Ghost Time

the truck. It took about five minutes for them to finish up, while Mom and I stood in the living room, looking at it, nothing to say. So when we heard them open their doors, we locked up for the last time and we got in Mom’s car, ready to follow the moving van to the storage unit. I’d been thinking about that moment for a couple weeks, and to be honest, I was glad they’d taken the boxes away, because it was too painful. But once I got in the car and put on my seat belt, looking at our house one last time, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready to go.
    Wait, I said, and I told my mom I had to pee. I held my breath while she reached for her purse and took out some Kleenex and handed them to me with her set of house keys, because I didn’t even have my own keys anymore. I don’t know if she knew or not, but I didn’t have to pee; I wanted to be in our house, alone, for a few minutes. I wanted to say good-bye in my own way.
    The thing is, when I walked in, it didn’t feel like our house anymore. I’d never seen it like that, so empty and naked and… lonely . Our house had never been lonely before; it always had us there. It was too much, so I went upstairs, heading toward my room, but before I got to the end of the hall, I stopped in my parent’s bedroom, their old bedroom, whatever, facing the driveway. The curtains were still there, because Mom was just too burned out by the very end to pull them down, and she didn’t want things from that room anymore, anyway, she said. So I walked over, and I stood, looking out the window. My mom had gotten out of the car, and she’d turned her back to the house, leaning against her car door.
    She was smoking. She’d started smoking again. We’d gotten into it a few times, and then she gave me, Who’s the mom here, you or I? I said, If you have to ask, that’s a problem, don’t you think? She knew, at the very least, she couldn’t smoke in the car, because I get carsick, but still. It was gross, and it was needy, and to me, it seemed like she was turning into this sad, old divorced woman, overnight, and it made me so angry. Everything was making me so angry, and then, catching her, sneaking in another smoke, I wanted to knock on the window, yell down at her, but I didn’t. I just stood there watching her leaning against the car, smoking, and I was just like, Who is this woman, and what have you done to my mother?
    You know they must do something, real estate agents, to get the old juju or mojo or whatever you want to call it out of house—us, how to get us out. I mean, you don’t just walk into an empty house where people have lived twelve years and not feeltheir presence. It’s not the same as ghosts, but it’s haunted in a way, because if you ask me, the living can be as haunted as the dead. And looking around their bedroom, I thought, How do I say good-bye to my own life? You want to know? I’ll tell you how: in as few words as possible.
    You know, to this day, after everything that’s happened—the divorce, moving to this town, my breakdown, the hospital, all of it, my mom still tries talking to me about it sometimes. Like when my dad calls and I won’t return his calls, she’s always telling me that I’m the one being eaten up by my anger. She always says I’m the one who pays the price, and she might be right, but I’m just like, Well, the thing is, I can afford to pay right now. I mean, I’m fifteen, I’m allowed to hate my dad, you know? And the truth is, I can’t forgive him for what he did to us, not yet. And honestly, I know it makes me sound like a terrible person, but I’m not sure if I ever will forgive him. It’s like, I know forgiveness is divine, but maybe I don’t need to be divine, maybe I just need to be a girl.

TUESDAY, MAY 17, 2011
    (SIX WEEKS LATER)
    5:42 PM
    It was nice out, so when I got to their house, Knox helped Mel out of her chair, and I spread out a blanket, even though Melody never liked lying on the blanket. So we lay on the blanket until Knox went inside, because he didn’t like her on the grass and he wouldn’t listen. Anyhow, after he went in, I slipped the blanket out, beneath her, so she could feel the grass.
    You want to hear a new scene I’m working on for La Marxiste ? she said, knowing the answer was yes. That’s what we decided to call our film, La Marxiste , the story of Violaine, the beautiful runaway time-traveling teenage girl. So I’d bring Mel playlists, and she’s tell me about a new scene