“One day you’re going to have an exhibit like this,” I say as I walk under an archway that reads Moving and Sam walks under the one right next to it that says Picture.
“I don’t do mosaics,” he says. “I could never create art with my hands like this.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, one day you’re going to have a supercool space where people come from all over to see your art.”
“You mean like a gallery? Or a museum?”
“Yeah. Something.”
“It’s really hard to get to that point.”
“Anything is possible if you want it badly enough,” I say, and then repeat it again, silently, to myself.
He shakes his head. “I don’t have your drive,” he says.
“Of course you do.”
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a cluster of silver mirror fragments; the slightly off version of myself looks startlingly like the picture of Celeste from the box, the only one where she wasn’t smiling for the camera—she was pregnant and standing at the kitchen sink, staring pensively out the window. I wonder what she was thinking about in that moment.
Sam and I don’t talk about Mellie all day, though she’s always there, lingering in what goes unspoken. We’re only here, in this beautiful place, because of her, after all. I still haven’t heard anything more from her. I don’t know whether to be glad she’s respecting my wishes or hurt that she isn’t trying harder. Sam checks in with his parents after lunch; I’m sure Niya will fill Mom in on the fact that we’re in Philly. I wonder how that conversation will go—if Mom will tell Niya about her past now.
We go back to the hotel after dinner and curl up on Sam’s bed to watch a movie on his laptop. It’s exactly what I need. I’m exhausted, and have kind of a stomachache after all that fatty, sugary food. And movie nights with Sam are familiar. Comforting.
“Hey,” I say during the opening credits of Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
He hits the space bar, and the screen pauses.
“I’m gonna miss this,” I say.
“Miss what?”
“Hanging out with you, watching movies.”
“You mean when I go to school?” His voice is soft.
I nod. “I don’t know what I thought was going to happen—maybe that I would come visit a lot? But look how long the drive was to Philly. You’re going to school in Boston. It’s even farther away.”
His brow knits. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that too. It’s gonna be different.”
“So different.”
He takes a moment, as if deciding how to phrase his next thought. “But … things are already different, you know? School’s over, we’re on this adventure, you’re going to be traveling a lot more … Maybe different doesn’t have to be bad.”
“That’s true.”
“We’ll always be in each other’s lives,” he says, and he sounds so certain.
“Promise?”
“Of course. I fully expect to be able to use my friendship with you as my claim to fame. Why else do you think I’ve put up with you all these years?”
I punch him in the arm.
“Aghh!” he groans, grabbing the spot I punched and rolling over onto his side in mock pain.
“Hey, Sam?”
He wiggles back up to a sitting position. “Yeah?”
“Did you tell your mom about Mellie?”
He shakes his head. “I told her you guys were having problems and that you needed some space. But I didn’t tell her any specifics. I figured Mellie can tell her if she wants to.”
This makes me feel better, though I don’t know why.
“Okay. Thank you.” I press the button to resume the movie.
I’ve seen this movie about fifty times—it’s one of my favorites. But today it’s not holding my attention. All I can think about is what happens if Mellie does tell Niya she’s trans. Niya will obviously tell Ramesh. And because it’s not the kind of gossip you hear every day in Francis, he’ll want to tell someone too, like maybe the guys on his basketball team. And then they’ll each tell someone and soon the entire town will know …
Sam stops the movie again.
“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.
I rub my eyes. “Nothing. Sorry. Press ‘play.’ ” His hand has barely touched the space bar when I blurt out, “I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About what will happen if people back home find out. What if people are mean to her? What if she gets fired?”
Sam is quiet. He’s probably running through all the horrible scenarios you hear about on the news. There’s a reason everyone knows the term hate crime.
He wraps his arm around me. His chest smells like cheesesteaks. “Do you want to go home, Dara? It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind.”
I sit up and put a few inches of distance between us. “No. I need to do this.”
“Okay. Just checking.” He considers something for a moment, then grabs his computer and pulls up Google Maps. He plugs in the Pembrokes’ South Carolina address. “Want to see what the house looks like? Might help prepare for tomorrow.”
I laugh a little. “That house today was insane, wasn’t it?”
His eyes seem to grow three sizes. “Ridiculous. I can’t believe your birth mother used to live there.”
Birth mother. Is that what Celeste is? Was? I always thought of that as more of an adoption term. But I guess if you consider a “birth mother” being the person who carried you for nine months and gave birth to you, but not the person you grew up calling “Mom,” it fits.
Sam hits “enter,” and an image of a white house fills the screen. It’s not as regal-looking as the Cherry Hill house, but it’s just as huge and extremely well taken care of. A large porch wraps around the front, and in the photo, a black cat is asleep on the porch swing. The house looks like it’s been restored from a much older version, and like it might even have historical significance. Sam chooses “aerial view,” and the whole picture zooms out. Unlike the New Jersey house, which had neighbors on either side, this house is surrounded by vast stretches of green and brown land. When you zoom in you can see a couple of horses.
“It’s a farm,” I say.
“That’s pretty cool.”
The imaginary image of my perfect family remains intact, with just a few alterations. Instead of the lone cat—which, if this picture was taken since the Pembrokes have owned the house, I was totally right about—more animals enter the mix. Horses, a dog, maybe a cow. Switch the gardener to a farmhand and add some homegrown vegetables, and the picture is complete once more.
Just then my cell phone dings with a new email. It’s from Mellie. The subject heading is “You were right,” and the preview window shows the message begins with Dear Dara, I’ve been thinking a lot about …
I feel Sam reading over my shoulder. “You going to open it?” he asks.
I chew on my lip. I don’t want to talk to her. I thought she’d heard me when I said to leave me alone. My thumb drifts from the “expand email” button to the “screen off” button.
But what does she mean by “You were right”? And what has she been thinking a lot about?
I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could just delete the message unread and be done with it.
But I’m not that strong.
My thumb floats back to the email.
I click it open.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
June 20 (8:35 PM)
Subject: You were right
Dear Dara,
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said in your text last night.
You’re right—I didn’t explain any of it properly. I put off telling you everything for far too long, and that resulted in me being completely unprepared when the time came. I’m so sorry.
I’m going to try to fix that now. I know asking for a second chance is already a lot—a third chance is probably out of the question. So
if this is my last chance to get the story right, I’m determined not to screw it up this time. I’m going to push past the instincts that have taken root in me over the last seventeen years, even though at this very moment they’re telling me what they’ve always said: Stay quiet. Protect myself and my family. Never tell a soul.
I’ve decided email is probably the best way to do this—it’s always been easier for me to organize my thoughts on paper. Maybe I was a writer in a past life. My plan is to start from the very beginning, and take you through everything in chronological order, as I experienced it. The timeline of my life that brought us to this current place in time. That’s the only way I can think of to make sure all the pieces fit together correctly. But please tell me if you have specific questions and want me to jump ahead.
I want you to know I have no agenda in any of this, apart from hoping it helps keep you in my life. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything, or talk you into making the choices I want you to make. Maybe you’re on your way to the Pembrokes’ right now. Maybe you’re already there. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that you finally know our story. What you said is true—you should have been part of this from the beginning. I’m only sorry it’s taken me this long to realize it.
I’m going to send another email soon.
You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. But please read.
I miss you so much already. I love you. Every time I open the fridge and hear the hot sauce bottles rattle against each other in the door, my heart aches.
Love,
Mom
I look at Sam.
Hand him the phone so he can read.
Bury my head under the pillow.
And let out the loudest, longest wail of my life.
It’s a ten-hour drive from Philly to Charleston.
We check out of the hotel bright and early—after I gave in and went for a five-mile run in a big circle around the hotel block. I didn’t check my email this morning, but the little icon says I have nine unread messages. Even if the majority of them are spam, I’d bet money I don’t have that one or two of them are from Mom.
I know I said I wanted the whole truth, the full story. But part of that was wanting it to have happened when it should have. Days ago, on the couch in the living room with the box of secrets open on the table beside us like tagged evidence during a trial. Years ago, each time I stepped onto a tennis court or asked Mom about her past or hugged her and told her I loved her.
A nobler person would say “better late than never” and be thankful that Mom has started to come around. A more compassionate person would argue that she’d been caught off guard the other night and that it wasn’t fair of me to expect her to explain everything perfectly and in a way that would make me forgive her on the first try. A smarter person would reason that I should be glad I’m about to get the crucial details I’ve been asking for.
But getting daily emails on the subject, and being dragged back to Francis and the little yellow house and a lifetime of struggle every time I check my phone, isn’t exactly what I meant. Not now, when I’m out here trying my hardest to be brave and find out who I am apart from Mellie.
I said all this to Sam last night. He understood, but he also thinks it’s great that she’s trying.
A couple hours into the drive, his phone dings with a new text message. “Who’s that?” I ask.
He presses a button quickly and turns his phone facedown in his lap. “No one. It was a notification from my game.” Sam’s obsessed with this stupid Viking game—he’s on it all the time, tap-tap-tapping his little men into formation. But I know the sounds that game makes, and I’m pretty sure that was a text message.
Something shifts out of place in my chest, causing a twinge. “Was it Mellie?”
“No. She hasn’t texted me. It really was my game.”
I glance at him, and he shrugs. I don’t know whether to believe him, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Somewhere in Virginia, we pass the body of a deer that tried to make it across the road and met an untimely demise. I wonder why the bodies are always on the side of the road, rather than right in the middle of the lanes of traffic, where they were likely hit. Surely the people who hit them don’t take the time to move them. Is it that the animals don’t die on impact, and instead try to crawl to safety before being unable to go any farther? Do they have families who are waiting for them? Did they have babies who made it across the road, only to turn back and watch their mothers get struck down?
It’s as I’m thinking this that the car is filled with a thunderous bang and the steering wheel jerks out of my control, the back of the car skirting with it.
“What was that?” Sam shouts as I scream and throw a hand over my hammering heart.
“I don’t know!” I manage to get the car under control a second later, but it still feels jerky and unstable. “I think we have a flat tire.” I got a flat once before, but it was more of a silent ooze and less like a freaking gunshot.
“Terrific.” Sam sighs, and shades a hand over his eyes, trying to calm himself down. “Do you have a spare?”
Uh-oh. He’s going to be mad. “Umm. I don’t think I replaced it after the last flat I got.”
“What the hell, Dara?!” Knew it. “And you didn’t think this would be important to take care of before going on a road trip?”
“First of all, I forgot all about it. Second of all, I didn’t think we’d be driving all the way to South Carolina, remember?”
I manage to make it to the next exit. We’re in the middle of Virginia. You know what they have here? Cow fields. You know what else they have? Motorcycle bars. That’s about it. Not a gas station or car repair shop in sight.
I pull into the parking lot of one of the bars and get out of the car. Yep. The back right tire is deflated like a subpar air mattress after a night of being slept on. I slide back into my seat, not bothering to close the door since we’re obviously not going anywhere, and call the number on the roadside service card in my glove compartment. The guy says it will be at least a couple hours before anyone can get here.
“Dammit!” I shout, slamming my hands against the steering wheel. I close my eyes and try to do some measured breathing. Doesn’t help. Can’t anything go right?
Sam doesn’t say anything. It’s like we’ve switched—now he’s the calm one. Maybe he figures my wallowing is more than enough for one car. After a few minutes, he says quietly, “Well, should we go get some lunch?”
I look up, blinking against the sun. The pub in front of us fits in perfectly with this country atmosphere, with its wraparound front porch and neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign in the window. It’s barely afternoon, but the parking lot is packed with motorcycles and pickup trucks. A tractor is parked in a disabled parking spot. I wonder if someone drove it here. I wonder if that someone is actually disabled. I wonder if you can get arrested for driving a tractor while drunk.
The sign on the building reads THE OUTLAW SALOON. It’s not exactly the kind of place Sam and I frequent. I give him a skeptical look.
“What?” he says. “We’re from a small town. I’m sure we’ll blend right in.”
“Funny.” But it’s either this or sit in the car for hours. And I am kinda hungry. I unbuckle my seat belt. “Let’s go.”
We walk up the porch steps, and through the door.
Okay, we do not blend in. Luckily, it’s not like the movies where we walk through the swinging doors and the pianist stops playing, and everyone stops talking and stares at us. No one’s really paying us much attention, actually. But Sam starts quietly humming the “One of These Things Is Not Like the Others” song from Sesame Street. Apart from us, the dorky teenagers in Old Navy poly/cotton blends, there are two kinds of customers here: Leather and Denim.
Motorcycle riders and horse riders.
Bikers and cowboys.
The haze of smoke is thick and makes my lungs constrict. The sound system is playing country music. I
don’t recognize the song.
There are only three women, other than me, in the whole place. Two are Leathers. One is wearing a red denim miniskirt, black cowboy boots, and about a half bottle of hair spray, and is dropping off plates of burgers and wings at the tables.
Everyone is white. Except Sam.
“Yeah, my bad,” Sam whispers out of the side of his mouth. He takes a slow step backward.
I back up a little too. But then a burst of genuine, easy laughter erupts from a nearby table of Denims, and they clink glasses. I find myself smiling for the first time since before I got Mellie’s email. Sam begins to turn toward the door, but I grab his arm. Link it through mine. Hold him in place.
“What?” he asks.
Everything that could possibly have gone wrong these last few days has, but there’s been a flip side to everything too. Finding out about Mellie has given me hope for things I’d never known to hope for: a family, a history, financial security, a real chance to take the tennis world by storm instead of having to sidle into it with one arm tied behind my back. Going to the wrong address yesterday gave Sam and me a pretty incredible day in Philly. And blowing that tire has led us here, to this half-scary, half-cartoonish bar we’d never in a million years have come to otherwise. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe the universe is telling me something.
Enjoy the ride, for once in your life.
I grin up at him. “We’re staying.”
Almost immediately, his demeanor turns suspicious. “Why?” he says, like I’ve led him into a trap.
“Uh, because we have literally nowhere else to go?”
He crosses his arms, waiting for the real reason.
I pull him by the sleeve to a little area away from the entrance and turn to face him thoroughly. “Name something you’ve done that I haven’t.” We’re directly under a speaker now, and I have to raise my voice to be heard over the music.
His forehead crinkles. “What do you mean?”
“Name something. Anything.”
And She Was Page 8