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“You have to do something about it.”

“Tree, it's over, there's nothing I can do. I've dug up the past enough.”

She stares at me, then opens her laptop. “Susan Fullman, right?”

“Yes . . .” I say warily.

“Phone number?”

I tell her and she nods. She writes something down, turns around, and then starts to pull me out the door. I get what she's doing, and shake my head in protest.

“No, Tree, we can't just visit her. I've dropped in on enough people this week.”

“We can and we will. She doesn't just say no to you like that. It's not right.”

“I appreciate the commitment, I do, but this is all—” I start, and wonder, all so . . . what? So sudden? Not really; I've wondered about her for years. And I'll continue wondering some more. So, really, what's one more stop? If it's bad news, then it can't change anything I don't already know. “Okay.” I nod, convinced. “Okay, let's go.”

We jump into my car—Treena doesn't have one up here—and she directs the way. We drive off campus and past downtown, where Bee might be at work, thinking about yesterday. And we pass the school that was my mother's, and I tell Treena so, wondering what Mr. Wayne is up to now. And then we drive down a road nearby that's just as dilapidated as the roads by the school. I know this wasn't where my mother lived—our letters were all returned to sender—but I still can't help feeling we're not far. That she grew up among the loose tires, broken cars,
overgrown yards, and tossed bottles.

We pull up to a house I assume to be hers, and it's just like the others, only smaller. A tiny shack of a place with one flowerpot outside, and a car resting in the driveway. There's no garage, just an overhang, under which boxes are stored.

“We're here,” I say, stopping the car and breathing hard. I've done this before, I've approached the stranger, but this time it's so much more personal. Because this person didn't just know my mother, she was a part of her. She's a part of me.

I came here so quickly, without having time to think, that everything crashes on me now. I shake my head no, because I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe she's just behind that door. How did I get here?

“You've got this,” Treena says, probably sensing my discomfort. I look at her wide-eyed and she gives me a reassuring stare back.

“I don't know how to do this,” I say.

So she gets out of the car and meets me at my side. I open the door and she says, “Just like this.” I hug her, glad she's here with me. I need her with me.

I knock on the door and there's motion inside, a grumble, a cat's cry. Shuffling tells me she's on the other side, looking out the peephole.

“What do you want?”

“It's me,” I say, steadying my voice. “Maude.”

“Maude,” she says in a gruff voice, and I'm surprised
with how I'm not scared, how I'm standing taller. “Didn't we talk already?”

“Yes, but I wanted to come see you. In person.”

There are more shuffling sounds, and a bolt clicks. She's opening the door.
Be brave, Maude, be brave.

“What do you want?” she asks, and I see her for the first time. My biological grandmother. She's short and stout with frizzy brown/gray hair and wrinkles lining her face. She has a cigarette in one hand, and looks much older than I assume she is. She can't be more than mid to late fifties.

“I just . . .” I start, because what do I want? I got it all, didn't I? “I just wanted to see you.”

“Well, you saw me, you happy?” she asks, and my heart drops. I knew she wouldn't be nice, but I didn't think . . .

“My friend drove a long way to be here,” Treena interrupts. “She just wants to talk to you, that's it. Can't you give her at least that?”

Susan stares at her, then looks at me. “I like her.”

“I do, too,” I say.

Susan sighs, then asks, “What do you want to know?” She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe, not inviting us in or allowing us to see anything beyond her.

“Just . . . anything about her. Anything at all.”

She looks down, then back at me. “I wasn't meant to be a mom, just like she wasn't meant to be a mom. I didn't do a good job, so you can see why I don't want to talk about this.”

I blush, because I can see it. That must be hard to admit.
Just as it must have been hard for my mother to give me away.

“Claire was spirited and very single-minded. She did what she wanted, whether I liked it or not. In that way, she was a lot like me, but she was also very secretive and in her head. I never knew what was going on in there. Not even when she was a kid.”

I nod again. These are things I've heard before, but they're more than that. They're from her.

“I'm sorry, I can't talk about this,” she says, shaking her head. “It should be easy for me to bring up thoughts about my one daughter, but I don't want to go back there. I can't.”

“I'm sorry,” I say instinctively, uncomfortably. How weird it must be to feel strange talking about your own daughter. I can see the reservations in her eyes, the desire for me to leave. But I don't want to. “I'm sorry this hurts. I just . . . I really wanted to know.”

“There was only one way to really know that girl. Wait, hold on.” Susan goes back into her house.

I look at Treena and she shrugs. We wait a few seconds, and then Susan comes back holding a book.

“You deserve this.” She hands me a small black notebook and I open it up. It's full of drawings. It's Claire's sketchbook.

“Oh wow,” I say, about to cry.

“You'll learn more about her in there than through me.”

“I don't know what to say.” I shake my head. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, then, “Good luck.”

“Thank you, thank you,” I say again.

She nods and then says, “I can't offer more. Maybe later. But right now . . . that's it. I can't think of her any more.”

I shake my head and still don't understand. Why would you not want to remember your own daughter? Maybe because there's more. She wasn't a mother to her, not really, from what I heard. Maybe, like Bee, she lives with regrets. Ones she doesn't want to face. Maybe she needs to keep part of Claire inside her, so that she never disappears. Not fully. It's sad and painful.

Susan shuts the door, and I tuck the notebook under my arm as I walk back to the car. When we get in, I look at Treena and start to cry. From meeting Susan. From holding the sketchbook. For seeing the life Claire was a part of. For understanding, at least a little.

“I know,” Treena says. “I know.” She puts her arms around me, and in the moment I know this is it. This is the end of my journey. It's what I was looking for all along. I just didn't know it.

We go back to the dorm and I tuck the notebook away.

“Don't you want to look through it?” Treena asks.

“In time,” I say, and she momentarily looks disappointed, but I think she gets it. It's something only my mother knew about, and now it's mine. It's a secret we can share.

To fill the time, we walk around campus again and just talk. She shows me some sites I've already seen, and others that are more personal to her. A building she thinks is pretty. A statue that amuses her. We go to dinner in the cafeteria, and while leaving, we bump into Bennett outside. I look at Treena, but she avoids my eyes and just stares right ahead at him, a grin on her face. Which means something.

“What's up?” I ask.

“NOW!” Treena yells, and within seconds, I feel my
body being lifted and cradled like a baby.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” I yell as Bennett holds tight and Treena tapes my hands together.

“Initiation.” Bennett laughs and starts walking away from the cafeteria. I kick my legs, but Treena grabs them.

“I told you about the fountain . . .” Bennett says, looking at me apologetically.

“But it's not my birthday!” I protest.

“Doesn't matter—you're one of us now, you're going in,” Treena says, and I audibly sigh with frustration.

“I'm assuming there's nothing I can do to change this?” I beg.

“Nope!” Treena squeaks gleefully, and I lower my head dejectedly. But as we walk through campus, toward the fountain, I'm kind of secretly excited.

Thankfully, we're not too far, but by the time we get there, Bennett is struggling to breathe.

“I'm not
that
heavy,” I joke.

“I'm not
that
strong,” he counters, and I laugh. “You can always get revenge,” he whispers in my ear, too low for Treena to hear.

With the fountain in view, I'm reminded that it's not that big, and not that deep, just a round concrete structure with a spout in the middle. But it's definitely big enough to put someone in, and I guess that someone, tonight, will be me.

“READY!” Treena yells, and Bennett dips down tauntingly. She cuts the tape from my hands and I wince as it rips off my skin. “ONE!”

“Ahhhh,” I start to yell, heart pounding in fear of the drop, the water, the cold.

“TWO!” Treena counts down. “AND THREE!”

On three, I feel myself being lightly placed into the water, and getting dunked under. The water crashes all over me, and it's cold, freezing. I jump up, gasping, my heart in my throat. They're watching, laughing, and high-fiving as the droplets roll down my face and my clothes start sticking to my body. I gasp, standing up. And despite how I feel, how cold and wet I am, I start laughing, because here I am, at a college, getting thrown into a fountain. And for some reason, it feels right.

“Fun?” Treena giggles, and I nod, and then quickly reach for her arm and pull.

“NO NO NO NO!” she yells, but Bennett doesn't miss a beat. He picks her up by her waist and puts her in with me. “AHH!” she yells as she drops into the water.

I laugh, helping her up, and watching as her hair sticks to her face. She scowls at Bennett and me, and then I grab her and hug her. She hugs back, whispering, “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too,” I say back, over the roar of the water spouting out. “Revenge?” I then ask, and she nods. We turn around toward Bennett. He raises his eyebrows, then runs.

I jump out and chase after him around the fountain. He sidesteps me a few times, but eventually I grab his fingers and he skids to a stop.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he protests, and instead of dragging
him in, I hug him, getting the fountain water on his clothes.

“Ughhh,” he yells, and I laugh. “I said revenge on
her
,
not
me
!”
I look up and pull him in anyway. He doesn't resist, instead jumps in with me, water hitting at our knees.

“So this is college?” I ask.

“Not bad, right?” he asks, before kissing me under the falling fountain water. We get water in our eyes, our noses, our mouths, but we laugh the entire time. I focus only on his touch, and know that this moment would be the perfect picture.

The drive home to Orlando is different than the drive to Tallahassee. Instead of questions and insecurities floating through my mind, I'm full of answers and resolutions. And though there are still mysteries left, ones that might forever go unsolved, I'm okay not answering them. For now, at least. With the breeze blowing through the windows, I let those thoughts leave me and drift out on the highway, scattered among the discarded cups and roadkill.

My parents are out when I get home, so I carry my bag to my room and plop it on my bed. With nothing, but everything, on my mind, I pick up my camera and phone and flip through the photos I took. There's Lichgate in all its glory. The girls laughing on the green. The stained glass on the building. And then there's Treena and me doing a Buddy
Shot. Bennett kissing my cheek.

Then there's the photo of the yearbook, there's Jessica painting, there's the mechanic shop, and the capitol. Those are parts of my journey, too, and although not as happy as a dunk in the fountain, they're more important.

I sit down at my desk and open my laptop for the first time in a week. Instinctively I check my email, as if I'm still waiting for another person to let me in on a history I wasn't part of. Instead there's an email from Bennett with an attachment. I open the file and it's an animated penguin saying hello. I laugh, because of course that would be how he tells me he misses me. I miss him already, too.

I have a text from Treena, too, saying hi. Saying she misses me. Saying she's not happy that I'm gone.

I go back to the assignment that started this entire journey.

Family.

I attach my camera to my laptop and load the files, watching them rewind through my entire trip. Once they're done, I organize them into a folder. And I realize the important ones are already used; they're on my blog. I flip to it and see my entire trip played out in reverse, and I get what Ms. Webber wanted me to do. In the series, I'm documenting my journey, but also my path. Every piece of it, even the bad. I didn't know how it would all end as I posted, so each addition feels real and not forced. I didn't create something in reflection, I created it as it happened.
That is my story. This blog is my project.

I do like the process, after all.

I plan on turning that in to her, but still, I want something that represents my mother for the project. Along with photos I'll eventually take of my parents, I want something that connects to Claire. So I pull up a picture of my feet at Lichgate. That's us. That's me, standing where she was. That's the part of her that's in me.

Then I load the photo of my reflection in the pond. It came out slightly fuzzy because I wasn't focusing well, but it works. I'm a blur. I'm not clear and crisp like some people; instead I'm messy on the edges and not quite formed. I'm many pieces all put into one, and one day I'll figure them all out. But right now, I'm happy being a blur. I'm happy being every part of me, every image of me, even if they don't
feel
like me.

The pictures tell the story—my story. I've heard Claire's from so many different voices that I want this essay to showcase my story. Maybe I like being behind the viewfinder so much because it's my way of telling my truth.

I edit the photos, correcting the color and the saturation, for over an hour, until I hear the door open.

“Honey?” my mom calls.

“In here,” I call back. “Coming!” I hit Save and run out to say hi.

“You're home!” my mom shrieks, and pulls me in for a hug. I roll my eyes dramatically at my dad, but he's smiling,
too. He gives me a hug and asks about the logistics—the car, the drive.

“Car rode smoothly, no accidents, not too much traffic.”

Mom asks the more obvious questions: How's Treena? What did I think of the campus?

“Treena is good, she's really happy there and it was great seeing her. The campus is beautiful, really beautiful, and it has a great photo lab.”

“And how was . . .” my mom starts, but doesn't finish.

“It was okay,” I admit. “I'd really like to tell you all about it later, if you don't mind.”

“I never mind,” she says, smiling.

I help them get ready for dinner, and it feels normal, like nothing changed, even though everything did.

And after dinner, as promised, I tell my mom about what I learned. I leave some parts out; some parts are just for me.

“I can't believe you found out so much.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I hope that's okay. . . .”

“More than okay. I'm so proud of you . . . for all of this,” she says, and I smile. I open my computer and show her some of the photos I took, and describe the ones I plan to take.

“So now I just need you and Dad to complete it. Because, you know, family,” I say, and a look of love and gratitude crosses her face, and for a second I thank my teacher for this project. Because, to me, it was so much more than that.

Before going to bed, I pull out the box that has the photo of my mother in it. It'll now hold the sketchbook, too.

If there's one thing I learned on my journey, it's this: family is more than just the person who gave birth to you. Yes, it's my mother, but it's also my mom and dad, for allowing me to decide who I want to be; it's Treena, for making me a friend; it's everyone who's helped me figure out which version of myself is right. And though I still might not be entirely sure, I'm on my way.

When I think of my future, I focus on what it might be. Not the imagined, ideal version, but the real, gritty future of someone who doesn't know what she wants, and all of the good and bad that might come of that. And that's okay.

And when I focus on that, only that, I know that what happened before me doesn't matter; it doesn't dictate my future. Only I can do that.

And, with the sketchbook in hand, I'm ready.