She walks down the street until I can’t see her anymore. Looks like nothing’s changed: World 1, Edgar 0.
Taking a deep breath, I walk up the driveway to the front door. I almost ring the bell before I remember I live here. Instead I turn the knob and follow the trail of light into the kitchen, where my mother stands with her back to me, cooking dinner.
Looking absolutely, incredibly normal.
In my whole life, I’ve never been so psyched to see her.
“Mom?” I cry out, and I envelop her in a hug, squeezing so tight she yelps.
“What is going on with you?” she laughs, turning around and holding me at arm’s length. Now that I can see her face, I notice that there are dark circles under her eyes, and there’s a Band-Aid on her forehead.
“First the dramatic goodbye this morning,” my mother says, “and now this?”
I scrutinize her, trying to figure out if Oliver’s right—if sheisokay. “I just really missed you . . . today.”
My mother’s eyes travel from my face down my velvet tunic to my knee-high boots. “Care to explain?”
“Drama club,” I blurt out. “I joined at school.”
She seems delighted by this. “Really? That’s incredible, Edgar. I swear, since we’ve moved here, you’ve been an entirely different person.”
“Go figure,” I murmur.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Can you set the table?”
She takes a casserole out of the oven and sets it on the stovetop to cool. I open a cabinet that looks like it might contain plates but find cereals and crackers. I open a different door and find bowls.
“Seriously, Edgar?” my mother says, pushing past me to open a drawer that has plates in it. “You still haven’t figured out this house yet?”
“Who keeps their plates in a drawer?” I say under my breath.
“Just get the glasses.” My mother sighs and walks out of the kitchen, into the vast yonder that must contain a dining room.
I fling open all the cabinets, trying to memorize everything. Then, armed with two glasses, I follow my mother into the interior of my new home.Not bad,I muse, glancing around. I kind of miss the charm of our little place on Cape Cod, but this house is not too shabby. There are hardwood floors and giant windows, and all the furniture I remember from our old place is distributed in new combinations, making everything feel familiar and different all at once.
It reminds me of being inside that fairy tale, and seeing bits and pieces of my mother’s life scattered through the pages.
We sit down and my mother serves me a heaping scoop of lasagna. I breathe in deeply, thinking that even though Queen Maureen was a good cook, she couldn’t live up to my mom’s skill in the kitchen. I’ve wolfed down half of what’s on my plate before I realize she’s staring at me like I have six heads.
“Hungry?” she asks politely.
“Starving.” I make an effort to stop eating like an animal. “So, um, did you have a good day?”
“Not as productive as I wanted it to be,” my mom replies. “I think I napped more than I worked.”
Oliver mentioned to me that she was tired, and I dismissed it. But what if it’s something more? “Well, don’t you work for yourself? Can’t you just give yourself a vacation . . . or a raise?”
My mother used to be a pretty famous mystery writer. When my dad died and I was a mess, she wrote the fairy tale to give me hope for a happy ending. Oliver was the boy I was supposed to grow up to be. Except I didn’t. In fact, now I’m a year older than Oliver in this fairy tale, so she’s probably come to terms with the sad truth: I’m just me.
She stopped writing after she finishedBetween the Lines.After that, she did freelance editing projects to put food on the table. I suppose she can work anywhere her computer can be plugged in, which is why Oliver was able to convince her to move closer to Delilah.
“So what are you editing right now?” I ask.
“It’s a debut novel about time travel.”
“Does it suck?”
My mother laughs. “The author wouldn’t know a commaif it hit him between the eyes, but it’s a great premise. I mean, imagine how freeing it would be to wake up in a different world and get to start over.”
