Page 44 of Broken Halo

She answers most of them as she becomes increasingly irritated with me, and as expected, I learn nothing new.

When she leaves, she doesn’t say goodbye, throw me a thank you, or ask what’s next. Fuck, I don’t even know what’s next.

But I’m willing to bet she’s not going to like it.

12

Puppeteer

When you miss me, look to the moon.

Trig

“When can you have it ready? These boxes need to go so my photographer can take pictures of the listing. The room will look better empty than as storage.”

I look around at all the shit my mother insisted on keeping. Hell, most of this stuff is probably decades old. She might’ve been the strongest person I ever knew, but she was a hoarder. I guess we all have our vices.

If only mine were as simple as a bunch of old shit packed away in boxes I could easily toss to start over.

I exhale and wonder when I’m going to have time to get through it all. “I’ll do my best to get through it as fast as I can and get in touch.”

He hands me my copy of his contract and looks at his watch. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you. The market is hot right now and it’s going to sell fast. You’re going to make a mint compared to what you paid five years ago. These lots in the middle of the metro are few and far between.”

I know they are. It took me months to find it back when I bought it to begin with. With the commission he’ll pull from it, no wonder he’s in a hurry to get it on the market.

I offer him my hand. “I’ll call you.”

“I’ll show myself out.” He looks around at the remnants of my mom’s hoarding habits and shakes his head. “Maybe you can get started in here.”

I try not to glare at him as he leaves and glance at the boxes that taunt me. I might be the hardest worker I know, but there’s nothing I hate more than menial tasks that waste my time.

My eyes go directly to the stack of papers and books I pulled out the other day when I learned about my mother’s clandestine friendship with the woman who obsesses my thoughts in much different ways. I start to flip through the stack when I come across a spiral notebook with a black cover. Scrolled on the front in gold letters reads Stuff.

Flipping it open, there’re pages and pages filled with my mother’s perfect handwriting. She always said she wasn’t surprised I got a scholarship because she always knew I was the brightest kid around, but that I should’ve been a doctor since she could barely read my writing. Hers, on the other hand, could’ve penned the Declaration of Independence.

The tops of the pages are dated and followed by line after line of history—her history—meaningless, yet so detailed that I now know she trimmed her mums down to the ground on December first of last year and not because they weren’t, in her words, still soaking up the rays of the heavens, but because they were orange and clashing with her Christmas wreath and if my Easton can put me in a home as beautiful as this one, my stoop is not going to look like a craft show from the netherworld.

That tugs at my insides and makes me want to smile at the same time because my mother didn’t have time for what she used to call busy-body women who have nothing better to do than shop.

But I lose my desire to smile when I flip the page and a loose paper slips into my hand. Like a gift from God himself—or, who knows, maybe the woman who gave me life—a note falls into my hand. This one, with a different scroll I haven’t seen in years.

My sweet Faye,

It’s not Christmas yet, but you know I can’t keep a surprise. When I saw this, I knew it had to be yours. You hang the moon, and besides Griff, you’re my brightest light. Thank you for being you. Merry (early) Christmas. And you can’t scold me if I get you something else because you love me and you know I won’t be able to help it.

Love you,

Your Ellie

I read it again.

Then, one more time.

I take the note and slide it into my pocket and read the entry where it was kept on December second.

December 2nd

My poor, broken Ellie gave me a crescent moon necklace for Christmas today. For someone who insists she’s fine, she sure as heck doesn’t even know what “fine” is.

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