The Dead of Summer (28 page)

Even though we had cleaned out the bank account and never used credit cards since they could be traced, there wasn’t one day when Mama didn’t look over her shoulder. She stayed in the house, much like she had in Novella. I went out and got a job after school where I had registered under the name of Ryann Kennedy. A pot-smoking hippie in San Francisco had forged a birth certificate for me at Mama’s request—she said he most likely wouldn’t remember it with his brain cells fried and all. Mama didn’t want to take a chance writing or anything, afraid someone would piece her writing style together with Sweet Sadie’s. I thought that was a bit paranoid, but she didn’t want to take the chance. She didn’t even go on her computer anymore—mostly just sat in the house, staring at the wall, all signs of life drained from her face.

Every night, I thought of Carson, my hands wrapped tightly around the stone he had given me, stroking it lovingly, waiting for that day we had agreed to meet in the not-so-far-off future. I dreamt of him almost every night. That is, on the nights I didn’t awake in chilly sweat with nightmares about my daddy. I thought my longing for Carson would subside as the weeks and months passed, but it never did. The ache in my heart remained and I held that stone tighter, hoping that he would be there for me. I didn’t know how I would leave Mama when that day came, though. I was going to have to sneak away, lie to her. She would never want me to risk going back to Novella. I told myself that I would worry about it when the time came.

When Mama started vomiting up blood one late spring day in May, I knew she would refuse to go to the hospital. I didn’t care though, how much she kicked and screamed—this was her life at stake. I scooped her into my arms, shocked at how light she had become. Her bones felt hallow, like little birds. I was stunned that I had not noticed it before.

I stood in the hallway of the hospital, chewing my thumbnail till it bled, as the doctors poked and prodded Mama. She was silent and still during this whole process—I even thought she was dead for a time there. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the doctors left her alone to me and the nurses.

I crept toward her bedside, petrified that she was gonna ream me out for bringing her to the hospital in the first place. Her dark hair was thin and scraggly, fanned out against the stark white pillow. With her loose skin sagging around her cheekbones, she looked about sixty-seven years old rather than thirty-seven.

“Hi, Mama.” I timidly stepped forward and sat in the chair next to her bed.

To my surprise, she smiled at me. “Hi.” Her voice was raspy like a smoker’s. She reached for my hand, pulling me closer to her. “Did you water the plants?”

I ignored her question and asked, “So what’s going on, Mama?”

Mama shrugged. “How are we gonna pay for this? You know you don’t make enough money.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it, Mama.” Truth was, I worried about it enough for both of us. We didn’t have insurance and the money we did have would never cover all the tests Mama had to have. I had claimed I had found Mama, a homeless woman, when I brought her to be admitted. Since they couldn’t deny her care, despite her inability to pay, I figured it was my best bet. Mama didn’t have a fake birth certificate like I did and I’m sure by then, she was wanted for questioning in my daddy’s death. “Tell me what the doctor said.”

“Doctors say it’s some sort of cancer. Pancreas, I think.”

“What?” I nearly dropped her hand. I knew vomiting blood was bad news, but I never expected a blow like this.
Cancer? Would she die? What the hell would I do if Mama died?

Maybe Mama sensed my angst because she started stroking my hand with her thumb. “I don’t want you to worry about this. You’ll have nothing to worry about after this.” Mama spoke evenly, but I could see her eyes were moist. She was trying to choke back her tears, trying to be brave for me. “Just remember that everything I did was for you. Even though I made a mess of things.”

“I know, Mama,” I said, biting my lip so hard I drew blood. I would not allow myself cry. “You didn’t make a mess, though. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.” I had to be strong for Mama so that she could get better. We needed to fight together to kick this cancer’s butt. I couldn’t live without Mama.

My effort to be strong didn’t work. One look at my mama’s eyes sent tears rolling down my cheeks. Helpless to control them, I leaned forward and buried my face in Mama’s bony chest. I sobbed until tears wouldn’t come anymore and then I just dry cried, Mama stroking my hair the whole time.

Mama died three weeks later, in the hospital bed, clutching my hand. After the nurse forcibly detached my hand from my mama’s hours later, I headed home to my empty house. No need to make funeral arrangements (who would come? How would I afford it?), I spent the next week gazing around the pathetic studio apartment that we called home, wondering where I would go next.

In the middle of the night, it hit me. I woke up gasping, in a puddle of sweat, another nightmare about the body in the basement blossoming in my mind yet again. It was in the darkened cover of night that I realized, there was no need for me to run any longer. Mama’s death had freed me. Her past and her sins (if you could call them that), weren’t my burden any longer. With my new name I was free to go wherever I wanted, be whoever I wanted, do whatever I pleased. No more Mama holding me back, the secrets that had pinned me down were mine no longer. And it was June. Less than a week until the day I was supposed to meet Carson. Suddenly, I had a renewed purpose.

The next day, as I packed my small suitcase with the only worldly possessions that I cared to keep, I toiled with the decision of what to take and what to leave behind. I picked up one of Mama’s porcelain figurines, intending to wrap it up and put it in a box. Her six figurines were the only frivolous items she had brought with us from Novella, lovingly wrapping them in newspaper and placing them in a box that sat at my feet the whole drive. They were little girls that she said reminded her of me. She ordered one for each year we lived in Novella.

I held the figurine of a smiling little girl reading a book in my trembling hands, and as I studied her, I suddenly had the urge to break it. I threw it violently at the floor and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces. As the shards of glass skittered over the tile, a calm washed over me. I picked up another figure and flung it to the floor just as angrily. And another, and another until there were no more left.

I sat amidst the pieces and cried for my mama. As crazy as she had made me, I missed her with every fiber of my being. She had loved me so much that she was willing to rearrange her entire life just to keep me safe. Essentially, she was even willing to die to keep me safe. I didn’t get it then—at times I even hated her for what she did, how she ripped me out of any hope of normal life that summer in Novella. But that night, I finally got it. I finally understood.

That night, I pulled the car out of the driveway of our rented apartment at midnight (old habits die hard). Staring at the stars twinkling above me, the warm June sky as a backdrop, I saw a shooting star. Closing my eyes ever so briefly, I made a wish, my lips muttering Carson’s name. Swallowing hard, I drove to Novella, hoping that he would remember.