1
End of the World
Molly
July, 2007
GIVE ME Abreak.
That’s currently my parents’ new favorite phrase. The hot buzz-word of the summer. I hear it’s worthat least500 points on jeopardy.
Things parents say when they’re trying to ruin your life— GO!
I don’t know if they heard it on TV or read it in one of those parenting magazines or what. Maybe Mom heard it during one of her escapades around the world and brought the word back to America with her, and shared it with my father.
Wherever they heard it, it was definitely strange for me.
Not the phrase itself—though I’ll get there because that’s a whole other issue—but the fact that my parents’ are on the same page about something. It feels unnatural. Even before Mom left, they disagreed on everything from the brand of orange juice in our fridge to the color of the sky.
Good news is, they can find common ground when it comes to playing their new favorite game:Torturing Molly!
Hallelujah. Miracles do happen.
I’mthe one who needs a break.
When I came home from soccer camp in July, I wanted to do nothing more than curl up in my bed for the rest of summer break. At least for a week or so before Kamaria and Melinda dragged me to the mall or the pool with them, insisting I don’t waste my summer.
But instead I was bombarded by the sight of my mother in the living room.
Mymother. Genevieve Cadence Lockhart. At home.
It probably wouldn't seem alarming to a normal person, to find their mother in the living room. At the very most it would be a nice surprise. But my mother hadn’t lived at home since I was eleven, and she decided she’d much rather travel the world than raise me and my youngest sister. It was only about a year after she’d driven my older sister out of the house—who I never saw again and who stopped sending me emails a couple years after she left.
For the last three years or so, Mom had been living in Ireland (which I knew because she sent postcards; I didn’t open them, Lorraine did). She has a law degree, so I guess she must have got some sort of job there and made a new life for herself.
One that didn’t include her children.
Just the sight of her brought on a churning in my gut I couldn’t force away, and I thought I knew what she wanted. That she was back to play “Mommy” again.
When she first left, I wouldn't answer her calls. Actually, I only ever talked to her when she visited home—because I had to. It’s harder than you would think to ignore someone who’s right in front of your face.
The last time I’d seen her had been during the Spring. Luckily, I didn’t have to spend too much time with her in the house, because it was playoffs season and I had a book full of soccer related excuses I could use to get out of the house.
I barely got through the front door before Dad had told me we were going to be having a family meeting. So in less than an hour I was sitting on the couch, arms crossed defensively over my chest and barely listening to them. I was just waiting until I could slip upstairs to call one of my friends and beg them to let me crash at their houses for the rest of the summer. Kamaria’s mom is a great cook, and I wouldn’t mind staying there indefinitely.
I only interjected myself back into the conversation when the actual words they were saying started to register in my brain.
Dad. Working. Mom. Ireland. Girls. Moving. What’s best for the family.
My mother and father were never married. When my younger sister and I were born, we were given our mother’s last name (the same as my older sister, though she had a different father). They never really had an official custody arrangement or anything, and no one paid child support or fought over us in court. All was well in the Adami–Lockhart household.
My father’s a traveling doctor for a soccer team in New York, and is usually busy. This was fine when Mom still lived with us and was around, but after she left it meant that me and Lorraine would be alone. On long stretches, we’d stay in the city with our Aunties and Nonna, but as I got older dad let us stay home more and I was in charge of Lorraine.
I really wouldn’t mind moving to New York. Honestly. Sure, my Nonna’s apartment was smaller than our house in Philly, but I like being there. I have a couple of friends there that I keep in touch with and see when we visit Nona. And I already plan to go to college in the city anyway.
But that isn’t what my mother is proposing. No—she hasn’t proposed anything, she isn’t asking. She’s telling us.
“You’re not moving us toIreland.” The words flew out the second my mouth caught up with the panicked gears turning in my head.
