This Lullaby

Author:Sarah Dessen
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Social Issues - Dating & Sex, Social Issues, Dating & Sex, Juvenile Fiction, Fiction, Interpersonal relations, Dating (Social customs), Mothers and daughters, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 10-12), Friendship, Social Issues - Friendship
ISBN: 9781435287341
Publisher: Paw Prints
Published: 2008-09-15T04:28:54.791000+00:00

There were certain ways to tell that my mother was getting close to finishing a novel. First, she’d start working at all hours, not just her set schedule of noon to four. Then I’d start waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of her typewriter, and look out my window to see the light spilling in long, slanting squares from her study onto the side yard. She’d also start talking to herself as she wrote, under her breath. It wasn’t loud enough to really make out what she was saying, but at times it sounded like there were two people in there, one dictating and one just rushing to get it down, one clackety-clacking line at a time. And finally, the most revealing sign of all, always a dead giveaway: when she hit her stride, and the words came so easily she had to fight to hold them back long enough to get them on the page, she always put on the Beatles, and they sang her to her epilogue.

I was on my way down for breakfast in the middle of July, rubbing my eyes, when I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. Yep. Paul McCartney, his voice high, something from the early years.

The lizard room door opened behind me and Chris came out, in his work uniform, carrying a few empty jars of baby food, one of the daily diet staples of the lizards. He cocked his head to the side, shutting the door behind him. “Sounds like that album with the Norwegian song on it,” he said.

“Nope,” I told him, starting down the stairs. “It’s that one where they’re all in the window, looking down.”

He nodded, and fell into step behind me. When we reached the kitchen we saw the bead curtain was drawn across the entryway to the study, and beyond it Paul’s voice had given way to John Lennon’s. I walked over and peered through the curtain, impressed by the stack of paper on the desk beside her and one burned-out candle. She had to have had two hundred pages, at least. When she was rolling, nothing could stop her.

I turned back into the kitchen and pushed aside two empty cans of Ensure—I was determined not to clean up after Don, although I was tested daily—before fixing myself a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and a big cup of coffee. Then I sat down, my back to the naked woman on the wall, and pulled the family calendar—a freebie from Don Davis Motors, featuring Don himself smiling in front of a shiny 4Runner—off the wall.

It was July 15. In two months, give or take a few days, I would be packing up my two suitcases and my laptop and heading to the airport, and seven hours later I would arrive in California to begin my life at Stanford. There was so little written between now and then; even the day I left was hardly marked, except for a simple circle in lipstick I’d done myself, as if it was a big deal only to me.

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