Marlo’s expression falters, shifting in a completely unexpected way. She crinkles her nose up, the clip still exactly where it should be, and for a moment I actually think she might start laughing. “I’m not scared of the way you look,” she scoffs. “You’re my mom.”
I’ve cried enough already, and I don’t wanna start again. Instead, I reach out and place my hand over Marlo’s. We turn back to the window, watching the sunrise together.
Demonetized
Iused to have long nights; now I have long days.
“You ready?” I call to Marlo, strolling past her with our tote bag of snacks and supplies. “We’re leaving in five.”
“Yup!” she cheerfully replies, carefully placing one half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich onto the other. Despite her diligent efforts, the insides immediately come squirting out from the edges to create a huge, sloppy mess of brown and purple. At least she’s making her sandwiches on a plate now instead of directly on the counter.
“I already packed lunch,” I inform her.
“This one is for you,” she says.
“Oh, okay,” I reply, a little confused but going along with it. I made lunch forbothof us, of course, but I appreciate the sentiment. “Well, put that plate in the dishwasher when you’re done. Ziplocks are under the sink.”
“Iknow,” Marlo chirps, rolling her eyes.
Three years ago I would’ve been begging her to chart her own path like this, to seize the day and make herownlunch, pack herownbags. I’ve stopped coming down so hard on her about that stuff, and now—surprise!—I can’t get her to stop going above and beyond.
I see a lot of myself in this, but there’s also something distinct about Marlo’s behavior, an update to our lineage that I can’t help admiring. She’s not a killer, she’s a creator. She puts more effort and zest into life than I ever could’ve asked for, but instead of doing all this in an attempt togetmore, she does it togive.
I have no idea how this incredible girl grew out of the fucked-up childhood I provided, but I suppose that’s kind of the way it goes. The hope is that each generation improves upon the last, sees their mistakes and figures out all the shit they never got quite right. As bad as I am, I’m no Eddie Michaels, and Marlo is neither of us.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Marlo asks.
“Watching my awesome little chef,” I reply, expecting her to be grossed out by this. At eight years old, she’s finally gotten to an age where gooey displays of love and affection will often get a playful face of exaggerated disgust, maybe even a barf sound if I’m doing my job right.
Instead, Marlo just smiles and starts to sing. “When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie!” she croons, getting the lyrics wrong as she throws her arms wide and starts to dance around the kitchen in a silly, spontaneous performance. “That’s amore!”
Okay, maybe she’s a bit like me and Eddie.
“Five minutes!” I remind her, continuing out the front door and making my way to the driveway where my car is waiting. It’s already on, the AC blasting away in preparation.
I open the back and carefully slide my tote into the seat next to a vast assortment of colorful flowers, each and everyone of them carefully labeled and positioned based on the order of our stops. The car is already pleasantly chilly despite the heat of the day, which is only scheduled to get hotter.
Of course, the inside of my vehicle is not nearly as frigid as the deliveries Iusedto make. It’s just enough to keep the flowers from wilting.
I close the car door and turn back to head inside, but stop for a moment, gazing up at the house before me. It’s smaller than our last home—which is to say, much moreaffordable—but it’s certainly not quaint. The style is there, and I’ve done my best to create something cool and expressive. However, the aesthetic is not what I’ve halted to admire. It’s suddenly occurred to me that this is the first place I’ve lived that hasn’t come with some kind of baggage—the first that doesn’t feel like a burden.
I pull my phone out to check the time, making sure we’re still on track and finding myself pleasantly surprised by a home screen overflowing with notifications. One of my new “fashion finds” videos just went live and is already picking up speed. I’ve been making better use of scheduled uploads, keeping my work time relegated to the hours that Marlo’s at school.
A gnawing pang of desire tempts me to press one ofthe alerts and scroll through comments on my latest post. I feel the hunger to dive in and soak up attention like someone might crave a cigarette, but it gets easier every day. When I first got these scars, it was much harder to shut my phone off after an upload, routinely bathing my brain in equal parts punishment and praise. I already had my fair share of trolls, but a brand-new face and a prosthetic forearm brought them running like catnip. I almost pulled a muscle in my finger from all the blocking.
My new look also brought a lot of kindness. People still appreciated my style vlogs, and my unique appearance became something of a beacon for those who loved a cute dress but also felt cast to the sidelines for one reason or another. My following actuallygrew, which—along with downsizing the house and a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall—made it possible to drop my other, less savory job. I even have the means to make a yearly cancer research donation in Noah’s name.
The front door slams, breaking me out of my trance as Marlo comes bounding down our steps. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is already smashed inside her clear plastic bag. Marlo hands it over so I can put it with the rest of the lunch supplies, then makes her way around to the passenger-side door.
We climb in and I start the engine, my Laurel Canyon Legends satellite radio station immediately launching into “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrds.
I instinctively reach out to find a new station that Marlo will like, but she stops me.
“We should listen to your music today,” she says with comically solemn maturity. “This is an important time for you.”
I flash her an amused look, unable to keep from laughing. “Okay, sweetie. Thank you.”
I pull out a folded piece of paper, opening it up and gazing down at the names on my list. “First stop, Pomona,” I announce. “Then we’ll start working our way back.”
