Page 88 of From Now On

Last year’s Christmas card from my dad is on the very top.

I tear it in half. Tear the halves in half. Over and over again, until the paper rectangle is nothing more than a pile of scraps on the bottom of the drawer. Then, I shut the drawer again. I don’t feel better or worse, but I do feel different. Almost like…I didn’t realize I could do that. It never occurred to me to rip that card up when I received it.

Calmly, I lay my suitcase down on the floor and unzip it. There are a few clean items, but it’s mostly filled with laundry. Midway through sorting whites and colors, my mom calls.

It’s the third time she’s called since our brief text exchange about my dad missing my graduation. I’ve ignored every one, because I assumed that’s why she was calling and because discussing my father with her never ends well.

I blow out a long breath, emptying my lungs, before leaning back against my bedframe and answering. “Hi, Mom.”

“‘Sorry, Mom’ would be a more fitting greeting, Eve. You didn’t answer a single phone call this week. I had half a mind to call campus.”

“I wasn’t on campus. It was my spring break week, remember?”

The pause on the other end of the line tells me my mom did not, in fact, remember. She’s not as checked out as my dad, but she’s not entirely checked in, either. She has two other kids to look after, and I’m off living on my own.

And she never went to college. Never experienced a spring break. Never had a model for what parenting an adult child was supposed to look like.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” I mutter, adding another T-shirt to the pile of darks.

“Did you have a nice break?” The question is followed by the distant hum of a hair dryer and a crinkle of foil. The busy soundtrack to my childhood.

I’m not surprised she’s calling me from the salon between clients. It gives her an easy excuse to hang up when we inevitably start arguing about something. And tracks with the brisk efficiency my mom prides herself on.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It was really fun. I went on a road trip with Harlow and her—with Harlow and some other friends. To northern California.”

Harlow’s the only friend from Holt my mom knows—or has met. Harlow made quite the impression on my mother while we were moving into the dorms by telling her she swims on a regular basis. My mom sends her some special shampoo that’s supposed to protect hair from chlorine now.

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it was. We were right on the beach, so the scenery was beautiful. I’ll send you a few photos.”

“Please do. Did Ben go as well?”

“No. He, uh, we broke up, actually.” I hold my breath, waiting for her response.

“That’s… I’m sorry, honey.”

Honestly, I was never sure how my mom felt about Ben. After they met for the first time, she told me hetook direction well. To this day, I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. But I think it skewed negative, since my mom values independence. Ten years together, and she hasn’t married John. I know he’s asked, because there was an engagement ring on her dresser the first time I came home from Holt.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”

I say the words because they’re expected, but they’re also true. Iamfine.

“You were together for a long time. Do you think you’ll work things out?”

“Nope” is all I offer in response, hoping she hears the heavy undertone ofI don’t want to talk about it.

“Is he still moving to New York?”

“No,” I say tightly. “He’s not.”

She sighs. “Eve, I really think that?—”

“I know what youreally think, Mom. But I’ve made upmymind, aboutmylife.”

She exhales again, frustration evident in the sound. “I’m not telling you not to pursue art, Eve. But you could paint just as easily in Chandler as you could in New York. It’s so far and expensive and?—”

“Did you only call to give me another lecture? Because I heard your concerns the first hundred times.”

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