We spend the rest of the day exploring. You know what’s way more exciting than the Liberty Bell? The discovery that I love cookies-and-cream milkshakes even better than the plain vanilla or chocolate ones I’ve indulged in on special occasions.
Sam takes me to a place called the Magic Gardens, which is basically a plot of land in the middle of a city block that’s completely covered in glittering mosaics all done by the same artist.
“This is my favorite spot in the city,” he tells me as he guides me through the cavernous walkways. I get why they call this place magic; I feel like we’re in Wonderland or the Emerald City. Every surface is covered in little mirrors, colored glass, and slivers of ceramic. Some form faces and other images, some just patterns. Some don’t have any shape at all, but there’s beauty in the chaos.
Sam snaps a bunch of photos. We’re in some of them but mostly they’re of the art on its own. He brings the LCD screen of his camera close to his face as he studies each shot, and I know he’s envisioning the possibilities of what he can do with the pictures when he gets back to his laptop.
“One day you’re going to have an exhibit like this,” I say as I walk under an archway that reads Moving and Sam walks under the one right next to it that says Picture.
“I don’t do mosaics,” he says. “I could never create art with my hands like this.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, one day you’re going to have a supercool space where people come from all over to see your art.”
“You mean like a gallery? Or a museum?”
“Yeah. Something.”
“It’s really hard to get to that point.”
“Anything is possible if you want it badly enough,” I say, and then repeat it again, silently, to myself.
He shakes his head. “I don’t have your drive,” he says.
“Of course you do.”
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a cluster of silver mirror fragments; the slightly off version of myself looks startlingly like the picture of Celeste from the box, the only one where she wasn’t smiling for the camera—she was pregnant and standing at the kitchen sink, staring pensively out the window. I wonder what she was thinking about in that moment.
Sam and I don’t talk about Mellie all day, though she’s always there, lingering in what goes unspoken. We’re only here, in this beautiful place, because of her, after all. I still haven’t heard anything more from her. I don’t know whether to be glad she’s respecting my wishes or hurt that she isn’t trying harder. Sam checks in with his parents after lunch; I’m sure Niya will fill Mom in on the fact that we’re in Philly. I wonder how that conversation will go—if Mom will tell Niya about her past now.
We go back to the hotel after dinner and curl up on Sam’s bed to watch a movie on his laptop. It’s exactly what I need. I’m exhausted, and have kind of a stomachache after all that fatty, sugary food. And movie nights with Sam are familiar. Comforting.
“Hey,” I say during the opening credits of Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
He hits the space bar, and the screen pauses.
“I’m gonna miss this,” I say.
“Miss what?”
“Hanging out with you, watching movies.”
“You mean when I go to school?” His voice is soft.
I nod. “I don’t know what I thought was going to happen—maybe that I would come visit a lot? But look how long the drive was to Philly. You’re going to school in Boston. It’s even farther away.”
His brow knits. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that too. It’s gonna be different.”
“So different.”
He takes a moment, as if deciding how to phrase his next thought. “But … things are already different, you know? School’s over, we’re on this adventure, you’re going to be traveling a lot more … Maybe different doesn’t have to be bad.”
“That’s true.”
“We’ll always be in each other’s lives,” he says, and he sounds so certain.
“Promise?”
“Of course. I fully expect to be able to use my friendship with you as my claim to fame. Why else do you think I’ve put up with you all these years?”
I punch him in the arm.
“Aghh!” he groans, grabbing the spot I punched and rolling over onto his side in mock pain.
“Hey, Sam?”
He wiggles back up to a sitting position. “Yeah?”
“Did you tell your mom about Mellie?”
He shakes his head. “I told her you guys were having problems and that you needed some space. But I didn’t tell her any specifics. I figured Mellie can tell her if she wants to.”
This makes me feel better, though I don’t know why.
“Okay. Thank you.” I press the button to resume the movie.
I’ve seen this movie about fifty times—it’s one of my favorites. But today it’s not holding my attention. All I can think about is what happens if Mellie does tell Niya she’s trans. Niya will obviously tell Ramesh. And because it’s not the kind of gossip you hear every day in Francis, he’ll want to tell someone too, like maybe the guys on his basketball team. And then they’ll each tell someone and soon the entire town will know …
Sam stops the movie again.
“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.
I rub my eyes. “Nothing. Sorry. Press ‘play.’ ” His hand has barely touched the space bar when I blurt out, “I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About what will happen if people back home find out. What if people are mean to her? What if she gets fired?”
Sam is quiet. He’s probably running through all the horrible scenarios you hear about on the news. There’s a reason everyone knows the term hate crime.
He wraps his arm around me. His chest smells like cheesesteaks. “Do you want to go home, Dara? It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind.”
I sit up and put a few inches of distance between us. “No. I need to do this.”
“Okay. Just checking.” He considers something for a moment, then grabs his computer and pulls up Google Maps. He plugs in the Pembrokes’ South Carolina address. “Want to see what the house looks like? Might help prepare for tomorrow.”
I laugh a little. “That house today was insane, wasn’t it?”
His eyes seem to grow three sizes. “Ridiculous. I can’t believe your birth mother used to live there.”
Birth mother. Is that what Celeste is? Was? I always thought of that as more of an adoption term. But I guess if you consider a “birth mother” being the person who carried you for nine months and gave birth to you, but not the person you grew up calling “Mom,” it fits.
Sam hits “enter,” and an image of a white house fills the screen. It’s not as regal-looking as the Cherry Hill house, but it’s just as huge and extremely well taken care of. A large porch wraps around the front, and in the photo, a black cat is asleep on the porch swing. The house looks like it’s been restored from a much older version, and like it might even have historical significance. Sam chooses “aerial view,” and the whole picture zooms out. Unlike the New Jersey house, which had neighbors on either side, this house is surrounded by vast stretches of green and brown land. When you zoom in you can see a couple of horses.
“It’s a farm,” I say.
“That’s pretty cool.”
The imaginary image of my perfect family remains intact, with just a few alterations. Instead of the lone cat—which, if this picture was taken since the Pembrokes have owned the house, I was totally right about—more animals enter the mix. Horses, a dog, maybe a cow. Switch the gardener to a farmhand and add some homegrown vegetables, and the picture is complete once more.
Just then my cell phone dings with a new email. It’s from Mellie. The subject heading is “You were right,” and the preview window shows the message begins with Dear Dara, I’ve been thinking a lot about …
I feel Sam reading over my shoulder. “You going to open it?” he asks.
I chew on my lip. I don’t want to talk to her. I thought she’d heard me when I said to leave me alone. My thumb drifts from the “expand email” button to the “screen off” button.
But what does she mean by “You were right”? And what has she been thinking a lot about?
I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could just delete the message unread and be done with it.
But I’m not that strong.
My thumb floats back to the email.
I click it open.
To: acelove6@email.com
From: Mellie.Baker@email.com
June 20 (8:35 PM)
Subject: You were right
Dear Dara,
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said in your text last night.
You’re right—I didn’t explain any of it properly. I put off telling you everything for far too long, and that resulted in me being completely unprepared when the time came. I’m so sorry.
I’m going to try to fix that now. I know asking for a second chance is already a lot—a third chance is probably out of the question. So if this is my last chance to get the story right, I’m determined not to screw it up this time. I’m going to push past the instincts that have taken root in me over the last seventeen years, even though at this very moment they’re telling me what they’ve always said: Stay quiet. Protect myself and my family. Never tell a soul.
I’ve decided email is probably the best way to do this—it’s always been easier for me to organize my thoughts on paper. Maybe I was a writer in a past life. My plan is to start from the very beginning, and take you through everything in chronological order, as I experienced it. The timeline of my life that brought us to this current place in time. That’s the only way I can think of to make sure all the pieces fit together correctly. But please tell me if you have specific questions and want me to jump ahead.
I want you to know I have no agenda in any of this, apart from hoping it helps keep you in my life. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything, or talk you into making the choices I want you to make. Maybe you’re on your way to the Pembrokes’ right now. Maybe you’re already there. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that you finally know our story. What you said is true—you should have been part of this from the beginning. I’m only sorry it’s taken me this long to realize it.
I’m going to send another email soon.
You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. But please read.
I miss you so much already. I love you. Every time I open the fridge and hear the hot sauce bottles rattle against each other in the door, my heart aches.
Love,
Mom
I look at Sam.
Hand him the phone so he can read.
Bury my head under the pillow.
And let out the loudest, longest wail of my life.