My One and Only(79)

“Not really sure yet,” she answered, not looking at me. “But you know how it is, Harper. I wasn’t really meant for small-town life. Time to stretch a little, get away from your father and this provincial little island.”

“But…when will you come back, M—Linda?”

“M…Linda?” she asked, and her voice was cruel. “Well, I’ve been here for thirteen years and nine months. I guess I’ll come back if and when I want to.”

Ten girls had been invited over to our house this afternoon. Mom and I spent half of yesterday getting ready for that party before abandoning our efforts to prepare for our glamorous night in Boston. We were supposed to be going to the beach, then come back and have virgin margaritas. We’d dipped strawberries in chocolate, a whole tray of them.

She yanked open another drawer and began tossing clothes in, her movements sharp and angry.

“Can I come with you?” I asked, and I hardly recognized my voice, it was so small and scared.

Only then did she spare me a glance. “Not this time,” she said, looking away. “Not this time.”

Half an hour later, she was gone.

NICK LET ME DRIVE. It took three hours and fifteen minutes to get to the exit for downtown Aberdeen, and by then, my hands were stiff, sweaty and clenched around the wheel.

Back when we were dating, I had told Nick a very sketchy version of my mother’s desertion, kept a blasé and cool attitude about it, sort of the “Ah, well, shit happens” take on the event. But I’d told him in the dark, in the middle of the night, and when I was done, I made him promise never to bring it up, a promise he honored.

Today, though, on the ride to Aberdeen this day, he got the full version. He let me tell the whole story without interrupting once, and when I was finished, he’d simply taken my hand and held it.

And now we were here.

According to the report Dirk Kilpatrick, P.I., had given me, my mother had worked in Aberdeen for the past three years as a waitress at a place called Flopsy’s, home of the best milkshakes in the Midwest. The navigational system directed us to the restaurant, which turned out to be a rather cool-looking retro diner, chrome on the outside, a sign with Flopsy’s! in big green letters, an ice-cream cone outlined in neon jutting into the air.

Was she in there? My gorge rose at the thought, but my outward movements were smooth and controlled. I continued past Flopsy’s and pulled over onto a side street about half a block away, turned off the engine and just sat for a minute. The day was cool and cloudy, but I was sweating like a racehorse nonetheless. Pretty.

“Harper,” Nick said, turning to face me. “What exactly do you hope is going to happen here?” It was the first time he’d spoken in some time.

I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, and my voice was strange, “I guess I just want to see her again. Ask her why she left and never…you know. Came back. Or wrote. Well, she did write. Those four postcards.”

Nick nodded. “Do you know what you want to say?”

“I guess just…‘Hi, Mom.’ Do you think I should say that? Or ‘Hi, Linda’? Or maybe something else?”

He shook his head. “You say whatever you want to, honey. Spit in her face if you want. Kick her in the shins.” He gave a smile that didn’t quite make it.

I nodded, but the truth was, my heart was kicking so fast and hard in my chest it felt as if I’d swallowed an enraged mule. When she’d first left, I’d spent night after night twisting in the chilly arms of insomnia, wondering what I’d done to ruin everything. Why hadn’t I been different? Or better? Or sweeter? Why hadn’t I seen her unhappiness and stopped it? Why was I so stupid? Later, I could see—intellectually, anyway—that it wasn’t my fault…I was just a kid, just thirteen years old. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that knowledge seemed to float above my heart, whereas blame sliced effortlessly right to the center.

I had pictured our reunion thousands of times. When I was still young, I’d imagined the joy, the bliss on her face as she saw me, whereupon she’d explain everything—she was a Mafia princess, you see, and she’d had to testify against her family. Or she was a CIA agent, and staying with us would’ve endangered our very lives, but now it was safe, and we could be together again. As the years passed, the fantasy changed—she’d be the one to track me down (it was probably no coincidence that I’d stayed on Martha’s Vineyard). She’d be full of remorse and grief that so many years had passed without me, and she’d tell me what a huge mistake she’d made, that she’d thought of me every day, never stopped loving me, I was the one and only thing in her life that mattered.

And then, in recent years, I’d imagine learning that she was dead, and how I’d react to the phone call that told me the news. How broken I’d be at all that would never happen now. I guess that’s what made me ask Dirk to track her down.

Now that the moment was finally upon me, I wasn’t sure what to do.

Nick squeezed my hand. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“That’d be great,” I whispered. “What about Coco?” I asked, suddenly panicked. “What if they don’t let dogs in?”

“Why don’t we just leave her in the car?” he suggested. “She’ll be fine. We’ll leave the windows open a few inches. It won’t get too hot.”