OH, THESE WERE the moments angsty pop music was built for. I imagine when Taylor Swift wrote “Forever and Always” she knew that somehow, years later, a girl would be alone in a cottage on the rural north coast of Ireland and be blasting it on her laptop speakers while she mixes together sugar, oil, cocoa powder, and flour in a mug and eats the resulting brownie-batter monstrosity straight out of said mug with a spoon. And, for that matter, why would Thirty Seconds to Mars ever have recorded “Kings and Queens” if they didn’t know that I, Nora Parker-Holmes, would be singing it alone, dead sober, while drawing doodles of sad girls lying on couches and standing in showers and hiding under blankets?
By the time I hear my mom and Evelyn unlocking the back door of the cottage, I’m already hoarse from singing and nauseated from the makeshift desserts I’ve poured into my gullet. I’m sitting in my bed, wearing a tear-stained sweatshirt and rereading the first book in the Categories trilogy, Blood Chosen, hoping I can disappear within the familiar worlds, rejoining Val in her oppressive, comfortable, easy Colony where the boys are always handsome and love you more than anyone else. I’m just at the part where Val is talking to Ermias about how nervous she is for the Test when my mom opens the door to my room.
“I’m okay,” I say, even though she didn’t ask me anything. “I mean, hi.”
I peek out from under the blanket, and she gives a sad smile and sits at the end of the bed. I think she’s going to mention the half dozen mugs I left in the sink covered with chocolate powder, but she doesn’t. She just strokes my hair, and I begin to cry.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Paris as an undergrad?” She wipes a tear from my cheek.
I attempt to blow my nose on my sleeve, and she pretends not to be grossed out.
“I was a junior, and I was enrolled in an all-French-language program, even though I could barely speak French. And I wanted to be a writer or a lawyer even then, and I was reading so much that I basically kept to myself the entire time. Other kids in the program were going to bars and parties and making friends, and I stayed in the dorm, trying to read Proust in French and failing terribly. I wasn’t as smart as you are.”
I try to protest, but she puts up a hand to quiet me.
“And then one day, a British author was hanging around the dorms. And he was”—she pauses—“not quite well-known yet, although that’s since changed. He was a few years older than me, and I thought he was charming, like any boy on a motorcycle would have been at the time.”
I struggle to imagine my mother, whom I’ve never seen drive above the speed limit, on the back of a motorcycle.
“And when he took me out, it felt like I was finally getting the real Paris experience. I had been hiding away for two months, scared to go out alone into the city. But this man—boy, really—thought I was worth going out with, so I thought I was worth going out with. Do you understand?”
I nod, but I’m not sure I do.
“I didn’t know who I was yet,” she continues. “And I let someone else try to tell me. Or, rather, I let someone else’s feelings for me affect how I felt about myself.”
Her being here, stroking my hair, reminds me of being in elementary school, home with the flu. I feel guilty and grateful at the same time. “It’s not just Callum,” I say between gasps. “It’s this whole art thing. And Nick. And just everything.”
My mom doesn’t say anything. She keeps stroking my hair. And then, after wiping my nose on the blanket, I manage to get it out. “It is Callum.” I can’t articulate any more. If I don’t say it, it won’t be real, and everything will reset to two days ago, when I had a crush on him and he wanted to spend time with me and everything was filled with possibility. “Tell me how the Paris story ends,” I say.
My mom sits, quiet for another minute before she opens her mouth to speak again. “I spent the summer trying to be what I thought this boy wanted me to be, and in the end, when he moved on, I was heartbroken. But the world kept spinning. Life kept going, and it brought me something more powerful and important than anything else I’ve done. Something that’s defined me and given me purpose. It brought me you.”
My heart feels like it’s swollen like a sponge in water. I have no idea how something the size of a ham fits inside my rib cage. I can’t hold it in anymore. I have to say it out loud. And when I say it, it becomes real. “I saw Callum with another girl.”
She’s quiet for a few moments.
Finally, she clears her throat.
“You’re going to meet so many wonderful people in your life, and travel to so many wonderful places. Paris, and meeting a stranger, and falling in love, however briefly, was all part of the experience that led me here, to you, to being your mother. Forget about Callum for now. Your journey is just beginning, and I promise you, it’s going to be spectacular.”
Instead of responding, I sob, and my mom holds my head in her lap like she did when I was young.
“If you can’t let him go, talk to him. Communicate. But just know this: No one will ever complete you. You need to make sure you’re complete on your own.”
“I used to feel complete when I thought about being an artist. And now I feel like a failure.”
“Do you realize what an honor it is to be selected for this program? Out of every young artist in the world? Here’s the truth: There are no multiple-choice tests in real life to tell you what job you’re supposed to do or whom you’re supposed to date or marry. All you can do is listen to your gut. What makes you happy? Who do you want to be? And the best thing about life is that you don’t need to limit yourself to just one category.”
I can’t smile, but I can turn to see her, and for the first time all trip, I’m genuinely grateful she’s here. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Bunny.”
She hasn’t called me that since I was little, and I smile in spite of myself, tears dripping into my mouth. It’s all very gross, objectively. If there has been any revelation in all of this, it’s that I am definitely not a pretty crier. I am a very, very ugly crier, and goddammit, I’m okay with that.
I sniff, hard. “Do you maybe want to take a weekend trip to Belfast with me? It’s not far. And I hear it’s really cool.”
“I’d love that,” my mom says. She goes into the bathroom and returns with a wet cloth. “Now let me just get this dried chocolate off your face.”
* * *
That night I dream about taking the SATs again, but the only possible answers are Mother, Artist, Laborer, and—for some reason—Callum. Legolas is leading me through the Brussels city center and saying that since the test was indecisive for me, I need to make a choice for myself now. I keep saying no, no, no, just give me more time. Nick is laughing at me, and my mom is at the top of the town hall, but she’s dressed in one of Declan’s polka-dot suits, and she’s crying and then I’m crying, and when I wake up, my pillow is wet, but I’m not certain whether it’s from tears or drool.
Her advice makes sense. I’m going to talk to Callum and just lay out how I feel and, painful as it might be, how I felt when I saw him with Fiona. And however he feels, I’m not going to let it change how I feel about myself. Already I feel the tear that Nick made in me slowly and painfully filling in. But the fact that he’s dating my best friend and could probably destroy our friendship any minute by telling her the secret I’ve kept for six months is something I can’t deal with now. What I can deal with is Callum. And continuing to work as an artist.
My mom gave me good advice. And yet . . . she’s still here, hiding in a cottage in Ireland, two years after her divorce. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s something that can’t be helped with a pep talk and YA-novel metaphor.