Chapter 14
Mom didn't start the car right away after we left the diner. The parking lot was still half full and Dad's car was still there near the back, but she just sat with her hands on the wheel and the little gray pouch in her lap. The pearls made a faint shape inside it. I could see the outline where they pressed against the fabric.
She pulled out onto the county road and the diner's neon sign got smaller in the side mirror. It was starting to get dark and the streetlights were coming on one by one. The heater made a soft rattling sound. I had my seatbelt on and my clutch on the floor by my feet. For a while neither of us said anything and the only sound was the tires on the road and Mom breathing.
"You were quiet in there," she said finally, without looking over. "Are you okay?"
I nodded, then realized she couldn't see it. "Yeah."
She glanced over at me quickly. "Thank you for what you said. About whose they were."
I picked at a thread on my dress. "Are you mad I didn't pick right away?"
"No, honey. I'm not mad." She kept her eyes on the road. The county road was empty except for a pickup going the other way. "I want you to know something about the ballroom. When you said, 'Mom, please don't leave.'"
I felt my face get warm because I remembered exactly how that had sounded. Loud and small at the same time.
"I didn't leave because I was mad at you," she said. Her voice was even. "And I wasn't trying to punish you by walking out. I left that room because if I'd stayed sitting there and watched her wear them on that stage and smiled for the pictures, I would have been saying it was okay. That it was okay to take them. And it wasn't okay."
I watched the yellow lines go by. "I thought you were leaving me."
She inhaled slowly. I could see her shoulders rise and fall. "I know you did. And I'm sorry it felt that way. But I didn't leave you, Lily. I left his event. There's a difference. I will always take you with me. Even when I have to walk away from something."
I looked down at the pouch in her lap. She had one hand resting lightly on top of it like she was making sure it was still there.
"So you left for self-respect," I said. The words felt big saying them out loud.
Mom gave a small nod. "Yeah. That's a good way to put it. I left for self-respect. If I'd stayed, I would have taught myself to accept being stolen from. I didn't want you to learn that from me."
We stopped at the light by the gas station where County Road 9 meets Main. She tapped her fingers once on the wheel while we waited.
"Is Dad going to come back to the apartment?" I asked. I hadn't planned to ask it, it just came out. "Like, to live?"
The light turned green and she eased forward. Her mouth was a straight line for a second before she answered.
"No," she said. "That's not happening. I told him today he needs to bring his key back. He doesn't get to have access to our place anymore, not after he went into my jewelry box without asking. That boundary is permanent."
I swallowed. "Even if he says sorry?"
"Even if he says sorry," she said. "Sorry doesn't give someone a key back. Trust is different from forgiveness. I can forgive him and still not let him have a key."
I thought about our apartment door and the little hook by the kitchen where Dad's spare key used to hang. He'd put it there the week after he moved out so he could let himself in to fix the sink. Mom hadn't taken it down until last weekend.
"Okay," I said quietly.
She pulled into our apartment parking lot and parked in our spot under the cracked light. She put the car in park but didn't turn it off right away. The engine hummed.
She turned to look at me fully then. Her eyes were tired but not red anymore.
"When you said 'please don't leave' in the ballroom, I heard you," she said. "I hear you now too. I am not going anywhere. Not from you. Do you understand that part?"
I nodded and this time she saw it. A small pause hung between us the way it had at the diner, but it wasn't heavy.
"I understand," I said. "You left the party, not me."
May you like
Her face softened, just a little around the eyes. "Exactly. I left the party, not you."
She turned the key and the engine stopped. The parking lot went quiet except for crickets starting up by the sidewalk. The pouch was still in her lap, safe. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached over and squeezed my hand once. Her hand was warm. We sat there a second longer before we got out, and for the first time since the chandeliers and the stage, I didn't feel like I had to hold my breath to keep her next to me.
