Page 61 of Baby Girl

I walked up to the jar and picked it up from the top of the refrigerator. I looked inside, turning the jar. Different colored paper, receipts, tickets.

I squinted and tried to read what was on them. I turned the jar in my hand and looked, amazed at the contents. White House Down. Two tickets from the movie theatre. Receipts: Espresso A Go-Go $8.19. Espresso a Go-Go $13.12. Il Vicino $21.19. I shook my head, turning the jar. The Buckle $ 88.30.

She had kept every receipt she could get her hands on from where we had been. U turned the jar, looking in amazement. On the bottom was a dried flower. From the farm house we broke into, I was sure. I had picked a flower on our way off the porch and handed it to her. I had imagined she would have thrown it away. I wondered how she even got it here, riding on the back of the motorcycle? She must have put it in her pocket. The “Air Bag” sticker off of her side of the car, she had peeled it off of the dash after I bought the car.

Souvenirs.

I felt a rush of feelings I had not felt in years.

When my mother passed, I frantically looked through the house for answers, some form of answer to my life, to my father, to what happened. An answer for why I had to live my adult life without a mother. An answer to my father’s wealth. In my search, I found a box. In the box was a copy of every newspaper article that had my name in it. Every report card, every crayon drawing, everything that was ever placed on the refrigerator with a magnet.

Everything.

In my mother’s closet, a box of souvenirs. A box containing my life, proof of my existence and my accomplishments. Proof, to me, that she cared, that she loved me.

She loved me.

I placed the jar back on the top of the refrigerator, and smiled. I smiled inside and outside, both.

I walked to the sofa, and as I did, the bathroom door opened, and Kelli walked out, smiling. Wearing gauze bandages the size of dollar bills on each knee, naked as the day she was born, she walked out into the living room. Her body was that of a model. Her looks as naturally beautiful as could be formed. She gracefully walked her walk of purpose into the living room.

And collapsed into my arms.

KELLI. “Grad school?” he asked.

“Yes, at Columbia, in New York,” I said, crying.

“Baby girl, don’t cry. Is that what you want?”

I shook my head from side to side. I opened my mouth, and cried harder. I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t speak. My knees hurt, I was tired, and I was deeply, madly, for the first time in my life, in love.

My world, my future, my only reason to continue to exist and have some form of meaning, some form of true accomplishment…sat across the sofa from me, looking into my eyes.

“What do you want, baby girl. Tell me. Just tell me what you want. For a minute here, clear your mind. Don’t think of what your father wants. Don’t think of what you think I want. Don’t think of anything. Think for a minute, a long minute, what do you want? Instead of being selfless, be selfish for a moment. If you could make the decision here, if your decision was what happened, no repercussions, no one gets angry, no consequences, what do you want?” he asked, speaking quietly and softly.

“Think with your head, baby girl, not your heart.”

I extended my arm toward him, my fist clenched. My arm was shaking, I was crying, and trying to catch my breath. I held my arm out as flat as I could, and opened my index finger and pointed at Erik.

“Me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You want me?”

I nodded again, sobbing. Over and over I nodded, my finger pointing to Erik.

“Your future, your life, your acceptance to Columbia, your father, his wishes, the dealership,” he paused, and looked into my eyes.

“And you want me?”

I leaned toward him, touched my finger to his chest and pressed hard, sobbing and nodding my head.

He moved my hair behind my ears, and softly put his hand under my chin and lifted it until our eyes met. I looked into his eyes, and tried to stop crying. His left hand clasped my right hand lightly. He lifted my chin a little higher and leaned toward me, his mouth open slightly. I closed my eyes.

His lips met mine and we kissed. Softly, he kissed my lips as his hand slid to my face. He held my face in his hand, and turned my head to make the kiss perfect. I felt my warm tears dripping down my face, onto my lips, and then onto his face. Our lips parted. He sat back on the couch, and looked into my eyes, his hand still on my chin.

His mouth opened slowly. He swallowed. He took a deep breath, exhaled, looked down at the couch, and then looked up. He inhaled again, and he spoke.