November 9: A Novel (28 page)

Behind door number two lies a couch, a television, and a refrigerator.

I choose door number two.

When I open it, I suddenly wish I had chosen door number one.

My mother is sitting on my couch.

Shit. I forgot she was bringing me breakfast. Now she’ll think I do nothing but sleep every day, all day.

“Hey,” I say to her as I walk out of my bedroom. She glances up, and I’m immediately confused by her expression.

She’s crying.

My first thought is what happened and who did it happen to? My father? My grandmother? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? Boddle, my mom’s dog?

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

But then I look down at her lap and realize that
everything
is wrong. She’s reading the manuscript.

Ben’s manuscript.

Our story.

Since when did she start invading privacy? I point at it and shoot her an offended look. “What are you doing?”

She picks up a discarded tissue and wipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling. “I saw the letter. And I would never read your personal things, but it was open this morning when I brought breakfast and I just . . . I’m sorry. But then”—she picks up some of the pages of the manuscript and flops them back and forth—“I read the first page and I’ve been sitting here for four hours now and haven’t been able to stop.”

She’s been reading it for four hours?

I walk over to her and grab the stack of pages from her lap. “How much did you read?” I pick the manuscript up and walk it back to the kitchen. “And why? You have no business reading this, Mom. Jesus, I can’t believe you would do that.” I shove the lid back on the cardboard box and I walk it to the trash can. I step on the lever to open the lid, and my mother is moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move before.

“Fallon, don’t you dare throw that away!” she says. She grabs the box from my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Why would you do that?” She sets the box on the counter, smoothing her hand over the top of it like it’s a prized possession I almost just broke.

I’m confused why she’s reacting this way to something that should infuriate her.

She releases a quick breath and then looks me firmly in the eye. “Sweetie,” she says. “Is any of this true? Did these things really happen?”

I don’t even know what to tell her, because I have no idea which “things” she’s referring to. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” I pass her and walk toward the couch. “But if you’re referring to Benton James Kessler and the fact that he allowed me to completely fall in love with a fictitious version of himself, then yes. That happened.” I lift one of the couch cushions in search of my remote control. “And if you’re referring to the fact that I found out he was somehow responsible for a fire that almost killed me, but failed to point out that minor detail as I was falling in love with him, then yes, that happened, too.” I find my remote.

I sit on the couch and cross my legs, preparing for a twelve-hour binge of reality TV. Now would be the perfect time for my mother to leave, but instead, she walks over to the couch and sits next to me.

“You haven’t read any of this?” she asks, placing the box on the coffee table in front of us.

“I read the prologue last year. That was enough for me.”

I feel the warmth of her hand encase mine. I slowly turn my head to find that she’s looking at me with an endearing smile. “Sweetheart . . .”

My head falls against the back of the couch. “Can your advice
please
wait until tomorrow?”

She sighs. “Fallon, look at me.”

I do, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.

She lifts a hand to my face and tucks my hair behind my left ear. Her thumb brushes the scars on my cheek, and I flinch because it’s the first time she’s ever purposefully touched them. Other than Ben, I’ve never allowed anyone to touch them.

“Did you love him?” she asks.

I don’t do anything for a few seconds. My throat feels like it’s burning, so rather than say yes, I just nod.

Her mouth twitches and she blinks fast, twice, like she’s trying not to cry. She’s still brushing her thumb across my cheek. Her eyes deviate from mine and she scrolls over the scars on my face and neck. “I’m not going to pretend that I know what you’ve gone through. But after reading those pages, I can assure you that you aren’t the only one who was scarred in that fire. Just because he chose not to show you his scars doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She picks up the box and sets it on my lap. “Here they are. He’s put his scars on full display for you, and you need to show him the respect he showed you by not turning away from them.”

The first tear of the day escapes my eyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with not crying today.

She stands and gathers her things. She leaves my apartment without another word.

I open the box, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.

I skim through the prologue I read last year. Nothing has changed. I flip to the first chapter and start from the beginning.

November 9th

Age 16

“Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.”

—Dylan Thomas

Most people don’t know what death sounds like.

I do.

Death sounds like the absence of footsteps down the hallway. It sounds like a morning shower not being taken. Death sounds like the lack of the voice that should be yelling my name from the kitchen, telling me to get out of bed. Death sounds like the absence of the knock on my door that usually comes moments before my alarm goes off.

Some people say they get this feeling in the pit of their stomach when they have a premonition that something bad is about to happen.

I don’t have that feeling in the pit of my stomach right now.

I have that feeling in my whole goddamn body, from the hairs on my arms, to my skin, down to my bones. And with each second that passes without a single sound coming from outside my bedroom door, that feeling grows heavier, and slowly begins to seep into my soul.

I lie in my bed for several more minutes, waiting to hear the slam of a kitchen cabinet or the music she always turns on from the television in the living room. Nothing happens, even after my alarm buzzes.

I reach over to turn it off, my fingers shaking as I try to remember how to silence the same damn alarm I’ve silenced with ease since I got it for Christmas two years earlier. When the screeching comes to a halt, I force myself to get dressed. I pick up my cell phone from the dresser, but I only have one text message from Abitha.

Cheer practice after school today. See you at 5?

I slip the phone in my pocket, but then I pull it out again and grip it in my hands. Don’t ask me how I know, but I might need it. And the time it takes to pull my phone out of my pocket may be precious time wasted.

Her room is downstairs. I go there and I stand outside the door. I listen, but all I hear is silence. As loud as silence can be heard.

I swallow the fear lodged in my throat. I tell myself I’ll laugh about this a few minutes from now. After I open her door and find that she’s already left for work. She might have gotten called in early and she just didn’t want to wake me.

Beads of sweat begin to line my forehead. I wipe them away with the sleeve of my shirt.

I lift my hand and knock on the door, but my hand is already on the doorknob before I wait for her to answer me.

But she can’t answer me. When I open the door, she isn’t here.

She’s gone.

The only thing I find is her lifeless body lying on the floor of her bedroom, blood pooled around her head.

But she isn’t here.

No. My mother is
gone.

* * *

It was three hours from the moment I found her to the moment they walked out of the house with her body. There was a lot they had to do, from photographing everything in her bedroom, outside her bedroom, and in the entire house to questioning me, to looking through her belongings for evidence.

Three hours isn’t a very long time if you think about it. If they thought foul play was involved, they would have cased off the house. They would have told me I needed to find somewhere else to stay while they conducted their investigation. They would have treated this way more seriously than they did.

After all, when a woman is found dead in her bedroom floor with a gun in her hand and a suicide letter on her bed, three hours is really all it takes to determine she was at fault.

It takes Kyle three and a half hours to get here from his dorm, so he’ll be here in thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes is a long time to sit and stare at the bloodstain that remains in the carpet. If I tilt my head to the left, it looks like a hippo with its mouth wide open, about to devour prey. But if I tilt my head to the right, it looks like Gary Busey’s mug shot.

I wonder if she’d have still gone through with it if she knew her blood stain would resemble Gary Busey?

I didn’t spend much time in the room with her body. Just the time it took me to dial 911 and for the first responders to arrive, which, despite feeling like an eternity, was probably only a few minutes. But in those few minutes, I learned more about my mother than I thought would be possible in such a short span.

She had been lying on her stomach when I found her, and she was wearing a tank top that revealed the end words of a tattoo she got several months ago. I knew it was a quote about love, but that’s all I really knew. Probably Dylan Thomas, but I never even asked her.

I reached over and pulled the edge of her shirt aside so I could read the entire quote.

Though Lovers be lost, love shall not.

I stood up and walked a few steps away from her, hoping the chills would go as fast as they arrived. The quote never meant anything until now. When she first got it, I assumed it meant that just because two people stopped loving one another didn’t mean their love never existed. I couldn’t relate to it before, but now it feels like the tattoo was a premonition. Like she got it because she wanted me to see that even though she’s gone, her love isn’t.

And it pisses me off that I didn’t know how to relate to words on her body until her body was nothing more than just a body.

Then I notice the tattoo on her left wrist—the one that’s been there since before I was born. It’s the word
poetic
written across a music staff. I know the meaning behind this one because she explained it to me a few years ago when we were in the car together, just the two of us. We were talking about love and I had asked her how you know if you’re really in love with someone. At first, she gave the quintessential answer,
“You just know.”
But when she glanced over at me and saw that answer didn’t satisfy me, her expression grew serious.

“Oh,”
she said.
“You’re asking for real this time? Not as a curious kid, but as someone who needs advice? Well then, let me give you the real answer.”

I could feel my face flush, because I didn’t want her to know I thought I might be in love. I was only thirteen and these feelings were new to me, but I was sure Brynn Fellows was going to be my first real girlfriend.

My mother looked back at the road and I saw a smile spread across her face.
“When I say you just know, it’s because you will. You won’t question it. You don’t wonder if what you feel is actually love, because when it is, you’ll be absolutely terrified that you’re in it. And when that happens, your priorities will change. You won’t think about yourself and your own happiness. You’ll only think about that person, and how you would do anything to see them happy. Even if it meant walking away from them and sacrificing your own happiness for theirs.”

She gave me a sidelong glance.
“That’s what love is, Ben. Love is sacrifice.”
She tapped her finger against the tattoo on her left wrist—the tattoo that had been there since before I was born.
“I got this tattoo the day I felt that kind of love for your father. And I chose it because if I had to describe love that day, I would say it felt like my two favorite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favorite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favorite song.”
She looked at me again, very seriously.
“You’ll know, Ben. When you’re willing to give up the things that mean the most to you just to see someone else happy, that’s real love.”

I stared at her tattoo for a bit, wondering if I could ever love anyone like that. I wasn’t sure I would want to give up the things I loved the most if it meant I wouldn’t get anything out of it in return. I thought Brynn Fellows was beautiful, but I wasn’t even sure I’d give her my lunch if I were hungry enough. I certainly wouldn’t get a tattoo because of her.

“Why did you get the tattoo, though?”
I asked her.
“So my father would know you loved him?”

She shakes her head.
“I didn’t get it for your father, or even because of your father. I got it mostly for myself, because I knew with one hundred percent certainty I had learned how to love selflessly. It was the first time I wanted more happiness for the person I was with than I wanted for myself. And a mixture of my two favorite things was the only way I could think to describe the way that kind of love feels. I wanted to remember it forever, in case I never felt it again.”

I didn’t get to read the suicide letter she left, but I was curious if she had changed her mind about selfless love. Or if maybe she only loved my father selflessly, but never her own children. Because suicide is the most selfish thing a person can do.

After I found her, I checked to make sure she really was gone and then I called 911. I had to stay on the phone with the operator until the police arrived, so I didn’t have a chance to case her bedroom for a suicide note. The police found it and picked it up with a pair of tweezers and put it in a Ziploc bag. Once they sealed it up as evidence, I just didn’t have the balls to ask them if I could read it.