Page 102 of Summer After Summer

My mom laughed, a melodious tinkle that sound like the piano she loved but didn’t play much anymore. She took my hand and led me to the couch. “Sit here and tell me all about it.”

I leaned my body against hers. I didn’t get to do that very often with her anymore. She was so tired all the time, and sometimes even her skin hurt, she said. “Did you find anything in the secret compartment?”

“No, just some old books.”

“That’s the past, my love. And sometimes it should be hidden away.”

“What do you mean?”

She kissed me. “Nothing. Sometimes I say silly things.”

“Sophie is always saying silly things.”

“She makes me laugh.”

“She’s such a baby still.”

“You’re all my babies.” She kissed me again. “Now, go back to your piano lesson, and be nice when you wake Mrs. Carson. You’ll see when you get old, sometimes you get tired in the middle of the day.”

“Okay.” I got up from the couch, and she rose slowly.

“Go on, now—shoo.”

I walked to the threshold, then looked back. She was staring into the secret compartment. Then she took out a book from inside, like it was a treasure, but it didn’t look like anything valuable to me.

“Olivia.”

“I’m going!”

I press the mechanism to open the compartment. It’s at eye level with me now, though the last time I looked inside, I’d had to pull a chair up to get to it. As it was then, it’s mostly empty except for a thick leather-bound book that says “Journal” on the outside. I take it out and open it slowly, my mother’s handwriting greeting me.

The early entries are sporadic and benign, starting a few years before she got sick. I flip to the end, past several ripped-out pages, the leftover edges ragged. The entry I find was written a few weeks before she died. But how did it get in here? Did she put it here? Why?

The details don’t matter, it’s the words that will haunt me forever.

It’s soon, I can tell. A few days, a few weeks.

I can measure my life in hours now instead of the years I should have.

And it feels like it used to when I couldn’t sleep. When I’d watch the clock and with each half hour that passed, I knew it was a deduction. That soon I’d cross the threshold of what was acceptable, that if I didn’t fall asleep immediately, the next day would be ruined. Each hour is like that now, only I can barely stay awake. I want to take it all in—I don’t want to miss a minute, but I’m missing most of it.

I’m missing my girls. I’m missing my life.

And oh God, I’m afraid.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

June 2013

I did it!

I made it into the qualifying rounds at Wimbledon! A whole year of planning and working on my ranking and eating meals that felt tasteless in their repetitiveness and adding strength workouts and never having anything to drink, and now here it is! The All-England Club in June. Strawberries and cream and people in linen suits and fancy hats. And if I win these next three rounds, then I’m in the main draw.

Matt’s traveled with me, and we’re staying in a two-bedroom apartment near St Paul’s Cathedral. When I’m not practicing or thinking about my next shitty meal, I’m taking in the city. The Thames. The Globe. The river walk. Every corner has a pub on it, and every afternoon as the offices empty out, those pubs turn into a party. It’s not a party I can join, but I like listening to it. The barks of laughter, the happy chatter of friends, the cheers, the songs, the flirting.

This city has baby fever. William and Kate are expecting their first child in a month, and the British are betting on everything: date, weight, sex, name. The papers are full of it, like everyone’s whole future depends on it, and I guess it does in a way. If the future is the monarchy.

And me? I feel anxious and excited and confident. A lot of the bigger names in the women’s draw are out with injuries, and I’ve been having a great year. Momentum is an important force in tennis, and I have it. I can tell by the way my opponents—women I’ve known for years—look at me when I walk on court. Like they’ve never seen me before. Like they’re scared of me now.

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