The Legacies by Jessica Goodman

Author:Jessica Goodman [Goodman, Jessica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2023-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

Bernie

THE MORNING SUN streams through the blinds in the kitchen as I’m spooning avocado on top of toast, violently mashing the green bits down into the sourdough until the bread becomes flatter than I had anticipated. I can’t stop thinking about the simple fact that Mom read my email and didn’t respond. She knows I’m looking for her—that I’m worried—and she doesn’t care to set my mind at ease, give me the kind of comfort she knows I’m craving.

All of this fills me with an undeniable ball of fire in my stomach, one that crackles and causes all of my muscles to tense, my jaw to clench. This whole week, I’ve felt anxious, desperate for answers. But for the first time since Mom disappeared, I realize I am utterly, undeniably furious.

I slam my spoon down on the counter and decide I need to do something. I need to act. Or else I’ll just be stuck in this hellish loop with no control. I wipe my hands on my cotton pajama boxers and head down the hall to Mom’s office, where I haven’t been.

It’s not that I’m not allowed in here; it’s just that there’s no reason for anyone to be in here, really. Mom hasn’t held a job since she married my dad, but she uses this room to do all of her “correspondence,” as she says, and as a retreat from the rest of the house. A few years ago, she redecorated it with floral hand-painted wallpaper from England and reupholstered velvet chairs in a dark burgundy color, so the whole space feels regal and rich, which I guess was Mom’s point.

The door pops open with ease, and as soon as I enter, I’m immediately hit with the smell of Mom—her perfume, which seems to have permeated everything. The thick curtains, the plush carpet, even the Italian leather swivel chair, pushed under her desk, with one of her silk scarves hanging off the back.

I pull out the seat and plunk down, spinning around and around, taking in her world. The wall is lined with framed photos of our family at various important life events over the years—my baby naming, my graduation from Excelsior elementary school, the time I was a flower girl for my aunt Hilda, my bat mitzvah. There’s one of her and Dad at their wedding, too, stiff and formally posed in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel.

Along the bookshelves across the room, I spot all of her Excelsior yearbooks, their navy-blue fabric spines fading into the darkness against gold writing. In front of them is a framed photo of Mom at a young age—maybe seventeen—laughing with another one of her Excelsior friends, looking so carefree. So alive. She looks the same, with fiery red hair like mine, and a wide, symmetrical smile, also like mine. It was the early nineties, and Mom idolized the celebrities who wore dark lipstick, with sleek, volumized bobs. She was radiant, even then, with her arms around another girl with dark, frizzy hair and a wide smile in the shape of a laugh.

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