I Liked My Life(67)

“Fine,” I say, searching for a way to get the upper hand, “but it’s not like you’re a saint. People make mistakes. Mom said to practice love, compassion, and forgiveness.”

His grip on the door handle is so tight his knuckles turn white. He leaves without responding.

My eyes water. It isn’t only the trip. I’m down to one parent and I screwed it up. For what? Why didn’t I just apologize, hand him the journal, and walk away?

*

The next morning I beat him downstairs and scrawl I’M SORRY across the whiteboard in huge letters. In small print underneath I add that I’m going to the library to study calculus. He’s more of a pushover when I’m quote-unquote prioritizing academics. I might have to work for it, but I’m going to freaking Paris.

I pull into the library parking lot, recalling why I’d pushed back when Rory suggested we meet here for tutoring. I haven’t stepped in a library since Mom died. I park the car but don’t get out. Instead, I roll down the window and light a smoke, picturing my mother offering a mental farewell to her favorite books as she headed toward the roof. She always told me, “When the world gives you a hard time, pick up a book and join another.” Why didn’t she take her own advice that day?

After she died, people couldn’t get over the fact that the building was only four stories. They questioned her intelligence and said terrible things within earshot like, “She could’ve just turned into a paraplegic—then she’d actually have a reason to be depressed.” They were confused by her choice, but I understood. Of course she picked the library. She referred to the library, any library, as a sanctuary. She made a point of visiting them when we were on vacation, as though they were a common tourist attraction. The only time I ever heard her talk politics was when she found out Laura Bush was a librarian. She was so excited. “Think of how much funding they’ll get,” she gushed.

When I was little she took me to story time every week. “Isn’t it amazing? All these books are at our disposal. Anyone can come in here and borrow them for free. It’s the coolest thing the government has ever done, bar none.” After story time, we’d pick new books for the week. My mom always approached the librarian for recommendations. She’d stand in line if she had to. Librarians carried celebrity status in her mind. “There’s not enough time to read everything written,” she’d whisper as we waited, “so it’s important to be discerning.”

She always spoke to me like an adult. People were wowed by my crazy vocabulary when I was a kid. My mom claimed it was all the books we read, but really, I had to learn big words if I wanted to know what the hell she was talking about. Language, expression, new ideas: these were things that made her heart race, and they all came to life at the library. So I get why it was her location of choice. If you’re where you feel the most understood and still can’t find peace, it’s time to move on.

Brady

I’d tucked away the mystery about my mom as another unknown on a mounting list of life unknowns when I got Bobby’s call with Marie’s phone number and address. She lives in Reston, Virginia. My next meeting isn’t for forty minutes, so I dial the number. A woman with a heavy smoker’s voice answers.

“Is Marie available?”

“If this is another goddamn telemarketer, I’ll report the number. I know my frigging rights.” She sounds older than fifty-three. She sounds mean.

I think back to my first call with Rory where she too thought I was cold-calling—do I really sound that robotic? “It’s not a telemarketer. Is this Marie?”

“Who the hell’s asking?”

I glance to confirm my office door is closed. “This is Brady Starling, and I believe … well, I think you might’ve known—”

“Yeah. I know who you are.”

I hold the phone from my ear. “Pardon?”

“Beth’s son, right?”

I pause. “You know who I am?”

She lets out a villain laugh that leads into a coughing fit. It ends with the distinct sound of someone hocking a loogie. “That’s what I said.”

I consider the implications of being the only one not in the loop. “Did you know her well?”

“Beth? Course. She drove the foster families batty. Always checking on my condition, reporting the littlest things to the county.” Marie makes her voice whinier to impersonate my mother. “‘Anna Marie had to take a cold shower today because there’s too many people in that house.’ Child services thought she was nuts.”

Well, that describes my mother … not at all. I once went a year and a half with a spring popping out of my mattress. My mom said it wasn’t rusty and my tetanus shot was up-to-date anyway, so I’d be fine if I just kept to the other side of the bed. It was a twin.

“What about Paul?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure, she was on his ass too, but Paul was adopted out of the system, so it was different. She still made sure we had each other, Paul and I. Always passing along our addresses and numbers. Setting it up so we’d be at the same park on the same day, that sort of thing.” Park? My mother never took me to a park.

“I’d like to meet you,” I say, though based on the call so far, I’m not sure that’s true.

She clicks her tongue. “Why?”