“No,” I answer.
“Why not?”
The waitress delivers our drinks, and my mom unwraps our straws and puts them in the glasses. She takes a sip as she waits for me to respond.
“I got hit in the face with a ball in gym,” I answer.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good,” she says. Another sip. “Anything else?”
“Carley Lynch.”
“What did she do this time?” Mom asks.
“She just made some comment about my outfit.”
“I love that outfit.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“You know she’s just jealous of you, London.”
“No, I don’t know, Mom. I don’t remember.”
“Was Jamie there?” my mom asks casually.
“No, of course not,” I mutter.
“Still fighting?”
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes.
A family scoots into the next booth over, and I watch them settle themselves as my mom speaks in a quieter tone. For that I’m grateful.
“There’s no need to get snippy, sweetie. Jamie will come around; she always does. And Carley is jealous because of a boy. Christopher something. They went out for a while and broke up, then you asked him to a dance.”
>It’s not Luke.
And yet, when I flip through my spiral-bound substitute for a proper memory again, one truth becomes clear: the darkest memory showed up when he did.
Exhausted from the day and the weight of what’s coming, I gather the photos and cards before me into a neat stack and ease them back inside the manila envelope. I fold down the clasp to hold it shut, replace it inside the desk drawer, and set my notes on my nightstand.
After scooting under the covers, I reread the note I left myself, just to make sure everything’s there. I add a few details about the memory, and a question: How is Luke involved?
The garage door begins to open; my mom is home. Instead of waiting to say good night, I put the note on my nightstand, click off the lamp, and roll to my side, facing the wall.
Two questions volley back and forth in my mind:
Why can’t I remember Luke?
Whose funeral is it?
I’m watching the tennis match with my eyes closed when my mom eeks open my door and whispers, barely audibly, “Good night, sweet London.”
Her words are like a sleeping pill; they instantly relax me.