Moretti!”
“Everything okay?” Aunt Trish asks from the kitchen.
Jerking, I jump away from the door, hightailing it to the stairs. “Fine!” I shout, too enthusiastically. “Everything is fine!”
At the top, I pause outside my mother’s bedroom, the need to go to her too strong to ignore.
Cracking the door, I peek in. “Mom?”
The TV lights up the room, highlighting her curled-up form on the bed. Her knees hug her chest, like she’s protecting herself. Maybe she is. Maybe she always would be.
Tiptoeing to her side, I stare down at her. Mom, I think. I want to be like you, and yet I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of seeing the world and getting lost in it. I want to be found, not lost.
“Italy is beautiful this time of year,” I whisper aloud, throat clogged.
Kneeling next to the bed, I steeple my fingers. “Are you there with me, Mama?”
Most people kneel next to their beds to pray to God. I kneel next to my mother’s bed every night, but I don’t pray to anyone other than her. I talk to her. Sometimes, I beg.
“Are you in Italy? It’s not cold here. It’s warm, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t know the facts like you do. I just know that he’s here, and it feels nice, weirdly enough. I’m scared and confused because I don’t need this distraction right now.” I play with her blanket, spelling out ‘Matthew’ on the fabric. It’s way too fangirl of me, and I stop myself. “Aunt Trish did this. She set it up. I mean, do I look that lonely? That helpless? Because I don’t want to be that person.”
Bunching her comforter up in my fist, I pretend Mom’s holding my hand or offering me a bowl of ice cream with gobs of chocolate syrup on top because that’s what normal moms do when their teenage daughters are a mess, right?
“I don’t even know why he likes me, Mom. Why he’s just up and talking to me, like I’m a someone. Like I’m this friend he’s had for forever. I haven’t really given him a reason to like me, and people should have reasons for liking someone, shouldn’t they? Because I’ve been really sarcastic and bitchy.” There is no better word for it.
No answer.
Mom whistle-breathes in her sleep. I shouldn’t mind.
She’s my mom, and she’s the only mom I have.
“I don’t even know how to talk to him.” I blow out a breath, watch it lift my hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing at all. He’s confident and irritatingly arrogant, by the way. Me? I’m sort of figuring out what I am as I go. And he wants to save me! Oh my God, how medieval times is that?”
Suddenly, just like that, I’m angry.
“I need you, Mama! Oh, God, I need you!” The tears come fast and furious. “Come back to me, please. To me ! To Reagan! I need you for so many things! Do you even remember me at all? Anything about me? Maybe the way you used to read Goodnight Moon to me when I’d get scared at night. You told me the moon was nothing to be afraid of. It was magic that touches us when we sleep and changes who we are.” My voice rises with each word.
Mom stirs, eyes heavy. “My jewel?” She tweaks my hair. “Are you crying? Don’t cry.”
Oh, God! I’m sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry!
She reaches for me, and I climb into the bed next to her, letting her tug me into her embrace. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry,” she begs, anxiety lacing the words.
“I’m okay,” I promise, even though I’m not.
I soothe her, rubbing her arms and shushing in her ear until she’s back asleep, content and unaware.
In the silence, I cry, stifling the sobs in her pillow.
The human heart is like a makeup caboodle with a million different compartments. I’m feeling all of these conflicting emotions, and yet … somehow they’re not getting mixed up. They’re stored in their separate compartments, and I’m crying about each individual one.
Trust me, there’s
“Everything okay?” Aunt Trish asks from the kitchen.
Jerking, I jump away from the door, hightailing it to the stairs. “Fine!” I shout, too enthusiastically. “Everything is fine!”
At the top, I pause outside my mother’s bedroom, the need to go to her too strong to ignore.
Cracking the door, I peek in. “Mom?”
The TV lights up the room, highlighting her curled-up form on the bed. Her knees hug her chest, like she’s protecting herself. Maybe she is. Maybe she always would be.
Tiptoeing to her side, I stare down at her. Mom, I think. I want to be like you, and yet I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of seeing the world and getting lost in it. I want to be found, not lost.
“Italy is beautiful this time of year,” I whisper aloud, throat clogged.
Kneeling next to the bed, I steeple my fingers. “Are you there with me, Mama?”
Most people kneel next to their beds to pray to God. I kneel next to my mother’s bed every night, but I don’t pray to anyone other than her. I talk to her. Sometimes, I beg.
“Are you in Italy? It’s not cold here. It’s warm, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t know the facts like you do. I just know that he’s here, and it feels nice, weirdly enough. I’m scared and confused because I don’t need this distraction right now.” I play with her blanket, spelling out ‘Matthew’ on the fabric. It’s way too fangirl of me, and I stop myself. “Aunt Trish did this. She set it up. I mean, do I look that lonely? That helpless? Because I don’t want to be that person.”
Bunching her comforter up in my fist, I pretend Mom’s holding my hand or offering me a bowl of ice cream with gobs of chocolate syrup on top because that’s what normal moms do when their teenage daughters are a mess, right?
“I don’t even know why he likes me, Mom. Why he’s just up and talking to me, like I’m a someone. Like I’m this friend he’s had for forever. I haven’t really given him a reason to like me, and people should have reasons for liking someone, shouldn’t they? Because I’ve been really sarcastic and bitchy.” There is no better word for it.
No answer.
Mom whistle-breathes in her sleep. I shouldn’t mind.
She’s my mom, and she’s the only mom I have.
“I don’t even know how to talk to him.” I blow out a breath, watch it lift my hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing at all. He’s confident and irritatingly arrogant, by the way. Me? I’m sort of figuring out what I am as I go. And he wants to save me! Oh my God, how medieval times is that?”
Suddenly, just like that, I’m angry.
“I need you, Mama! Oh, God, I need you!” The tears come fast and furious. “Come back to me, please. To me ! To Reagan! I need you for so many things! Do you even remember me at all? Anything about me? Maybe the way you used to read Goodnight Moon to me when I’d get scared at night. You told me the moon was nothing to be afraid of. It was magic that touches us when we sleep and changes who we are.” My voice rises with each word.
Mom stirs, eyes heavy. “My jewel?” She tweaks my hair. “Are you crying? Don’t cry.”
Oh, God! I’m sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry!
She reaches for me, and I climb into the bed next to her, letting her tug me into her embrace. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry,” she begs, anxiety lacing the words.
“I’m okay,” I promise, even though I’m not.
I soothe her, rubbing her arms and shushing in her ear until she’s back asleep, content and unaware.
In the silence, I cry, stifling the sobs in her pillow.
The human heart is like a makeup caboodle with a million different compartments. I’m feeling all of these conflicting emotions, and yet … somehow they’re not getting mixed up. They’re stored in their separate compartments, and I’m crying about each individual one.
Trust me, there’s
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