The Amanda Project: Book One

The Amanda Project: Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The first thing I did when I got home was race upstairs, shut my door, and lock it-like I was being chased or something. Then I sat on my bed and stared at the envelope. Roger. There was the familiar downward swoop of the R, the little twist in the g. I'd never thought of my mom as having particularly distinctive writing, but now I realized just how familiar it was, like her voice or her face. It was unique. It was her.

I slid my finger under the flap. Maybe because it had gotten wet since being opened, the paper stuck a little and then tore. I wasn't worried about Thornhill noticing anymore, though-at some point I'd realized he was never going to be getting this back.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with the logo in the corner. It might have been torn from one of the thousands of identical pads we had all over our house-five by seven sheets of white paper we used for grocery lists and scrap paper everywhere.

Roger, I have to leave town and I need you to look after Callie. As you know, for her own safety, I can't tell her goodbye. I love her so much, Roger. If there is any way for you to keep an eye on her, to let her know how much I love her, I would be so grateful.

 

Underneath, my mother had signed her name, the broad U dwindling down to a jagged line as it ran almost to the edge of the page.

I raised my eyes, but my room, the most familiar place in the world to me, suddenly felt strange, like it was a place I'd never been before.

My mother was alive.

She was alive and she loved me.

She had had to leave town. For her own safety, I can't tell her goodbye. I wanted to run, singing, down the stairs, and into my dad's workshop. She's alive, Dad! She's alive!

I was off the bed and halfway across the room before I stopped. What would my dad's reaction to this note be? I pictured him, heading off to Thornhill's house or office and pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. My mom was scared for my safety, and maybe even for her own. What would happen if my dad caused a scene and someone overheard, someone who wanted to know where she was?

For some reason my mom hadn't told my dad she was going. So maybe he needed to be protected, too. Maybe so protected he couldn't even know . . .

For a second I stood there, my eyes on the door, the note in my hand. If my mom hadn't wanted to tell my dad, was it okay for me to tell him? What if something really bad happened? What if he could get hurt, or she could? Slowly, I made my way into the hallway and then into my parents' room, where I opened her closet and stepped inside.

The first thing I noticed was the smell-my mom always wore the same perfume, Chanel No.5, and every one of her shirts and sweaters must have had a touch of it. I stepped up to a wall of suits and blouses and breathed deeply-it was like she'd just taken them off.

She loved me. My mom loved me. She hadn't wanted to leave . . . she'd had to leave. As I touched first one shirt and then another, and then moved from shirts to sweaters to jackets to shoes, it felt like I was going through a photo album of my mother. Snap! Here she was dropping me off at school. Snap! Here she was coming in the door after work. Snap! Going out for dinner with my dad. Snap! Working in the garden. Snap! Cooking dinner. Snap! Dancing around the kitchen to some old, cheesy song on the radio. Snap! Snap! Snap!