Page 2 of Out of the Blue

Through his thick glasses, he squints as he reads my chicken scratch. Looking up at me, his face sports a wide smile. “It’s real.”

We all ride the high of winning. I haven’t felt this good in ages. And I’m sure Mom had a hand in our good fortune.

When all the food has been eaten, and more celebratory drinks downed, our meal wraps. I knock on the table. “Guys, I wouldn’t want to be on this journey with any other group. This is it. We’re on our way. Remember when Maroon 5 wasn’t known at all and then they opened for The Rolling Stones? We’re the next Maroon 5!”

“I think they already had won some Grammys before they landed the gig,” Maurice corrects me. Joey pops him on the back of his head, and we laugh.

As we walk out of the restaurant, Dwight slaps my back. “Okay, Adam Levine. See you tomorrow at rehearsal.” He hops on his beloved Harley, straps on his helmet, and revs the engine. Twice.

I grin all the way home. Unlocking the door to Mom’s townhouse—now mine—I enter the empty space and my lips compress. My excitement at our win turns down to simmer. After tossing my keys into the bowl on the entry table as Mom always chided me to do, I stride into the living room.

“We’re going to be big!” I scream to no one as I sink into my recliner. The puffy black one Mom thought was ugly but still allowed me to buy.

Everyone in the band, minus me, is now married. Dwight got hitched only three months ago—it was his wedding Mom was buying a present for when she was killed in the mall shooting. The pain surrounding her death rears. His guilt. My agony.

I pack those memories away and shunt them into the darkest recesses of my mind. Today is only about happy thoughts. A new beginning.

Restless, I stand and go into the kitchen for a bottle of water. After I down it and flip through all the channels on my television, three times, I leave the clicker on the coffee table. Drifting through the house, I soak in the details my mother used to make our thirteen hundred square-foot Jersey City townhouse a home. The curtains from Target that looked like those on an HGTV show. A rug Mom picked up at a flea market as it reminded her of one she saw at a hotel. The mismatched china, collected from thrift stores, I haven’t had the heart to throw away.

Her touch is still all around me, even if she’s not.

I find myself loitering at the threshold of her room, which contains her desk. It’s the last piece of furniture I still need to go through. I wander inside and my hand alights on her closet’s door pull. I slide the door open. Lilac, faint, reaches my nose from the couple of blouses still on hangers. My eyes squeeze shut and I inhale Mom’s scent.

After a few beats, I open my eyes and face her desk. Buoyed by my band’s good fortune, and supported by her spirit around me, I shut the closet door and sit on her chair.

I wet my lips and lift the rolltop.

Post-its, in all different colors, greet me. Her precise handwriting wraps around my heart and throat, constricting both. Slowly, I gather each sticky note and throw them away. It’s not like she needs to be reminded about friends’ birthdays or events anymore. The heart-shaped one with “Dwight + Denice” on it makes my heart race.

Dwight blamed himself for her death until I was able to let him off the hook. Which was only thanks to my therapist’s help. After all, Dwight didn’t make her go to the mall to pick up their wedding present on that fateful day. A horrible coincidence, but he’s not responsible. No. That honor belongs to the mall shooter alone. The mantra my therapist gave me replays in my mind several times—Her death wasn’t his fault, he didn’t send the shooter there—until my breathing gets under control and I accept it as true. Again. Grace flows through my body. For her. For them. For me.

However, my grace never will extend to the fucking shooter. No, he left ten people dead before he turned the gun on himself. Police told me he was some white supremacist pig who targeted the mall because it’s in a “Black neighborhood.” I refuse to eventhinkhis name. Only pray he burns for eternity.

Shaking my head, I focus on my task and go through the rest of the items on her desk, then move on to the top drawer. It’s surprisingly easy to process her things. Papers she thought were important no longer hold any sway. Except for her tax forms, which I carefully put into a pile with contracts for her house. My house, I correct myself.

I go to open the middle drawer but it refuses to budge. Figuring something got stuck, I try shimmying it with no luck. As I don’t want to break anything, I continue to the bottom drawer where several files brim with my report cards, which are ages old. I flip through some, remembering milestones from second grade and even high school.

Poor Mom. She really tried to keep me focused, but my attention always diverted to the guitar. I would practice for hours in my room and delay doing my homework until she bugged me enough. But I still managed to get into Jersey City State and major in music production. My degree has helped the band several times, so I don’t think of it as wasted years. Even though all I wanted to do was perform.

And here I am over a decade later, poised to make our mark on the music world. Finally. Overnight success, we are not. I know deep inside, though, this truly is our big break. We’re going to become household names.

I’ll make Mom proud. She always believed in me. Now it’s my time to shine. I just wish like hell she were here to experience it with me.

Sighing, I throw away the last of her useless papers and return to the stuck drawer. As I’m studying it, I realize there’s a keyhole. Hmmm. Why would Mom lock a drawer in her own bedroom?

Intrigued, I paw around for a key but come up empty. Wait! Didn’t she keep some keys in a little ceramic cup on her dresser? I stride over there, and sure enough, several keys remain inside. Taking the whole cup back to the desk, I try each until one fits inside. Turning it, the drawer pops open.

“Success!”

I can’t wait to see what she felt was so important. When I rip open the drawer, I’m greeted by several hardback books. Some have floral covers, others have stripes, while others have world maps.

Frowning, I pick up one that simply says “Diary,” and my mind immediately drifts back in time to when I was a kid, maybe six or seven years old. Mom sat with one of these books in her rocking chair—which I’ve moved into the living room beside my recliner. Curled up, she had a pen in her hand and wet cheeks.

I remember asking her what was wrong. She smiled through her tears and said she wished my father could have seen how big and strong I’m becoming. How he would’ve celebrated with me as I picked up my first guitar and started playing like I was born to do.

I ran over and gave her a big hug. Sometimes she would look so sad, and I’d leave her alone to mourn. My dad, her only true love, was a Marine killed in Operation Desert Storm in the Gulf War before he even found out about my existence. They definitely would’ve gotten married if he’d returned from the war. She never dated after him. At least they’re reunited now.

Dare I read her most private words?

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