Where the Staircase Ends(56)

I saw my mom in the hospital the day I was born. She held me in her arms and looked down at me with so much love that my heart swelled. My father was at her side, his arm around her shoulders as he gazed down at me, smiling bigger than I’d ever seen him smile. They both looked up as the nurse snapped a picture, the same picture that sat on the mantel in our living room.

Blink.

I was in bed, leaning against my mother as she read to me, the words soft and soothing as they echoed inside her chest. I pressed my ear more firmly against her, wanting to hear the words again and again. I fought against sleep so she would read the book to me one more time, so I could listen to the sound of her voice once more before I fell asleep. I wanted to bottle the sound up and listen to it forever.

Blink.

I was in a softball game, so far out in right field there was no chance of a ball ever making it to me. The coach put me out there because I was the worst player on the team. My mom knew this, but she didn’t care. She was in the stands on her feet, cheering for me. She went to every single game for two years until I finally realized how horribly un-athletic I was. She never cared that I struck out almost every time I went up to bat. She loved me. That was the only reason she needed.

Blink.

I sat at the dinner table, silently shoveling mashed potatoes into my mouth. My mother and I had just finished arguing, and even though she was mad at me and we weren’t speaking, love still radiated off of her. I saw myself through her eyes, felt what she felt and saw what she saw when she looked at me—a beautiful young girl bursting with potential. Her want for me to be happy was overwhelming, and the pressure to do better, early curfews, rules, and boundaries—they were her way of protecting me and trying to help me to grow into the person she knew I could become. She wanted me to understand. If only I would listen. If only I would hear her, just this once. Why was I always so stubborn?

Blink.

My mother dropped me off at Sunny’s for a slumber party. My mom woke me up on a Saturday morning with waffles and eggs. My mom hummed to me when I was sick in bed with a fever. My mom dropped me off three houses down from Jenny’s so people wouldn’t see her and I wouldn’t be embarrassed. She cooked dinner, waved goodbye as I left for school, smiled with pride when I found out I’d been bumped into the honors classes. Clapped at ballet recitals. Cheered when I learned to ride a bike.

I saw my mother over and over again, in flashes as clear as the pictures on a television screen, and in all of them I could see how much she loved me. I could feel it. Her love was thick and warm and ever present, quilted together into a blanket that hovered around me in every image. How had I not seen it before?

Then I saw my father, wrapping me in a gigantic hug and lifting me off of my feet. Smiling proudly after he caulked the sole of my tennis shoe. Pecking my head with a kiss before he left for work. Looking at Logan suspiciously the first time he came by to take me on a date. Twirling me in tiny circles at the father-daughter Girl Scout dance. Just like my mom, I could see his pride when he looked at me. I could feel the wonder and joy he felt every time he looked at his daughter. At me.

What would they remember? Would they remember the little girl who sometimes was afraid of the dark? The girl who said please and thank you and couldn’t fall asleep until they kissed her goodnight? Or would they remember the me from the last few years. The one who wanted to be left alone. The one who yelled and stomped down hallways. The one who was too blind to see how lucky she was to have someone in her life that cared enough to set boundaries.

All along I thought my mother was so hard on me because she didn’t think I was good enough, but it was the opposite—it was because she wanted the best for me. It was because she loved me.

I would’ve given anything to see my parents one more time. To tell them I was sorry and I loved them. The longing was so intense it burned, the regret ripping at my insides with claws. I should have seen it all along. Why was it only now that I could see it so clearly?

Blink.

Alana James walked up the steps of the house Sunny sent her to on the day of her birthday party. She saw the “for sale” sign and the empty living room through the curtain-less windows, but she still went up to the porch and rang the bell anyway. Just in case. Just to be certain.

She slumped against the wall of the empty house, hot tears streaming down her round cheeks. I could feel the self-loathing Alana felt. It coursed through her veins like acid, anger so thick and raw it was practically opaque. But it wasn’t Sunny she was mad at.

Alana blamed herself.

Stupid, she thought. I’m so stupid. Of course she didn’t want me at her party. Why would someone want something as fat and ugly as me at their party?

I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I wanted to fold her hands in mine, look into her eyes, and tell her she was the best of all of us. I wanted her to know that she was smart and kind, that life would get better for her, if she could just be patient. Please, Alana. I am so sorry. The words were out of my mouth and I yelled them at her, but she couldn’t hear me. It was too late. I would never get to tell her.

Blink.

I saw Justin, his skin warm and silvery against the moonlight as he watched me on the roof of Sunny’s house. His eyes were pools of blue and green, swimming with affection, and suddenly I understood. Justin didn’t see me as the flawless girl from Logan’s picture—he didn’t need to. He liked me the way I was, flaws and all. It had taken him so long to ask me out because he wasn’t sure which was the real me—the giggly girl who kept flipping her hair and trying to get his attention, or the quiet, studious girl whose cheeks flushed when he looked at her.