Chapter 8
The parking lot at Mom's apartment was empty except for the dumpster and my school bus stop sign. Mom didn't turn off the car right away. We just sat there in our dresses, the heat still running, and I could hear the beaded clutch in my lap every time I shifted.
She was still breathing like she had been in the ballroom, slow through her nose. Her hands were on the wheel at ten and two even though we were parked.
"You still want to see it?" she asked.
I nodded. I didn't know what it I was nodding to.
Inside, the hallway smelled like the carpet cleaner they used on Thursdays. Mom kicked off her heels by the door and I left mine next to hers. My feet hurt. The apartment was cold, and the bedroom light made everything look more yellow than it had at the hotel. The chandeliers were gone and it was just lamps and laundry baskets again.
Mom went straight to her dresser. She didn't change first. The dark off-the-shoulder dress still had that crease where she'd been sitting, and her teardrop earrings caught the light when she moved. She pulled the bottom drawer open and took out a small navy velvet box. I recognized it. It lived on top of her dresser usually, next to her hand cream. She'd never let me play with it.
She set it on the bed and flipped the little gold clasp.
It was empty. The white satin inside had two dents where the strands had sat for as long as I could remember. There was a faint circle pressed into the satin where the clasp of the necklace had been.
She didn't say anything for a second. She just let me look.
"I kept it here," she said. "Every day since we moved."
I touched the edge of the box. The velvet was worn where her fingers had opened it before.
Under the satin lining, there was a folded piece of paper. Mom lifted the lining carefully and pulled it out. It was thin, lined paper, folded in thirds, yellow at the edges.
"Your grandmother wrote this," she said. "When she gave them to me."
She unfolded it and handed it to me. The handwriting was small and slanted, blue ink that had faded.
I read it standing there in my blue velvet dress. For my daughter on her wedding day — These pearls went with me through everything. Wear them when you need to feel me with you. Someday, give them to Lily when she's old enough to understand what they mean. Love, Mom.
The date at the top was Mom's wedding date. Ten years before I was born.
My throat got tight before I realized what I was feeling. They weren't just Mom's necklace. They were supposed to be mine.
"She meant for you to have them," Mom said quietly. She was watching my face, not the note.
I looked up at her. "You never told me."
"I was going to," she said. "When you were older. Sixteen, maybe. I wanted you to have them for homecoming or something. Not like this."
I folded the note back the way it was, trying to match the creases exactly. My hands were shaking a little and I couldn't get the last fold right. Mom didn't help me. She let me do it.
"I thought it was just a necklace she liked," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
"It was never just a necklace," Mom said.
She took the note and placed it back under the satin and closed the box. The clasp clicked. She set the box back on the dresser, centered it like she always did.
Then she picked up her phone from the dresser. Her lipstick was gone now, wiped off in the car with a napkin.
She opened her messages and typed with both thumbs. I saw Dad's name at the top. She held the phone so I could see while she typed.
The pearls belong to my mother and to Lily. Return them to the apartment mailbox by noon tomorrow. No Vanessa. Only you. - Sarah
She read it once, then pressed send before she could change anything. The whoosh sound was loud in the quiet bedroom.
She set the phone face down on the dresser next to the velvet box.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it," she said. "Noon tomorrow. That's the boundary."
May you like
I sat on the edge of her bed. The silver beaded clutch was still in my hand. I hadn't put it down since the hotel. The pearls were still out there on Vanessa's neck, but now I knew exactly where they were supposed to be, and whose handwriting said so.
Mom sat next to me. She didn't fix my hair or tell me it would be okay. She just sat there with me, both of us still in our gala clothes, looking at the empty box.
