Page 16 of The Last to Let Go
As I look at her, I see a whole other world in her eyes. She doesn’t believe things are going to be okay. Not for a second. She’s only saying that because Jackie’s here. I feel tiny pinpricks behind my eyes, tears building up. I wipe them away before they can fall, though. It’s time to get serious. “Mom, what are we going to do?” I whisper. “What’s going to happen now?”
“Let’s not talk about that today,” she says, trying to smile, trying to act like everything’s okay, as usual—you would think if there were one time she could drop the act, it would be now.
“But how much longer do you think—” I try again, but she interrupts me.
“I’m not sure.”
There’s this exchange between her and Jackie, like they’re trying to protect me from the truth, likeI’mthe one who needs shielding. Jackie doesn’t know my mom at all.
“Mom, what is this guardianship thing?”
“Brooke, please,” she says, as if I’m being inappropriate, like I don’t have a right to know what’s going on in my own life.
“But—”
“It’s temporary,” she interrupts, losing her patience with me. “It’s just a six-month arrangement so that I know you’re being taken care of—that’s all. Can we drop it now?”
“Does that mean you could be here for six months?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Brooke. Really, I’d rather not talk about this.” She widens her eyes at me, in a silent flash, then her face melts back into a soft fake smile. “Tell me about Jackie’s house. I haven’t seen it in ages.”
“No,” I argue. “I need to know what the plan is—what’s going on? What does your lawyer say?”
She sighs and shakes her head. Then she interlaces her fingers and I can see that her hands are trembling, that she’s bitten her usually polished nails down to the quick.
We all sit in silence for what feels like too long.
“Why don’t you tell your mom about your exams?” Jackie suggests, trying to diffuse the tension.
I roll my eyes. “I got As on all of them.”
“Very impressive,” Jackie offers.
“Yes,” my mom agrees, trying too hard to sound enthusiastic, but she and I both know her real thoughts are a million miles away from me and my grades. “Brooke always does well,” she adds. I hate when she says stuff like that—it feels so dismissive. Like me doing well is something that happens automatically.
I despise the fact that Jackie is here, because I know my mom is holding back. She doesn’t want Jackie to see her fall apart. So no one really says much else. Jackie comments on the unusually hot weather several times. And Mom says that they keep it cold in here day and night. And I sit there, stewing inside, until our fifteen minutes are up.
Jackie stands and tells Mom, “Hang in there,” before walking over to the door.
“I miss you,” I whisper to my mom. “And I want you to come home,” I try to tell her quietly so Jackie doesn’t hear, so that maybe she can actually answer me.
She grabs my hands tightly, breaking the rules; she leans in and whispers, “I’m sorry,” like it’s a secret meant only for my ears.
ILLUSIONS
WE DROPPED AARON BACKoff at Carmen’s, even though I was hoping he’d come over. So now it’s just me and Callie and Jackie, sitting in her living room once again, each of us picking at a doughnut from earlier—even me, despite my plan to boycott them.
“Hey, Callie?” I call across the room, though she gives me no sign that she’s heard. “Callie?” I repeat, louder. She looks up. “Why don’t we go take a walk, get some fresh air?”
She shrugs but finally gives me a small nod in response.
Only a couple of weeks ago I would have missed a gesture that tiny, but I’ve had to train myself to pay closer attention. She stands and brings her half-eaten doughnut into the kitchen.
Jackie mouths, “Thank you.”
Outside, our slow footsteps flip and flop against the sidewalks that line the clean streets as they twist and curve into one another like a maze to which there seems to be no exit.
People talk about being scared in cities, scared of crime, scared of getting lost—but here it’s like you have no choicebutto get lost. Every street looks the same, like every house looks the same, like every SUV in every driveway looks the same. What’s scarier than that? I always used to harbor a silent complaint about our neighborhood. It was old and drab and shitty; I’d rather have had something new and shiny, somewhere else, somewhere quieter, with softer edges, more green and less gray. Somewhere like this, I thought. But after spending these last weeks at Jackie’s, I’m beginning to understand why my parents hated places like this. Our neighborhood really wasn’t so bad, considering the worst things that ever happened there involved us.
