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Chapter 22
Brooklynn
Savannah, GA May 13– Saturday morning
It's a new morning. the start of a new day. My plan was to hit all the things that were on my list yesterday. When I got home, I looked at the time and knew there was no way my mother was going to let me into her house at that hour. It doesn't matter that I'm her daughter. If it's after 7:00 pm and I haven't called first, then she's not letting anyone including me inside.
If I were being chased by an axed murderer, she’d leave med out there, wishing me bon chance or something. In the morning, she’d shed a tear, one, step over my corpse then have someone take care of “the mess”. My mother missed the empathy gene when they were handing them out. Hell, she missed the sympathy and caring gene as well.
Step one. Get dressed and come here. Step two. Knock on the door or ring the bell. Either one. I've been out here, for at least 15 minutes, debating which one I'm going to do. I'm still out here.
“Come on, Brooklynn. Just do it. Ring the bell or knock on the door. Stop making this more than what it is. Just ring the damn...”
The door suddenly opens. On the other side of it, isn’t my mother. It’s a very perturbed looking older man.
“Dr. Emory, Your mother says she can't take you dilly dallying at the door any longer. Please do come in,” the older gentleman requests.
I don't come here often enough to know the staff who works here. My mother has been married to the mayor for the last year and a half. Maybe two years. Hold on. She might have been married to him three years now.
It's not important. Either way, I don't know who the man is that opened the door and he doesn't bother to introduce himself to me. I guess it doesn't matter that I'm her daughter. I don't live here so I'm unimportant.
“Hello Brookie dear. Thank you for finally coming inside. I couldn't take you being out there any longer. It was driving me crazy.”
“My apologies. Mom.”
My mother doesn’t care to acknowledge the sarcastic tone to my voice.
“Not a problem. Are you here to pick up some more of your things?”
“No. I'm here because I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Sure. What do you want to ask?”
She looks like she might be open to sharing.
“I have questions about some things I saw in the box and the note you wrote.”
My mom begins to busy herself with things that are on the table where she's sitting. I'm still standing next to one of the extra chairs in the room. She's folding napkins. I don't remember the last time I’ve ever seen her folding a thing, less more, a napkin.
“What about the letter?”
“You said something about me not being ready. Ready for what?”
“Nothing. I don't even recall why I put that in there. Um, I probably had too much wine that night.”
“Really? Mom, just tell me.” I’m not getting it. I know there’s something. “I keep hearing voices. Before you go thinking I'm going crazy or something, let me explain.”
She puts her hands up in mock surrender but doesn't say anything.
“The voice I'm hearing is yours. When I read the words, it felt like they weren't so much as me narrating but more a memory. My friend said something to me yesterday that got me to thinking. I don't know why I don't live with you. I know why I left before but I don't know why I'm not here now. Actually, I don't know what brought me to Savannah other than you saying I came to live with you. Why did I come to live with you?”
