22.
The Most Shocking Thing of All
July 11
My eyes are red and puffy. I can taste salt on my lips, and wisps of hair are sticking to my sweaty forehead.
I think I’m out of tears by now.
I’d like to believe I made the right choice. But I’m not sure if that’s true. At least, not yet.
Amelia chose Libby. She is no longer the friend I thought she was. I see that now. I can see it in the time stamps from our text messages. I can hear it in our different opinions about the film festival. Yesterday, I felt it during our time together at Pike Place Market. And if I’m being really honest, I think I felt it several times before then.
Even so, she has always been one of my favorite people. And if our friendship is over, it will be hard to move forward. It will be hard to let her go.
I wipe the back of my hand across my warm, wet eyelids.
Check my phone for notifications.
Still nothing from Serenity. I wonder why that is. A knock sounds at my door. Mom opens it, sticks her head in.
“Hey,” she says. I’m not sure if she knows I’ve been crying. If she does, she pretends not to. “What are you up to?”
I tell her, “Nothing.”
“No plans with your friends tonight?”
I shake my head.
“Hmm. Okay. Maybe we should have our own girls’ night. Just the two of us. How does that sound?”
I mumble, “Sure.”
“We could go to Golden Gardens,” she says. “Catch the sunset, get some ice cream.”
My heart aches at the thought of drawing. Of working on my favorite landscape, or my sweet little dog. Under normal circumstances, nothing would make me happier. But right now, my heart just wouldn’t be in it.
“Don’t feel like it.”
“No?” She sounds surprised, but quickly skips ahead to her next suggestion. “Why don’t we go see a movie, then? Would that be fun?”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful!” Mom says. “I’ll look up movie times and we’ll go.”
She leaves my bedroom door open, and I check my phone for notifications again, even though it’s been less than a minute.
Goose bumps prickle along my arms as we enter the cinema. The air inside the building is cool; the lobby is empty and dim. The black carpet is patterned with colorful geometric shapes. Small light bulbs are tucked between the ceiling tiles. One wall is lined with movie posters and cardboard character cutouts. The other end of the room boasts the concessions: glass-paneled and red-topped popcorn machines, shelves stacked with boxes of candy, empty plastic cups piled between the cash registers and soda fountains.
In the far corner of the lobby, a glass door leads to a private room. That was where we celebrated Amelia’s sixth birthday. We all dressed up in costumes, as characters in the movie we watched together. And we ate lots of yellow cake and buttered popcorn. Amelia always had the best birthday parties: movies, bowling, ice-skating. Her birthday is in November—the gloomiest month of the year—but that never stopped her from planning something fun.
But as of today, I might never celebrate a birthday with her again.
“This movie is going to be so cute!” Mom says gleefully as we stride past a cutout display of animated characters. They’re depicted in bright colors and bold, sweeping lines. I can’t help but admire the attention to detail, the expressiveness in their eyes.
“Do you want anything to drink? We could also check to see if they have any snacks you could eat.”
“Um, I’m not really—”
I pause mid-sentence, mid-step.
“Edie? What are you—?” She sees what I see and comes to an abrupt stop. “Oh.”
A movie poster has captured my attention.
I’m not sure what this film is about. I’ve never heard of it before. It might be an action-adventure film. Or a Western. Or something else entirely.
But one of the characters is a Native American woman.
“Wow,” I say. “This looks awesome.”
Mom shifts on her feet. She looks around, apparently uncomfortable.
But the woman on the poster—she looks so proud, so regal. She has red face paint smeared over her eyes. She’s wearing an orange headband with a single feather attached to it, and her deerskin clothing is fringed with beaded tassels.
And her eyes are blue. That’s the most shocking thing of all.
“I didn’t know Native Americans could have blue eyes.”
Mom’s gaze snaps back to me; she looks startled.
“Did you know that was possible?” I ask.
“Yes. Some do,” she says. “But—” She looks at the poster. Shakes her head a little, then looks away. “Come on, Edie. We don’t want to be late for the movie.”
I can’t keep my eyes off the poster. All I can think about is Edith Graham, leaving her home and her family to pursue a career in acting. I think about her courage, her kindness, her determination. I think how homesick she was, how much she sacrificed just to get small roles.
I wonder if this woman has a similar story. I wonder where she’s from.
“Could we actually watch this, instead?”
“Erm, no, sweetheart. I don’t think so.”
“How come?”
She’s so uncomfortable. I can feel it. And I know there must be a reason for it, a full explanation.
But she decides to hide it.
“We already have tickets for Hannah and Blue,” she says. “I thought we were both excited to see it. Let’s just stick to the original plan, okay?”
She starts to walk away, but I stand my ground and ask, “What if I changed my mind? What if I really want to see this now?”
Her purse slides off her shoulder, and she hikes it back up. She keeps her body angled away from the poster. Like she can’t bear to look at it. “Edie,” she says softly. “I think I know why you want to see this other movie. And I know you’re upset. But please, trust my judgment.”
“I’m not upset. I just want to see this movie.”
She sighs as she turns to face me. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “That this film might be able to show you something. That you might learn something from it about your heritage.” She looks sad as she says this. Distraught, even. “But you need to listen to me: a film like that won’t give you what you’re looking for.”
“You don’t know that,” I huff. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“Indeed. Looking at the poster is more than enough for me. What you need to und—”
“The poster? What’s wrong with the poster?”
“Calm down, Edie. Please, just let me—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! At least this movie would show me something.” My arms are crossed over my chest, and my voice is filled with venom, and I know I’m being mean and unfair, but the words still come out: “That’s a lot more than I could say about you.”
Mom reels back, as if my words have landed with the force of an actual, physical blow.
I release a hard, sharp breath. My throat feels scraped and raw.
I’ve hurt her. I know that. I know I’ve made a huge mistake, that I shouldn’t have raised my voice, but I’m her daughter. I deserve to know as much as she knows.
I deserve to know the meaning of my own name.
Mom’s face contorts with pain. She cups one hand over her mouth. Drags it down to the edge of her chin. Her knuckles turn white with strain. “Okay,” she murmurs. She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay,” she says again. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this today. I’ll return the tickets. And we’ll go home.” She licks her lips. Nods. “I’ll take you home.”
This might be the worst day of my life.
Everything is ruined with Amelia. Everything is ruined with my mom.
And I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.
Dad’s car is parked in the driveway at home. When we walk through the front door, he’s there, sitting with his elb
ows on his knees on the living room couch. He has potato chips and sour-cream-and-onion dip on the coffee table. A baseball game is playing on the TV.
“My girls!” Dad throws his arms open. “Where have you been? Want some chips and dip? It’s a great game tonight; we’re ahead two to nothin’.”
I give him a weak smile and ignore the invitation for a hug. At least someone I love is having a good day. I wouldn’t want to ruin his mood, too.
Which is why I say nothing, and head straight to my room.
23.
Little Bun
July 11
When I try calling Serenity, it immediately goes to voicemail. Either her phone is off, or she has no service. Not that this makes me feel any better. Nothing feels good right now.
Except maybe this.
I kneel before the box. Open its flaps. Reach inside.
I pluck several postcards out. I haven’t really looked at these yet, only the notes she wrote to Theo. The first one says Greetings from California in big, bold letters. Each letter outlines an image: an orange grove, a turquoise stretch of beach, a curved road. Another appears to be from Los Angeles, with silhouetted illustrations of a movie camera, and the Hollywood Hills.
I flip them over and skim the short messages:
October 16, 1973
Dear Mom and Theo,
I’ve arrived! Southern California is warm and grand and beautiful. I wish you could see these beaches with me. I know you’d love this coast as much as I do.
Hugs,
Edith
November 21, 1975
Dear Mom and Theo,
I hope you enjoy this gorgeous postcard. I’m using it as bait for you both to come down and visit me! (It’s a difficult situation, I know. But a girl can dream.)
With love,
Edith
These sweet messages make me smile.
I set the first two aside and dig through the box to find her other postcards.
As I sift through this stuff, a realization hits: I no longer have to keep the box a secret from my parents. It was Amelia’s idea to hide the discovery from them, and now that we’re no longer friends, I can ask Mom and Dad about it. I can bring it up whenever I want.
If I want.
I’m not even sure.
Everything is changing so fast, and after our fight at the movie theater, I don’t know how Mom would react if she found out the box is here, in my room. That I’ve been keeping it in my art chest, reading these letters by myself in the dark.
Will Mom be mad? Will she be upset? Is it even possible for her to tell me the truth now?
Uncle Phil said that she and Dad were going to tell me about Edith Graham. He knew who she was, and he seemed confident that I only needed to be “old enough.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
I gather the postcards in a little pile and tap the edges against the floor, lining them up.
Almost all of them have pictures of Los Angeles. Palm trees and sorbet-flavored sunsets. Spotlights and skyscrapers.
But then, randomly, I find one from San Francisco. It shows the Golden Gate Bridge, stretched over the bright blue water.
Curious, I flip this one over.
February 13, 1977
Dear Mom and Theo,
Brief stop in SF. The bus for Seattle leaves tomorrow afternoon. Little Bun and I are on our way home!
All my love,
Edith
My grip tightens reflexively. I accidentally bend the card, forming a crease down the middle as I read and reread these three sentences. I keep getting caught up by the same phrase.
Little Bun and I.
Little Bun and I.
Little Bun and I.
Who is she talking about? Why is she leaving Hollywood? What happened?
Frantic, I start yanking her letters out of the box, checking the dates, scanning each page for potential hints. Over the past few days, her handwriting has become familiar, easier to read. But regardless, some of these collapsed loops and hasty scribbles are impossible to make out.
In a message from October 1976, I think she tells Theo: I feel so foolish. I never should have come here. But the rest of that paragraph is illegible.
Did she have regrets? What was going on in her career?
In another one from March 1975, she says: They edited most of my lines out of the final cut. Now I only say two words in the film, and the entire story is so different. It’s no longer the positive, sensitive picture I signed up for. They decided to change it, because they think a “more classic” Western will sell better at the box office. I wish I’d never agreed to any of this. They’ve broken all their promises.
And in December 1975: It’s easy to be discouraged. I’ve always considered myself to be an optimistic person. But some days, I can’t make myself be happy and keep working hard, for a dream that might never materialize. Some days, it’s hard to remember why I’m doing any of it.
No, I want to say. I want to reach for the girl behind these letters and give her a hug. I want to tell her not to give up on her dreams.
She sounds so lost, all of a sudden. She sounds alone and afraid.
I hope it doesn’t stay that way.
And then:
January 1, 1977
Dear Family,
I’m coming home.
I’ve purchased my bus tickets and arranged travel plans for mid-February. I do not plan on returning to California. Although I ultimately don’t regret these past few years, I’ve come to the realization that this is not the place for me. I belong in Suquamish, with all of you. I belong in my homelands, with my loved ones.
Now that I’ve gotten a taste of the world beyond our little corner of the Puget Sound, I can safely say that venturing out on your own is overrated. It’s fine to try and change the world. To define yourself as an activist, an artist, an individual. But solo adventures can only last for so long. The journey is always better together. And I’ve missed you all so much.
As you might have guessed, however, my homesickness isn’t my only motivation here. It’s also true that I’ve given up on trying to act, and on the relationships I’ve built here. This includes my job, my acting classes, the unions I’ve joined, etc. It also includes a man, whom I’ve never told you about. And whom I still feel reluctant to tell you about, although it is impossible to deny his existence now.
Because I’m pregnant with his child.
Yes, you read that correctly. I’m expecting a baby. The father will not be in the picture when I come home, and I think it will be best this way. But here we are. Our family is growing a little bigger this year.
I already know that becoming a mother will be the greatest joy of my life. From the moment I found out, I realized this is what I’m meant to be. The leading role I’m meant to have.
The tears are coming hard and fast, so I’ll wrap this letter up for now. Just please know that I have no regrets about any of this. I’m so excited to meet my baby. I can’t wait to see the baby’s face, to kiss their cheeks, to tickle their tiny toes.
Now that I’ve landed this role, I’m amazed I ever wanted anything else.
Love,
Edith
24.
Pickle Juice
July 12
I barely slept at all last night.
Mom places an orange bowl on the table before me. The bowl is filled with a purple liquid, thick and textured and rich, riddled with tiny bits of seeds. Banana slices are balanced on its surface, arranged in the shape of a smiley face. Coconut shavings are sprinkled above the top two slices, in wide crescents that look like eyebrows.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She glances at me. She looks worried and tense, and I know she’s thinking about last night. About our fight at the movie theater. “How are your teeth feeling this morning?”
I press a fingertip against my swollen lips. “Better.”
“Think you can get around some buttered toast?”
“I can try.”
She sets a small turquoise plate beside the bowl. Two slices of sourdough toast. Slightly browned and buttered, just how I like them.
“If your teeth are still too sore, let me know. But it’s been a few days. Dr. Ashworth seemed to think you’d be more adjusted by now.” Mom sits across from me. Her brows are knitted together with concern. “I’m starting to worry.”
I pick up a slice of toast and bite the crusted corner. Overall, my teeth really are better. I can smile and brush my teeth without any real consequences. But I still experience shooting pains whenever I chew.
“It’s okay,” I say. I set the bread aside and grab my spoon.
Mom watches me as I eat. Dad strides in, takes his seat at the table. He’s dressed for work in a crisp shirt and tie, a fancy watch flashing at his wrist. He and Mom are both eating smoothie bowls for breakfast, too. In solidarity, I guess. For several minutes, no one says anything. The only sounds in here are the slow, repetitive clanks of our spoons.
Then Dad pipes up with “Have we ever told you about your mother’s weird pregnancy cravings?”
I gulp. Shake my head.
“Two words: pickle juice.”
Mom smirks. “That was random, Donnie.”
“I’m just saying. It was a total thing. I was at the grocery store almost every day, getting fresh dill pickles for you.”
“But Mom doesn’t even like pickles.”
Dad slaps the tabletop. “Yes! That’s exactly my point—”
“I don’t dislike them. It’s just—I don’t know. They’re not as satisfying, now that I’m no longer craving them.”
The conversation fizzles out awkwardly. I chase a banana slice around inside my bowl. Mom and Dad are nearly finished with theirs.
And the words fly out of me: “I know where my name came from.”
Everything stops. Their spoons go still. Their eyes fix on me.
It’s like I temporarily lost control of my own mouth. But now that the confession is out there, I might as well keep going.
So I look at Mom and say, “Your biological mother’s name was Edith Graham. She was from here, but she wanted to become an actress. She left for Hollywood in 1973, and she came back to Seattle when she was pregnant with you. You were born on August 28, 1977.”
I Can Make This Promise Page 9