Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,63
need to be kept busy, so.”
“Doesn’t it make you sad to think aliens would have all the same problems we do?”
“That’s why the joke works.”
Lena leaned her head against the car window, made a show of yawning. She shut her eyes.
Smith touched her shoulder and said they were at her mother’s. Despite everything, she smiled. Their little yellow house. Across the street, Miss Cassandra’s hibiscuses were bright pink. Lena got out of the car. Smith popped the trunk and she pulled out her backpack. She was caught between a desire to be polite and say goodbye and the urge to run into the house and hug her mom. Lena put up her hand like a crossing guard telling someone to stop. He took it as a wave, returned it, and drove away.
Lena pulled out her keys, unlocked the front door. The house smelled different, like popcorn and violet soap. Her mother was awake; she could hear her singing loudly along to the radio in the kitchen. The living room was mostly clean, with some kicked-off shoes on the floor. A cooking magazine drooped off the couch.
“Mom.”
Lena’s mother dropped the coffee mug she had been holding and hugged her. They were laughing and crying and Deziree was saying, “This is the best surprise.” In the flurry of hugging and emotions and I-missed-yous, Lena could see how her mother had changed. She was standing straight, her voice was clear, her eyes bright.
“Oh baby, you look rough.”
“I’m getting over a virus,” Lena said. “And I was feeling burned out, so.”
“Let me make you breakfast. Coffee.”
Her mother let go of her to pull out pancake batter, eggs, milk. The wall closest to the kitchen table had a long, forest-green streak on it. The rest of the wall was still painted cream. Color cards were taped to the wall: jade, eucalyptus, malachite, cactus, Joshua tree, fig, sea glass, sorcerer’s mist. Deziree heated butter in a pan and turned down the radio. The coffeemaker blew steam out its top. In the chair that used to be her grandma’s place at the table were two shoeboxes stacked on top of each other.
“What color are you thinking?”
“I was thinking perfect chameleon.”
It sounded gross, but it did look nice. A softer color. Although Lena preferred English cottage ivy.
“If you want, we can paint the kitchen while I’m here.”
Her mother laughed. She was wearing a robe Lena had never seen before—floral pinks, silky—over her usual sweatpants and tank top. Deziree poured batter into the pan.
“I like your robe.”
“It was a gift.”
Lena pulled out plates, silverware, mugs. She went to the refrigerator, found some bacon. She fried it on the burner next to her mother. Deziree kept pausing to touch Lena—the top of her head, a squeeze of her arm or her shoulder, a small hand in the middle of her back. Home was the sounds of them cooking together, their voices harmonizing when a song they both knew and liked came on the radio, her mother’s deep laugh. Lena pushed herself to be present, not to let her mind whir to why she was allowed here. Not to think, they’re only letting me see my mom because it will make me want to stay in the studies. I am being manipulated. Deziree made a pancake in the shape of an “L.”
After breakfast, Deziree carried the shoeboxes from the kitchen to the living room. Set them on the couch, patted the spot next to them.
“These are filled with some of Mom’s papers. I think she would have wanted you to have some of them.”
The top box had journals, loose sheets of paper, notes, letters, recipes. The other box had pictures of Lena when she was young. Second grade: a peony-pink dress with a frilly white collar, no front teeth. First grade: a pair of black overalls with a long-sleeve white shirt beneath it. More pictures, more papers.
“There are other boxes in her room,” Deziree said. “I’m just taking my time.”
“Mom, I can do it, if it’ll be easier. It’s not a problem for me.” It was, but she couldn’t stop herself from offering.
“I like it. It’s why I’m taking my time. I get to see her better. I’m not purple to let her go.”
Deziree paused. “I meant yet, not purple.”
“I know.”
“So.” Deziree leaned forward. “I have a date tonight. I can definitely cancel it.”
“What? Really? The same guy?”
“Yes. Miguel.” Deziree smiled as she said his name. “He’s very nice.”
“You should go.” Lena knew she sounded polite to the point of being