Page 94 of Such Sheltered Lives
I never knew (or more accurately, never cared to know) how much mymother loved being onstage, singing for strangers, listening to them sing her own words back to her. I finally understand why she was constantly writing, singing, marking her body with words for strangers to read. Maybe I’d have known it sooner if I hadn’t been so determined not to hear what her fans had to say.
I bite my thumbnail, guilt twisting in my stomach.Ishould’ve been the one asking questions, not last night, but immediately after Georgia died, when everyone’s memories were fresh and clear. Naomi and I should’ve insisted on an autopsy, rather than take the coroner at his word, then cremating Georgia’s remains. (What Georgia wanted, Naomi said, even though it’s against Jewish tradition.) If the police refused to investigate, I should’ve tracked down not only the bartender and the driver but also the local police chief who got the call that she was dead, the housekeeper who cleaned her cottage—anyonewho might have come into contact with her during her stay on the island. Who knows what they might have seen, what their stories, woven together, might have revealed?
Instead, I came to the island and searched only for answers about my mother’s disease, as though nothing else about her mattered. Did I forget—or did I never know to begin with (yet another gap in the things I thought I knew)—that there was more to her than her illness?
Maybe I forgot there’s more to me than mine, too.
The flight attendant walks down the aisle, handing out breakfast. I place my hand over my heart, feeling its beat. It wasn’t Georgia butmewho was cavalier with the rules of life and death, neglecting the responsibility of having a body.
When the attendant gets to my row, I don’t pretend to sleep. I accept the tray she offers. Airplane food isn’t exactly appetizing. No one would blame me if I shoved the tray away, refused to eat, spat each morsel from my mouth. I think of Milo and the cereal he slipped between my lips this morning.
I open my phone’s texts, scroll to the name I’ve been avoiding.
I’m sick, Jonah. Maybe you knew that already, but I never actually told you.
I steady my hands, then type,When I get home, I’m entering treatment.
Slowly, I open a shiny foil packet of butter, spread it over a slice ofcrumbly bread, so stale it practically dissolves in my mouth. The butter is the texture of glue. A day ago, Maurice would have cooked me anything I asked for with a smile, but today my arms ache where he gripped them. I take three bites. I feel the calories enter my bloodstream, consider rushing to the bathroom. I tighten my seat belt, stare at my phone, and start a new text thread.
I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye,I write to Edward.I have so much to tell you.
I return to Sonja’s profile, balancing my phone on top of Georgia’s notebook. After a childhood growing up in magazines and blogs, I kept my social media accounts private, anonymous, using them for ED tips and not much else. I don’t have a legion of devoted followers.
But Sonja does. More than one hundred thousand people follow her.
Maybe the truth about what happened to Georgia won’t be proven with subpoenaed records and testimony under oath. And maybe Sonja, even with her many followers, can’t keep Shocking Pink from going on tour without Georgia. But, I think as I clutch the notebook tight, there’s another way to get justice for my mother.
It won’t be another story.
Before I can send a DM, my phone vibrates in my hand. It’s a text from Edward, two small words.
Me too,he says.
I turn back to Mom’s notebook. By the time I land, I’ll know every song inside by heart.
Let me tell you what I know now.
She was singing to me all along.
