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Izzy nodded. “If you ever want to, you can talk to me. I won’t ever repeat anything.”
It was more than progress. It felt like a lottery win and Flora felt the sudden rise of emotion.
“Thanks.” The words emerged thickened and unsteady. “Thanks, Izzy. And the same goes for you.”
“What about your dad?”
“He left us before I was born. Not big on responsibility. You’re lucky with your dad.”
Izzy handed the photo back. “Remembering is okay, but sometimes it hurts. Grief is so weird. No one tells you how weird. One minute you’re sobbing, then you feel kind of detached. And then there’s the guilt—horrible guilt. And the anger.”
Anger?
“Grief is like being strapped to a bad fairground ride you never paid to go on.” Flora kept her tone casual. “Do you feel angry a lot?”
Izzy helped herself to an apple. “Yeah.”
“Angry that she died?”
“That, and other stuff, too. Stuff she did. Sometimes I wish I could yell at her and shake her and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. I mean she was my mom and I loved her but some of the things she did were real stupid, you know?”
Flora didn’t know, but she wished she did. It was hard to say the right thing when you didn’t know what the problem was. She was stumbling around in the dark. “Have you talked to your dad about it?”
“No.” Izzy took a bite of apple. “He’s the last person I could tell.”
“If there’s something upsetting you, I’m sure he’d want to know.”
“He wouldn’t want to know this.” Izzy chewed slowly. “Did you ever feel mad at your mom? Like really angry for some of the things she did?”
Flora didn’t want to lie. “I don’t remember feeling that way, but I was a lot younger than you. Do you feel mad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is there something specific you’re mad about?” Something in the way Izzy was staring across the lake made her think there was definitely something specific, but Izzy shook her head.
“No. Forget it.”
“It’s good that you have memories of your mother. I don’t have that many, and the ones I have seem to have faded with time.” Flora helped herself to food. “You’ll have more memories than Molly. She’ll probably want you to share them when she’s older.”
Izzy finished the apple and tore off a chunk of bread. “You think so?”
“Yes. My aunt didn’t like to talk about my mother, but when she did it was like being given something precious. I used to rush to my room and scribble it all down, in case I forgot it.”
Izzy dug her hand into her bag and handed Flora a bottle of water. “I like writing. I write a lot. I have a blog. I mean, no one knows that. It’s kind of a secret.”
“Well it’s a secret that’s safe with me. I’m glad you’re writing. I bet you’re good at it.”
“I really do want to be a journalist, regardless of the whole college thing. Maybe I should write something down about Mom in case Molly wants to read it later.”
“I think that would be great. If it didn’t upset you. Not just your mom’s
achievements, like running a company or a marathon, but stories that say something about who she was. How she hated picnics because of the wasps. That’s a good one.”
Izzy twisted the cap off the bottle and drank. “She once wore a long dress to a school picnic. That was embarrassing. Everyone else’s mother was in jeans, and mine shows up like she’s going to the opera. I wanted to hide.”
“She sounds incredibly glamorous.” Flora waited to feel insecure or envious, but nothing happened. At some point Becca had stopped being this mythical, impossibly perfect creature and turned into a real person with flaws.
“She was glamorous. I think she felt she had to be. That she had this image to keep up. She wanted to stand out. Be the best.”
