Page 39 of Gone Tonight
It’s past midnight now, and I’m in bed, wide awake. My mother is on the other side of our shared wall.
I walked around for hours after leaving Ethan’s bar. I was in such a daze I have no memory of what path I followed, and I didn’t notice blisters forming on both of my heels because I was wearing flats instead of my usual sneakers. I only turned toward home when I knew my mother would be asleep.
I can’t bear to see her.
I should be exhausted, but I’m as wired as if I just drank a pot of coffee.
I almost can’t believe what Ethan revealed, that my mother might have drugged him. That she tried to ruin my relationship with him.
Almost.
Our apartment is as quiet as a graveyard now. I slip out of bed and pull on my robe.
I walk out of my bedroom, my footsteps light, using the flashlight on my cell phone to guide me. I enter the living room and begin to search.
Everyone keeps something from their past—a letter, a memento, a photo. If my mother has a talisman, she must have hidden it well.
Even if she doesn’t, some object I’ve seen a thousand times before could hold new meaning now that I’m seeing my mother in a different light. I want to examine the tangible things that compose our lives.
I begin in one corner of the room and work my way through a kind of search grid. I look under the carpet. I lift up every sofa cushion. I even peek behind the prints on our walls.
There’s nothing.
I carry a chair into the kitchen so I can stand on it and peer all the way in the back of the high cupboards. There’s nothing unusual there, other than a dusty box of Rice Krispies I wasn’t aware we had. I step down and work my way through the lower cabinets. Our usual staples are there: rigatoni, pasta sauce, black beans, brown rice, granola bars, chamomile tea. I’m checking the storage drawer at the bottom of the oven when I hear the creak that means my mother’s door is opening.
I turn off my flashlight as goose bumps rise on my skin.
I can’t tell if she’s coming my way.
There’s no reason to feel afraid. I could say I’m getting a glass of water. It’s not like she hasn’t ever walked in on me in the kitchen and seen me doing just that.
But my mother knows me so well.
I can’t shake the sense that if she sees my face, she will instantly know what I’m up to.
I hear the sound of the toilet flush, then, a moment later, my mother’s door closes.
I wait a few breaths, then resume my search.
My mother seemed to have materialized at the age of eighteen, when she had me. It’s as if we were both born at the same time. She conceals her past well, but nobody moves through the world without leaving a trace.
I can’t find one in the kitchen, though. I walk back through the living room and see my mother’s purse hanging on the hook by the front door.
I walk toward it and lift it off, then carry it into my bedroom.
I close my door and wait. I think I hear a faint rustling sound on the other side of the wall, but I can’t say for sure. There’s no way my mother would need something from her purse at this hour, I assure myself.
I check the outer pocket first. All it contains are my mother’s keys and the container of Mace she keeps handy when she walks alone at night. Tucked inside the main section is a small makeup pouch that holds a cherry ChapStick, unscented hand lotion, and an emery board. No surprises there. My mother has used cherry ChapStick for as long as I can remember, and she tries to take care of her hands since they get a beating at work.
I take out her wallet and begin pulling items from its folds, placing them on my bedspread. I look at her driver’s license first. In the photo, she is unsmiling. She has an ATM card for our joint account, a Visa credit card, and a few coupons. In the slot for cash are a lot of fives and ones. Tip money.
I feel around in the space behind the card slot panel and come across something else. I slide out two crisp fifty-dollar bills, which I guess my mom keeps for emergencies. But there’s one more item tucked behind them. It’s a different kind of card, one I didn’t know she possessed.
A library card.
I turn it over in my hand and recognize her faded, nearly illegible signature on the back: Ruth M. Sterling.
My mother used to take me to the library when I was younger. On my first visit, I got my very own card and felt so proud when the librarian slid that laminated rectangle over the counter to me.
