“Your father and I never told you?” she asks.
When would you have?I think, but just shake my head.
“They didn’t approve of him,” she says.
“OfDad?” I ask, thinking of my put-together father with his warm smile. I think of the way he looks at Mom, the way his eyes light up when she’s in the room, the way he’s stood by her all these years, and I don’t get it.
“Because he’s black,” she says plainly.
It takes a few moments for her words to sink in, and then I balk. “Seriously? What century are they from?”
Mom shakes her head. “It’s ridiculous. It was then, and it is now,” she says. “But it’s why they never supported our marriage. They were willing to lose me before opening up their family to him. I had hoped that things might have changed over the last eighteen years, but apparently not.
“Anyway,” she continues. “I won’t ever forget the way they treated him, the way they treated us, but I was ready to start a new leaf, if they were willing—if they could accept that they’d been wrong.”
Her eyes are watering now, and I reach over and squeeze her hand.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that even when you’re wrong—especially when you’re wrong—lots of times, it’s not too late to do better. And instead of beating yourself up about not being there for Melanie, you should be glad it’s not too late.”
When we finish talking and head up the stairs, Mom’s words continue to replay in my mind. I can’t believe my grandparents are racist jerks, that that’s the reason I’ve never known them. It breaks my heart for my father, knowing how much he loves Mom, how good a person he is, yet all they could see was the color of his skin.
I think about Mom’s other words, too, about focusing on the fact that I still have time left with Mel, that it’s not too late.
I decide right then that I’m going to take advantage of every moment I have left with her.
Still, I think about Luke’s coldness since he’s been back, and I’m pretty sure Mom was wrong about one thing: sometimes it is too late. It is definitely too late for me and Luke.
7
THEN
I didn’t thinkLuke and I could have been any clearer about where we stood.
I’d kissed him, he’d pushed me away, and I’d sprinted down the driveway and jumped into Mel’s car as quickly as I could.
So why did he keep texting?
He texted me more during those two weeks than he had throughout all the time we’d known each other.
At first he kept apologizing.
I’m sorry, Jessi.
Call me?
Please call me?
I called you and it went to voicemail. Can you call me back?
Come on, J.J. We need to talk.
I’m really, really sorry.
After about a week, his messages took a turn.
Are you coming for dinner at our place tonight? Mom’s making lamb chops.
Hey, missed you tonight.
