Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
With nothing more than a photo in my purse and a predictably painted canvas in my mind of how her miserable life ended, I bypass the landlord’s apartment, jump into my rental car, and put as much distance between me and the entire city of Athens as possible.
Am I a terrible daughter? A terrible person?
I paid to have her cremated, but I didn’t stay to collect the remains.
I visited her apartment, but I took nothing more than a photo.
It’s been three days since I received the call about her death, but I’ve not shed a single tear.
Yes. I’m definitely a terrible person.
When I reach Atlanta, I have no idea what to do next. My ticket was one-way because I didn’t know how long it would take to get my mom’s things in order—clearly not that long since her life was void of order before she died.
After driving around for another hour, I find a hotel and get a room for the night. I’m so numb at the moment. Collapsing onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling, eventually counting the drips from the faucet in the bathroom.
One.
Two.
Three.
Is this how my mom felt? Alone? Counting drips from a leaky faucet? Wondering how she got to that point in her life and where she was going?
Did she ever miss my dad or any of the truly hideous men that rotated in and out of her life for years?
Did she miss me?
Will I miss her?
I stop counting drips at two hundred and fifty, grab my phone, and call Leah. She doesn’t answer. So I text her.
Em: Call me when you get a chance.
She’s on Los Angeles time, so I know she’s not asleep. And I have no one else. Leah. That’s where my list ends. It’s crazy to think about the number of people I’ve met while traveling the world, yet only one makes the list of people I would call after my mom dies.
I sit up and run my hands through my hair before retrieving the photo from my purse. I don’t know who took the photo, but it portrays a false picture of a happy mother and daughter on the beach, lower bodies buried in the sand, and squiggly lines making the sand mounded over us look like mermaid tails. I shove the photo back into my purse and sigh. “Fuck it.”
I have a husband here in Atlanta. A husband who has made no effort to contact me recently.
No divorce papers.
No surprise visits.
Nothing.
With my emotions all over the place, I grab my bag and ride this tiny wave of courage all the way to his house. I spend the next ten minutes convincing myself that this is not a good idea, but it’s a necessary one.
With three knocks on his front door, I wring my hands together in front of me and hold my breath. After I’m confident he’s not home, I pivot and head back down the driveway—equally relieved and disappointed.
“Hello?”
I turn back toward the voice.
A woman holds her hand up to her forehead, squinting against the setting sun. “Are you looking for Zach?”
I was. Now, I’m not so sure.
“He’ll be home in a few hours, if you want to check back.”
I’m rarely speechless, in fact, nervous rambling is my specialty. I have no idea what to say to this woman. My thoughts won’t give me a good response; they’re too busy imagining who she might be. Why she’s at Zach's house when he’s not here … and an onslaught of other destructive emotions and images.
He’s not mine.
He never was mine.
I know this. And I hate that I have to repeat this in my head so many times. I hate that it doesn’t sink in and feel like the truth.
“Is everything okay?” she asks. And why wouldn’t she?
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
I must look crazy.
“Everything is fine.” I manage three words—one big lie. In the next breath, my legs take me back to my rental car in quick strides.
At the hotel, I order room service and raid the minibar. My mom died. I should be allowed a night of overeating and drinking myself into a comfortable state of numbness. Surely there’s at least a day-pass from reality when you lose a parent.
Once I’ve consumed three tiny bottles of whisky—which I hate—and stuffed myself with greasy fries and a cheeseburger that tastes amazing because it’s been so long since I’ve eaten this much salt and grease, I flip on the TV and melt into the pillows piled against the headboard. I’ll return to the minibar in a bit.
Midway through my mindless cable channel surfing, my phone rings. Probably Leah finally calling me back.
“Shit.” I frown at the screen. It’s not Leah. “Ciao,” I answer with a manufactured enthusiasm only three tiny bottles of whisky could offer.
“Hi. Where are you?” Zach asks.
Mystery woman must have been a little too descriptive in telling him about the barely coherent woman who stopped by earlier this evening.