Page 41 of Wish For Me

My stomach churns. She’s proud of me because she’s my mom. I came all this way for her. But now…

“Break both legs!” Dan says.

I smile, but the thought I almost spoke out loud echoes across my brain, like everything’s come to a standstill.

Even though I’ve gotten everything I strived for, this feels wrong. I’ve been worried since I started rehearsals for this play that someone’s going to break something. All that swinging and leaping and yelling. I wanted to be on the ground, overseeing the safety plan. Getting us out of the air and on the goddamned ground.

“Maybe you need a snack?” Mom asks, hopeful.

Inside the bag, there are three Christmas cookies.

“Dan ate a few of them on the way over,” Mom says, throwing a look at Dan. But Dan’s busy eyeing Marissa as she returns to her clipboard, her bottom lip in her teeth as she concentrates.

“Dan!” I say.

He snaps his eyes to mine. “What?”

“Quit ogling my assistant,” I hiss.

He grins.

“You ate Noelle’s present, Daniel,” Mom says. “Her good luck present!”

“Dad had some too!”

Dad grins sheepishly. “You know how much I like the sparkly ones.”

Mom rolls her eyes, but smiles indulgently. “Well, this was just a sample. I’ve got a whole tin for you back at the hotel.”

They really do look happy. My stomach churns.

“I’m really sorry,” Marissa says, her eye on her watch, “but there’s a lot of prep we have to do still…”

“Oh!” Mom says. “Right. Well, break a leg, honey.”

“What about the photo?” Dad asks.

“Oh!” Mom says, reaching into her purse. “Thank you, I almost forgot.”

She pulls out a black and white photograph of two women with pale skin and coiffed wartime hair, standing in front of a curved window. They look like best friends; they’re clinging to each other, laughing. “That’s Grandma Betty,” she says, pointing to the dark-haired woman on the left.

“Grandma?” I ask, confused.

“Your great great grandma,” she clarifies. She lived to be 101. She died when I was twenty.

“Wow.” I’m confused why she’s showing me this. “Who’s the other woman?”

“That’s her best friend,” Dad says.

Mom gives Dad a lovingly exasperated glance. “Your father remembered me talking about Grandma Betty and her best friend Carolyn. He thinks Carolyn might be connected to that Eleanor Cleary mystery you were interested in.

“We’re all interested in it,” Dad says, reaching into the bag for one of the cookies.

Mom slaps it out of his hand.

“Connected how?” I ask.

“Carolyn was adopted, apparently,” Dad says, rubbing his hand. “From Europe. She would have been around the same age as Eleanor’s daughter.”

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