All the Bright Places

I am thinking rather
consistently of Someday.
I write, 
Someday soon.
Finch: 
Someday when?
Me: 
????
Finch: 
*#@*!!!
Me: 
Nine a.m. Sunday. My house. When I wake up and go downstairs, my parents
are in the kitchen slicing bagels. My mom looks at me over the coffee mug
Eleanor and I gave her one year on Mother’s Day. 
Rock Star Mom
. She says,
“You got a package.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Someone left it on the doorstep.”
I follow her into the dining room, thinking that she walks like Eleanor—
hair swinging, shoulders back. Eleanor looked more like my dad and I look
more like Mom, but she and Mom had the same gestures, same mannerisms,
so everyone always said, “Oh my God, she looks just like you.” It hits me that
my mother may never hear that again.
There’s something in brown paper, the kind you wrap fish in, sitting on the
dining-room table. It’s tied with a red ribbon. The package itself is lumpy.
Ultraviolet
, it reads on one side.
“Do you know who it’s from?” My dad is in the doorway, bagel crumbs in
his beard.
“James,” my mom says, and makes little brushing motions. He rubs at his
chin.
I don’t have any choice but to open the package in front of them, and I just
hope to God it’s nothing embarrassing because, from Theodore Finch, you
never know.
As I tug off the ribbon and rip at the paper, I’m suddenly six years old at
Christmas. Every year, Eleanor knew what she was getting. After we picked
the lock to my mom’s office closet, my sister would open her gifts and mine
too, but not before I left the room. Later, when she wanted to tell me what
they were, I wouldn’t let her. Those were the days when I didn’t mind
surprises.
Inside the brown paper is a pair of goggles, the kind you wear swimming.
“Do you have any idea who they’re from?” Mom says.
“Finch.”
“Goggles,” she says. “Sounds serious.” She gives me a hopeful little smile.
“Sorry, Mom. He’s just a friend.”
137

---

I don’t know why I say this, but I don’t want them asking me what he
means or what this is, especially when I’m not really sure myself.
“Maybe in time. There’s always time,” she replies, which is something
Eleanor used to say.
I look at my mom to see if she realizes she’s quoted her, but if she does
realize it, she doesn’t show it. She is too busy examining the goggles, asking
my dad if he remembers the days he used to send her things when he was
trying to convince her to go out with him.
Upstairs, I write,