~Richard Moss
"So, how was the visit?" Melanie asked as I cleaned up her room.
I hadn't said much after getting home last night; I needed time to figure everything out. I still didn't have any idea what I wanted, what I thought of everything, or what name I wanted to use.
"It was fun. Anali cooked lunch, then we went to the museum to see an exhibit of ancient jewelry and stuff." Sitting on the floor, I began to sort through her clothes.
"Gavin seems nice." Melanie typed a comment to one of her friends on Facebook.
"He is." I sprayed stain-remover on her pink blouse and tossed it with the other light-colored clothes. "He's very excited."
"About finding you?"
"Yeah. The house they live in was owned by his parents. My mom's room is still there, just how she left it when she was a teenager." I put the clothes, now sorted by color, back in the basket and shoved them by the door, ready to wash.
"What was that like?" Melanie kept her voice gentle, inviting me to talk, but not demanding it.
"Let me get the wash started,” I said, postponing my answer for a minute. What had it been like to see my dead mother's childhood bedroom? Odd, uncomfortable, special, overwhelming, sad, all of these things mashed together into a giant emotional mess.
"It looked all girly," I answered when I came back into Melanie's room. My face flushed hot with embarrassment. I grabbed some hangers and began to hang up the clean clothes I found on the floor. Who would take care of Melanie if I left?
"Girly?"
"White and lavender with lace, there were even a few outfits still hanging up in the closet—--all dresses." My explanation sounded lame.
Melanie stopped typing, her brown eyes now focused on me. "That must have felt uncomfortable."
"It was just so . . . not me," I whispered, my chest tightening.
"Most of us aren't much like our parents. I mean, can you see me spending my day baking like my mom does?" Melanie said with a soft smile.
I shook out a skirt before hanging it up. "How do you know exactly what I need to hear?"
"It's a gift; I'm awesome like that." Melanie pulled her laptop closer. "Don't forget to clean my bathroom."
"I never do." Melanie understood when to talk and, more importantly, when to stop.
Phoenix Child Page 29