Four
Hearth
“Grab a clasp for me, Hearth. I think this one’s about done, don’t you?”
I reach behind me and fish one out of the storage tray. The necklace Mom just made is a Gigi stripe pattern made of pink, blue, and green seed beads. It kind of matches the bracelet I’m working on—a gold one, with dainty enamel beads dotted throughout, in the same colors Mom chose for the necklace, plus a little pop of orange.
Yep, we are sitting together on the floor in her living room making jewelry. Good lord, we are wholesome.
“It’s pretty,” I say, spying the necklace, as I hand the clasp over to her. “Not your usual style though.”
“It’s for you.”
“What? Aww. You shouldn’t have.”
She smiles, in that motherly way that, coming from anyone else, would be placating. But from her it’s warm and kind. “I figure you can wear it on your date with Penn.”
“Aw you shouldn’t have.” I give her a lamby expression.
“Oh what’s the problem? C’mere, let’s see it on you.”
I loosen out the sigh from my chest as we stand up together and go look in the mirror. My eyes seize up again as they land on my face. It’s rude to stare , I almost seem to have to remind myself. As if it isn’t even me who is looking back. I drop my gaze to the necklace that falls just right, and the colors look great on my skin tone.
“I love it. Seriously.”
“I know. I do too.”
Such a Mom answer.
I don’t know if I’ll get used to that reflection. That person. It doesn’t look like me or feel like me. I never realized how much it mattered what I looked like. How much the me I saw on the outside was the me I identified with. It’s discomfiting…to think I don’t really know who I am on the inside. To not feel like myself just because I appear different—which is so counter to everything I ever thought I believed.
And honestly? It makes me feel like a terrible person.
Both the necklace and bracelet are so…beachy. So Miami. So fun. There’s no phoenix rising from the ashes. No butterfly metamorphosis. No half-moon or sun or star to remind us how short life is, how fast it all goes, how much it all doesn’t really seem to matter down here on this rock. Just color and vibes and fun.
I love us for that.
I still have recovery ahead of me, mostly physical therapy after being in the hospital for so long, but at least I’m home. The thing that stinks about being home is that Penn can’t as easily visit me here. Not without it being kind of…awkward, and having to be planned. Which has not happened. Visiting me was a burden I could take off his shoulders by finally coming home.
Mom tries to convince me that he meant it, that he does want to see me again. Like on a “date.” Why he would want to, I have no earthly idea. I am convinced that he only came to see me in the first place because he felt some professional pull to do so. He was the only other person around when the accident happened, so maybe he just felt he had to know that I was going to be okay.
Which is admirable, really.
“You’re spiraling, honey,” Mom says to my reflection, a sadness on her face that she doesn’t usually let show. “I can see you self-deprecating.”
“You cannot.”
“I can.”
She can, and it makes me want to push off of her and crumple against her at the same time.
If nothing else, I probably do need a break from my mom.
My physical therapist had given me the okay to start exercising on my own and to go out for simple errands, like getting my hair done, and light grocery shopping, and going on dates . That last one was delivered to my mother’s supreme delight.
“He liked your stories,” she says to me suddenly, and I whirl around to shoot daggers at the real her.
“YOU GAVE HIM MY STORIES?!” I shriek, indignantly.
“What,” she says, all innocent. “I thought it was sweet he asked to read some of them.”
“Mo-omm!” I say the word like it’s three syllables instead of just one.
“I’m sorry, hon,” she apologizes like that makes this all better and not at all embarrassing. Which ones did she give him to read? Which ones did she see? God I feel like I’m thirteen with my very first crush all over again.
I lift my fingernail to my mouth and bite down on it. My eyes lift to meet hers, bit softer this time. “He said he liked them?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Really?” I ask.
“He did.”
But which—ones.
“Hearth, baby.” She turns us both away from the mirror and puts her arm around my shoulders. I reach up to touch the necklace that sits just so at the base of my throat.
“I hate you,” I say noncommittally. At the same time I lean into her.
“No, you don’t.” She rubs my arm.
“No, I don’t.” I lay my head on her shoulder.
“Call him?” she says. She is not going to let this go.
And I might not either.
“Will you call him?” she presses.
“Mom…I don’t see how in the world I can’t not .”