Author: Kristan Higgins

“Can I come with you?” I asked, and I hardly recognized my voice, it was so small and scared.

Only then did she spare me a glance. “Not this time,” she said, looking away. “Not this time.”

Half an hour later, she was gone.

NICK LET ME DRIVE. It took three hours and fifteen minutes to get to the exit for downtown Aberdeen, and by then, my hands were stiff, sweaty and clenched around the wheel.

Back when we were dating, I had told Nick a very sketchy version of my mother’s desertion, kept a blasé and cool attitude about it, sort of the “Ah, well, shit happens” take on the event. But I’d told him in the dark, in the middle of the night, and when I was done, I made him promise never to bring it up, a promise he honored.

Today, though, on the ride to Aberdeen this day, he got the full version. He let me tell the whole story without interrupting once, and when I was finished, he’d simply taken my hand and held it.

And now we were here.

According to the report Dirk Kilpatrick, P.I., had given me, my mother had worked in Aberdeen for the past three years as a waitress at a place called Flopsy’s, home of the best milkshakes in the Midwest. The navigational system directed us to the restaurant, which turned out to be a rather cool-looking retro diner, chrome on the outside, a sign with Flopsy’s! in big green letters, an ice-cream cone outlined in neon jutting into the air.

Was she in there? My gorge rose at the thought, but my outward movements were smooth and controlled. I continued past Flopsy’s and pulled over onto a side street about half a block away, turned off the engine and just sat for a minute. The day was cool and cloudy, but I was sweating like a racehorse nonetheless. Pretty.

“Harper,” Nick said, turning to face me. “What exactly do you hope is going to happen here?” It was the first time he’d spoken in some time.

I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, and my voice was strange, “I guess I just want to see her again. Ask her why she left and never…you know. Came back. Or wrote. Well, she did write. Those four postcards.”

Nick nodded. “Do you know what you want to say?”

“I guess just…‘Hi, Mom.’ Do you think I should say that? Or ‘Hi, Linda’? Or maybe something else?”

He shook his head. “You say whatever you want to, honey. Spit in her face if you want. Kick her in the shins.” He gave a smile that didn’t quite make it.

I nodded, but the truth was, my heart was kicking so fast and hard in my chest it felt as if I’d swallowed an enraged mule. When she’d first left, I’d spent night after night twisting in the chilly arms of insomnia, wondering what I’d done to ruin everything. Why hadn’t I been different? Or better? Or sweeter? Why hadn’t I seen her unhappiness and stopped it? Why was I so stupid? Later, I could see—intellectually, anyway—that it wasn’t my fault…I was just a kid, just thirteen years old. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that knowledge seemed to float above my heart, whereas blame sliced effortlessly right to the center.

I had pictured our reunion thousands of times. When I was still young, I’d imagined the joy, the bliss on her face as she saw me, whereupon she’d explain everything—she was a Mafia princess, you see, and she’d had to testify against her family. Or she was a CIA agent, and staying with us would’ve endangered our very lives, but now it was safe, and we could be together again. As the years passed, the fantasy changed—she’d be the one to track me down (it was probably no coincidence that I’d stayed on Martha’s Vineyard). She’d be full of remorse and grief that so many years had passed without me, and she’d tell me what a huge mistake she’d made, that she’d thought of me every day, never stopped loving me, I was the one and only thing in her life that mattered.

And then, in recent years, I’d imagine learning that she was dead, and how I’d react to the phone call that told me the news. How broken I’d be at all that would never happen now. I guess that’s what made me ask Dirk to track her down.

Now that the moment was finally upon me, I wasn’t sure what to do.

Nick squeezed my hand. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“That’d be great,” I whispered. “What about Coco?” I asked, suddenly panicked. “What if they don’t let dogs in?”

“Why don’t we just leave her in the car?” he suggested. “She’ll be fine. We’ll leave the windows open a few inches. It won’t get too hot.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I’ll come back and check on her if you want.”

“Okay. Thanks, Nick.”

He gave me a little smile. “You ready?”

“Not really,” I said, but I opened the door anyway. My legs felt made of water, and Nick took my hand in his as we walked down the street, toward my past, toward my answers, toward her.

We came to the crosswalk. Right over there, across the street, my mother might be inside. Would she look different? What if she wasn’t scheduled for today? What if she’d quit? I swallowed.

“You sure about this, honey?” Nick asked.

I looked at him. “Yes. Yep. I’m sure.”

And then we crossed the street, and Nick opened the first set of doors into the restaurant foyer. I froze. “I don’t see her,” I said.

“Want to go in anyway?” he asked. I nodded, and he opened the second set of doors. A cash register. Green-and-white décor. A counter with stools. Booths.

There she was.

My mother.

Nick must’ve seen the resemblance, too, because I heard his quick inhalation. His hand found mine once more.

She wore black pants and a lime-green shirt. Her hair, once the same shade as mine, was redder now, and cut in a wedge style. She wore peach lipstick. White Keds. She was fifty-five years old, but she looked younger. She was still beautiful, and it was so strange, looking at her, seeing myself in twenty more years, I felt a flash of gratitude that I’d age well, and then a flood of longing so hard and fast my knees almost buckled and I couldn’t breathe.

“Welcome to Flopsy’s!” cried a voice, causing me to jump. “Can I help you?”

I turned to see a girl of about sixteen or so, her hair French-braided tightly back from her face.

“Table for two,” Nick said.

“Right this way!” she chirped, grabbing two menus.

My heart rolled and flopped in my chest as the girl led us to a table by the windows. She was so close now, but she was turning away, had she seen me, was she leaving?—no!—but it was okay, she wasn’t leaving, she was just talking to the cook.

“Two coffees,” Nick said.

“Your server will be right over,” the teenager said, practically skipping away.

“Harper,” Nick said in a low voice. “Harper, are you okay?” He reached across the table and took both my hands in his. “Honey?”

“I’m really glad you’re here,” I whispered.

And then the kitchen doors swung open, and my mother came over and took out her pad, groped in her apron for a pen. “Hello there,” she said, and her voice! My God, I hadn’t heard that voice in so long! It was still the same, and my heart flooded with love and hope.

“Hi,” I breathed. I drank in every detail…her still perfect makeup, her eyebrows, waxed thinner than they used to be, that mole on her cheek…I’d forgotten that mole! How could I have forgotten that mole?

“Can I get you folks a drink to start? We have the best milkshakes in the Midwest!”

Then she looked at me, right at me, and I waited for it—the shock, the recognition, the tears, the explanation, the utter and complete joy. The same love I felt right now.

“Or maybe just some coffee?” she said.

She was looking at me, but her expression remained the same. Pleasant. Querying. She glanced at Nick and smiled. “Anything to drink, folks?”

“Coffee will be fine,” someone answered. Oh. It was me.

“Coming up!” she said merrily. “We’ve got a tuna melt special today, and save room for some blueberry pie, because it just came out of the oven. Back in a sec!”

And then she was gone.

“Christ,” Nick breathed.

I didn’t say anything. My heart slowed and calmed…and seemed to freeze. Maybe it had stopped completely. But no, it was still pumping away. Right. I was fine. It didn’t matter. Then, realizing I hadn’t blinked in some time, I closed my eyes for a second.

“Oh, honey,” Nick said gently.

“Bye, Carrie, you have a great day, okay?” my mother called to someone. She came back to our table with two mugs, set them down and poured our coffee. “You folks decided what you want?” she asked.

Did she really not recognize me? But I was her baby…her only child. I was her little girl. And damn it to hell, I looked exactly like her.

“I’ll have the tuna melt,” I said, and my voice was normal.

“Same,” Nick said.

“Fries or cole slaw?” she asked. I hated cole slaw. I hated it. Didn’t she remember that?

“Fries for us both,” Nick answered.

“Coming up!” she said, scooping our menus from the table. She strode away, stopped to chat with someone at the counter, then disappeared into the kitchen once more.

“Harper, say something to her,” Nick said. He got out of his seat, slid around to my side and put his arm around me. “Tell her who you are! I can’t believe she doesn’t know.”

My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “No, it’s okay. If she doesn’t want…uh…” My brain was having trouble operating. “I think we should go,” I whispered.

“Honey, you deserve something from that woman,” he said fiercely. “Do you want me to say something? Tell her who you are?”

“No!” I hissed. “No, Nick! Let’s just get out of here, okay? Please, Nick? Take me somewhere else, please. Please.”

He hesitated, then nodded and reached for his wallet.

“No. Let me.” I yanked my purse open, grabbed my wallet and took out a hundred dollar bill, tucked it under the sugar bowl. “Let’s go.”

It didn’t feel like walking…it was more like floating, slowly. Would she stop me? Call my name? Grab my arm and pull me into her arms, kiss me, crying, apologizing?

Nope. Nope to all of the above. Nick opened the door for me, and I went outside.

If my mother even noticed, she didn’t say a word.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I DIDN’T SEE THE street as we walked back, but here we were, right by the car. Nick opened the passenger door, and I got in, clipped the seat belt. My mind seemed to be an empty white space, and yet I noted everything. Clouds to the west. A yellow Mini Cooper, just like mine back home. Cool. Nick was doing something on his phone. Coco’s little nose against my chin, because apparently I was holding her. I kissed her silky head, felt her sweet little body, strong and fragile both. When we got back to the Vineyard, this dog was getting whatever she wanted. An hour of tennis-ball chasing on the beach. An evening of belly rubbing. Filet mignon for dinner, and lots of it.

“You sure you want to leave?” Nick said, looking at me.

I stared straight ahead. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He started the car, and off we went. A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of a large brick building. The Ward Hotel. Seemed nice. Nick went to the front desk and asked for a room. There was some discussion about Coco. Nick opened his wallet and took out some bills. The discussion ended.

I’d seen my mother today.

This huge swell of…something…rose up inside me like a gushing oil well at the bottom of a once-pristine ocean. Oh…crotch. I wasn’t going to…I couldn’t…I wasn’t the wailing type, was I? No. Of course not. I took a breath and tried to squash it, that dark and hungry thing, and I managed, shoving it down with all the strength I had.