Page 21 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

Summer

I could have waited for Dad by his car and gone home with him. That would’ve been the logical thing to do. But I needed to breathe… To get my mind off what just happened.

What even happened?

I replay everything in my head, trying to wrap my brain around why Dad sounded so upset.

Was it because I was with a guy? No, it couldn’t have been. That’d be ridiculous. I’m twenty-two years old. Dad knows someday I’ll bring a guy home and settle down.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Often, I think about how much it sucks to be an only child. I wish I had a sibling that could also occupy Dad. Then he wouldn’t be on my case all the time.

How different would things have been?

I’m halfway home, and the closer I get, the more my heart dips lower into my stomach. My mind races, thinking about everything in my life. I start thinking about Mom and the friends she had… and realize I forgot to call them.

God, I feel like I’m just as bad as Dad… being OK with them finding out on their own. I swallow harshly, pulling out my phone and skimming through my contacts. When I find Mary’s contact, I press the call button and pray she still has the same number. I haven’t talked to her since long before I left for college.

Mom took me to see a movie at the old theater downtown that often replays popular movies. Most of the people who go to rewatch movies in the theaters are those who go on dates to fool around in the dark. But I wasn’t about to tell Mom that when my favorite movie of all time was replaying: The Notebook.

When the movie ended, we ran into Mary by the bathroom. It was oddly coincidental, but it was nice to see my mom smile. I noticed that she wasn’t smiling as often, and when she did smile… it was a short, quick smile. I assumed it was because I was leaving so soon for college. But the smile she held when she saw Mary was different, and it touched my heart. It made me happy that Mom had other people in her life besides Dad.

The phone rings longer than I hoped it would. At this point, I almost give up, but right before I go to hang up, someone picks up.

My heart starts racing. “Hi, is this Mary?”

“Yes, may I ask who is calling?”

Dread slams me in the gut. “It’s Summer. Katherine’s daughter.”

“Oh my,” she begins. “How did you find my number?”

“You know how Mom is. She gave it to me and told me that if anything ever were to happen and I couldn’t get a hold of her or Dad; to call you.”

“Oh. How I will miss her.”

My heart sinks, and my eyes widen. “You know she passed?” Those words falling from my tongue hurt, but I know I need to accept them.

“Yes, I saw the news. I’m so sorry, honey.” I can hear the pain in her voice.

My eyes clamp shut, and I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Thank you. I, um… I was just calling to let you know the funeral is Saturday at ten.”

There is silence, but I know she hasn’t hung up because I can hear her breathing and quietly snuffling.

She clears her throat. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me. I didn’t think your father was going to call me.”

I couldn’t hold back the huff that fell from my lungs at how right she is about that. And maybe that makes me a bad person. A terrible daughter for laughing, but I remember what Dad said at the funeral home.

When I reach the front door of my house, I stop and stare down at my feet. “Mom would’ve wanted you and June to be there.”

“I will be sure to call June. Thank you, honey.”

We both say goodbye, and I hang up the phone, blowing out a long breath. I wasn’t sure how I would feel after making the phone call, but I think it’s safe to say I feel a whole lot better, despite the consuming sorrow that is filling my heart.

Opening the door, I go straight for the kitchen to pour myself a glass of orange soda. Confusion rushes through me, wondering where Dad is. He should have been home first. He was so eager for me to get home so we could discuss a family matter, but he’s not even here.

I end up laughing, and I don’t know why. Resting my elbows on the counter, I press my fingers to my temple.

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