“Yeah, I do, she’s different.” Different from the last 20 girls I’ve dated, which got me exactly nowhere.
“An oh-rig-in-al. She reminds me of Georgia, even though they’re night and day.” My mom’s somewhere else right now, probably thinking about her.
“Did you tell Britain about how close you were to Georgia in the end?”
“No, poor thing seems like she's got enough going on. The ex?” She’s arching one eyebrow in dislike and waving her hands around in the air in exasperation. “Whooo, boy, if you wrong her, I might just have to adopt her in your place. Just be careful, though. What happens when everyone else finds out, you understand?
“Mom, I got it.”
“Oh! And her girls? They’re gorgeous. T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” She spells it out for me.
“What are you stalking her on Facebook now?”
“No, she showed me.” I don’t know why I’m jealous of my own mother knowing more about Britain than me, but I am.
I sigh, “Can I please just have a coffee, I’m dying here.”
“Sure thing sugar, that’ll be $3.25.”Of course.
Britain
I’m doing it. I’m driving to my mom’s house and I’m going to open the box that’s still in the back seat from yesterday. I wasn’t really planning on doing this today. I mean, I’ve got plenty of time, but I wanted to put some space between Liam and myself. I’m still processing everything that happened this morning, and last night for that matter. I don’t want him thinking I’m just going to be hanging around at the rental all day, everyday either. I have a life. Okay, maybe I don’t. I’m not working, I don’t have any friends here. I’m not managing some rich social calendar.Ugh. This is good, though. I can go see my mom’s house, I can open the box, and I can do a big grocery haul before heading back to Spearhead.
The weather is perfect, just like I remember it normally was in late April. 75 degrees and breezy with sunshine for days. God I missed this weather, and I hate to admit, this place. Even something as simple as driving is so much more enjoyable here. The drive down the mountain was fast, maybe a bit reckless. I make a mental note to cool it next time.Your kids still need a mother, Britain.
I’m coming around the final bend in the road before the house comes into view, and I’m feeling a mixed bag of nerves and anxiety. Will it look the same? Is Georgia’s stuff all going to be in the exact same place as she left it? I have no idea what to expect. It’s not like Alexander gave me anything to go on.
When it comes into sight, I’m relieved to see it looks exactly the same, with one big exception, the yard. All the plants and flowers that should be blooming and beautiful right now have mostly shriveled and died. The grasses and drought-tolerant bits are still doing okay, but it makes the house look like someone sucked the joy out of it, which is exactly what happened, isn’t it?
Pulling down the gravel drive for the thousandth time in my life is like being reintegrated with my past. I put so much work into forgetting this part of my life and blocking memories, that when I park in the drive, the sadness of that fact weighs on me. I can’t believe I just turned my back on all of this, on Georgia. Over some boy and my own shame over being a fool.
I sigh as I step out of the car, the weight of my sadness joining me as I walk to the front door. The same grasses and eucalyptus trees that have been here for centuries are moving in the breeze, whispering. But all I hear now is,how could you?A chill runs down my spine.
I enter the code on the lockbox, grabbing the key from inside it. I insert the key, stopping just a moment before pushing the door open. It’s just a house, I can do this.
It looks almost exactly the same as the day I left. The only difference is the moving boxes stacked against one wall in the living room. I know they’re Alexander’s and not my mom’s because they’re labeled in foreign languages. There’s what looks like Arabic on some, and German on others. He must be using this as home base even though it’s clear he’s probably never spent a night here since. Everything is coated in a thick layer of dust, including the picture frames on the side tables. I pick one up, instantly recognizing the girls’ chubby, baby cheeks.
I keep making my way through the house. It doesn’t smell in here, so someone must have come through and cleaned up after Georgia. No dishes in the sink. I open the fridge to find nothing but a box of baking soda. Even the freezer is empty, no chocolate ice cream. I keep going, down the hall, to my old bedroom. I grab the handle to turn it open, but my hands are all clammy and I don’t want to. I open it anyways, just peering in at the baby blue walls and my Ikea bed. I wasn’t really a “boy band poster” girl. My posters are all vintage travel advertisements. God, I was so weird.
There’s nothing in there for me, so I close it and move to Alexander’s room. I open it and see it looks like he may have stayed here not so long ago. The bed is unmade and there’s large duffel bags stacked in front of the closet. He probably stayed here for the funeral and then to take care of the estate business. I close the door, which leaves me with one room left, Georgia’s.
I open the door and am greeted with dust motes swirling in the air from my disruption, lit up by the sunlight streaming through the windows. If I didn’t know she was gone, I’d expect her to show up any minute now based on how the room is. The bed is perfectly made with her grandmother’s antique quilt. Her robe is hanging on the edge of the closet door. Her worn slippers are sitting half out from underneath her bed. Her jewelry box is missing off her dresser, but that’s the only thing amiss.
It’s undeniably Georgia, but oddly devoid of personality. Maybe she took it all with her when she left. I close the door and head back down the hall and out to my car. I grab the box. It’s time. I lug it into the kitchen and set it down on a chair. It’s just a basic cardboard box from Uhaul. It’s heavy, but not overweight. Whatever's inside moves when you carry it, but it’s packed tight enough so nothing jostles.
“Please don’t be garden tools,” I whisper to no one as I open the lid, sliding one of the corners out from a flap. I’m surprised to see what looks like hundreds of steno pads, neatly stacked on one side, filling the box all the way to the brim. On the other side is her jewelry box and some legal style envelopes labeled “Pictures.” There’s also stacks of birthday cards and Mother’s Day cards, and every other holiday “under the sun” cards, too. I pick up one of the pads and flip through it. It’s a journal, and there’s hundreds of them in this box. I’m stunned.
It’s her life…in a box. Her memories. And she wanted me to have them all? I instantly burst into tears. It was so easy to forget she was a woman, with a life, and a past, and a family. I always just saw her as my indifferent parent, but shewaslayered and nuanced and I’m the biggest fool for not seeing her that way when she was still alive. I’ve been such a fool.
I crumble into a kitchen chair, the guilt overwhelming me. I drop my head into my hands and let the tears fall freely as my body heaves with sobs. I just left her, all alone.Even morealone, and I never looked back.
Eventually the heavy weight of my shame starts to feel less suffocating, my breathing evens out, my tears begin to slow, and I’m left staring at the stacks of steno pads. After some indeterminate amount of time, I finally flip one open and read,
December 6, 1994
Britain lost her first tooth today. She cried and cried. Poor thing is going to be in for a surprise when I tell her how many more she has to go. The only thing that settled her was the promise of a dollar from the tooth fairy.
I flip to another page on the same pad.
