Frump. The car. Digging a grave.
Leaving Delilah.
Each recollection feels like I’m being stabbed, but that last one, it’s the twist of the knife.
I rub my hand over my face, wondering how I’m supposed to go through the motions today—put on my fake American accent and teenage persona, pretend to listen to my high school friends’ problems as if they matter, act like a typical student. I can’t even imagine facing Delilah and pretending that I’m not counting down the minutes we have left together.
I pull the covers up on my bed (something I won’t have to do when I’m back in that blasted book—somehow my bed always manages to make itself ). Then I stumble into the bathroom, brush my teeth, strip off my boxers, and step into the shower, letting the water cascade over me.
The moment I close my eyes, though, I see Frump. Howlong will it be before that doesn’t happen? And if it stops, does that mean I’ve forgotten him? Once Delilah and I are separated, will it be the same?
No, I tell myself, because she can always open the book and talk to me, just like she used to.
But what happens when she finds someone else—when she goes on a date and comes back with her cheeks flushed, thinking of a boy who isn’t me? When she gets married, and has children, and grows old, while the whole time I stay sixteen, and a prince, forever?
It wouldn’t matter to me if her hair went white and wrinkles lined her face. I know I’ll love Delilah till the end of time, which, in my experience, is infinite. But that’s not the case for her. I have nowhere to go, no way to move on, but Delilah’s life will evolve. Her world will force her to forget me, even as mine forces me to remember her.
Turning the faucet so that the spray stops, I stand in the shower stall with my hands pressed against the tile for a moment, trying to prolong the inevitable. Then I wrap a towel around my waist and pad into my bedroom, pulling on clothes that I haven’t worn long enough to find familiar. Packing up my satchel, stuffed with books and homework I didn’t complete, I hurry downstairs for a quick bite of breakfast before the bus comes.
Jessamyn is in the kitchen. She has already set out a bowl of cereal that I assume Edgar likes but that rather tastes like earth to me. When she turns around, I realize that there are dark circles under her eyes and that her face is unnaturally pale. Hasshe been sick again? Have I once again been too wrapped up in my own drama to notice?
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask.
Jessamyn shrugs. “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must be a full moon or something.” She reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of orange juice. I expect her to reach for a glass and pour me some, but instead she leans over my bowl of cereal and fills it with the juice.
“Jess—Mom! What are you doing?” I grab her arm to stop her. “That’s not milk.”
“Of course it is, Edgar,” she argues.
I point to the bowl. “It’sorange.”
She blinks, staring down at the bits of cereal floating in the liquid as if she is seeing it clearly for the first time. “Oh . . .” She forces a laugh. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” She smiles faintly. “Maybe it’s time to turn me in for a newer model.”
I suddenly realize that this might be the last time I see Jessamyn Jacobs. That, if Edgar has done his job well, I could be gone by nightfall. This woman has taken care of me for nearly four months, giving me the benefit of the doubt when I said or did something out of character for Edgar. I may have known her in person for only a short time, but she created me, and because of that, she still feels like a parent.
“You’ve been a really great mom,” I blurt out. “I just thought you ought to know.”
Jessamyn blanches, and then, just as quickly, seems to recover. “Wow. And it’s not even Mother’s Day,” she jests, pouringme a fresh bowl of cereal—this time with milk. “So serious before eight a.m.? You make it sound like today’s the end of the world.”
I dig my spoon into the bowl and force a smile.
It might as well be.
Delilah is waiting for me when I arrive at school. I stare at her face for a moment—her golden eyes, her chestnut hair, the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks. Her lips, pink as ribbon candy and just as sweet. I commit every feature to memory, locking each one into my mind so that I can keep it forever.
This may be the last time I step off the bus, the last time I walk through the halls holding Delilah’s hand, the last time I get to hear the music of her voice.
Today is full of lasts.
“How are you doing?” she asks quietly.
“I’ve had better days,” I confess. “Where’s Seraphima?”
“She wouldn’t stop crying, so I locked her in my bedroom with a box of tissues and enough Twinkies to fill a Hostess truck.”
I take her hands. “It’s not too late to reconsider this,” I say. “To come up with another plan.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t lose you.”
