Page 24 of Gone Tonight
She leans in and gives me a hug. Melanie smells like my mother always does when she comes home from work. Her skin is perfumed with the scent of the kitchen grill.
I’ve always liked Melanie. She has a gap between her front teeth that makes her big smile seem even more genuine, and her voice holds the gentle lilt of her Southern roots.
“It’s been forever, girl.” Melanie pulls back, beaming. “Congrats on graduating. Your mom is so proud.”
I thank her, and as we chat an idea floats into my mind. My mother is fiercely private. She won’t tell Sam or Melanie about her diagnosis, at least not until she absolutely must. When work gets to be too much for my mom—when she can’t find her way to the diner and wanders the streets, or starts a grease fire, or makes so many mistakes customers are in an uproar—she’ll get fired.
I’m not going to let things reach that point.
I need eyes on my mom when I’m not around. I’d planned to ask Sam, but he can be a little grumpy. Even though I don’t know Melanie terribly well since she lives across town, and she and my mom socialize every month or so at a bar midway between their places, she’s my best bet.
I’m about to ask Melanie if I can have her cell phone number so I can call her about a private matter when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I twist around and see my mom.
Her reaction is the opposite of Melanie’s. She’s frowning.
“What are you doing here?”
I keep my tone light. “I had a craving for French fries.”
Mom’s expression tells me that if Melanie weren’t witnessing this, we’d be having a different conversation.
“You came all this way for fries?”
“Aww, what a nice daughter,” Melanie interjects. “Ruth, I can cover for you if you want to take a few.”
“I’m already in the weeds. Thanks, though.”
A customer signals for his check and Melanie excuses herself to head to his table.
“Fries and an iced tea?” my mom asks.
A flutter of memory: We’re in a restaurant my mom worked at long ago, and she’s serving me a tall glass of iced tea with a long silver spoon in it. I must’ve been about six or seven. It tasted delicious. I didn’t know until later that she’d cut it with lemonade.
I still drink my iced tea that way, but now I know to ask for an Arnold Palmer—except when my mom is offering. She knows exactly what I like without my having to specify.
My mom and I share a language that’s all our own, one we’ve constructed through the years. We saypippleinstead of “apple” because I couldn’t pronounce the name of the fruit when I was a toddler, and she decided the term I came up with was better than the original.Rockamoleis “guacamole” for the same reason. Anyone who’s long-winded is aDarryl,because we once had a loquacious neighbor by that name.
In a year or two, our shared language, one that’s unique to us, will disappear, too.
I give myself a mental shake. If I focus on everything I’m going to lose, I’ll also lose the present moment.
And I have a mission to complete today.
My mom swings by with my fries and drink a few minutes later, sliding a bottle of ketchup closer to me because she knows how much I love it.
The fries are golden brown and crispy. But any pleasure I’d normally get from biting into them is muted.
I keep my eyes on Melanie, but she doesn’t come near my stool again. I finally seize my chance when my mother goes to take an order from a table of eight. They’re probably office mates who work together in one of the buildings on this street. She greets them like they’re regulars.
I keep glancing at my mom while simultaneously trying to catchMelanie’s attention. When she finally looks my way, I gesture for her to come over.
“Listen, I can’t talk long but I need to tell you something,” I whisper. “My mom, she’s sick…”
My throat constricts. Melanie doesn’t flinch or retreat in the face of strong emotion, the way so many people do.
“What is it, honey?”
