Elusion(12)

She sits back down on the couch to collect herself and looks up at me. There’s a lot of red around her green irises, but that doesn’t stop her from forcing a grin for my benefit. I know this sounds selfish, but I wish she’d do that more often. Just to let me know she’s fighting to come back from wherever she is.

“This book,” she says, tapping on the cover, “this is the first gift I ever gave your father. It was his birthday, and we hadn’t been dating that long. But I knew he was a nature buff, so I just ordered it on a whim. I had no idea he still . . .”

When she pauses for a while, I sit down next to her. “Well, he liked it enough to keep it under lock and key. That’s really sweet.”

“I suppose. I just thought he, I don’t know, was protecting something more important than this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The monthly fee of a security box at Morton and Wexley is almost a thousand credits a week. I’m sure this book represented a lot of fond memories, but it’s strange he’d spend so much just to prevent it from getting damaged or lost.”

“Or stolen,” I say, even though that thought seems a bit ridiculous.

Mom must think so too, because she chuckles a little. “Regan, who’d want to steal this? It’s not worth anything; it’s falling apart.”

“I know. I’m just trying to make sense of it.”

“Well, sometimes things don’t make sense right away, so you might as well put them aside and wait until they do.”

She finally lets go of the book and takes my hand. I was expecting her skin to feel cold, but it’s just the opposite. Her palm is warm and soft.

“So what’s inside the package?” she asks me, a hint of playfulness in her tone.

“I don’t know, something from Alessandra Cole.”

My mother’s eyes brighten. “Oh good, it’s your dress. I’m so glad I called over there this morning to confirm delivery. They totally messed up the dates.”

It takes me a second to register what she’s talking about, but when I do, my stomach performs a little flip of excitement. Before my dad died, she and I went to Alessandra to get fitted for formal ball gowns for Cathryn Simmons’s huge spectacle of a fiftieth birthday bash, which Cathryn has been planning since the day she turned forty-seven. I had seen a dress I loved, but because it was so expensive, I had put it on hold, intending to get my friends’ opinion before buying it. With everything that happened, it had slipped my mind entirely.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Open it up,” she says, squeezing my hand.

The way I spring off the couch catches me by surprise. I’m not really a girly-girl who squeals at the thought of putting on a pretty dress. But my mom is, and since she is clearly looking forward to seeing me in something sparkly and decadent, I don’t want to sour this moment.

Maybe she’s trying to find her fight.

After running into the kitchen to snag a laser pen from the utility drawer, I come back into the living room and waste no time aiming the red dot at the quick-seal and slicing through the sides of the box. Inside, there are a lot of small foam peanuts, tissue paper, and plastic to wade through. I have to admit, it’s fun throwing it all onto the floor. When I finally dig deep enough and get to the dress, I remember every single detail I loved about it.

The sweetheart neckline adorned with sequins. The mermaid fit that makes my waist look freakishly tiny. The bold emerald color that contrasts my light complexion perfectly.

As I pull it out of the box and hold it up to myself, my mom almost gasps.

“It’s every bit as perfect as I remember it,” she says proudly.

As much as I hate to admit these things, she’s right—it is.

“Go upstairs and put it on; then make an obscenely dramatic staircase entrance,” she adds, laughing.

This feels so good, being normal with her.

“Okay, but only if you try yours on with me,” I say, holding out my hand. We had also picked out a dress for my mom to wear. “Is it upstairs in your room?”

She visibly stiffens, and I feel my arm dropping.

“Regan, I’m sorry. I . . . I can’t go with you to the party.”

And suddenly, I’m clinging to the dress like it’s a security blanket. “Why not?”

“Honey, it’s tomorrow night,” she says, casting her eyes away from me. “I don’t think I’m ready to be out in public just yet.”

“But you just said that tomorrow you’d be better.”

God, I sound like such a little brat. What I said is so manipulative and whiny, and I want to take it back, but it’s too late.

“I will be better. Just not enough to be social in a group of people who are going to want to talk about your father,” she explains. “Can you understand that?”

I want to say yes, but my bottom lip is quivering. I’m so ashamed for acting like a five-year-old who’s not getting her way, but . . .

Doesn’t she understand how hard it is to miss both Dad and her?

Mom gets up, leaving Walden behind on the couch, and comes over to hug me. My dress might get wrinkled, pressed between us like a pancake, but I couldn’t care less.

“Listen to me, Regan. I want you to go and have a great time with Patrick,” she says as she strokes my hair. Then all of a sudden I feel her start to shudder, like she’s about to cry too. “And don’t be afraid to keep living your life, either. Whatever it takes for you to heal from this, that’s what you should do.”