30. Then
Then: February 1st
S tarting a new semester in school means new elective classes. I’m thankful to be out of gym class this semester, and finally in a class I enjoy: writing and literature. Okay, the literature part of it might be a little boring, but I am looking forward to the writing. It’s a new teacher, Mr. Matthewson. I guess they just hired him this year, but so far he seems pretty cool.
By the end of the term we have to write our very own full-length novel, and I’ve been working on ideas for a mystery or a thriller, but I haven’t quite nailed it down yet. It’ll come to me at the right time, I’m sure of it.
He’s told the class that he’s already written three books of his own. I don’t know anything about book publishing, but he looks young enough to have barely graduated with his degree and leapt right into teaching. I hope to have written at least one book by the time I graduate college. That is a big fat if I go.
I still haven’t decided if I’m going to go anywhere. I mean, I still have time to decide… there’s plenty of time to make up my mind about it, right? The thought of graduating from McKinley High and leaving Atlas Creek is just crazy to me.
I know my parents will probably protest if I decide to stick around (well, Dad would anyway, Mom would keep me forever if it were up to her), but I also can’t just leave them. The very thought makes my stomach turn. So, I do my best not to think about it.
Because according to Dad, he thinks I should move to Denver and go to college there. I’m pretty sure that’s where he met Mom. So, it makes sense. Mom always shrugs her shoulders at me when I bring up colleges and usually changes the subject.
The only exception to this happened a few days ago. Mom presented me with this new idea. A new kind of list she hadn’t shown me before.
Mom is a big list maker, and she told me once how important it was to set goals for myself.
“It’s a whole thing, P. You need to choose your goals carefully, set them, and then make a detailed outline. I’m serious about this, don't give me that look. Go get a piece of paper. I’ll wait.”
As per usual she was giving me her Stern Mom look, which meant she was absolutely serious and would not drop the subject until I did exactly as I was asked. I knew better than to argue when she was in Stern Mom mode.
I run back into the living room where she’s sitting in her favorite chair in the corner by the big window, waiting for me to return with a pencil and paper. I sit across from her on the couch, ready to start writing out my goals.
“Okay, good. What is one of your biggest goals?” she asks me.
“Um, to graduate from high school?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s a good one. Jot that down. Now make a bullet point list of what you need to do to obtain that goal.” She taps her fingers along her knee as she waits for me to start writing them down.
It takes me less than five minutes. I glance back up at her and notice that she’s studying me carefully in a way I’ve never seen her do before. It’s always fun discovering these new little pieces of my mother, and this is one I haven’t yet discovered. I tuck this little nugget of knowledge away to ponder later.
“So,” she says, “What are they?”
“Oh, um,” I start going down the list one by one. “Pass all of my classes with all A’s or at least high B’s. Put my best effort into all of my classes, especially the writing ones.” I pause there, her copper eyes are shining.
“Why the writing ones, P?”
“I don’t know. Those are just the ones I like the best. I don’t know if I’ve told you before, but someday I’d like to become a writer.” I blush as I admit this, recalling the time when I mentioned some ideas for stories and she’d rushed to the nearest store so that I could buy a journal for myself. She was both insightful and thoughtful. Pieces of me that sometimes I wish Dad saw more of.
My mom sits there still for a minute, not saying anything, and I can’t help but worry our moment is lost. She’s already moved on in her head to something else and doesn’t want to play this fun little game of listing out my goals anymore.
But she does something else. My mom is always full of surprises. I never know what she’s going to do or say next. Sometimes that can be exciting and other times it can be worrisome. She gets up suddenly and makes her way quickly across the room. She opens her bedroom door and disappears inside.
She’s gone for at least five minutes.
When I’m starting to worry that I’ve lost her, she returns with a small, dark green notebook tucked beneath her arm. Without saying a word she walks back over to me and places it gently into my lap. She finds her way back into her chair and plops down with a heaviness that causes me to start to rise off the couch. That’s when I remember the small weight inside my lap and glance down .
The journal is small and the green leather is worn and peeling. Written across the front in gold lettering is my mother’s full name, Jolene Ann Larrs. I open the cover and leaf through the book. The inside is filled with her beautiful handwriting. It loops in and out of the lines on the pages. I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s beautiful.
Before I can explore the journal further, my mother clears her throat, and my attention is pulled away. I look back up at her, and she’s wearing a new expression I can’t read.
“Don’t read that now. It’s private. But I want you to have it. I’ve known you were a writer for a long time. You’re always writing something these days and, believe me, I’ve noticed.”
A random tear makes a run for it down the side of my cheek. I’m surprised by it and quickly swipe it away before she sees.
I hadn’t realized anyone had noticed my love for writing. Especially her. Coming from her means something. Something more. My love for her swells and bursts in my chest. For the first time in a long time I feel seen. Seen by someone. Seen by Mom.
“This journal belonged to me, and now it belongs to you. It’s mostly poems. I don’t know if you even care for that sort of thing, but Dad has no use for it. I’ve been wanting to give it to you for a while now, just never found the right time.”
Before I realize what I’m doing I’m up out of my seat and moving quickly across the carpet to her. She used to give me books and other things, but I never knew she’d written anything more than To-Do Lists and Grocery Lists. But this… this is special. This means everything .
I crawl into her lap and lay my head against her chest like I’m still her little girl. A child wanting to cuddle with their mommy, and I do just that. I’m so close to her now I can feel the rhythm of her heart against me beating, thump, thump, thump. I love this woman so much. I can only hope she loves me half as much. The other words that echo in my head as she holds me close, are stay, stay, stay .
She doesn’t say a word but gently runs her fingers through my hair. Back and forth, back and forth. I don’t know how long we stay like this. Dad isn’t home from work yet, and I know she will have to start dinner soon. But for now, I soak every bit of her in. Vanilla and honey. Rich and warm. This journal may very well be the best gift I’ve ever received.