I claw my way into the tiny space, wrapping my fingers around the doorframe before it can close completely. “Why did she do it? Do you know?”
He takes a bite of his pancakes, chewing slowly, swallowing deliberately. “Your mom spent most of her life doing what people expected of her. She was the president of all the clubs at school. She was always on honor roll. She was always doing what her parents wanted her to do.” He reaches out, taking a sip of his coffee. “But then she bombed her SATs.”
My head snaps up as I remember the taped piece of paper I found yesterday.
“Didn’t get a lick of sleep the night before and ended up passed out over her reading section. She’d completely worn herself out. Me and Johnny found her crying in the parking lot afterward. But it wasn’t hard to see it wasn’t really the test that was weighing on her.” He stares at his plate, his face thoughtful.
“Is that why you decided to help her? How did she come up with the list? Was it like—”
“I gotta get to work,” my dad says, cutting me off midsentence. He shovels the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and stands up, the wooden chair screeching loudly on the kitchen floor.
I glance at our oven clock. Ten fifty-five. He’ll be a whole ten minutes early if he leaves now. I should’ve quit while I was ahead.
“I can clean up,” I say as he puts his plate on the counter.
He nods and rips off the apron. Hard to believe we were just joking about it ten minutes ago.
I watch as he takes one more swig of coffee. “Thanks, Em,” he says, giving me a quick kiss on the top of my head before heading to the hall closet, where his work boots are. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“Okay!” I call after him, hearing the front door creak open. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” he calls back, the door slamming shut behind him.
I eat the rest of my pancakes slowly, the silence of the house ringing uncomfortably in my ears. I turn on music and clean the dishes, putting the syrup in the pantry and the eggs back in the fridge, all the while Blake’s words from yesterday still circling around in my head, my conversation with my dad layered just over the top of it.
My mom, completely worn out, bombing her SATs, wanting to… what? Do the things she had always wanted to do? Face her fears? Have a fun summer?
His closed-offness makes me want to know more.
But it’s pretty clear he isn’t going to tell me.
If I want to find out more, if I want to have this connection, I have to…
I grab my phone and bring up Instagram, my thumb finding the tiny circle that’s Blake’s smiling face, an unwatched story tempting me.
I click it to see her launching a tennis ball in the middle of a spacious field, a blur of a golden retriever barreling after it.
I let out a long sigh and chuck my phone onto the table, watching as it lands on top of my mom’s list, the paper crinkling underneath the weight, the thought I’d tried to push away coming back to me.
I have to do it myself.
I picture it for a second, seeing myself getting a tattoo at the parlor over on Sycamore Street, and watching the sunset on the beach, and being jostled around on the rental bus on the Huckabee Lake trip. Facing the fear of heights I apparently inherited from her, and…
My eyes land on the last item of the list, “Kiss J. C.,” and I fold the paper directly below number eleven. Even if I change the initials to M. H., with Matt not even talking to me, this one is a definite no-go.
Although… isn’t that the point of a bucket list? Doing things that seem impossible or scare you?
Maybe by the end of this I can find a way to make things right. A way for things to fall into place the way they did for Mom. If anyone could show me how to fix this, it’s her.
My eyes travel back up to the top of the paper. Where do I even start? Mom at least had Dad and Johnny.
I take a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time, I decide to try my luck.
Before I can talk myself out of it, the phone is back in my hand and I’m pressing the call button under Blake’s contact info, the phone ringing noisily in my ear until her voice comes through the speaker.
“All right. Where are we starting?” she says, like she already knows why I’m calling.
I’m stunned for a second, but then I smile and shake my head. “I honestly have no idea.”
Blake laughs. “Perfect.”
6
Lounging upside down on my bed later that day, I pull up my phone calendar, counting down the days until the end of the Huckabee Lake trip. The last day of the trip is my newly planned goal for finishing the list, according to Blake, at least.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-one days to get this list done, the trip being the very last item.
Twenty-one days from now, I will have finished my mom’s bucket list. Provided I actually pick an item to get things started.
I switch over to Instagram and scroll through Sycamore Street Tattoos’ page for the millionth time, since that’s number one. Photos of newly decorated arms and legs and underboobs glide across my screen as I try to make a plan of attack. I pause on a familiar picture of a red rose, planted for all eternity on the side of my best friend, Kiera.
We went last Galentine’s Day for a discount special that Sycamore Street runs for just about every major, minor, and entirely made-up holiday. You could go and pick from an overflowing binder of artwork, the price always ringing up
