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1 My first memory is staring through a window into a house that isn’t mine. I’m not very old, three or four at the most, and a hand rests on my head and fingers tap twice softly on my left ear. I know this means I must be extra super quiet and wait exactly where I am. I am good at being quiet. I am good at waiting. The window opens. Through it I see a carpet. It’s all different colors and enormous, stretching out as far as I can see. I stare at it for a long time and then I hear a bag fall, clinking softly as it lands. I am scooped up in a pair of arms and held tight, the only sound the rhythmic slap of feet hitting the ground over and over again. My name is Danielle. I’m eighteen. I’ve been stealing things for as long as I can remember.
2 My first memory is of the Lanaheim house, which I guess everyone has heard of, what with the Lanaheims being, well, who they are. It’s not someone’s home anymore, it’s a museum, and we went there again today, toured the house. Mom wanted to see what had happened to the place, and we didn’t have anywhere we had to be since we’d just finished up in Charleston, so we went. She spent a lot of time talking to the tour guide, asking if Baltimore really is as awful as everyone says and was it true that once someone broke in and stole a lot of jewelry but left a diamond necklace sitting right out in the open on Mrs. Lanaheim’s dressing room table? The tour guide laughed and told Mom yes, it was true, and then led us into a big open room, which he called a “formal dining room,” and started telling a story about daring thieves who were never caught. I didn’t listen, just stood staring at the carpet. It looked so much smaller than I remembered. I stared at it until Mom’s bright voice called out
3 We take turns driving until we hit North Carolina and our storage place. We keep everything in a rental facility, the kind of place where people store old furniture and mildewed knickknacks and who knows what else. We park the car a mile away and walk through scrubby trees and weeds that skirt the edge of a couple of crappy subdivisions until we get there and then jimmy open the unit we’ve been borrowing. Mom did some checking, back when we started coming here, and everything in it belongs to an old lady who died ten years ago and whose kids can’t or won’t deal with coming down and picking through it. There’s a lot of stuff, but none of it is worth anything (we checked, ages ago) and so I guess I can see why no one would want to go through it. But it kind of sucks, doesn’t it, that a person’s whole life can be boiled down to a few things stuck in a room no one ever uses? “I swear, this crap gets uglier every time,” Mom says. “I’m going to have nightmares about the sofa.” It is pretty
4 Now I know people think that thieves, when they hear the word “beach,” head straight for Long Island or Cape Cod or Newport, but the thing is, those places are where the police expect you to go and so—well, it’s obvious, right? Plus the rich—the real rich, the rich that have had money for so long they’d probably bleed gold if you cut them—they have other places by the sea. Out of the way places. Places like Heaven. I laugh when Mom passes me a map and taps a finger against it because places called Heaven are usually filled with boarded-up houses or worse, dippy types who own bed-and-breakfasts adored by other dips. “I know,” she says with a smile, “but trust me. This place will live up to its name. I can feel it.” She always can. We pass through a tiny town called West Hill and then reach the beach. It’s much smaller than I thought it would be: one public beach, a couple of private ones, and a one-street tourist strip filled with local places. There isn’t even one chain restaurant. I
5 Mom doesn’t come home that night but she’s back in the morning, lying on the sofa with her eyes closed when I come downstairs. There’s a hickey on her neck. I pretend I don’t see it. “Hey, baby,” she says. “Taxis around here suck. Also, I really need some coffee. Why didn’t you buy any?” “Because we don’t have a coffeemaker.” “Oh.” She’s silent for a moment, then opens her eyes and gives me a big smile. “There’s a fifty in my bag upstairs. Take it and go get yourself some breakfast, okay?” “And coffee.” “And coffee,” she says, still smiling. Even after being up all night she looks great. Makeup, perfect. Hair, perfect. I don’t even want to think about what I look like right now. I go get the money, then grab the car keys and head for the door. There’s a donut place down the road, and I buy Mom a jelly and a plain plus a large coffee. I buy a cream-filled donut for myself. “Another coffee?” the woman working the counter asks. I’ve never been able to drink coffee. It smells great but t
6 Mom tells me she’s going out a little later, that she needs to find someone who knows more about Heaven. “There’s a bar across the street from the town yacht club. I figure I’ll go there, meet the bartender and maybe, if he’s cute—well, if he is, he’d be a great source of information. And you, baby, should go to the beach. Not the public one. There’s a little one in Heaven, remember? Go and get some sun, meet a few people, and find out what you can.” I nod, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. Mom must know that because she doesn’t leave till I’m in a cab and headed for the beach. I’m not good with people like Mom is. She can start a conversation with anyone and—well, I can too, if I have to, but I don’t like it. Whenever I talk to someone it’s always the same; I’m nice, they talk, I remember anything important and then tell Mom. Jobs are the only time I talk to anyone besides her. If we live somewhere where we have neighbors, like in an apartment, we have to keep a low
7 The next morning Mom says she has something for me to do. I rub my face with both hands and stare at her sleepily. She’s caught a cold or something, was up most of the night coughing. “You should go see a doctor,” I tell her as I’m fixing her coffee and she’s looking at a map, marking off houses with little red Xs. She nods, which I know means she isn’t even listening. I sigh, put her coffee in front of her, and then fix myself some cereal. “So what do you want me to do?” “Baby, can’t you eat something with marshmallows or frosting on it like a normal kid?” I sigh again. The map thing must not be going as well as she wants it to. “I had a donut yesterday.” “Only old people eat those wheat biscuit things.” “I like them.” She finishes marking Xs on her map and drops her pen on the table. “Well, at least that’s finally done. Did you meet anyone at the beach?” “Not really.” She gives me a look and I take an extra big bite of cereal just to be obnoxious, crunching it loudly between my tee
8 The reading room is about the size of a closet, and the woman working there takes a break from a complicated knitting project and rummages around in a box for a while before handing me a small pamphlet. “We’re getting bookcases next month,” she says. “Donated by the…” I tune her out and nod politely, hope that whatever she’s given me to read is going to be worth the story (which seems to be about salt ponds) I’m stuck listening to. It is. It’s not a very long pamphlet, about fifteen pages, and the author spends three pages talking about how he’s related to the Donaldsons through the marriage of a cousin a hundred years ago, and how that led to his interest in the Donaldson house, which “yielded gracious permission to visit the estate.” I grit my teeth—I hate how boring and full of suck-up crap these things are—and turn the page. I was hoping for a description I could use to create a basic layout, but instead I get photos. Lots and lots of photos, pictures of what seems to be every ro
9 Mom is home when I get there, lying on the sofa again. She sits up as soon as I walk in though, and before I’ve even opened my mouth I can tell she knows I’ve found something because a huge smile breaks across her face. “Tell me, baby,” she says. “Tell me everything.” So I do. Except I don’t tell her about the beach, about how I was just there and left in a hurry, saying I had to go and making up some lame excuse. I don’t tell her who I was with. I just tell her about the pamphlet. “It’s perfect,” she says after she’s looked through the copy, and throws her arms around me. “You did good today. You did so good.” I pull back and look at her. Her eyes are shining and I can tell she’s already planning. “So what’s next?” “You’ll see, baby,” she says. “In the meantime, we’re going to have to celebrate tonight. How does a lobster dinner sound?” “Sounds good. Where are we going?” It turns out we aren’t going anywhere because apparently I’m going to the grocery store to get lobsters. “Low p
10 Mom goes out after we eat our lobsters and as soon as she gets in the next morning, she tells me there’s a party at the yacht club tonight and that we’re going. The bartender, Glenn, told her about it. She tells me this in an offhand way, which means that not only is this party important, she’s done with Glenn. Which also means that now there’s someone else. I wait, and sure enough the conversation switches to Harold. He’s the real estate agent she told me about before, the one the first agent, Sharon, didn’t like. Harold specializes in beachfront property, and although I’m sure he doesn’t know this yet, he’ll be totally in love with Mom in about a day. I listen to her talk about what kind of houses she thinks Harold could get us, what she’s going to say when she meets him, and then we talk about what needs to happen tonight. Mom is going to the party as “Miranda.” Miranda is staying with her friend Tom (“He’s in banking, darling, you’ve heard of him, right?”) for a few days at Tom’
11 Mom wakes me up at seven and tells me she wants donuts. “That’s great,” I say. “Bring me back one.” I pull a pillow over my head and shut my eyes. “Okay,” Mom sighs. “I’ll just put away all the stuff I was working on and drive to the store. I didn’t realize you were busy.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m trying to sleep.” “Please, baby,” Mom says, sitting down next to me. “I have to meet Harold later and—” “Fine,” I say, because I know where this is going and that’s Mom staying here until I agree. “But you know, in the time it took you to wake me up you’d have been halfway there already.” “But I don’t want to go. And besides, what good is being halfway there?” She kisses my forehead and goes back downstairs, humming. I get up and throw on some clothes, head out to the car. The donut place is packed and I’m stuck waiting in line behind a guy with two screaming children who seem determined to try and shatter the windows. Mom always wants donuts or some sort of pastry after a good night
12 Mom’s gone when I get back, a scribbled note telling me she’ll see me later. There’s nothing angry in it, nothing about missing donuts or anything, and I know that means she left soon after I did, probably forgetting I was out picking up something for her. Upstairs I find one of those free real estate guides lying on her bed, a red circle around one of the entries. She must have seen it and decided to pay Harold a visit. I sit down and read the whole thing: house for rent, two bedrooms, water view, right by an ocean inlet, blah blah blah. The person listed as contact is—yep, that’s right, Harold. I bet we’ll be moving real soon. I pack up my things and most of Mom’s. Under the pile of maps she’s been working with is a piece of paper with a list of names on it. Maid to Order, Merry Maids, that sort of thing. I can guess what’s coming. We’ve never done anything exactly like it before, but going in as a maid to snag the silver is a good option, a smart one. I can’t think of any reason
13 Mom gets back late, very late, and she isn’t alone. I hear footsteps crossing through the house with hers. “I don’t usually do this,” Mom says, a giddy note in her voice that, if I didn’t know better, I would think is real. She starts to say something else but then coughs. I wish she’d just go to the doctor already. I’ll get her some cough syrup tomorrow. Maybe that will help. Whoever she’s with mumbles something in reply, voice low and drunken-sounding, “…sure your roommate isn’t home?” Roommate? Must be someone recently divorced and gun-shy about being with someone who has kids, even one who is eighteen. I’ll have to remember, if he’s still around in the morning, to call Mom—damn, what’s her name again? Miranda, that’s it. Miranda. “No, no, she isn’t,” Mom says. “It’s just you and me, Harold.” Harold. Of course. He mumbles something else and Mom laughs the way she does when someone says something she’s heard a million times before but is acting like it’s the first time. “I can’t t
14 I go home and put everything away. Mom comes downstairs, stops in the living room, and stands staring at me, one hand resting on the sofa. “What’s up?” I ask. “You look a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah. I’m going out for a while, but I’ll take a cab, leave the car here.” “No, take the car. I’m going to stay in today. This stupid cold…” She shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. I can hear stuff sloshing around when I breathe.” “When you breathe?” “Yes. You want me to describe my phlegm to you or something?” “Oh yes, please. Look, if you’ve got stuff in there, maybe it’s the kind of thing that a doctor—” “It’s not a big deal. It just feels strange. Is there any coffee?” “Just started a pot. While you’re waiting, you can have some cough syrup.” I wave the bottle at her. “Ugh. If I say no, are you going to dump it into my coffee?” “What do you think?” Mom sighs. “Fine. I’ll take some.” “Now?” “Honestly, Danielle.” “Just take it. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through t
15 When we leave the ferry we walk up to what Greg tells me is “the town.” It’s nothing but stores and an amazing view. “You want to look at anything?” he asks, pointing at the stores. “Hell, no.” I know a racket when I see one and I’m sure this “town” makes a fortune from people who run around buying things simply because they had to ride on a boat to get here. “Okay, that wasn’t even a question,” Greg says. “We’re definitely getting out of here.” He starts walking, heading away from the stores and up a narrow road. I watch him for a second, just sort of…caught, I guess, by how easy it is to talk to him, to hang out with him. “You coming?” he asks, looking back at me, and then he grins. “Or are you checking out my ass?” I roll my eyes and walk up to him. “Please. You don’t have an ass.” “I knew you were checking it out! And I do so have—” He twists, looking back over his shoulder. “Well, okay, maybe not in these pants. But I do, really, I swear. And it’s actually quite—” “I so don’t n
16 Mom’s waiting for me when I get home, sitting on the sofa eating soy crackers and grinning. I smell the reason for her grin as soon as I walk into the house. “Pizza!” “Yeah,” she says. “I think I remember a certain someone liking it.” “You thought right.” I sit down and eat two slices. “You want any?” I ask when I’m done, looking at the six remaining slices. “Maybe later.” I laugh then, and she says, “What? I might.” “Uh huh. I’ve never seen you eat pizza, you know. That’s not normal.” “I’m plenty nor—” She breaks off, coughing. “Did you take more cough medicine today? I’ll go get it and—” “Later. Right now we need to talk.” So we talk, or rather, she does. It turns out she spent the day checking maid services. “Here,” she tells me, and hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. I recognize it as being right outside Heaven. “This is the one we want. You’ve got an interview tomorrow.” “So do you want me to drive you or—wait. I’ve got an interview?” “I’ve been out a lot, been se
17 Joan and I have to clean the second floor (the Donaldsons, like a lot of rich people with huge old houses, don’t use the third) and when we get there we go our separate ways. Shelly and Maggie clean together, but Joan has made it real clear that she does her thing and I do mine. It’s fine with me and I head through the rooms Joan told me to do, dust and disinfect and vacuum. I also check for alarm sensors. There’s one sensor in the master bedroom, in a closet by what I can only describe as the most obvious safe ever, and that’s it. I go downstairs and ask Maggie if she has an extra container of bathroom cleaner in order to check the windows. All of them, every single window and all of the outside doors I pass, have sensors. There’s even one on a tiny decorative window high up on the kitchen wall. This is not a house Mom and I could easily get into without an in, that’s for sure. But then we have one. Me. I go back upstairs and turn on the vacuum. I push it around the floor, thinking
18 The next day is brutal. I spend a couple hours cleaning up puke at our second house—sick kids, I’m told, as if that makes some sort of difference. Then, at our third house, as I’m scrubbing a bathroom that belongs to a small boy who’s being potty trained, Joan comes in and says, “Don’t go in the master bedroom,” before stomping off to smoke. After I finish Little Mr. Pee-a-Lot’s bathroom, I go out in the hallway to vacuum and a strong smell makes my eyes start to water and my lungs start to hurt. What has Joan done? I go outside and find her. She says, “Mixed ammonia and some other cleaner by mistake,” and then offers me a cigarette, as if that will make my lungs hurt less. I’m pretty sure things can’t get much worse after that, but then we stop at our last house of the day. It’s a small one, a little cottage tucked on a side street at the very edge of Heaven. Maggie and Shelly moan as we park the car, and Joan says, “I keep hoping the damn place will burn down.” I don’t get what th
19 When the house comes into view I figure his reaction will be like Mom’s. I mean, I can see that the house is small and dark, built so it’s all sharp angles. You can’t not see it. I think I love it because it’s like that. It’s what it is and you can’t cover it up. He stops the car and doesn’t say anything. I look over at him after a minute. “Don’t like the house, right?” “Actually, I do. And it seems…it seems completely perfect for you. You must love it.” “I do,” I say, surprised. “Mom can’t stand it, but I think it’s great. The side of the house facing the water is almost all windows and in the morning, when the sun rises…it’s amazing. I could live here forever so easily but—” I break off, aware I’m babbling. Why is it that I don’t talk about any of this stuff with Mom, who wouldn’t really listen but at least isn’t a cop? “How about sunsets?” “What?” “You know, when the sun sets. They must look pretty amazing too.” “I haven’t really noticed. Mostly I just get home from work, make di
20 Things with Mom and Harold aren’t that bad after all. Mom came home in a horrible mood, but that’s because she had to get mad at Harold during dinner. She could tell he was getting ready to pull a “you seem too good to be true” speech—with three marriages come and gone, he’s a little gun-shy when it comes to women. Anyway, it pissed her off because she says, “I thought he was stupider than that, baby. And so now I have to be extra careful with him. It’s annoying.” After I make her a couple of cups of coffee she calms down and leaves a fake tearful message on Harold’s voice mail saying she loves him and wants him but things are complicated and maybe they need a break. He calls back later that night, but Mom doesn’t answer. She listens to the message he leaves, though. “Nothing like shaking them up,” she says as she turns her phone off, smiling at me. “Tell them you love them and then run away—makes them crazy. I bet you I’ve got the security code for the alarm system at the house dow
21 I don’t normally care what day it is but I know today is Thursday. Why? Because I have the day off. No scrubbing toilets, no vacuuming, no sitting in the car with Shelly pigging up every inch of space and Joan doing her part to keep the cigarette industry in business. I get up and make eggs and bacon and coffee. Well, sort of. I don’t know if I’d eat the eggs, but the bacon seems to have turned out okay. Mom’s still asleep when I’m done, which is surprising because normally the minute she smells coffee she’s up and asking when it will be ready. I go to her bedroom. Her door is open and the blinds are up but she’s lying in bed staring at the wall. “Mom?” “Hey, baby.” She sounds awful, like there’s a whistling teakettle stuck in her chest. “You sound awful.” “I just slept funny. Will you bring me a cup of coffee?” “How about”—I go into the bathroom, look around until I find the bottle of cough syrup, and then go back out and wave it at her—“some of this?” “I’m not coughing anymore,” s
22 Greg finds us a spot in a corner. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat because the place is still so packed I can’t move my arms—and because I’m not really fond of chili—but it turns out there’s just enough space, and whatever is on the hot dogs doesn’t taste like chili at all. It’s a weird combination of meat sauce and gravy and it’s good. Really good. “So did that stuff you got for your mom before help at all?” Greg says when he hands me my second hot dog. “I guess. She’s fine now. Well, sort of.” “Sort of?” “She says she’s okay but she doesn’t seem better. You know?” “She should go to the doctor,” Greg says, and picks up the last hot dog. Not-chili leaks onto his shirt cuff. He sighs. “The downside of the New York System.” “I haven’t had that problem.” “I suppose that’s true as long as I don’t look at the floor.” “Hey!” I kick him lightly in the shin, and then realize I’m flirting. Actual honest-to-God flirting. It’s fun. “And I’ve tried to get her to go to the doctor. She won’t go.”
23 I’m tired on my way to work in the morning and Mom is quiet, drives with the radio off and her window rolled down, the wind whistling through the car and making it impossible for us to talk. I know she isn’t mad with me anymore but I know Mom, and what she saw yesterday will stay with her. She will look at me differently for a while and I will be told even less than usual about where we’re going, what we’ll be doing. She won’t do this to hurt me. She’ll do it because it’s just how things are. How she is. “You’ll call if you need to,” she says when she stops the car. “I will,” I say, and five minutes after Stu has handed out the day’s assignments, I do. When I’m done talking to her I toss my cell in the Dumpster. Stu has it emptied every morning—he reminds us of it whenever he’s talking about planning and efficiency. He says it shows he’s always on top of things. There’s a lot of things I won’t miss about this job. Stu is in the number-two spot. On the way to our first house, Joan te
24 Mom is waiting for me just down the road. “Baby,” she says when she sees me, and then slides on a pair of latex gloves. She takes the bag, puts it in the trunk. I hand her my gloves when she shuts it, watch her peel off her own and then disappear up over the hill she’s parked next to. I can hear, faintly, the roar of the ocean. She comes back empty-handed. I’m already in the car, and when she gets in she leans over and kisses my cheek. “You did a good job, baby.” I nod, look out the window. I watch everything blur as we drive, picking up speed. “Hey, you okay?” “I—” I’ll never know what I might have said because blue lights flash then, around and around and right behind us. Cops. Mom slows down, pulling the car over to the side of the road. “No matter what, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?” I nod, scared by her voice, by what’s going on. This has never happened before. Mom turns the car off. The blue lights are still on, still flashing. I hear the crunch of footsteps as the cop mov
25 I start to shake when we reach town, when the police station gets closer and closer, becoming all I can see. The cop parks and gets out of the car. He picks up the bag, and I hear the silver shift inside. “Keep quiet and everything will be fine,” Mom whispers, comfort and warning in her voice. I press my hands back into the circle of metal that holds them, do it over and over until the skin around my wrists starts to hurt. Mom’s taken out of the car first. I start shaking more. Even my teeth are doing it now, chattering like I’m caught in a snowstorm. It sounds weird. No one seems to hear it but I press my teeth together anyway, so hard I hear them click. Mom doesn’t look back as she’s led away. I’m helped out of the car next. My legs don’t give out on me even though I’m sure they will. I stare at the back of Mom’s head, not wanting to see who is steering me inside, when it occurs to me, suddenly, that it could be Greg. My stomach lurches and I quickly look over. It isn’t him. I’m s
26 The cop from before, the one who led me to the bathroom, comes back after I don’t know how long has passed and opens the door, flicks two fingers at me in a “come on, hurry up” gesture. I get up and walk out of the room, wait for her to tell me where I’m going now. “They’re waiting for you down there,” she says with a frown, and points to the left before walking off. I can see the sun, just barely rising, out of a far window, which means I’ve been here all night. I take a deep breath and head off in the direction the cop told me to go. I pass one room with no cops, then another, and now I’m in a hallway lined with offices. I don’t look in any of them, just keep walking. So far, so good. I’m not kidding myself—I’m sure I’m not going anywhere, figure this is something to rattle me—but at least for a second I can pretend I’m leaving. “Dani?” I turn around. Greg walks out of an office I just passed, heading toward me. I open my mouth and then close it because I have no idea what to say.
27 Mom doesn’t go to the doctor. After she tells Dennis she will, the two of them start looking at each other in a way that makes me wonder if I’m going to have to spend some time sitting around outside when we get back to the house. It turns out that I don’t, but that’s only because Mom comes up to me after inviting Dennis in “to discuss some things” and taps my shoulder, hands me some money, and says, “Go out for a few hours.” Before I can even say anything, like ask how I’m supposed to go somewhere without a car—ours certainly isn’t anywhere around—or even a phone to call a cab, she’s nudging me outside and shutting the door. So I go out. When I get back Dennis is gone and Mom’s sitting outside looking out at the water. “Did you go to the doctor?” I ask. She gives me a look. Of course she didn’t. Stupid of me to even ask, but then I’m feeling a little scattered right now. “Sorry,” I mutter and sit down next to her. “I guess you’ll go before we leave?” “Please. I’m fine. Look at me.
28 I wake up with a start in the morning, open my eyes to see Mom looking down at me with an expression on her face I can’t read. I scramble up off the sofa, head into the kitchen. She doesn’t ask why I slept downstairs, just comes in behind me and sits down, looking out the window. The only sound is the coffee brewing and her breathing. She keeps looking out the window while she drinks her coffee. I refill her mug twice. “I need a few days’ rest,” she finally says. “I need a chance to tie up some loose ends.” “But we—everyone knows what happened. You won’t be able to do anything.” “Is that so?” “I didn’t mean it like that. I—we’re not leaving?” “We are leaving. Just not today.” She’s going to try something. Getting away but not getting anything—she’ll see that as a challenge. I think of the look on her face when we first drove through Heaven, her expression when she saw all those houses, and know we aren’t leaving because she needs to be inside one of those houses and take something b
29 Mom comes home really late and in a strange mood. She’s smiling but it doesn’t reach her eyes, just stretches as a false curve across her mouth. She asks me what I’m watching but clearly doesn’t listen to my answer, stands next to the sofa with one hand curved tight into it, pressing so hard her fingers sink deep into the cushion. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she says, but the words come out slowly, strangled and breathless. I turned off all the lights earlier, but in the flickering glow of the talk show that I’m not really watching, her face is strained, lit blue and red and green as she tries too hard to breathe normally. Before I can say anything else she turns away and goes upstairs. I turn off the television and follow her, but by the time I get upstairs her bedroom door is closing. I think about saying something, about telling her she has to go to the doctor, and catch the door with one hand. I push it open, peer inside. Mom hasn’t turned on any lights and is standing framed by
30 Once, when I was younger, Mom sent me to the library to do research and I ended up reading a book instead. I don’t remember who wrote it but the cover had a girl on it. She was standing in the middle of a grassy field and it looked like she was staring off into the distance but I could tell she wasn’t. She had this look on her face, a look I couldn’t place but somehow knew, and so I pulled the book off the rack it was sitting on and read it. It sucked. The girl lived in the country like a hundred years ago and spent all her time thinking about being a schoolteacher. That was it. That was the whole story. I stopped halfway through and looked at the cover again. I would have pulled it off the book and taken it with me, but there was a woman sitting across from me with a little kid in her arms, staring at me like she knew what I was thinking. I put the book back and walked away, but I never forgot that girl’s face. It wasn’t even a real face, just some picture, but I still never forgot
31 I’m finally allowed to see Mom. She’s still in the emergency room and when I walk into the little green-curtained cubicle that’s hers, it’s clear what she’s expecting. She’s ready to leave, is dressed and flipping through a ratty-looking magazine with one hand, the fingers of the other tapping impatiently against her knee. “You should go start the car,” she tells me when she hugs me, a whisper in my ear right after she says “Baby!” and pulls me into her arms. When I don’t reply, she moves away and looks at me. “I want to talk to the doctor,” I tell her. She sighs. “I don’t know what they told you, but it’s nothing. I’m fine now. Don’t I sound fine?” “You sound terrible.” “I mean aside from sounding like I had a tube shoved down my throat. Come here, listen.” I do, and she breathes slow and deep, easily. Normally. “See? I’m fine.” “So you didn’t pass out and have a bunch of fluid pumped out of your lungs?” “I fainted, probably because I hadn’t eaten anything. And the fluid—baby, you
32 I call Greg that night. I don’t know why but I do, stand outside the front door and unfold the piece of paper with his name scrawled across it. It’s only when he answers the phone sounding like he’s asleep that I realize how late it is, that it’s dark, late-at-night dark. I can see the stars. I hadn’t even noticed them. “You’re asleep,” I say, and then feel stupid for stating the obvious. “Never mind. This was—I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry.” “Dani?” “Yeah.” “I thought it was you.” He sounds a little more awake now. “Where are you?” “At the house. Mom’s asleep and I’m…I just thought I’d call. At”—I squint at a window, catch a glimpse of the clock by the television—“four in the morning. I didn’t realize it’s so late. I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. Let me just—ow!” I hear the sound of something falling. “Um, pretend you didn’t hear that.” “Are you all right?” “Fine. I just—I fell out of bed.” I laugh and can practically hear him smile over the phone when he says, “I should have known
33 For the first time ever, I pick where we go. Where we are. Mom didn’t want to choose or even think about it. She just shook her head when I asked and then closed her eyes. I listed choices anyway. She didn’t respond. She was pretending to be asleep but in a few minutes she actually was. She tires easily these days, though she won’t admit it. We could have flown but Mom wanted to drive. It was the only thing she asked for, the only thing she said when I told her where we were going. I had to buy maps, which I knew how to do, and then I had to get my license. That I didn’t know how to do. I’d only ever had ones that didn’t belong to me. I went in expecting to wait in line, sit for an awful picture, and then walk back out. It turned out there’s a test. It was the first one I’ve ever taken. I passed and left with my very own driver’s license. It’s strange to look down and see my name, my real name, on it. I know a lot about cancer now. I know what metastasized means; I know what the dru
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