Until the Day I Die(7)
I wave her off. “You’re good. All pro-Hermione here. I’m Shorie’s mom. Erin.”
“Sorry I haven’t been more in touch,” Shorie says. “I wasn’t sure I was actually coming to school.”
“Oh, no. I get it. No worries,” Dele says. “Glad you decided to come.”
Our eyes drag and catch. Dele and I have been surreptitiously emailing for the past couple of months. I feel guilty for not telling Shorie—and for being such a capital-H Helicopter Mom—but I know from experience how important your freshman-year roommate is. I was the only kid from my small Tennessee town who attended Auburn. Alone and nervous, I was lucky enough to have a roommate who insisted on dragging me everywhere she went.
Sabine and I pledged a sorority together, we attended football and baseball games, and she introduced me to her high school friends, Perry and Ben. My life was forever changed because of her friendship, and I want to make sure my daughter gets the same chance. So, sue me. I took matters into my own hands.
“I love your name,” Dele says to Shorie. “Mine’s from an old soap opera my grandma used to watch. Adelia Kent, The Lighthouse.”
“I used to watch that show,” I say, but Dele doesn’t look at me.
Shorie takes a deep breath. “Shorie was my mom’s mother’s name. She was Margaret Shore, but everybody called her Shorie.”
I smile encouragingly at Shorie.
“Shorie Shore,” Dele crows. “I love it. You know, my grandma from Eclectic, Alabama, had a friend named Poo-Poo. Poo-Poo Buchanan, I kid you not. And nobody even cracked a smile when they said it. Poo-Poo, you got a cup of sugar I can borrow to make this peach cobbler? Poo-Poo, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? His name was Lumper, by the way, the husband. Loony southerners. Just one step away from tripping and falling out of their Faulkner novels.”
Dele then segues into a story about how even though she’s not an engineering student (she received a journalism scholarship), she managed to personally strong-arm the housing department into letting her move into Amelia Boynton, where the atmosphere will supposedly be more studious. Her move-in time isn’t technically until five, so her parents won’t be here for another couple of hours. She then asks Shorie if she wants to go to a party at the Lambda Chi house with her that night. When Shorie actually agrees, I literally have to smother a yelp of joy.
Presently, Ben shows up loaded down with a hodgepodge of backpacks and old Trader Joe’s bags stuffed with HDMI cords, back issues of Perry’s Journal of Mathematics and the Arts magazines, and God knows what other useless odds and ends. After a whole new round of introductions, Ben leaves again, and Shorie and Dele sort through the bags. I can see my daughter has way underpacked. There are no picture frames or corkboards, only the twinkle lights that I packed at the last minute and have already hung and the Kristin Kontrol poster from her bedroom that she tacks up over her desk.
“You like the Dum Dum Girls too?” Dele asks her.
“Yeah, but Kristin’s solo stuff is more eighties. Different.”
“Cool.”
I reach over, snag Shorie’s phone, and hold it out for her to type in her passcode. “A few final motherly instructions, that’s all.”
She frowns but complies. I take back the phone and start swiping. “Don’t forget to do everything through Jax, so we can keep up with what you’re spending and keep it in your profile.”
“Okay,” Dele says. “I’m just going to go ahead and say it right now. I know Jax is your family business, and I just have to tell you, I’m a total fangirl.” She lets out a whoosh of breath, her eyes shining. “I mean, how totally amazing is that? You created something millions of people love. I mean, that must feel incredible, you know . . .” She throws up her hands, awestruck apparently.
“It’s covered, Mom,” Shorie says.
“I love Jax,” Dele goes on. “I use it all the time.” She looks at me. “Maybe I could interview you for one of my classes. Is that weird, that I just asked you? You probably talk to, like, Forbes or whatever.” For the first time, she looks abashed.
“I’d be happy to give you an interview.” I put the phone down, and I can feel Shorie stiffening across the room, waves of unhappiness rolling off her. We’re almost finished unpacking, and the resistance has become palpable, a living force, a psychic, full-body no emanating from her very pores. Such wasted determination. Think what my daughter could do if she focused this energy into something really useful.
Dele doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Shorie. I’m supposed to meet my friend Rayanne. I’ll bring her by later and y’all can meet, if you want.”
“Okay,” Shorie says.
When she’s gone I turn to Shorie. “I just want to say one more—”
She interrupts. “There’s nothing left for you to say.”
She heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, and I hear the water running. I sit on the newly made bed, sensing the vortex in the air above me. It’s about to descend again.
When Ben comes up with the last load of plastic crates, I ask stiffly for his keys. In the parking lot, I climb in his hot truck and finally allow myself to burst into tears.
7
SHORIE
After Mom leaves, Ben offers to set up my extra monitor, speakers, and printer, even though he knows I’m perfectly capable. He tries to make conversation—“What classes are you taking?” “Dele seems nice.” “How many girls do you have to share that bathroom with?”—but I freeze him out with one-word answers. After he’s finished tightening up the wobbly legs on my bed, he stands by the desk, flipping the wrench around his thumb and staring through the window’s janky plastic blinds.