Adrenaline

27 | joni

Jenny picks my mother up from the hotel the next morning.

It's as if the world quits spinning as soon as my mom waltz back into the house again. All of us flood into the living room like white blood cells looking to defend against infection, sans Lauren and Jun who are at Maver's house.

"Didn't realize I'd get a welcome party," she says, yanking the strap of her purse further up on her shoulder.

"They just live here." I close the door with my foot, sealing us into the vacuum. "I'll show you to Lauren's room. You can stay there while you're here."

I wait by the stairs while she says hello to Seira and good morning to Rami. When she's finished, I walk ahead of her to Lauren's room, feeling her eyes on my back the entire time. Suddenly, I find myself wishing we were busy for the week. At least that would give me an excuse to stay away from the house, though part of me hates the idea of leaving her here alone. Not that I think she'll ransack the entire place; I don't want her snooping around and finding out things about me she's not entitled to anymore.

"Lauren shares a bathroom with Seira. She's territorial about her skincare so don't touch it. Don't use any of Lauren's stuff either. If you need something, check the closet in the hallway. I keep travel-sized products in there. And there's an annoying bird that always hangs out right by her window in the morning so try not to open it. We don't need to spend an hour trying to chase it out of the house again."

Once inside the room, she runs her hands along the smooth bedspread, a glistening sheen under the bright morning sunlight like ripples through a sea of rubies beneath her fingers.

        "Red was always her favorite color," my mom comments.

        For as long as it's been since I've seen my mother, it's been even longer for Lauren. I'm surprised she remembers that about her and find myself wondering if she remembers it's my favorite color as well.

        "How long were you planning on staying? I need to let Jun and Lauren know."

        She shrugs. "About a week."

        I choke down the pained groan crawling its way up my throat. "That's a long time."

        She glances around at the remnants of Lauren's soul, the parts of her most of the world doesn't get the honor of viewing. A torn movie poster of Bend It Like Beckham ("those cowards couldn't make them lesbians, I hate them"), the first vinyl Lauren ever owned, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, a half-eaten bag of sour gummy worms, a picture of her, Jun, and me on graduation day.

        These people—my mom and Lauren—are two clashing figures of my childhood and the unsteady incline into adulthood.

        Since we're alone, I finally ask, "Why are you here? I told you to leave me alone the last time we talked."

        "I think your mother is entitled to see you when she wants."

        "Luckily I have enough autonomy as an adult to understand that my personal space is my right. Cut the crap."

My brain doesn't allow me to think about how the world would hate me for speaking like this if these conversations were broadcast for all to see. And yeah, sure, maybe I am acting like a brat, but I find it hard to talk to someone who once told me when she was drunk that I would never be enough to take away the pain of losing her husband.

I was a child. I knew I couldn't, but having it said to me hurt.

I don't know how a kid moves on. As if the hole in my heart isn't as exponentially big. As if I haven't spent my entire life questioning if I'm worth the space I occupy.