of the two of us.”
“What happens next year when I’m gone?”If I end up going away to college…
Both corners of her lips turn up. “I’ll visit you a lot.”
“You know what I mean…”
“I’m open to meeting someone.”
As Mom smooths a lock of hair behind my ear, something occurs to me. “Why is Nev staying over at our house by the way? Doesn’t she have friends?”
“Apparently, she’s been having trouble fitting in. Jeff was going tohire a nanny to watch her, but I suggested she could stay with us.” She stands, then picks up her cup of frozen yogurt. “You should give the Dylans another chance. They’re good people.”
Uh-huh… “Fine.”
Mom smiles. “Now we should probably get home so you have time to make that diorama of yours.”
“I don’t have a diorama to make.”
“What?” She claps a hand over her chest. “You lied to me?”
I roll my eyes as I rise from my chair and swipe my own paper cup from the little table.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says with a grin.
“Must’ve gotten that from Daddy, since you’re a terribly good one.”
For a second, Mom’s features crinkle and smooth, crinkle and smooth, as though she can’t decide whether to smile or frown.
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “You’re also a terribly good mother.”
Her eyes get misty again, and then waterworks. It’s strange to see your mother weep, because parents should be strong… solid. But then I think of how strong and solid she’s been over the years during which she raised me on her own on ample amounts of love and on measly salaries—not supplemented by my father’s life insurance like I assumed—and I think that if anyone deserves a break from being so strong, it’s her.
24
The Drawer of Abandoned Gifts
On Monday morning, as I walk toward my first class, Mrs. Larue’s voice booms from the PA system: “If you create a storm, don’t get upset when it rains.”
I mull her words over as I head down the aisle toward my seat. Mrs. Dabbs hasn’t shown up yet, so the classroom is lively. I like the noise and movement. I like the way both screen off the nervous hush that settled over me after I got home from the Dairy Fairy.
I spent the darkest hours of the night thinking about my father and the palest hours of the morning thinking about Ten’s mother. Head spinning, I went downstairs and sat in front of the piano. Mom was already gone—she had an early meeting with a restaurateur out in Nashville—so I played long and hard. Pieces ranging from Ravel’s “Boléro” to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.” The only songs I didn’t play were my father’s. I was afraid his music would make my heart cramp all over again.
After jotting down Mrs. Larue’s quote in my notebook, I ask Ten, “How did you like Golden Dragon?”
Ten doesn’t answer for so long that I think my question got lost in the din surrounding us. “It was good.”
Probably not up to his standards. I bet he goes to way fancier places with his dad. I draw a squiggly frame around the quote.
“How did your diorama turn out?” he asks.
I add a second squiggly frame, and it feels like I’m drawing the rhythm strip of my heart. “It didn’t turn out as expected.”
He snorts softly.
Five minutes go by and still no Mrs. Dabbs.
