Behind me, where my desk used to be, now sits my bed, a blue-and-white-striped comforter taking the place of the pink set I grew up with. Spread all across it is a mess of printouts, pamphlets, and books that my mom must’ve brought up while I was in the shower. It makes my palms feel sweaty. It’s all the information I was given upon discharge from the hospital thismorning. Dr. Reicher went over my recovery and upcoming appointments pretty thoroughly, but I know I should probably read it for myself. I just don’t think I’m up for it right now. It all feels like too much. Especially when this room, my bedroom,myspace, doesn’t even feel like it belongs to me.
There’s a knock at my door and as if on cue, my mom pops her head in.
“Feel better?” she asks.
“Uh, a little.” I run my hand carefully through my freshly shampooed hair, inhaling the familiar smell of my cucumber-melon conditioner, one thing that hasn’t changed.
My mom smiles. “You know what would make you feel better? Getting out of here. They said the best thing for you to do is to get back to your routine, your normal life.”
I laugh pathetically, shaking my head. “What does that even mean? I don’t remember mynormallife.”
“Well, right now, it could mean hanging out with your old ma?” She gives me a hopeful smile.
“Lola’s is still open, right?” I ask, my stomach growling at the thought of our favorite little lunch place.
“Lola’s?” She knits her eyebrows together.
“Yeah,” I reply, squinting at her. “Best sandwiches in the county? We basically live there?”
Am I the one with amnesia, or is she?
“Uh, sure.” She gives me a weird look but shakes it off into a smile. “I’d love to.”
“I guess I’ll drive.” I step forward and pluck the carabiner with a car key attached off my desk. “Thesearemine, aren’t they? Formycar?” I ask, a smirk spreading across my face. I’mnot going to lie, having my licenseandmy own cardoesbring me a genuine rush of joy.
“Uh, no.” She grabs for them, but I move fast enough that her hand cuts straight through the air.
“Come on,” I plead. “Dad taught me how to drive when I was like eleven.” I may not remember getting my license, but I do remember how to drive.
“Dr. Reicher said no driving until she clears you,” Mom replies, extending her hand and wiggling her fingers until I hand over the keys.
“Fine,” I grumble, following her out to her car, feeling like I’m still being treated like a fifteen-year-old, even though all traces of her seem to be gone.
CHAPTER 9
LOLA’S BISTRO IS RIGHT ONthe outskirts of Wyatt, and I’m hoping their chicken Caesar sandwich hasn’t changed, because it’s straight-up perfection. Just like at every other restaurant around here, you seat yourself, and without discussing it we both head to our corner booth beside a window that overlooks the tree line. Neither of us bothers to open the menu, because I’m pretty sure we know it by heart at this point. I might not remember my eighteenth birthday, but at least I can remember that.
As we’re waiting for the waitress to come over, I recognize a group of old ladies from St. Joe’s, shuffling in through the door.
“Hey, Mom, how are things at the church? Are you still duking it out with Mrs. O’Doyle?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face. Mom’s been angling to run the church fundraisers for years, but Mrs. O’Doyle absolutely refuses to share her post. Even if her Lenten fish fryismore burnt beer batter than actual cod.
“Actually!”Mom sits up real straight in her seat, looking very proud. “You’re looking at the new head of the Seventy-Sixth Annual Spaghetti Dinner.”
“No way!” I say, shocked.
“It’s August tenth! So I’ve got a little under two months to perfect my meatball recipe, and I want to get started sooner rather than later. You and your dad are going to be meatballed out by the time it actually rolls around.”
“I’lltotallyhelp you with that,” I say. I love a good mother-daughter summer project.
“You will? Really?” she asks.
“Wait, did Mrs. O’Doyle die or something?” I narrow my eyes at her.
“No.” She snickers. “Why?”
“You’re telling me sheactuallygave up her post?” I ask.
“Well… not exactly willingly,” she says, cringing. “You remember her daughter, Sarah?” I nod, picturing her, a senior at Central Catholic. Or… no. I guessI’mnot even a senior there anymore. Sarah would’ve graduated two years ago.
