finding jeans to wiggle over my ass, you think she’d be shooting confetti cannons over me being able to find a not hideous/not stretchy dress that zips. IT ZIPS.
But the room. There she is digging—pawing—through Lucy’s things and every little movement feels like I’ve accidentally touched the coils of a hot stove.
“What are you even doing in here?” My voice is already too loud and too sharp.
She glances back at me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She turns back. “This stuff can’t sit here forever. You know, I hope that when I die, you don’t let my belongings gather dust for months like this.”
“These are Lucy’s things, Mom. This stuff belongs to her.”
“Baby,” she says. “Belonged. These things belonged to her. We’re coming up on a year in December. I’m not lettin’ all this sit here like some kind of shrine.”
I shake my head. Tears spill out onto my cheeks. A year. A whole year. “Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”
She turns to me now. Panic flashes across her face. I think that maybe I will forever judge her based on what she does and says at this very moment. We don’t have this kind of relationship. I don’t cry on my mother’s shoulder. We dance around each other, but never intersect.
Her house shoes slap against the floor as she takes the few steps toward me.
I lean forward, expecting her to hug me. And I don’t mean her wrapping her arms around my waist, and commenting on how her fingers nearly touch. I mean a real hug. One I can sink into. “I’m taking all this stuff to the shelter this weekend. If there’s anything you want, now’s the time to pull it out.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m going to go put together some lunch before you have to go to work.”
The door closes behind her, and I sink down onto Lucy’s bed. The memory of the last few weeks washes over me.
I have no dress. A not-really-maybe boyfriend who I can’t bear to be seen with in public, because I feel that repulsive when I think of us standing side by side. Mitch, who I’ve been horrible to. My mom. Ellen. And no Lucy.
I need Lucy. She should be here to tell me what to do. Some solution that would never even occur to me without her.
I consider the things I can change.
The dress.
I could eat lettuce until the pageant and maybe then it will fit like how my mom had imagined. But then what? It’s that vicious dieting cycle, like when I was younger. I would lose the weight to wear the dress, and then what? I start eating food that’s not lettuce and gain it all back. Maybe even some extra.
All the pageant season diets my mom and I have done flip through my head like index cards. Protein bars in fourth grade. Weight Watchers in fifth. Salads in second. And none of it ever worked.
She wins. My mom wins. I didn’t even know this was some kind of competition with her until this moment. But I’m losing. I have no dress. Barely any talent. And an escort whose heart I’m breaking without him even knowing it.
If I do this pageant, I’ll make a point—that’s for sure. It just won’t be one I want to be remembered for.
FIFTY-TWO
Sitting in the break room later that night, I use a compact mirror to examine the green ring around my neck in the reflection. I snap the mirror shut like a clam, and take the fake gold necklace off and lay it out on the table. The gold chain is that twisty type of chain they sell at mall kiosks, and the charm says Dolly in a bubbly cursive script.
I ended up fitting as much of Lucy’s stuff as I could in my closet. I tried my best to get all her Dolly collectibles, including a pair of glitter-encrusted shoes Dolly wore to a show in Vegas. The soles are signed in her big loopy signature, proving their authenticity.
Bo plops down in the chair next to me. “What’s that?”
I drag the chain around with my index finger so that he can see it. “It was my aunt’s.”
He nods.
“My mom’s cleaning out her room. Again. It’s happened in small spurts in the last few months. But I think she’s serious this time.”
“I’m sorry.” He drags his finger along the chain. “When my mom was dying, she kinda cleaned out her room for us. Like, as soon as she found out