forbidding look on her face that warned me not to ask any more. She hung up the dress and put on her jeans and a tie-dyed top. Then we went to the party together.
Remembering all of it—my mother’s life and death—puts me in a sad mood. In fact, during the entire first two weeks of October, I’m in a bit of a funk. Finally, after passing the locked door to her room for the thousandth time, I decide to try once more to break in.
This time I move a lot more quickly—I don’t want anyone catching me. I hop over the railing and leap to the balcony without a moment’s hesitation. From my back pocket I take the file I’d nabbed for my previous attempt, and I jimmy the window in a matter of seconds. Pretty impressive, actually. You’d think I was a professional cat burglar or something.
I somersault through the window, landing on the floor with a loud thump. Dust rises around me in a soft cloud, which then dissipates. The room is completely dark. Cautiously, I crack open the curtains of one window. As light fills the room, I sit down with a soft gasp.
She’s here. My mother, I mean. Not literally, of course. But her presence is everywhere. The room smells like cloves and baby powder. A cold feeling begins to well up in my throat. I forgot about how much she loved baby powder. If I hadn’t come in here, that memory would be gone. What else of her am I losing? What else have I forgotten?
My grandmother, apparently, hasn’t touched a thing since my mother left. It makes me even sadder: We share this horrible loss, but we’re never able to break down the wall between us enough to talk about it. For one thing, I should thank her for leaving this room so intact. Because Louisa Lee is everywhere—the place is like a museum to her life. The room smells like the dried flowers she used to love; the bed is covered in a simple cotton coverlet that she must have picked out; the dresser is draped in an Indian tapestry, the same kind she used to throw over old furniture in our cabin. The room is painted the same shade of blue as the Buzzards’ walls and gates—haint blue.
I creep over to her bookshelf and stare at the framed photos of my mom when she was younger. In one picture, she is wearing the white dress my grandmother showed me. In another, she’s on the beach, in cutoff jeans and a bathing-suit top, her arm around another girl. When I lean in closer, I see that her friend is Constance Taylor, who looks pretty tough even as a teen.
Weird. They were friends?
Suddenly I hear a sound. “Mom?” I whisper. “Mom, are you here?”
My heart hammers in my chest. It would be so amazing if she were here. I close my eyes, wishing with everything I have that when I open them, she’ll be here, smiling at me. But when I look around, I’m still alone.
I tiptoe to my mom’s closet. It’s spilling over with old sundresses, jeans, and ratty sandals. I run my fingers through the clothes, gritting my teeth at the acute feeling of loss. There are pieces of my mother here—strands of her hair, traces of the vanilla oil she put on her wrists. But she is gone forever. And that’s the part no one understands: this tidal wave of sadness I face every morning when I wake up knowing I’ll never see her again. Just when I think I’m doing okay, I’m faced with another wall of sorrow.
Wiping away my tears, I reach for the glittering object I see at the back of the closet. It’s her white debutante gown. My grandmother must have returned it to its rightful place, in my mother’s closet. I hold up the gown, then lay it carefully on the bed. Without even thinking, I start to strip off my clothes.
The dress is supertight, of course. My mom was way skinnier than I am. I’ve never been into clothes, but this dress is exquisite. It comes in tight at the waist and then flows in a column to the floor. I don’t look great in it, of course… nothing like the way my mother looked, or how Hayes would. Still, it’s the girliest I’ve looked in a very long time.
Suddenly, Josie’s voice jolts me into reality. “Alex!” she calls. “Where are you?”
Crap.
“Alex!” I can hear