My Life Undecided (28 page)

He takes a step into the room. “Actual y, I’m looking for someone named Baby Brooklyn. The receptionist said I might find her in here.”

The mention of the nickname catches me off guard but I put my hand to my chest and say, “Um, I guess that’s me.”

He seems to find humor in this because his lips curl into a smile. “With a name like that, I didn’t know what age to expect.”

“Wel , it’s not real y my name.”

He looks at his feet. “No, of course not. I didn’t think—Never mind. I’m here to deliver this to you.” He heaves the box forward and sets it

down at my feet.

“What is it?” I ask, eyeing it skeptical y.

“It was left for you by Gertrude Moody.”

“Mrs. Moody?”

He offers me a tight-lipped smile. “Yes.” He removes a thick stack of papers from the manila envelope and flips to a page in the middle. “In

her wil , she asked that these be given to you. Wel , to ‘Baby Brooklyn,’ rather.”

“Oh, you must be her lawyer,” I say, eyeing the papers.

“No,” the man replies, looking extremely uncomfortable. “But her lawyer sent me.”

I delicately lift the lid of the box and peer inside. Fil ing the box, al neatly stacked in rows, are the familiar blue and white bindings of Mrs.

Moody’s You Choose the Story col ection.

“Oh my gosh,” I cry, bending down to pul out a random title. “Thank you so much!”

He seems to find fulfil ment in my reaction. “You’re welcome. The nurses here said that you used to read these to her.”

I nod, a prick of moisture stinging my eyes as I run my hand over the book’s worn and weathered cover. I flip it open and catch sight of the

“This Book Belongs To” sticker adhered to the inside.

My head pops up and I stare inquisitively at the man standing in front of me. “Wait a minute,” I say, touching the sticker. “If you aren’t her

lawyer, then who are you?”

“Oh, I doubt she ever mentioned me.” He dismisses my question with a disheartened smile. “My name is Nicholas Townley. I’m her son.”

“You’re Nicholas Townley?” I ask, giving the stranger another once-over. I’m not sure what I expected Nicholas Townley to look like and that’s

probably because I never expected to actual y meet him. The only proof I had that he even existed were these stickers and a mangled photograph

of a four-year-old boy in red overal s, holding a daisy.

He shifts his weight awkwardly. “So she did mention me.”

I snort out a laugh. “Wel , I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“Then how do you know about me?”

I flip the book around in my hand and show him the scribbled label. “Because your name is in al of these books. And when I asked her who

you were, she nearly had a heart attack.”

Recognition registers on the man’s face and he nods solemnly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“If you’re her son,” I begin accusingly, “then why did you never come to visit her when she was alive?”

“I didn’t know she was here!” he defends, pain shadowing his eyes and the deep lines around his mouth. “She refused to see me or take my

cal s or even tel me where she was living.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why would she do that? And why did she react to your name like that?”

His shoulders fal in defeat and he looks to the ground. “We had a fal ing-out. Years ago. I told her I was getting married and she freaked out.

Said she never wanted to see me again. That I was ‘dead’ to her.”

Skepticism infiltrates my tone. “Al because you were getting married?”

“Al because I was getting married to a man,” he clarifies.

“Oh.”

“I tried to contact her. I tried to reconcile several times. But this was her choice. And when my mother makes a decision, that’s the end. It’s

no use trying to change her mind.”

I glance down at the You Choose the Story in my hand. Coincidental y it’s the one about the island inhabited by vampires, the first title I ever

read to her. I hug it to my chest. “I know,” I whisper, a slight smile forming.

“And so we never spoke again. After my dad died about ten years ago, she changed her name back to her maiden name—Moody—and

just like that, it was as if we weren’t even related anymore. Until her lawyer cal ed me to tel me that she had passed away and that her things could

be col ected at this address…if I was interested.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, fidgeting with the book in my hand, opening the cover and flipping through the yel owed pages. Then I eye the box by

my feet, crammed ful of adventures just waiting to be taken, and I think about the sticker inside each one of them, declaring their rightful owner.

“These books belonged to you, didn’t they?”

He leans down and pul s one from the cardboard box, laughing nostalgical y as he reads the title. “They used to be my favorite,” he tel s me,

fingering the binding. “She used to read them to me when I was little. Every night before I went to bed. She’d let me make al the choices. And when

we’d reach a dead end, she’d always let me start over…until I found the ending I was looking for.”

I laugh, too. Because suddenly everything about my long hours spent in Mrs. Moody’s room at the nursing home makes perfect sense.

I return the book in my hand to the box and push it toward him. “You should real y keep these.”

But he shakes his head and takes a step toward the door. “My mom wanted you to have them. And I want to respect her choice. For once.

Because God knows, there were many of them that I never could.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, hoisting the box of books into my arms. “For bringing these over here.”

He gives me an awkward sort of wave. “No problem.”

“Wel , if it makes you feel any better,” I try, “she wouldn’t let me read anything else to her.”

“Thanks. It does. A little.” A strained smile appears as he turns to leave.

“Wait!” I cal , struck by a last-minute thought. I dig through the box until I find the book I’m looking for, then I flip through its discolored pages

until I arrive at the photograph.

Nicholas Townley, age 4.

“Here,” I say, handing it over to him. “I found it in one of the books. For whatever it’s worth…”

I can tel that he’s no longer comfortable being here. He takes the picture from my hand, thanks me again, and is gone within a matter of

seconds.

I’m alone again. And even though the majority of Mrs. Moody’s mysterious secret past has final y been revealed, I stil don’t feel any better

about her absence. She left behind a hole. A giant, gaping hole. And it’s too late to fil it. It wil always be there, casting a gloomy shadow on Nicholas Townley’s life.

And I guess, in a way, casting a shadow on mine as wel .

Because suddenly it dawns on me. Mrs. Moody and I are the same. We’re built from the same mold. A mold of poor judgment and a

propensity to make terrible choices. It’s why she liked me. Why she trusted me and no one else. I was the “little girl who fel down the mine shaft.”

The little girl who became famous for her mistake.

In Mrs. Moody’s eyes, I was safe because she saw me as a mirror image of herself.

The room is starting to feel claustrophobic. The wal s are closing in, and if I don’t get out of here, I fear they’re going to squeeze me into pulp.

I dash from the room, down the hal way, and out the back entrance until I’m in the wide-open space of the parking lot. I take a deep breath,

the frozen air chil ing my lungs and awakening my cel s.

I don’t want to be like Mrs. Moody. I don’t want to be a ninety-year-old woman with a life ful of regret. I don’t want to wake up one morning

seventy-five years from now and discover that my life has been a series of bad decisions and wrong turns and heartbreak.

But what if that’s just my destiny? What if I’m doomed to end up right here, in this very nursing home, bitter and irritable and biting the hands

of nurses because I’m angry about al the terrible decisions I made? What if, ironical y, I don’t have a choice?

The moment I get home, I look at my computer and I know what I have to do. It’s what I’ve always had to do, but somewhere along the way,

my vision got cloudy and distorted and I strayed from the plan. I can’t trust my own decisions. I can’t trust my ability to lead myself in the right direction. And I know there’s only one thing that wil save me from becoming her. Or more important, that wil save me from myself.

My Life Undecided

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

Posted on:
Saturday, November 27th at 11:01 pm by BB4Life

I know I owe you al an explanation. I know you probably have a lot of questions. And I know that some of you may even be mad at

me. But I hope it wil suffice to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for abandoning the blog. I’m sorry for abandoning you. I can’t go into the ful

details of my previous decision to jump ship but I’m here now because once again I need your help. I need you to help steer me down

the right path with your wisdom. To keep me from doing something I’l regret later.

Do you remember Rhett Butler? Do you remember how charming and beautiful and popular he is? Wel , he’s asked me to go to the

winter formal next week and I’ve said yes. And I couldn’t be more excited about it. Rhett is everything I ever thought I wanted in a

boyfriend. He fits effortlessly into my life. Like white on white.

So what’s the problem, you ask?

Wel , remember Heimlich? My cute and somewhat dorky debate partner? He’s exactly the opposite of anyone I ever thought I would

fal for. In fact, before this blog, I never even gave him a second look (or a first look, for that matter). But now that I’ve seen him, I can’t

look away. Somehow he’s managed to find a way into my thoughts and he won’t leave. Somehow he’s managed to get me, even

when I don’t.

And here lies my dilemma.

What are you supposed to do when one person makes you feel safe and another person makes you feel alive? It’s like I’m caught

between two versions of myself. The person I used to be and the person I’m too scared to become. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror

and my reflection doesn’t match. I just want to be myself again. Only, I’m not sure who that is anymore. Is it the girl in the mirror, the

one I’ve struggled to be my entire life? Or is it this stranger living inside me who wants nothing to do with her? How do you decide

between them? How do you know which one is real y you? Especial y when they’re each in love with a different person.

So please, tel me what I’m supposed to do. Tel me who I’m supposed to choose.

I can’t do it on my own. I can’t see straight. I need your clarity.

Please vote.

Your lost and lonely friend,

BB

Missing in Action

Shayne hasn’t stopped talking
about the winter formal since we got back to school. It’s al she can think about. Dresses and limos and hairstyles

and the gorgeous necklace she found at the mal this weekend. Although I would never say it aloud, I’m honestly getting sick of hearing about it. I

mean, does this girl real y have nothing else to talk about but clothes and boys and updos? Has she always been like that or is this just the first time

I’m noticing it?

“So anyway,” she continues as we head to my locker after lunch on Monday. “We should probably go shopping together this week. To make

sure we look good next to each other in pictures, but not too matchy matchy, you know?”

“Mm-hm,” I agree wholeheartedly.

“My dad booked the limo, so that’s al set. Jesse is going to drive down on Saturday afternoon. Tel Hunter that we’l meet up at your place.

And then we’l have to keep our ears open for who’s hosting the best after party and—”

“Don’t forget that tryouts for the spring musical are coming up next week!” a bubbly thespian interrupts, thrusting green flyers into our hands.

“We’re going to be doing Wicked!”

“No way! Real y?” Shayne tril s, her phony public smile on ful display. “That’s total y my favorite musical.”

The bubbly thespian beams. “Mine, too!”

“We’l total y be there,” Shayne promises, and then three steps later bal s up the flyer and tosses it into the nearest trash can. “Loser,” she

mumbles under her breath, relieving me of my flyer and subjecting it to the same fate. “Like I would ever be caught dead in a musical.”

We arrive at my locker and Shayne continues to prattle on about some article she read in Contempo Girl magazine about the latest trends in

eye shadow while I remove my copy of Twelfth Night and my English notebook.

“Omigod!” she exclaims in horror, interrupting her own diatribe and frowning at the inside of her sweater sleeve. I rol my eyes into my locker,

fighting the urge to ask “Now what?”

But I don’t even have to. Shayne thrusts her arm in my face. “Wil you look at this stain?”

The fabric is about three inches from my face and I can’t see what she’s talking about. But of course I can’t admit that because then I run the

risk of the fabric being shoved two inches closer. So I scrunch up my nose to match Shayne’s displeased expression and say, “Yeah, that’s pretty

bad.”

She stomps her foot a little and scowls. “Damn it. I told Lupita to get that stain out. She is so total y useless! What on earth are they teaching

those people down in El Salvador?”

“You know,” I hear myself saying before I can censor it, “Lupita was probably a physicist or a doctor or something before she came here. A

lot of immigrants give up much more prestigious jobs in their home countries to become housekeepers and gardeners here. Al for the promise of a

better life.”

As soon as it’s out, I immediately regret it. Shayne’s eyes narrow and she takes a step toward me. I cower slightly into my locker. And then,

just when I think she’s total y going to lose it, she starts cackling with laughter. Kind of like a mental y unstable person.