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She was so young.
And she’s right, I can’t imagine…
Jonathan Hale must’ve been so old too. I cringe at the picture—at the twisted, grotesque reality that I never knew I was a part of. I feel bad for her, but I worry that if I wade in grief then I’ll never grow the strength to meet my brother. I’ll flounder in her sadness and hold onto her hurt like I’ve done since the divorce.
“I’m leaving,” I suddenly say—just realizing that these were my father’s exact words minutes ago. She blinks back emotions again, and I’m already determining what I should pack. A duffel bag in my closet, some jeans and shirts, my backpack and my wallet.
I’m leaving.
I’ve never been this bold. I’ve never been this courageous. I’ve never felt this lost, but I know nothing’s here in Caribou, Maine except pain, and I want to feel something better than this.
I’m leaving for Philadelphia.
“If he wasn’t famous,” she says slowly, “you wouldn’t even think about meeting him.” She throws this in my face.
That’s not true, I want to believe wholeheartedly, but she roots doubt in my head.
“If he wasn’t famous,” I say softly, “then this would be a lot easier.” I’d be able to call him on the phone. I’d be able to tell him in advance that I’m going to see him. I could even Skype him instead of travel all the way to Philadelphia.
None of that is possible when Loren Hale is an internationally recognized celebrity.
As I turn my back on my mom, as I head for the staircase, I know it’s going to be a challenge even approaching him.
But I have to try.
I need to grab this branch before it burns. So I race upstairs, pack a bag, noticing Ellie sleeping on my bed. Five minutes later, I zip up my duffel and sling my faded JanSport backpack over my shoulder.
I hear my mom downstairs, cleaning, and I wonder if she’ll try to convince me to stay. I wonder if she cares enough to keep me here.
Part of me wants her to fight for me out of love and fear.
Part of me wants her to let me go so I can be free.
I hesitate, Ellie’s plastic crown halfway off her head, breath parting her lips as she sleeps. I crouch close to her and whisper in her ear, “I love you, little princess.” I kiss her cheek lightly enough that she never wakes. I know she can survive just fine without me for a while.
She’s the energy that keeps this house alive.
I’m just the shadow in the corner.
When I head down the narrow staircase, squeezing my duffel through, the sink shuts off, and my mom emerges in the living room. I slow down between her and the front door.
She dries her hands with a towel, poker-faced and more resilient. “I’m not paying for this,” she says. “You’re on your own now.”
A tear slips down my cheek. “Okay.” I guess she’s hoping I’ll become afraid, run out of money, and turn around. I want to be brave enough to stick it out, but I’m not sure if I’m wired that way.
She adds, “You’re old enough to do what you want, and you’re old enough to make your own mistakes.”
I think about her around my age, pregnant and making some of the hardest choices she had to make. I suppose she would believe that I’m an adult now if she was forced to be one back then. But I’m scared, and I feel like a plastic doll headed for a toy car, unable to see outside of my Polly Pocket house. What lies beyond—I don’t know.
“If you need me,” she says, “you have to come home yourself.” She works for the post office and has almost no vacation days—definitely not enough to chase me to Philadelphia. And I’m not asking her to.
I wish I could say that I’m full of bittersweet love, but I’m mostly dark and resentful. Most of me hates, and I can barely meet her eyes without feeling tricked and fooled and deceived.
I want to meet a different pair of eyes that hold greater truths and sentiments, and they’re not hers.
I just nod, turn around, and open the front door, the sun already gone. The street lamps already turned on, and I unlock my gold ‘90s Honda. I jiggle the handle for it to open. The car used to be my Grandma Ida’s, and I’m just grateful I have it, something that I can use to leave.
“Drive safe.” I think I hear my mom.
I look back at the front door, but it’s already closed. The lights are already off, and I wonder if she’s happy that I’m going, if all this time I’ve been a bad memory for her.
Maybe just like Loren Hale has been.
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