“Mom,” I say, the word more curt in my mouth than it was in my head. “Can we come in?”
For a second, she looks completely lost—her mouth opens and shuts, she blinks rapidly. It’s as if I’m watching a movie of myself from two weeks ago, opening the door to Salem and Adam.
When she recovers, she takes a step back from the door. She raises an arm in an ushering gesture and says, “Of course, come in,” but she’s clearly caught off guard when she notices we’re not alone.
Tegan points and says, “That’s Adam Hawkins. Jess’s boyfriend.”
My eyes widen. But what am I going to do, correct her? Briefly, I look toward Adam. His throat bobs in a swallow, but he’s definitely not going to say anything. I’m pretty sure he’s holding to his own condition, now: Don’t speak unless spoken to, not until someone—me or Tegan, probably—says it’s okay.
“And this,” Tegan continues, pointing again, “is someone who’s been looking for you for a while.”
“Hello, Charlotte,” says Salem, because I don’t think she ever waits for someone to tell her what’s okay. “I’m Salem Durant.”
Mom tips her head to the side the slightest amount. “I always wondered what you looked like in real life. I’ve seen a few pictures.”
“Have you?”
Tegan and I exchange a glance in the silence that follows. The vibe—as she would say—is extremely off.
Not that it was ever really on, I guess.
I take the first step inside, just to break this new layer of tension.
And it’s . . . it’s sort of sad in here.
Outside the many windows, Mom was right: water is the landscape, and it’s surrounding you. On a clear day, I bet it’s beautiful. But on a day where it’s gray and threatening rain, it only reminds you of how determinedlyinsideyou are, stuck in this small, cramped space. Everywhere I look, surfaces are cluttered, covered. Books, newspapers, shipping boxes. On a low, long table beneath the TV, I count five picture frames.
Tegan and I aren’t featured in any of them.
Mom and Miles—Lynton—in every single one.
“We can sit here,” Mom says, gesturing to a small, square table off the galley kitchen. There are four compact chairs, and Adam’s already crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, hunching slightly. He has to, in a space this small.
He watches my mother with wariness. With a sort of warning in his eyes.
Salem pulls out a chair and sits, leaving her bag—recording equipment inside and completely off, if she’s following the rules—at her feet, and Tegan follows. For a long second, Mom and I look at each other from opposite sides of the table. She scans over my black jeans and tee, the same way she used to when I was a teenager.
I dare her with my eyes to say something.
She blinks and turns toward where Tegan and Salem sit. “Can I get you some water?” she asks, pleasant and polite.
I can’t make myself sit down. I can only think of how strange this is. How I’m standing here, ten feet from my mother while she fills two glasses with tap water, as though this is a normal visit. How strange that you can see someone after all this time, and there’re still these passing human niceties to observe. Come in, sit here, have water.
“Lynton is dead,” Mom says, I think to Salem, as though she could read my mind about the niceties. As though she decided to cut right through them. “Six years ago now. So. If that’s why you came.”
Tegan blinks, and I can tell she’s a little stunned. Maybe she didn’t notice the five picture frames. Maybe she forgot that we’ve never been Mom’s first priority.
Salem says, “We gathered that. We’ve been—”
“I found your postcards,” Tegan blurts. “We went to all the places you sent them from.”
Mom sits down, pushes the glasses toward Salem and Tegan.
“I wondered if you would,” she says. “Someday.”
I swallow, grateful that Tegan didn’t tell the whole curtain-rod truth. But when Mom flicks her gaze up to me, I have the uncomfortable sense that she can discern a version of it anyway.
My lips press tight together. I don’t know whyIsuddenly feel as though I’m in danger of incriminating myself. As thoughIhave something to be ashamed of.
