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Authors: Kristen-Paige Madonia
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exactly how I started, but I remember the words coming quickly once I began.
I told her about the bus route and about how sad Emmy had been before we started planning the trip, which was true, but it didn’t help to change that angry look pressed on her face when I admitted I’d already bought the ticket for the Greyhound. “I’m practically eighteen, a legal adult,” I said, which was nine months short of being the truth.
She waved away the waiter when he came by to take our dessert orders and finished her cocktail as she measured me, silent and listening.
“I promise we’ll be safe,” I said, but she narrowed her eyes as if imagining all the trouble Emmy and I could get into in a place like San Francisco, maybe remembering all the trouble she got into herself. “And we’ve already picked out the hotel,” I told her. “Travelocity gave it five stars,” I said, which wasn’t even close to being true, but we had a budget and had agreed not to splurge on a fancy room since we wouldn’t be spending much time at the hotel anyway.
I worried she might start yelling before I gave all the excuses as to why we’d chosen California, but she didn’t say a word, not until after I told her how I had wanted to go to San Francisco since I was a kid, since I knew that’s where she’d been when she found out she was pregnant. Finally, I ended with a line about having roots in California, about feeling connected.
“It feels important,” I said. “I have to see it for myself. I have to go.”
She said, “No way in hell,” which I had heard before. And then, “You’re pregnant, Lemon,” which was obvious. “You’re just a kid,” she said, which I didn’t agree with, and finally, “You don’t have any money,” which wasn’t true at all.
The last time I counted, I had almost four hundred dollars left after I bought the bus ticket, and I figured Simon would slip me a bit more for Christmas.
And then we sat there for a while and didn’t say anything. I never mentioned my father, and I never told her how long I was planning on staying, but I guess she probably knew anyway, because eventually she put her drink down, pushed her chair back, and walked to my side of the table. She tugged me to my feet even though there wasn’t much space in the restaurant, and she hugged me tight, tighter than she did at my grandmother’s funeral ten years earlier, tighter than the time she thought she lost me at the pool hall back in New York, tighter even than the night she finally snapped out of the depression after Denny and realized I’d been taking care of her all those days at the hotel.
I knew everyone in the restaurant was watching and that they probably thought she was drunk or crazy, but even though I could feel their eyes on us it was nice to settle into her arms and let her hug me like that. It felt good and familiar, like bare feet in the summertime.
She held on for a while and whispered, “Tell me you’re coming back before school starts again.”
“I’m coming back before school starts again,” I said even though I’d bought a one-way ticket.
Eventually she pulled away and repeated it as a stipulation.“You’re coming back before school starts again,” she said, and I nodded, smiling like a kid stoned off a Halloween sugar high.
But then I looked at her face, really looked that time, and I realized her skin seemed looser than before, that her mouth was slack and worried and her eyes were glazed under tears.
I asked if she was mad, but she said, “I should have seen it coming. You are your mother’s daughter,” and then she put her palm on my cheek just for a second before she returned to her side of the table, pulled herself together, and slid into her seat. “Fine,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
And eight days later Emmy and I boarded a Greyhound and headed for California.
Nothing we do is inevitable, but everything we do is irreversible. How do you propose to remember that in
I told her about the bus route and about how sad Emmy had been before we started planning the trip, which was true, but it didn’t help to change that angry look pressed on her face when I admitted I’d already bought the ticket for the Greyhound. “I’m practically eighteen, a legal adult,” I said, which was nine months short of being the truth.
She waved away the waiter when he came by to take our dessert orders and finished her cocktail as she measured me, silent and listening.
“I promise we’ll be safe,” I said, but she narrowed her eyes as if imagining all the trouble Emmy and I could get into in a place like San Francisco, maybe remembering all the trouble she got into herself. “And we’ve already picked out the hotel,” I told her. “Travelocity gave it five stars,” I said, which wasn’t even close to being true, but we had a budget and had agreed not to splurge on a fancy room since we wouldn’t be spending much time at the hotel anyway.
I worried she might start yelling before I gave all the excuses as to why we’d chosen California, but she didn’t say a word, not until after I told her how I had wanted to go to San Francisco since I was a kid, since I knew that’s where she’d been when she found out she was pregnant. Finally, I ended with a line about having roots in California, about feeling connected.
“It feels important,” I said. “I have to see it for myself. I have to go.”
She said, “No way in hell,” which I had heard before. And then, “You’re pregnant, Lemon,” which was obvious. “You’re just a kid,” she said, which I didn’t agree with, and finally, “You don’t have any money,” which wasn’t true at all.
The last time I counted, I had almost four hundred dollars left after I bought the bus ticket, and I figured Simon would slip me a bit more for Christmas.
And then we sat there for a while and didn’t say anything. I never mentioned my father, and I never told her how long I was planning on staying, but I guess she probably knew anyway, because eventually she put her drink down, pushed her chair back, and walked to my side of the table. She tugged me to my feet even though there wasn’t much space in the restaurant, and she hugged me tight, tighter than she did at my grandmother’s funeral ten years earlier, tighter than the time she thought she lost me at the pool hall back in New York, tighter even than the night she finally snapped out of the depression after Denny and realized I’d been taking care of her all those days at the hotel.
I knew everyone in the restaurant was watching and that they probably thought she was drunk or crazy, but even though I could feel their eyes on us it was nice to settle into her arms and let her hug me like that. It felt good and familiar, like bare feet in the summertime.
She held on for a while and whispered, “Tell me you’re coming back before school starts again.”
“I’m coming back before school starts again,” I said even though I’d bought a one-way ticket.
Eventually she pulled away and repeated it as a stipulation.“You’re coming back before school starts again,” she said, and I nodded, smiling like a kid stoned off a Halloween sugar high.
But then I looked at her face, really looked that time, and I realized her skin seemed looser than before, that her mouth was slack and worried and her eyes were glazed under tears.
I asked if she was mad, but she said, “I should have seen it coming. You are your mother’s daughter,” and then she put her palm on my cheek just for a second before she returned to her side of the table, pulled herself together, and slid into her seat. “Fine,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
And eight days later Emmy and I boarded a Greyhound and headed for California.
Nothing we do is inevitable, but everything we do is irreversible. How do you propose to remember that in
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