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I flip through the pay stubs before setting them to the side. “I guess I want answers. Something to explain why she left, something to show she actually gave a crap.”
Underneath are some loose photos. One of Mom with an older woman, standing on a bridge overlooking a narrow river. Above them stretches a blue sky studded with fluffy white clouds. They’re smiling, standing next to each other. It must be Carla, Jonas’s mom. There are more photos, some with Mom, and some without. One is a group photo of strangers. They’re standing outside of a restaurant. Maybe the diner she worked at.
I hand the photos to Atticus and then reach in and pull out a necklace. It’s a short silver chain, rusty with age, a phoenix dangling from the end. The wings of the bird are spread wide, with multiple layers to the setting, adding dimension to the pendant.
It’s the same necklace she wore in the photo I found in Dad’s room. I’ve stared at it so many times over the past six months, it’s almost unreal that I’m holding it in my hands.
I drop it back in the box, my chest tight. “I can’t.” My voice is scratchy and thick. Something about this isn’t right. It’s too much. Overwhelming.
I should be doing this with my family.
The realization washes over me, erasing the sense of wrongness that had taken over seconds before.
“I need to do this with my siblings.”
Atticus lifts his arm and I snuggle into his side, immediately easing when his scent surrounds me, and he wraps me up against him. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. He sits there with me while I try and process everything and breathe.
Minutes pass in silence.
How would I have done this without him? I guess it would have been okay, but I can’t imagine how I would be dealing with the overwhelming panic erupting through me if I didn’t have his support, his quiet strength.
I stare down at the picture of Mom on the top of the pile.Why? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you come back when you got better? Why did you try to kill yourself?
I don’t know if we’ll ever have answers. It’s like a loose thread, a frustrating one that hangs down and tickles a place you can’t scratch.
Part of this search has been an excuse to run away, from my past, from my own bad decisions, from guilt and the worry and the shame and the pain.
What do I do now?
ChapterTwenty
Atticus
We stop at a little diner twenty minutes outside of Boylestown, not the same as the one in the photo in Mom’s box. It’s one of those places with black-and-white checkboard floors, red vinyl booths, and a miniature jukebox at every table.
Sitting in a booth near the back, we soak in the scent of greasy food that permeates the room, probably leaking out of the walls themselves at this point, and look over the plastic-covered menus.
Taylor rubs her stomach. “Everything sounds good right now. I don’t know why, but having an emotional meltdown sure does stir up an appetite.”
I chuckle. “You have fairly tame meltdowns.” She has been quiet since we left the antique store, only speaking when asked a direct question, lost in her own thoughts.
The server stops at our table, a sixty-something woman with dyed red hair wearing a blue dress and a white apron. We both order cheeseburgers and milkshakes.
After she leaves to put in our orders, Taylor reaches over, flicking through the song list on the mini jukebox. “I guess I don’t know how to process what I’m feeling. I’m frustrated that I won’t ever understand why she left. I can’t ask her. I can’t demand answers.”
“Is that what you would do if she was still alive?”
She rubs her lips together. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter because the opportunity is gone. She was so close, all this time. I never thought she would only be a few hours away. She stayed here for decades. Why couldn’t she stay with us?” She leans back in the booth, crossing her arms over her chest. “It makes me angry. She left Dad with six kids.” She shakes her head. “Did she care? Did she know about Piper’s success or Aria’s death? We’ll never know. How could she do it? What kind of mother does that?”
“A troubled one.”
She nods. “Right? And knowing that makes me feel guilty because clearly she was struggling if she ran away and tried to kill herself. If she was dealing with a mental health condition, it wasn’t her fault. She probably thought we were better off without her, but even knowing all that, I’m still mad.”
I reach out and cover her hand. “It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to be angry and confused and upset.”
The corners of her mouth tilt the smallest bit upward. “Thank you. And thank you for being there with me today. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
