Autofocus (17 page)

The realization saddens me, so I look at her, nod, and smile.

“Not sure, I guess we'll see. I, um, I just realized what time it is, and I have to . . . go meet my friend. But, hey, thank you so much for talking to me, really. It was . . . something, really. It was . . . great,” I say, because I don't know what else to say.

“Oh, I'm so sad you're leaving! But I understand.” She looks sad, but also maybe relieved? Maybe this was weird for her, too. “Please let me know if you have any more questions, I'd love to talk. It was
so nice
going back in time. I don't do it nearly enough!” Jessica says, handing me a business card that's also collaged, just like her art.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, standing up. “Thank you, really.”

“Keep in touch!” Jessica says, bringing me in for a hug. She smells like cigarette smoke and when she pulls away I see a wonderful, crazy artist, but I also see her wrinkles and scars. I see that this is her, daily, painting in a café. This is the life my mother could have had, would have had. This could have been her. And, maybe, me.

“Oh! One last thing. While you're here, you need to visit Lichgate. Your mom absolutely adored that place. It's not far from here. Be sure to see it.”

I nod and turn around, filing the information away for later. I take a picture before I leave, of Jessica going back to her canvas. She broke the image I had of my mother, shattered it into a million pieces and reformed it into something new and not yet understood. I need time to get to know this mother, this version of her.

I walk outside and am surprised to see Bennett on the sidewalk, scrolling through his phone. I slump down next to him and simply say, “Hi,” because I don't think I can process more words.

“Hey,” he says, putting his phone down. “Class was canceled.”

“Was it really?” I ask.

His cheeks turn a tint of red and he shakes his head. “Okay, no, I just didn't want to leave you with Crazy Redhead in there.”

I nod, too exhausted to say anything.

“What happened?”

My throat fills with angst and my eyes overflow with tears. I try to hold it in, but I can't.

“Oh, crap, okay,” he says as I silently weep in front of him, tears spilling from my eyes into my hands cradling my face. I cry for what I didn't know, and what I thought I did. I cry for the mother I never knew and am so different from. I cry because it all makes sense, even though I don't want it to. I cry because this complete trip was an utter failure. I shouldn't have found all of this out. I shouldn't have known. It would have been better for me to keep my pristine picture of my mother—for her to be the scared girl who bravely gave me up. Not a partier who made a, to her, devastating mistake.

I feel Bennett's arm go around my shoulder to keep me together, but it makes me cry more. He turns me to him, and I rest my forehead on his shoulder, aware of the tears seeping through his shirt. But I can't turn them off. They've been held in for so long. Both his arms are around me now, rubbing my back, and I try to concentrate on that movement, on their rhythm, and not the fact that my mother maybe never cared about me. She was too young to; she didn't want me in the first place, of course. I should have known that, realized it, but it never really hit. The thing is, there's no hope of making her proud, because I was never a part of her life.

The nicest and bravest thing she ever did was give me up. She gave me the life she herself didn't have. And the thought of her life, and what wasn't lived, fills me with tears again.

Once I have calmed down a little, I tell Bennett some of the stuff I learned, and he nods and shakes his head along
the way. When I'm done, he says, “I get why you're upset, but it's okay.” I look at him sadly and shake my head.

“But what—?” I start.

“Let me ask you something. What's your mom like at home?”

“My mom?” I ask, confused. “She's . . . a mom. She's nice and protective and smart. She's a teacher, so I have pretty good grammar because of her. And she's always moaning about her students, but I know she actually likes them.”

“Right. So that's who you're around all the time. You're surrounded by that, by her, not by your mother. What were you doing before this trip?”

“Going to school and working on my photography.”

“You weren't going to wild keggers or anything?”

“No!”

“Right, so you're not like your mother at all. If you never found out about it, things wouldn't change, right? And now that you did . . . they still shouldn't change.”

“That's easy for you to say. You know your parents.”

“And you know yours.”

“It's different,” I say.

He looks down, then says, “So there was this kid who used to come by our house every now and then—one of the kids my mom was trying to get adopted. He was, like, four, and kind of messed up, so my mom wanted him to see a solid, ‘normal' family, I guess. I never liked him because he pushed my younger sister. But anyway, he got adopted and
we ended up going to the same high school. And he's kind of cool now. So, I don't know; how I see it, he's not like the mother who left him when he was a baby. He's like the mom who has him now. Nature versus nurture, you know.”

I nod; I see what he's saying, but though his words are nice, they're not making my struggle easier. I'm still confused. I'm still . . . lost.

“I get it, I do, but I don't know.”

“So, wait, you're worried about next year? College?”

I wipe my face again. “I could change. I could want to change without realizing it. I mean, before this week, I never drank. And a few days in I woke up in a guy's bed with a hangover,” I say. “I can change, and I might, and that terrifies me, because I don't hate who I am now. I mean, look at Treena. She's completely different. It's not entirely bad, it's just . . . new. How do we change so easily? And what do we do with the old versions of ourselves?”

“Okay, I didn't know Treena before, so I can't comment on that. And sure, your mother's DNA is in you, but you weren't raised by her. You were raised by your parents, who taught you to
not
be like her.”

“Their three rules before I left were no drinking, no boys, and no partying. I broke all three of their rules by the second day I was here.”

“Oh come on. You could have done much worse. You hid during the first party, you didn't go wild last night, and look at me, I'm harmless. That's actually my middle name.
Bennett Harmless Walker.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, realizing he's trying to cheer me up.

“Plus, it's college! You're supposed to loosen up and explore things. It's part of the whole experience. You're only here with me because Treena's been preoccupied,” he says. I shake my head no. “Well, it's not because I'm good company. I mean, I take you to bagel places—talk about fancy.”

I smile a little and agree because he's trying. “You're right. You do make poor decisions.”

“The worst. Like, not seeing the new
Star Wars
on opening night poor decision.”

“Oh, that is bad,” I chuckle.

“Why are you with me again? It's the bike, isn't it? Chicks dig the bike.”

“Has to be.” I smile, and then look down.

“You're okay. This means nothing in the long run.”

Maybe he's right. But still, I can't deny the fact that all of that happened, that it's linked to me now, whether I like it or not. “Come on, let's go back to the dorm,” he says.

“I should talk to Treena,” I sigh, wondering what I'll say. I'm still kind of upset she had me go to Bennett's room last night. Not that that was bad, it's just . . . she's my friend. And I'm here to see
her
.

“What are you going to say?” he asks, helping me up and walking me back around the building. He drops my hand and I do everything in my power to not grab his back.

“I have no idea,” I admit. “But I want to tell her about today. I want to hear what she says.”

When we get back to the dorm, Treena's door is shut and we already know why, and it makes me want to cry. I follow Bennett up to his room.

“Well, that's . . . frustrating,” I sigh, sitting on his chair. “I guess I could knock, but . . .” I shake my head. “I feel like I'm in your room more than hers.”

“Well, my room has one hundred percent less making out, so, you know, benefit.”

I smile at him and blush, thinking of the not-making-out going on in here.

“Oh, crap,” he says, looking at his clock. “I actually have to run to this class. I completely forgot.” He gets up and grabs some books on his desk. “I'm sorry. You can stay here, if you'd like.”

“No, no, it's okay, I can hang out outside.”

“Seriously, it's okay.”

“I want to go take some photos, I think.”

“Okay, well, give me your phone.” I reach into my bag and hand it over. He dials a number and then his phone rings. “Okay, I've got your number, you've got mine. If you need anything, just call. I'll be done in a few hours, and then hopefully they'll be, um, free,” he says, nodding in the direction of Treena's door.

We leave his room, then head downstairs. I stretch out on the green lawn just outside their building and look around at the people going to and from class. They all look like they have a purpose, a reason for walking. Even the
girls giggling over something on a phone they're passing back and forth between each other seem to be on their way somewhere. There are other people sitting around, like me, and they make me feel less lazy. Some are doing schoolwork, with laptops and books open. Some are just lying down and enjoying the sun.

I take my camera out and snap a few pictures to capture the moment—the isolation of being surrounded by people but not being part of any of them. The tranquility of being alone on an expansive grassy knoll. And the feeling of contentment from just sitting still after a day of movement.

I needed this.

I lie on my back and let the grass tickle my skin and dig into my exposed arms. The sun is bright overhead, the clouds not blocking its beams. I close my eyes and think about all I've done so far.

I've always had this image of my mother in my head. The one from the photo hidden in my dresser, but also one I concocted late at night when I was trying to figure out who I was. Why I was me. She was a vague image, and, in my mind, she guided me out of my weariness and into more stability. All of my questions were answered by this idea of her, and part of me always felt I'd find something about her that would prove my vision to be real.

But I found something now, and that idea I concocted isn't who she was. The perfect mom/friend. It never could have been, really, because I just made it up. Now she's a real person with hair and eyes and arms and a personality. Now
she's some
one
and not some
thing
.

And in a way, I'm still a part of her. And she's still a part of me. And I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel now.

I squint my eyes and groan in frustration. I'm not going to figure out anything here, lying alone on the grass.

I sit up and grab my phone again, then realize that I haven't checked my email in a while. I haven't wanted to, not after the café with Jessica, but there are still answers out there, and it's my job to finish this. I can't back out now.

But there's nothing new, so I absentmindedly flip through the photos I've taken so far. Lots around campus; of the people we've encountered, both good and bad; of Bennett and Treena and Trey. Pictures from the party last night, from all of our destinations today. And as I flip, I'm starting to see a story unfold, my story. There isn't an ending yet, but there's a start and a middle. There are questions in these photos that have yet to be answered.

I post another photo to my blog, one of Bennett riding his bike on campus. It's just his back, but I like it. I then check my comments and see that there's one on the “Unconquered” photo.

It's easy to give up, and hard to stay unconquered. Greatness didn't come from giving up.

It's from my teacher, Ms. Webber. I knew she'd be looking, but I didn't think she'd comment. I look at the photo, and then the ones I posted before. And though they're only
a fraction of the ones I've taken, the same story is unfolding in them. But I'm not showing defeat in them. Maybe she's just guessing? Maybe she has a feeling. . . .

I guess, in a way, it's like me getting an impression of my mother. I don't know all of the details, I don't know what she was really like—just some stories from people who knew her—but I'm already assuming I know who she was.

Maybe I need to keep an open mind.

And maybe I need to find more people, maybe someone related.

Like her mother. My grandmother. I've tried reaching out to her in the past, with no success. I wasn't sure if I could handle another rejection, but I think it's time.

I need to find her, too.

A few hours later I find myself pacing around the hallway, waiting for Bennett to come back. Treena was in class, and I forgot to get her key before leaving, so I stayed in the hall until I knew Bennett's class was over.

“Watson!” a voice shouts out, and I look down the hall to see Bennett walking toward me. He's smiling big, and he's waving both hands in the air at me as if I can't see him. On impulse I smile and walk toward him, closing the gap between us.

“Got your text. What's this new idea?” he asks.

“We might not be able to find my mother, Sherlock, but what about my grandmother?”

“Your grandmother . . . ?”

“Claire's mom. Jessica said Claire never knew her dad, but she lived with her mom. Who might still live in Tallahassee, possibly, maybe, right?”

He analyzes me, then says, “Definitely. I'm surprised we didn't think of this earlier.”

“Yeah, well, like I told you, I've . . . tried before,” I say, “with not-great results, so I kind of avoided it.”

“That's right.” He nods, recognition in his face.

“Yeah. I realize now how I approached it wasn't really smart. But I think it's time to try again.”

Bennett looks at me and gives a half smile. “Definitely. It is definitely time to try again.”

“I was also thinking . . . Jessica said Chad was a mechanic in town.”

“You didn't mention that—okay, we can work with that. If you want to meet him, we can probably find his shop by looking it up.”

“Right, it's a long shot . . .” I muse, “but I think it's also doable.”

“Didn't you message him, too?”

“Yeah, but I haven't heard back from him. So, we should use our detective powers, or whatever.”

He laughs, then looks thoughtfully at me. “Are you okay finding him? I mean, what if he
does
turn out to be your father?”

“Do you think he'd even know?” I ask. If what Jessica
said was true, my mother was secretive. It's entirely possible that even my father doesn't know he's my father.

“I have no idea. I mean, it's just a chance, but it
is
a chance.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.” But for some reason, that doesn't scare me. In fact, it makes me more eager. “I mean, I always knew my biological father was out here somewhere,” I say, gesturing around, “but he's never felt so, I don't know, so tangible.”