Page 8 of Gone Tonight
I run to the front door and grab my purse. I burst into the hallway and head for the stairs, skimming my hand along the metal railing as I spin down four flights and push through the lobby door. Bright sunlight hits my eyes and I squint, searching my surroundings until I spot my mother halfway down the block.
“Wait!” I yell, running toward her.
My mother turns. As I draw closer, I think I see tears shimmering in her eyes, and it pulls me up short. My mother never cries.
I can’t leave her here at the bus stop, all alone. I want to be with her as much as I can, for as long as I can. Even if it’s just the two of us riding in our old Bonneville with the radio blaring, like we’ve done thousands of times before.
I know she doesn’t want any more questions. So I promise myself this will be the last one I’ll ask her right now: “Want a ride to work?”
CHAPTER SIXRUTH
Tucked in the back of my locker at work is a green spiral notebook. It’s so old the once-crisp page edges have turned to velvet.
There’s a blank box on the cover for your name.
Instead of mine, I inscribedFor Catherine Sterling.
I’ve made sure to put the notebook in a place someone will eventually discover should something happen to me.
The only problem is every page is blank.
I’ve been carrying it around ever since I left home, intending to write down my story for so long. But every time I try to begin, my pen refuses to move across the page.
Now I have no choice. I only hope I haven’t waited too long.
Sam’s is fairly quiet at the moment. The electric register beeps as the cashier rings up a man’s check, then the bell over the door sounds as he exits. In the kitchen, the cooks are slicing tomatoes and stacking individual leaves of lettuce like playing cards in silver bins, preparing for the next wave of customers.
My shift is over and I’ve closed out all my checks, but I’m not ready to leave yet.
Catherine is still at work. She told me she’s planning to let hersupervisor know she isn’t going to move to Baltimore, after all. She’ll stay by my side. I didn’t even have to ask.
I sense eyes on me and look up to catch a guy perched on one of the counter stools staring. Then I feel dampness on my cheeks. I wipe away my tears and whisper, “Allergies.”
I turn and walk down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen, heading past the restrooms into the small employee room. The combination to my locker is Catherine’s birthday. I take out my notebook and sit down heavily on the lone chair in the room.
I’ve thought through what I need to tell my daughter countless times. I’ve replayed certain scenes from my past so often it feels as if I’ve imprinted them in the grooves of my mind. The details I need to share with Catherine are as familiar to me as if they unspooled just last week instead of nearly twenty-five years ago.
Once I unclip a pen from my apron pocket and finally begin to write, it’s as if I’ve stored the words in a memory cloud, and they’re now gently raining down on me. It makes the task I’ve dreaded for so long as simple as taking dictation.
I’ve been thinking about where to begin, and I guess I’ll start with the day I met your… See, I’m already getting tripped up. He isn’t your dad. A father changes your diapers and teaches you how to ride a bike and reads you stories. He never did any of that.
James. His name is James.
I met him on the hottest day of the year, in August, right at the start of my junior year of high school.
The main thing you need to know about my high school is that, socially, it was run by a Queen Bee named Brittany. Her mom was the ringleader of the school moms.
Apple from the tree and all that.
Brittany and I were friends up until the ninth grade, when I grew boobs first and got asked to the Homecoming dance before she did. Brittany didn’t authorize that turn of events, and next thing I knew, I was uninvited to a group sleepover at her house.
I didn’t mind all that much. Being Brittany’s friend was a lot of work. There were rules involved. You had to love Madonna but not Whitney Houston. You were required to sit at a certain table in the lunchroom. For some reason, wearing a sweatshirt inside out was a thing. Brittany did it one day, then the next day so did half the girls in our class.
Brittany might have been content to quietly exile me, but there was one other thing she didn’t authorize.
I was the best dancer on our school’s Poms squad.
You know how some people can hear a song once and play it back on the piano? It’s like that with me and dancing. I don’t even have to think about it—my body just mimics whatever moves I see and comes up with new ones all its own.
