I don't know how long she can keep this up.
She doesn't seem bothered or worried at all. Killer lies on the floor near my feet, watching her. It's late afternoon on Saturday, and as much as I love my mother, and am grateful to get the chance to spend some time with her, I'm already bored shitless in this place.
I wonder how Naz is doing. I want to call him, to hear his voice, to see what he's up to, but I resist the urge. My hand absently drifts up to the necklace around my neck, and I tinker with the small pendant he gave me. I wonder if he's thinking about me, too. I wonder if he misses me yet.
"Is that new?"
My mother's voice draws my attention back to her. She's watching me. "Uh, yeah."
"It's pretty," she says, stepping closer. She grasps the necklace, eyeing it. "Where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift from a friend."
Her eyes narrow as she reads the inscription. "Carpe Diem."
"Yeah, it's a Latin saying." Standing up, I switch the subject. "I'm hungry. Is that hot dog place still around the corner? I can grab us some lunch."
"Yeah," she mumbles. "How about I come with you? I'll close up a little early today."
I wait for her to finish what she's doing, crumbling up my pathetic start of an essay and toss it in her trashcan. We head out, strolling down the sidewalk, Killer wandering along right behind us. My mother seems on edge now, eyes darting around nervously. Halfway there she stops abruptly, shoulders squaring, body tensing as she scans the traffic flowing by on Main Street.
"Mom?" I grab her arm. "Are you okay?"
She blinks a few times, turning to me, and forces a smile. "Yeah, I've just been thinking... this town is getting so big lately. So many new people. Nothing like it used to be."
"It seems the same to me."
Even smaller, maybe.
"I don't know," she says hesitantly. "I think it might be time to move on now."
"But you love it here," I say. "And you have the shop."
"I can open a shop anywhere," she says. "Maybe out west. Finally get away from New York for good. You've always wanted to see California."
"Yeah, but..."
I don't know what to say.
"We can get a little house near the water," she says. "Killer will love the beach. It's perfect. It'll be just like old times, you and me on the open road, starting over brand new somewhere. What do you say, Kissimmee?"
"Mom, I can't move to California."
"Why not?"
"Because I have school," I say. "I have a life in the city."
"You can have a life anywhere."
Her blasé attitude about it frustrates to the point that it almost hurts. Will she ever understand my need for stability? My need for somewhere to finally call home?
"I like my life here," I say. "For the first time, I have friends, friends that really know me, friends I want to keep. I don't want to leave them."
She shakes her head, appearing distraught, like she hadn't anticipated me resisting. It was different when I was younger. When she said go, I had to go. But now I'm grown. Now I'm off on my own.
"You don't understand," she says. "The city is just so dangerous."
"It's not… no more dangerous than anywhere else. It's my home. I can't just move again. I'm happy where I am."
She says nothing else about it.
She says nothing at all, to be frank.
She walks with me to get lunch, walks with me back to the shop, and drives us to the house in Dexter without uttering a single word to me. The night is strained. I go to bed early, lying in the small room and staring at the ceiling.
Guilt is eating away at me.
I hear her pacing the house, mumbling, words I can barely make out and am frightened to hear. The words 'Carpe Diem' come from her lips like she's a broken, skipping record, and I clutch the pendant of my necklace tightly, fighting back tears. Because I know she's talking to him, appealing to an invisible man named John, the one who walked out on her when I was born.
I know it's not my fault. Not my fault she's this way. Not my fault he left her. But fuck if I don't feel guilty anyway.
My door creeps open as I lay there. The latch on it never worked, making it easy for Killer to come in. He jumps up on the bed, taking up residence near my feet, curling up close to me.
Service is shoddy out here, the signal on my phone wavering between one and two bars, barely enough strength for me to make a call. I dial Naz's number, holding the phone to my ear, and drape my other arm over my eyes as I listen to it ring.
I don't know why I'm calling him, and I feel silly when his voicemail picks up. It's an automated message. I don't even get to hear his voice.
Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message and set my phone aside as I close my eyes, trying to get some sleep.
I wake up early Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the windows. I start to climb out of bed, hearing my mother moving around the house, when my phone beeps at me. I pick it up, glancing at the screen. One missed call. Naz.
He didn't leave a message, either.
Sunday's better, as my mother immerses herself in all things Easter, fresh lilies on the table and a vast array of food to eat. We watch movies and talk about good memories, neither of us mentioning any of the bad.
But Monday morning, when I wake up and pack my things to leave, the shame hits me like a freight train to the chest. We've reverted a few months, back to last August, like I'm leaving her for the first time all over again.
She has tears in her eyes when she drives me to the bus station. "Promise me you're being careful. Promise me you're staying safe."
"I promise, Mom."
For a second I wonder if I just lied to her, wondering what she'd think if I told her about Naz right now.
She'd probably kidnap me.
"I love you, Kissimmee," she says. "I'll call you, okay?"
I give her a quick hug, petting Killer as he pokes his head up from the backseat, and get out of the car before I make this any worse. I don't want to dwell. I can't dwell. My guilt will make me want to stay.
But every other part of me needs to go.
My paper on murder is only half written, scribbled on notebook paper on the bus on my way back to the city. I was too exhausted when I made it to the dorms to finish, too distracted to worry about typing it up all day.
My mother isn't answering her phone. Either I've upset her and she's avoiding me, or she's deep in the middle of moving already. Either way, it makes my guilt flare, and I spend all morning leaving messages, wishing she'd call me back.