Until the Day I Die(13)

I ask a few kids if they’ve seen her—but they just stare at me with their blank faces and mascara-fringed eyes. They are all so young and dewy and beautiful, I want to stop and touch them. Stroke their long, impossibly shiny hair. Press my palms against their tight, unlined cheeks and tell them to enjoy this moment. They have no idea of all the things to come.

Next thing I know, I’m being propelled down the hall, through a swinging door, and into a grimy-looking kitchen, and miraculously there she is. At the sink, pouring something out of her cup. She glances over her shoulder, and her mouth turns into a frown.

“Mom!” she shrieks.

“You called me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Somebody called me. Dele, I think?”

“You’re in your pajamas.”

I look down at my pink flamingo–clad legs. “Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” she says.

I blank for a second. Why am I here? Why was I driving Ben’s truck again, past all the smeary lights to the tune of Dolly’s lament? What is it that I want?

What do I want?

I want my husband back.

I want my daughter to be a little girl again.

I want us all in our house around the kitchen table, laughing and eating Thai takeout.

“I can’t go home,” I say, because I’m finding it impossible to translate my thoughts into words.

Shorie grabs me by the arms and shakes me. “You have to leave,” she hisses. “Where is Ben?”

“He’s back at the hotel.” I push my hair out of my eyes.

She grimaces. “The hotel?”

I know what the look on her face means. Before I can explain that she’s misunderstanding the situation, she pulls me out the back door, across a rickety porch, and down some concrete steps. I stumble over a garden hose. It’s the first time I realize that I’m barefoot.

“I came to Auburn for you,” she growls. “Because you forced me to, because you said it was what Dad would’ve wanted. And now you’re telling me you can’t go home?” She squints. “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

“No,” I say. But I don’t think it’s true. I actually do feel drunk or something very close to it. I’m those words the kids always use—smashed, hammered, wasted. The question is, How did I get this way?

“I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say . . . that I only want what’s best for you . . .” My voice trails. My brain has meandered off into another plane. I have no idea what I mean to say next.

Her face is so open and vulnerable, it makes me think of five-year-old Shorie, asking me if we can go pet the kittens at the Humane Society. It stops me cold for a second, and I can’t seem to find my bearings. My baby, my girl . . .

I try again. “I wanted to talk to you, Shorie. I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me.”

“Oh my God. Yes, Mom, I am mad at you. I am very, very fucking angry. I can’t even believe you would . . .”

She’s talking now, words piling up on words, sentences into paragraphs, and I know it’s important—crucial, even—that I listen, but I can’t seem to home in on the waves of sound bending the air. And even if I could hear, I don’t think I could grasp the words’ meaning. My head feels squeezed, front and back. Reeling, I think. This is what they call reeling.

Reeling with grief.

Reeling with confusion.

Reeling with some sinister substance I’ve never felt in my body before. It makes me feel light and heavy all at the same time. It makes the real unreal.

But I can fight it.

I interrupt her. “I want to tell you something,” I say, feeling more focused. “I know you all think I’m making the wrong decision. I know you think you can take his place and everything can keep going. But I can’t let you do that. I can’t! You’re just a kid, and you’re not ready for that kind of pressure . . .” Now I’m sobbing, my insides feeling like they’ve been gouged out. But the crying does something—it makes me focused, able to finally speak my feelings. “We made a pact. A pact.” It’s all I can manage to say. And people are staring at us now.

Shorie grabs my arm. “We should call Ben—”

I wrench loose. “Nobody knows what it’s like for me. To have to go into that office every day.” I stagger toward her, but she ducks, and I stumble forward, over a chair or the hose or something. All I know is I’m on my hands and knees staring down at the dirt and a crushed red Solo cup.

I have done something irreparable, and I don’t even know how I managed it. I quiet myself. Close my eyes. It’s time for me to go. Way past time. I just need a moment. A moment . . .

“Mom!” It’s Shorie who’s screaming now.

Maybe it has something to do with the sensation that I’m heading back under, back to the place where everything is quiet.





11

SHORIE

Just like I thought, something terrible happened. Mom lost her shit—in a pair of flamingo pajamas, no less—at my first fraternity party. I’ve never been so embarrassed. I’ve never been so scared.

Now it’s seven in the morning, and Layton is waiting in her red Mini Cooper in the deserted parking lot outside my dorm. She’s going to drive me back up to Birmingham, and they’re going to confront Mom. We all are, I guess, since, true to his word, Ben is including me in the process. I’m wondering now if I should just leave it to the adults. My stomach is churning in a sickening way.