“What?” I look around. Like, for a hidden camera or something. “You’re not seriously talking about pizza, are you?”
Gran stammers, jaw loose.
“Come on, Gran. The jig is up. You can stop pretending.”
Grandpa’s knuckles bear down on the counter. “’Scuse you, young lady. Now, I know you’re feeling confused, but—”
“I’m not confused,” I shriek. “I’m a murderer! You want to know how my day was? It was horrible. Tomorrow will be horrible. The rest of my life is going to be horrible, and you don’t even care. My dad is the only one who had the decency to—”
“Enough!” Gran slams a bag of carrots so hard on the counter that one comes rolling out, escaping onto the floor. “That man is a criminal! What happened to Amanda was his fault, and he never should have burdened you with this. He’s a selfish fool and always was. And I’ll have none of this my-life’s-over nonsense. Grandpa and I chose not to tell you. We made a decision, and we stand by it. The last thing your mother would have wanted was for you to lose sight of your future. Johanna, you have simply got to forget everything that man told you.”
“You want me to forget?”
“It’s for your own good.”
I cross my arms, too stunned to respond. Does she honestly think people can do that? Forget crucial elements of their lives? Forgetting this would require major surgery. Severed limbs.
The last thing your mother would have wanted.
Looking at Gran now, I realize that’s what it comes down to. My mother. What their darling Amanda would have wanted. I glare down at our red brick floor, the herringbone weave giving me vertigo. What would my mother have wanted for me, back when she’d had wants and needs? A healthy daughter, a happy one? Someone with a 4.0 GPA? The fact that I’ll never know absolutely devastates me.
“Well?” Gran says sharply.
For a second, I can’t remember the original question. Her orders, I mean. A demand that I lobotomize everything Robert-related. I stare back and forth at the two of them, so saintly in their expectations when they should be downright groveling. Anger gurgles in the pit of my stomach, but at the same time, a kind of connection is born—imagining my mother standing across from her parents, pitted against them, knowing they would never understand her.
Rather than answer, I spin on my heels, heading for the front hall.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” Grandpa calls after me.
“Magic needs to be walked.”
I mean, he doesn’t, but they don’t know that.
Gran follows. “I didn’t hear an answer, young lady. I forbid you to see him again. Do you hear?”
I hear. Like a fucking bullhorn, I hear the sharp desperation in her voice. And I know what she wants me to say. Telling her yes might be a lie, but haven’t I been lied to for thirteen years? Is the truth all that sacred?
I hold my head up high and smile, the way she raised me to.
“Sure, Gran. I. Promise.”
14
Which, of course, is a lie.
It takes a few days to work up to it, but when I finally show up on Robert’s doorstep after school—unannounced, unexpected—the guy nearly keels over before inviting me in.
“I should have called first.”
“No, it’s great. This is great.” He pulls out a Bluetooth earbud, cradling his laptop in one arm as he glances down at his outfit—a crisp white button-down shirt, blue striped tie … and plaid pajama bottoms. He offers a sheepish smile. “Work-from-home attire. In video conferences, they can only see me from the chest up.”
“This is bad timing,” I say. “You’re busy.”
“I’m not. Honestly.”
He heads down the hall, motioning for me to follow. We stop in a small, white-tiled kitchen, and he opens his laptop on the veined marble island. “Give me two minutes to wrap things up. Flip the switch on that kettle over there, will you?”
I follow his gaze and head toward a row of shiny new appliances, adding water to the stainless kettle before turning it on. Robert’s fingers plonk heavily against his keyboard. Am I supposed to stand here? Sit down? Instead, I gravitate toward the fridge, mesmerized by its crayon drawings and family snapshots. An angelic boy and girl beside grinning parents and proud grandparents. We luv u, Baba + Papa! one card reads, almost illegibly. This must be Baba and Papa’s house. Cozy and small, perfect for snowbirds.
“Sorry about that.”
I spin around. Robert has put two mugs on the counter, his computer shut. “You like chamomile?”
“Sure.”
We steep our teabags for an agonizing minute, pretending it’s rocket science, then head into the living room, taking the same seats as last time.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say too quickly.
“School’s good?”
“It’s great.”
“That’s good, that’s good.”
“So, you’re still doing the working remotely thing?”
“Yeah, for now.”
“Cool.”
Seconds, minutes, years pass.
His cheeks hike up as he smiles, and I touch my face, fingers subtly gliding along my chin, wondering if we share the same jawline.
Robert clears his throat. “Have you managed to, uh, process any of this?”
“What? Oh. Not really,” I say. “Not even close.”
“Yeah. I mean, what I told you was—” He pauses, fingers like fire working out from beside his temples, an explosion sound gurgling through his lips. “But you believe me now, right?”
I nod and try to breathe evenly. Which is harder than it sounds.
Out the window, thick, white snowflakes flutter to the ground like torn paper. Maybe if it snows enough, I can bury myself alive in it. Die of frostbite or hara-kiri by icicle.
“I never wanted to tell you that way,” he goes on. “I’m kinda pissed Kate and Jimmy made me, actually. Not exactly the job I wanted.”
“I know. My grandparents royally suck.”
Robert shrugs. “It’s okay.”
It’s not that okay, though, because my heart is still racing. I get up the guts to clear my throat. “You know, there’s a lot more stuff you haven’t talked about. Like, years unaccounted for.”
“It’s not that easy to explain.”
“Like explaining what I did to my mother was?”
“No. I mean, of course not.” He sets his tea down, fingers running through his hair as he exhales. “And you deserve to know.”
I deserve to know, and yet he still won’t talk. The silence makes me think of marshmallows in the microwave, the way Leah and Gabby and I used to cook them as kids. How the marshmallows would bloat and expand, powder crackling on the outside while the inside grew hotter and messier.
“You know I spent time in prison,” he says after a minute, voice faded, thick with shame. “It was my gun, and California laws are tough. But, the truth is, I lost it in there. Some people are built for it, but I couldn’t see straight after a week. I panicked. I just panicked. And the kind of shit I got into to make it easier …”
“What do you mean?” I ask, then quickly flush when it dawns on me. “Drugs?”
All of Robert’s features seem to slide down his face as he nods, eyes watery and unfocused. “It was the only way I could survive losing the two of you. Getting high let me off the hook, y’know? The guilt kind of floated away. I never stopped thinking about you, but it was like you turned into a dream. This peaceful fantasy of the three of us. I thought I was doing myself a favor. I thought I’d be able to quit when I got out, but it wasn’t like that. I couldn’t find work on the outside, couldn’t stop using. I was a wreck—in no shape to look for you. I’m telling you, you wouldn’t have wanted to know me.”
His eyes squeeze tight with regret. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more awkward. Utterly and completely lost for words. Are there the right ones out there, to apologize for firing the gun that turned someone in
to an addict?
I bite my lip. “So, all this time you’ve been …”
“No,” he says, chin rising defensively. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve taken a really active role in my recovery—rehab, therapy, meetings. Thank God for the church, and my pastor. It’s a continuous battle, but it’s working. It’s how I found you.”
He found me.
My insides beam. It’s dizzying, almost, the way it feels to be wanted. I tuck my legs up, clinging to this buoyant feeling. Not wanting to talk about darkness anymore.
“Hey, could you maybe tell me some stories?”
Robert raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like, happy, sparkly Mandy memories. Might be kind of nice right now. If you can think of anything.”
“Really?” The doom on his face cracks open, clouds parting into a smile. “I mean, of course. I’ve got lots of happy memories. In fact—oh, you’re going to love this.”
He grabs his clunky black laptop, grinning as he pulls up a file and hands me the computer. A video comes to life, a chubby, toothless version of me. I’m sitting in a plastic high chair in a ruffled, pink dress, my hair basically nonexistent. All I do is grin and clap. Gran and Grandpa are there too, looking a million years younger, but I swear to God, wearing the same horrible clothes. They sing “Happy Birthday” along with Robert, his voice rich and booming from behind the camera.
Then she appears. Graceful, poised, beautiful. Belted denim dress, hair long and wavy. She’s holding a pink-frosted cake, gliding toward me as she sings. Her voice is karaoke bad, but her smile makes up for it. She places the cake in front of me, and all four of them help blow out the multicolored 1 candle because I’m too busy putting my entire fist in my mouth. Mom can’t stop giggling. Even when she dabs icing onto my nose and I cry, she only laughs harder.
“She loved you so much.”
“You have to say that.”
“Come on, look at her!” He pauses the video on Mom’s smiling face. “You were it for her. Her soul mate.”
The freeze-frame dizzies me, but I see it. Fifteen years later and locked inside Robert’s computer, her love for me glistens. I have to put the computer on the coffee table, unsettled by the yo-yo throb of my heart. This is my first time hearing her voice, and it’s hypnotizing. Sweet and light as cotton candy. But in a cooler flavor, like dragon fruit.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I force an exhale, releasing this freezer-burn feeling in my chest. “I can’t believe that was really her, y’know?”
Robert’s lips flatten into a commiserative grin. He gets it. Gets me. The two of us linger on our thoughts for a while, sharing a moment of silence.
I’m not sure how long it should last, but then Robert—low and thoughtful and staring at the ceiling—just starts talking. About the girl who whistled while she washed dishes and got frustrated changing pillowcases. Who loved nineties dance music and fireflies. Funny Mandy, full of wit and one-liners. A good mother, willing to stay up all night and sing to her colicky baby. Superstitious. Fashion-forward. Environmentally conscious. Each story leads to another, and Robert drifts further away from me. From this house, this world. I wonder how often he thinks about her. If it’s only me requesting these memories, or if they keep him warm at night too.
The more he says, the harder my nails dig into my palms. It’s like she never did anything shitty or dumb or wrong, and all I keep thinking is that I killed a golden unicorn. Because of me, they buried someone who helped old ladies cross the street and volunteered with the ASPCA. A believer of the good in people, defender of the underdog. Someone who could have made a difference. And she never got the chance.
Because of me.
A lull washes over us. Outside, the snow has stopped, leaving a heavy blanket of powder on the piñon branches.
Robert sighs. “There’s something else. I feel like I should explain about the gun.”
My heart stops. “Oh.”
“After you were born, we were hurting for money. Doctor bills, regular bills.” He pauses, psyching himself up maybe. “So, I started dealing weed. I swear, I wasn’t some kind of drug lord. It was easy money.”
“Okay,” I say, squirming a little.
“Mandy didn’t like having strangers come over to buy weed when there was a baby in the house. My customers were rich college kids, and it wasn’t like any of them were going to kidnap you or have some wild trip in the middle of our living room, but it upset Mandy. She wanted to make sure you were protected. That we were safe, as a family. So, I bought a gun. The gun. She didn’t know I did it, but I did.
“Usually, I kept it in the closet, but Mandy found it this one time, and we fought. She hated knowing it was right there—that’s why I moved it under the bed. Temporarily, so she wouldn’t keep nagging me. I remember, I just shoved it between some shoe boxes, on my way to work one morning. God, I wish I could take it back. I was going to move it. I swear to God, I was going to hide it better.”
By now, Robert is full-on weeping. Head hung in shame, barely able to make eye contact. It shreds my heart. So much so that I reach for his hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“I’m supposed to ask you that,” he says, forcing a smile. “Are you okay?”
“Not at all.”
“Yeah. Same.”
After about a minute’s worth of nose-blowing and eye-dabbing, Robert grabs his computer again, opening one of those nerdy, computer-expert terminals. I watch him pound the keys for a few seconds, wondering what he’s got in store for me.
“Here,” he says, handing me the computer.
“What is this?” I stare at the terminal window on the screen, no clue what to do next.
Robert smiles a little-boy smile and tells me to press the S and L keys. I give him a weird look and tap S and L, waiting for a genie to pop out of the screen. Only, it isn’t a genie. A little green choo-choo train, made up of semicolons and quotation marks, comes chug-chug-chugging along. I giggle, brow furrowed as I look back up at him.
“It’s a silly little program I installed when you were about one and a half,” he says. “You wanted to play it all the time. You’d run up to me and say, ‘Dada, choo-choo!’ Snorting with laughter every time the train came across the screen. I know you’re too old for it now, but—”
“Can I do it again?”
Robert smiles. “Of course you can. As many times as you want.”
15
Back when Gabby and Leah and I were in the third grade, we started this club called the Teddy Bear Club. Officially, the TBC was like a fashion club for our stuffed animals. We’d make them these awful little caveman outfits. Actually, Gabby and Leah got bored pretty quick, while I created these over-the-top evening gowns and ruffled skirts and stuff. Mostly, though, the TBC was a chance for us to gorge on junk food and pour our hearts out to one another. None of us had mentioned the Teddy Bear Club in years, but it is exactly what I need on Friday night. The girls are going to do some digging with me, since I was afraid to do it on my own, and since talking to Robert about it got a little intense.
“A little intense?” Gabby smirks, leading us into her bedroom after mediocre lasagna with her parents. Her mom’s no Michelin-star chef, but dinner at Gabby’s is always a million times better than at my house. The way Devon describes sailing the high seas; how Kendra sings while she cooks. They’re such free spirits, which, of course, Gabby can’t stand. I mean, she obviously loves them, but it’s like her tenacious ambition is her way of rebelling. My rebellion usually involves a backstitch.
“Okay, talking to Robert got a lot intense,” I amend.
“I can’t believe your dad was a drug addict. That is so hardcore,” Leah says. “I mean, for him to just tell you like that—did it make you feel horrible?”
“Uh, yeah, Leah. It did. Thanks for the reminder.”
Her face sags and congeals.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You didn’t mean anything.”
“
Well, maybe she should have,” Gabby mutters. “I’m sorry, Jo, but he shattered your world and keeps dropping exploding kittens on you. It pisses me off. I should never have let you meet him.”
“Oh, like you were going to stop me? You may be bossy as fuck, but you’re not the actual fucking boss of me.”
She huffs, turning to face her computer. “Are we doing this or what?”
“Are you sure you want to?” I ask. “Because—”
“We want to.”
“You don’t have to,” I finish quickly.
I can’t help it. I need them to know it’s optional, but my trusty Rottweilers seem eager as they lure me toward Gabby’s desk. We move a stack of law textbooks onto the floor to make room for our butts to sit down.
Gabby cracks her knuckles one by one before opening a new window. “Let the Teddy-Bear-Club-Shooting-Research-Crossover-Sleepover commence.”
“We’re not actually calling it that, right?”
“No,” Leah promises and reaches over to hit mute on the stereo. Thank God, too, because Justin Bieber is not about to play the soundtrack to my criminal unveiling.
“So, it happened in Fresno?” Gabby asks, game face on as her fingers fly across the keyboard. “I’m also going to include words like toddler, mother, shooting, shot, gun, fatal, fatality—that’s the kind of shit it says in articles like this.”
“How do you even know that?” Leah marvels, but I’m too busy thinking about articles like this. Because children accidentally shooting their parents is a classification. A fucking subgenre.
I hug my arms around my waist to keep my insides from gurgling over. Gabby swats Enter like it’s a mosquito, and within seconds, there it is: “Fresno Toddler Fatally Shoots Mother.” All this time, her story has been sitting there, waiting for me.
“Are we reading it to ourselves, or …?”
I shake my head. “You do it.”
Gabby swallows. Her eyes focus on the screen, and she adopts this decisive newscaster voice. “On Saturday afternoon, a local woman was accidentally shot and killed by her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, police said. The victim has been identified as twenty-five-year-old Amanda Carlson of Fresno. The sheriff’s department announced that the victim was reportedly at home sleeping when the incident took place. The toddler is thought to have woken up from a nap, at which point she found a loaded .22 caliber handgun under the bed and fired a single bullet that struck Carlson in the chest. Police arrived on the scene shortly after a 9-1-1 call placed by a neighbor who heard the gunshot. Carlson was pronounced dead at the scene. Although the fatality was clearly a tragic accident, Fresno police brought the victim’s boyfriend, Robert Newton, in for questioning. Newton, also the toddler’s father, is the owner of the gun. Authorities said Newton came in voluntarily for questioning but were unable to confirm whether he will be charged for leaving his gun out where the child allegedly picked it up and fired it.
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