Right Where You Left Me by Calla Devlin

Author:Calla Devlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Seventeen

The next morning, a parade of well-meaning visitors appears at the door, old ladies from the neighborhood and youngish women from the cultural center, ones who enroll in Mom’s cooking classes in the hopes of winning men’s hearts with perfectly baked treats. All morning, and then well into the afternoon, they offer condolences and food meant to comfort the grieving. Dishes that make my stomach turn.

I want to turn them away and explain that Dad isn’t dead. He’s captive, bruised, and maybe wounded—but alive. Instead, I invite them inside the apartment. Ask them to sit. Habitually, I offer pastries and coffee. I guess in some ways, I am my mother’s daughter. They are kind, especially after I explain that Mom is unavailable, either holed up in her room or baking downstairs. They tell me to take care of my mother. To focus on my studies. To stay strong.

Nadine is the only one who can coax Mom out of the apartment, and then only to work.

I leave the funeral dishes, untouched, on the counter.

Emma, Isaac, and Josh text hourly, and I respond with three words: Can’t talk now.

Without Dad, the apartment feels too large, almost vast. Once again, I understand Mom’s impulse to cocoon in her room. When the visitors taper off late in the afternoon, I lower the blinds in my bedroom and pull the boxes of photos from my closet, arranging stacks of prints on my bed.

One by one, I add more photos of Dad to my collaged door, and then my already crowded wall, covering my friends with vacation snapshots. Pictures taken at the Eiffel Tower and Empire State Building and Space Needle. They’ll understand.

Dad always smiles in photos, and he tickles and prods Mom to do the same. She’s not naturally sour and scowling, but she’s serious and poised. Perfect posture. When she’s not in the kitchen or bakery, she wears her hair down, hanging just past her shoulders. I have Dad’s curls and dark hair. Mom’s is straight and lighter, almost auburn, with streaks of gold. Her eyes are a startling pale blue, like mine. When she was little, classmates accused her of having ghost eyes. Her pale skin and unnerving quiet only contributed to her mysteriousness. Mom often says that if she lived centuries ago, she likely would have been accused of being a witch and set aflame at the stake.

Josh, Emma, and Isaac continue to text, trying to persuade me to go out. Even with Mom’s absence, I can’t bring myself to leave. It feels too soon to invite them over, especially with the risk of Raj knocking on the door at any time. We haven’t heard anything else. The briefing was confidential. He had nothing new to report.

They ask how I am and if I need anything. I don’t know what to say. How is it that we can be fluent in a language, in my case two, and still find ourselves at a loss for words? How can we know something so

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