by Alana Terry
Mom gives her normal rat-a-tat-tat on my bedroom door. I push the covers off and call out, “Come in.”
She’s full of smiles. Steps over and kisses me on the cheek. “How’s my little graduating senior?” she asks in a melodic voice. Usually she’s way too cheerful in the morning. It annoys me when she comes in singing songs or making jokes. But not today.
Today, I’m even more of a morning lark than she is.
It’s the senior trip today. You have no idea how much begging Mom had to do to convince Dad to let me go. “It’s just a reason to skip school and party,” he grumbled.
Which is when Mom stepped in and offered the family cabin. It wasn’t that far from the campsite where seniors historically spent the weekend before graduation. Besides, everyone in my senior class knows Mom. She’d been the school librarian at the middle school before she started subbing at the high school. Sports jocks, band geeks, computer nerds — at one point she’s taught in each and every one of their classes.
And everyone loves her.
“Your mom’s like the only adult in the entire world I can trust not to totally ruin our camping trip,” Kelsie told me when I asked her what she thought of the plan. “And your cabin is the best. I wish my family was loaded like yours. Benefits of having a mob boss as your dad.” We laughed at the little inside joke, and that’s how it was settled.
I still can’t believe I’ll get to spend three full days with my friends. Not everyone from our class is coming. Some of the other cliques organized their own getaways. Senior trips are always like that. It’s not an actual school-sponsored event. And I guess Kelsie’s right when she tells me how lucky I am to have a mom like mine because it doesn’t even weird me out to think about her coming with us. Like I said, everyone at the school already knows her. She’ll just read her spy novels the whole time anyway, so it’s not like she’s going to make things awkward or get in our way.
This will be the first time I’ve spent the night with Chris. Oh my gosh, I had no idea how bad that would sound. No, it’s not going to be like that. First of all, my parents would kill me if they found out Chris and I were sleeping together. And Chris is really serious about being a Christian, even though he can’t let his dad know or he’d get beat up even more than normal. I actually think that’s part of the reason why Chris became a Christian in the first place, just because church gave him someplace to go that wasn’t home. It was actually at youth group where we started hanging out more, and we’ve been together now for a little over three years, so it’s pretty serious. But we’re still gonna wait to do anything like that, if you know what I mean.
But oh my gosh, I’m so excited for this weekend to start! Let’s see, I packed my bags, I’ve got my bug spray. What else do I need? I guess I’m lucky because if I do forget something, it’s not like I can’t find it at my own cabin, right?
Chris hasn’t ever been there before. I hope he feels comfortable. He’d never say so, but sometimes I worry it makes him feel bad when he sees how much stuff my family has. His mom’s been out of the picture for a while, and his dad isn’t that good with handling the money he manages to earn. Mom tells me all the time not to make Chris think I feel sorry for him. Last summer, when she found out I was paying for our snacks and things whenever Chris and I went out together, she talked Dad into hiring him to do some landscaping. Said that it would make Chris feel better if he didn’t think he was relying on our charity. I guess maybe some people are sensitive about that kind of thing, but Chris and I haven’t ever talked about it directly. He did like working at our house last summer, and I’m glad he’ll be doing it again this year.
I still can’t believe we’re almost graduating! And if you want to know a big, deep secret, I’m a little nervous about this camping trip. Because next fall Chris’s staying in Massachusetts and taking classes at the community college, and I’m off to New York, and we’ve never really sat down to talk about what that’s going to mean for us. I don’t want to be the one to bring it up. I know Chris has enough on his mind already. Did I tell you about his half-sister? Her mom just dropped her off with Chris’s dad last year, and so Chris has been basically raising her ever since. That’s part of the reason why he wants to stay in the area, I think, to help take care of Gabriella. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t trust Mr. Gomez to look after a hamster, much less a little girl.
Well, Mom’s in the kitchen now, still singing. I wonder what’s for breakfast. Chris will be here in about half an hour, then Mom will drive us over to the cabin. The rest of the group will meet us in the afternoon. We’re leaving early so we can do a little grocery shopping once we get there, make sure there’s enough food. Mom’s pretty strict about no drinking (which is another reason we have a smaller group than we might have), but that’s fine by us. Most of Chris’s and my crowd isn’t into that kind of stuff anyway. And Dad would totally flip if he thought there was going to be anything like that going on.
“You look just like a summer sunflower,” Mom tells me when I come out of my room. It’s sweet of her to say but kind of silly seeing as how I’m just wearing some plain old cutoff shorts and a yellow striped shirt. She comes over and messes with the clip in my hair, pulling some runaway strands away from my face. Then she gives me a kiss. “Want some coffee with breakfast?” she asks, but I tell her no thanks.
“Dad already at work?” I ask, and she tells me he is. I shouldn’t feel surprised. Dad’s never here when I get up in the morning. But for some reason I was hoping that today might be different.
Mom must sense the hint of a gloomy mood, and she gives me another huge hug. “I still can’t believe you’re graduating!” Sometimes, I think she’s more excited about me finishing high school than I am. I mean, the way she’s going at it, you’d think I’d already discovered the cure for cancer.
We sit down at the table. Mom’s made a big breakfast this morning, way more than the two of us could possibly eat. I know why she’s done it too, because then when Chris comes by, she can tell him we have extra. He’ll never admit when he’s hungry or if they’re out of food in his house. Mom’s gotten into the habit of buying a few extra boxes of snacks from the clearance shelves. It’s not the kind of stuff our family ever eats, so she’ll tell Chris something like, “You know what? I was cleaning out the back of the pantry and found some things that are about to go bad. Want to take them home?” And he always does. A few times, Mom has tried to figure out what kind of snacks Gabriella likes the most, and she’ll always buy a couple extra boxes if she comes across them.
“So, are you going to miss high school?” Mom asks.
I shrug. “It’ll be different.”
“You’re going to love New York,” she gushes, and I know she’s right. One other cool thing is that Kelsie’s been accepted to Barnard, so we’ll be practically neighbors. Mom’s warned me plenty of times that even though Kelsie and I have been best friends forever, that doesn’t mean we’ll stay close in college, but I know we will. That’s just the kind of friendship we have.
Mom stares at me picking at my fruit salad. “What’s wrong? Is the watermelon too mushy? I was a little worried when I cut it up.”
I give her a smile. She knows I’m not thinking about the fruit, and she knows that I know.
She reaches over and puts her hand on my knee. “This is going to be a special weekend for you and Chris, isn’t it?”
I spear a slice of kiwi and stare at my fork.
“You’re a lucky girl,” Mom tells me. “That boy loves you very much. I must have taught you how to pick well.”
We chuckle, our shared laugh breaking a little bit of the tension I’m feeling at the thought of this senior trip and everything it means. The last time we’ll be together like this, me and all my friends ... As much as I want to fight it, I know Mom’s right. Graduation means everything’s going to change. Kelsie and I will still be best friends, but it’s not like we’re going to be able to schedule all of our classes together and eat lunch at the same table
and spend every free minute together. And Chris ...
The doorbell rings. He’s here early. Mom eyes my plate. “Want me to let him in?”
I jump up from my chair. “No, I got it.”
I forget how many times Mom and I both have told Chris he can just walk in and make himself at home, but I actually think it’s adorable how he still uses the doorbell and stands patiently on the porch.
I open the door. He’s wearing his Vegas shirt. Chris and I have been fans of the band since Mom got us tickets to their concert last fall.
“Come in,” Mom says, then reminds Chris he doesn’t have to use the bell. It’s a conversation they go through every time he comes over. Some things never change. At least I hope they’ll never change.
I give Chris a quick hug. He’s always shy to be affectionate with me around my parents. If my dad were here, I’d totally get it, but I wish Chris would learn to be a little more comfortable with Mom. In a way though, it just makes him that much more endearing. It’s not like he has to be nervous or reserved around Mom either. She absolutely adores him. Says he reminds her of Captain America, all polite and respectful. It makes me happy to know she likes him so much.
I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Want some breakfast?” I ask. “We just sat down.”
It takes less coaxing than usual to get Chris to eat, and he lets Mom pile up his plate without protesting. Good old Chris.
“You two ready for a great weekend or what?” Mom asks, and Chris and I glance at each other. Does he look nervous? Is he wondering the same thing I am?
Is this weekend going to be the beginning of a new stage in our relationship?
Or will it be a bittersweet ending to the best years of our lives?
CHAPTER 5
I’m still crying, but not quite as hysterically. Dad’s changed my coffee out for a mug of tea, and we’re sitting in the living room now. I look around me, and I recognize everything. I know everything. The bookshelves lined with Mom’s mysteries and thrillers, the hundreds of worn paperbacks she’s picked up from library sales and thrift stores. The mantle with a few of my gymnastics trophies from days gone by. My brother Marco’s wrestling medal from back when he was in high school.
I know this room, this house. Nothing has changed, but everything is different. Dad sees me shivering and goes into my room, bringing out the same pink bedspread I’ve slept with for years. He tucks it around me like Mom used to do when I stayed home sick from school, watching TV all day on this exact couch. I have so many questions swirling around in my brain I don’t even know where to start.
Dad sits in his recliner, the same recliner he’s always sat in. I remember the time I spilled salsa on it and was so scared he’d be mad at me, but he’d laughed and said they’d paid for extra treatment on the leather to make it stain proof. This room, this house, is full of memories. Dad tells me I hit my head. It happened on the senior camping trip, the one I could have sworn was supposed to start today.
“Short-term memory loss,” he explains. And just as clearly as I know my own name, I know what he’s going to say next. Like Dory from Finding Nemo.
“Like Dory from Finding Nemo,” he adds, as if on cue.
I was right. We’ve done this before, Dad and me. I remember.
Or do I?
“Can it be fixed?” Maybe I’ve asked this question before too.
Dad stares at my feet. “We hope so, baby. We hope so.” He gets up and hands me some pain meds. I hope they start working soon.
I reach my hand up. Touch the back of my skull where it hurts the most. “I can’t feel anything there,” I say. It surprises me. An injury that serious — shouldn’t there be a bump or something?
Dad lets out a heavy sigh. “You’ve had a long road to recovery. For the first few weeks, you didn’t even know who I was.”
Wait a minute. The first few weeks? Maybe I heard wrong. Maybe the injury messed up my ears, too. That has to explain it.
“How long have I been like this?” I don’t really want to know, but I remind myself that the truth couldn’t hurt more than the uncertainty.
Right?
Dad doesn’t seem to want to answer. I lean in toward him and repeat, “How long have I been like this?”
He clears his throat. He still isn’t looking at me. “Three months.”
Now I’m sure my hearing’s been affected too. “Months?” I think I’m raising my voice. If I’m not, I should be. I try to get up, but Dad’s already standing over me, keeping me on the couch, and I wonder again, How many times have we gone through this before?
My eyes are spilling over with tears. So are his, except this time he doesn’t try to hide them.
“Months?” I repeat in disbelief, my voice nothing more than a pitiful squeak.
“I’m so sorry, Mimi.” He leans down and hugs me. A real hug, not just the arm and shoulder pats we’d grown used to. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I’m crying, but it doesn’t even feel like me anymore. Maybe I’m not me at all. How can you be yourself when you’ve forgotten half of the things that made you you?
Dad’s stroking my hair. The gesture reminds me of something. Reminds me of someone. Can the truth be any worse than not knowing?
I’m about to find out.
I steady my breath. Pull away enough that I can look Dad right in the face. Because I may have forgotten my best friend visiting me in a hospital room. I may have forgotten my senior camping trip and this accident Dad keeps talking about.
But I haven’t forgotten my family and how much they love me. How they would never leave me alone at a time like this. Which only means one thing.
Do I want the truth? I’m not sure. But I need to find out.
“Where’s Mom?” I demand. “Why isn’t she here?”
CHAPTER 6
“Mimi,” Dad says, trying to coax me, “I need you to calm down. Mom can’t be here right now.”
“Liar!” I shout. I may have forgotten whatever happened that gave me this freakish headache and turned me into a person I don’t even know anymore, but I certainly haven’t forgotten my mother. And nothing would keep her from being here with me. Nothing at all.
“Calm down, baby.” Dad’s smothering me. I kick and fling my body. I may not remember my senior trip, but I know that he wouldn’t really hurt me. So I fight back. He can’t subdue me this easily.
“Mimi, please.” He’s begging. Pleading. But I don’t care. He owes me answers. He owes me an explanation. And if he thinks that I’m going to calm myself down before he tells me what happened ...
The doorbell rings. We both stop struggling. Straighten ourselves up as if it’s written out for us on some script. I tidy up the couch cushions that fell askew in our skirmish. Dad goes to the door.
“Detective Drisklay.” I can tell from Dad’s voice he isn’t happy for the intrusion. The name Drisklay does nothing to jog my defective memory, but my brain latches onto the word detective.
“Who’s here?” I call out, afraid that Dad might send this stranger on his way. I want this detective to know I’m here. “Who is it?” I call out again.
I hear a mumbled response from the foyer, then the sound of the door clicking shut. I strain. Two sets of footsteps are coming toward the living room.
“Mia,” Dad says, his face taut, his expression set, “this is Detective Drisklay. He’s got some questions for you if you feel up to it.”
Do I feel up to it? Absolutely. Because I’ve got questions of my own.
“Can I get you a drink, Detective?” Dad’s voice isn’t warm and hospitable like Mom’s would be. In fact, there’s a hint of cold irony in his tone.
Detective Drisklay holds up a Styrofoam cup. “Brought my own.” He sits down in Dad’s recliner. I’m surprised that Dad doesn’t ask him to move but instead remains standing, his arms crossed.
The detective doesn’t even glance over at him but fixes his eyes on me. “How are you feeling today?”
There’s a familiarity
to his tone that makes me wonder if he’s met me before.
“We’ve had a little bit of a rough morning,” Dad interjects, but the detective doesn’t take his eyes off mine.
Drisklay sets his Styrofoam cup on our coffee table and pulls out a little notebook from his breast pocket. “Mind if I ask you a couple questions? It’d really help us with our investigation.”
Dad takes a step forward. “I haven’t had the chance to tell her yet. She still doesn’t know.”
Drisklay continues to frown. Continues to ignore my dad. I look to my father. A minute ago, I was literally beating against his chest, pleading for answers. Now I just want him to swoop in and carry me to my bed and tuck me in with the promise that this is all some sort of terrible dream. I don’t like this Drisklay guy, don’t like his hardened scowl or his gravelly voice. Everything about him is harsh. Like a sharpened tack or a rusty nail.
I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing here, but I want him out of my house.
Now.
Drisklay scribbles something in his notebook then glances up at me like I’m some sort of test rat or science experiment gone wrong. If he knows about my story, if he knows what I’ve been through, I’d expect at least some slight hint of compassion in his expression, but his face is made of granite, and I hate him.
Dad takes a step closer to me. Instinctively I reach out and grab his hand. I’m trembling, even though I don’t know why.
“I told you,” Dad tells the detective tersely, “this isn’t going to get you anywhere. She doesn’t remember.”
Drisklay clears his throat. I’ve never seen anyone ignore my dad the way the detective does.
“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough morning, Miss Blanca.” There’s something about the way he says my name. Something slimy. When this detective guy goes away, I want to take a shower. I feel exposed. Filthy. Maybe after he leaves, I’ll forget him entirely. Worse things could happen, right?