Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(42)

My steps are sluggish as I cross the threshold into my room. Being in here always gives me an eerie feeling of stepping back in time, but I don’t have it in my heart to remove the collage of One Direction posters above my bed. Or my collection of quotes from Tumblr covering every possible surface.

Above my desk, written on black construction paper with silver Sharpie, is a sign that reads, Normal People Scare Me. There’s a cigarette butt from the mall parking lot superglued to it. Next to my bookshelf, typed in Helvetica Bold: She Believed She Could and So She Did. It’s accompanied by a distorted black-and-white photo of Helen Keller that got jammed in my school library’s printer. On my mirror, in Sharpie: Get Your Head in the Game. It’s taped next to a photo of Zac Efron from High School Musical, cut out from a J-14 magazine and covered in lipstick prints from my ten-year-old lips.

My lumpy mattress beckons me, and I decide to self-soothe with a particularly toe-curling chapter of my favorite book from my hidden collection of more risqué novels. I lift up my mattress to grab the book and…it’s gone.

Impossible.

I read this particular book a few months ago, the last time I was home, and there’s no way I would have left it lying out somewhere to be seen. Not with the years of experience I have keeping these books hidden.

I can think of only one explanation, and tracking down this book seems like a much better use of my time than wallowing.

I tiptoe down the hall, toward the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I open the door to my parents’ bedroom, feeling like a five-year-old who’s come to announce, “I threw up.”

I study my parents for a brief moment before sneaking over to Mom’s side of the bed. Living far away from them means that every time I come back to visit, I’m hyperaware of any signs of aging. The last few strands of pepper in Dad’s hair have officially turned to salt. And as I stand above my mom, I notice that the wrinkles she’s been complaining about on her chin have deepened slightly. And…is that an age spot?

I don’t have time to think about the implications of this.

With all the stealth I can manage, I crouch down beside the nightstand and begin rifling through the stack of books Mom keeps on the bottom shelf.

“Phoebe.” Mom’s hawk-like expression is fixed on me before I even make a dent in her collection. “It’s the middle of the night.” I follow her gaze back to the clock. 9:58 p.m.

“I’m sorry.” I stand and motion for her to join me in the hallway. She shuts the door behind us.

“How was the flight? Is everything all right?” she asks, her maternal instincts returning now that she’s had a second to wake up.

“No, not really. Did you take a book from my room?”

“Did I take a book from your room?” Her brows knit, and for the first time, I see flecks of gray in them. “This can’t be why you woke me up.”

I take a deep breath in. “Have you or have you not seen a book with a shirtless man on the cover called Beauty and the Beekeeper?”

She stares at me in silence for a moment before slowly nodding. “I have.”

“You know about under my mattress?” I whisper, horrified.

“Phoebe, please.” She shakes her head. “There is not one thing that goes on in this house that I don’t know about.”

I think about Jamie and Ethan down the hall and have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

“And if you think for one second I don’t know that Ethan’s here, you’re mistaken.”

Never mind.

“What are you doing with that book?” I ask.

“What do you mean what am I doing with it? I was reading it.”

“You were reading it?”

“What, you think because I’m in my sixties I can’t enjoy a little smut here and there?”

“No, I think that because you’re my mom you can’t enjoy a little smut here and there. And you shouldn’t even know the word smut.” I grimace at the revelation that perhaps my love of raunchy novels is genetic. “Can I have the book back, please?”

“I lent it to Gail.”

“You lent it to Aunt. Gail.”

“Trust me, honey, she needed it. I don’t think she and your Uncle Tom—”

“Stop.”

I put my hands out in front of me and let out a defeated sigh. Without the promise of my book, the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that brought me to my parents’ room in the first place returns. My face heats and I cover my eyes with my palms.

“What’s wrong, Phoebe? This can’t be about the book.”

“It is about the book.”

She reaches out to rub my arm and I almost startle. Physical touch is not her love language, but she’s been growing more affectionate with age. It always takes me by surprise.

“You know, it’s okay if this weekend is a little hard for you,” she states.

“It’s not hard for me,” I answer quickly.

“Okay. But if it were to be, that’s okay.” She turns around to open the door to her bedroom. “I’m going back to sleep. Get some rest.”

On an impulse, I throw my arms around her back and hold on to her tightly. She grasps my hands and squeezes them in front of her. It feels odd holding her like this. But more than that, it feels nice.