Delta is still staring, so I shift and say, “Please don’t.”

“I just can’t believe . . .” Seemingly rattled, she moves toward the kitchen.

I ask, “You can’t believe what?”

Turning back, she replies, “I can’t believe you’re her daughter.”

“You knew her?”

She nods. “Liz was one of my school friends. She came over with her sweet daughter once.” She looks at me in the same manner I was originally greeted—open arms and comforting. “I held you when you were little, and while we had tea and caught up on each other’s lives, you and my son, who was just one year older, played together. I think I have a picture somewhere.”

Is she saying I have a chance to find my mother? My feelings are conflicted. I never thought I could feel such immense emotions all in the same day. But here we are . . .

“I don’t know where they are, but I’ll look for them very soon for you.”

“Thank you.” I face the door and then tell her, “I think I need to go.”

“It’s been a lot today.”

Walking to the door, she stays behind me. I open it and move outside, needing the reprieve from all things Harbor. “If you decide you can tell where or how he is, why he left, or anything that can bring some semblance of closure, I’d be very appreciative.”

I start back to the truck, a million things crossing my mind. One that stands above all others is in the chaos of my boyfriend leaving me, I might have just found my mother.

39

Lark

Two months later . . .

While my dad loaded the last box into the back of his truck and Amanda took photos around the house with my phone, I stood in the middle of my bedroom.

A stuffed bear that had seen better days.

The pink ruffled bedspread.

The photo of Liz and where the brooch used to be.

I run my finger over the top of my desk and then pick up the yearbook from where Harbor left it. Flipping through the pages, like he did that day, I find the picture that he didn’t think was as bad as I once did. I close it when I feel a wave of emotion breaking on my heart’s shoreline and put it back with the others where it belongs. I walk to the door, looking back once more, and smile before leaving and closing it behind me.

I’ve ghosted around Beacon for months now, hollow on the inside, invisible and small as I can be, but here, working and minding my own business. Here, I can almost remember what it feels like to be real again. It was my refuge from the apartment, from life, from the memory of Harbor. Only a few surfaces bear his fingerprints, unlike my heart. I’m jealous. Or maybe it’s regret. I’m not sure anymore. It’s a mixture of emotions that I haven’t sorted through yet. What’s the point?