Chapter 34 Mabel
MABEL
TWO YEARS LATER
“How’s the fam?” Sav asks as I make my way through her front door and into her kitchen.
“Good.” I pat Zigs on the head as I rummage through the fridge. “Amelia got first place in the science fair, and Calliope snuck out and got picked up by the cops for toilet papering the neighbors’ houses.”
Sav barks out a laugh. “I love that kid.”
“Yeah, she loves you too, and it’s a problem.”
“Are they going to come visit again?”
I open a yogurt and grab a spoon from her drawer. “I think so. The girls have a break from school soon, so I think they’ll come then.”
I haven’t gone a day without talking to my family since the coffee shop, and it’s been better than I could have imagined.
It turns out, my mom and birth father are married.
They met at a church camp, conceived me, lost contact with one another, then reconnected after high school.
It’s all very heartbreaking and romantic, and it explains why my sisters look exactly like me. We have the exact same DNA.
My father didn’t even know I existed until years later.
It was a rough patch for them, but he understood.
My mother had no way of contacting him, and she hid the pregnancy from everyone, including her parents, because purity culture is a fucking trauma demon.
Then, when she gave birth, rather than let the whole town know their daughter was a disgrace, her parents took me to the fire station.
My mom was a terrified child, and she had to navigate the whole pregnancy alone.
And in the end, it wasn’t even her choice to surrender me.
The decision was made for her. I have no idea what I would do in that situation, and I’m not angry anymore.
I just know that I’m glad to have her in my life now.
“Oh, before I forget, your mail is right there on the table.”
“Thanks,” I say around a spoonful of yogurt, then I shuffle through the pile.
I wouldn’t expect it to be so big when I was only gone for two weeks, but I feel like I’m opening bills, packages, and fan mail for an hour. Then I get to the last package, a plain white bubble mailer with international postage, and a strange feeling fills me.
I recognize this handwriting.
I set the open, half-eaten yogurt on the table and start walking toward the door.
“Hey, Sav, I’m heading back to my house. See you later.”
“Oh, okay. Well, nice to see you, bitch. Bye!”
I’m at my house in less than five minutes, and I tear open the package before I’m even through the door. When I have the contents in my hand, I start to cry.
It’s a worn journal, brown leather with deckled edges, and it’s so thick that the strip of leather keeping it closed is stretched tight.
My knees buckle, and I sit on the floor right in my foyer. I turn the package upside down, but there’s no note. No card. Just the journal.
Aurora’s journal.
My hands are shaking as I open it, and on the first page is a pressed flower, a pink moth orchid, and a poem written in purple pen. My hand flies to my pendant, and as I read the poem, my tears come faster.
Be Light, She said,
and the Dark will forget.
she found me (small
as a whisper) curled
in the elbow of Midnight,
deep in the crevice of Never.
Stuck.
Be Light, She said
and push through.
so i dared
to
burn
no trumpet Moon,
no skyshout Star.
just this Stubborn glow
barefoot, stumbling
through all the Shadow-Screams
& i dared to whisper
“i am”
which was the Loudest Light
i’d ever known.
Be Light, She said,
so I did.
and I was.
and I am.
and the dark forgot.
but I never will.
The poem takes my breath away.
It’s about me. I know it is. I’m the She.
I’m the one who told her to be light. I am so fucking happy to see that my words impacted her, because she made an impact on me.
I read the poem three more times just to feel closer to her.
Each time I do, her voice becomes stronger in my ears, as if she’s reading it to me.
I flip to the next page and find a polaroid of a flower with Jardin Majorelle, April 2nd written across the bottom in black marker. There are several pressed flowers taped to the sides of the page, and a second poem in the middle written with the same purple pen as the first.
if the void has teeth
& you’ve fed it your voice
(all of your everything)
rest.
let silence hold
your throat
like petals hold
the morning dew
soft.
heal the breaks,
nurture the bud,
(tiny though it may be)
Then, when you’re ready,
drop your jaw
and
ROAR
as if the void
never
learned
your
name.
My chest swells with pride, and I have to wipe away more tears before they fall onto the page.
“You got to Marrakech,” I whisper, running my finger over the words, feeling the indentions in the paper.
She’s so talented. I knew she would be, but it’s so amazing to see. I can feel the emotion in her words, and I can imagine her, sitting on a bench in Jardin Majorelle, pouring her emotions into this notebook.
I turn to the next page and find it decorated with more pressed flowers, another poem, and another polaroid, this one with a new location and date. Palace of Versailles Gardens, May 15th.
It’s a travel diary, I realize, and she sent it to me. It’s full of memories, flowers, and poetry—full of her—and she wanted me to have it.
For the next few hours, I sit on the floor in my foyer, and I devour every single page.
I run my fingers over every pressed flower.
Study every single polaroid. Read, and reread every line of every poem.
Aurora documented two years of travel—trips separated by mere days to a few months—in the way only she could, and it makes me ache with missing her.
I know Ham speaks to her regularly, and I’m pretty sure she stays at his penthouse from time to time, but I never ask him about her, and he never says a word.
I still think of her every single day. I still long for her every night.
It’s never stopped, but it’s been a while since these feelings were this visceral.
To the point of a physical pain in my chest. I don’t stop reading her diary though.
I don’t stop poring over every page like I’ll be quizzed on it later.
Like I need to tattoo every word and flower and image into my brain until I see it in my sleep.
I’ll start dreaming of her again. It’s going to hurt. But I welcome it if it means I’ll get to see her face.
As I reach the last page, sadness starts to overwhelm me. I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to have to say goodbye all over again. But then I get to the end, and the style has changed.
There’s no poem. No polaroid. No pressed flowers.
Just FIND ME in black marker, followed by the name of a hotel in Iceland with a time and date. A date that is only two dates from now.
My heart jolts in my chest, and I scramble for the package. It’s post marked three weeks ago, so it must have been delivered just after I left for Georgia. It’s been sitting under a pile of mail on Sav’s counter for weeks, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be out of time.
Quickly, I push to my feet and run to my room.
I throw the journal and a few random articles of clothing into my carry-on—anything else I can buy when I get there—then shove my wallet and passport into my purse.
I’m out the door and climbing into the car I rarely drive in less than five minutes.
I plug the airfield into my GPS, then call Ham on the Bluetooth.
“Rossi.”
“Ham, I need the jet.”
“Why?”
“I need to go to Iceland.”
He’s doesn’t respond right away, and I grow impatient.
“Hammond!” I shout, punctuating the word with a slap to the steering wheel. “I need the jet!”
“Calm down, Rossi. It’s already fueled and waiting at the airfield.”
I frown at his name on my car’s display screen. “What?”
I could be totally losing it, but I swear I hear him try to cover a laugh with an annoyed sigh.
“It’s my job to know everything,” he says blandly, and then he hangs up.
“Fucking hell,” I mumble, but I’m grinning so big that my cheeks hurt.
I’m coming, Aurora. I’m coming.