Notes to Self Read Online Free PDF Page A

dealer getting shot on Orange Blossom Trail, or my school having abysmal test scores, or realtors cautioning people not to buy a condo in Crime Hills, she turns it off. She likes to talk about the year we had an annual pass to the Magic Kingdom, about the day I rode It’s a Small World fourteen times in a row and everything was perfect.
    After about fifteen minutes crawling behind a pearl-colored Escalade, my mom steered the car into the driveway of our apartment building. It had eight doorbells, but I knew that only two other units had people in them. Snowbirds—old people from Minnesota—would come after Christmas and fill up two more. A terra cotta pot sat near the entrance. There were no flowers in it, but a scraggly palm tree grew in a square of dirt nearby.
    The inside of our apartment was dark because the vertical blinds were drawn, to keep the heat out. I looked at the dirty dishes in the sink and the pile of waitressing aprons, and the college books with titles like Anthology of English Literature and Statistics stacked up on the kitchen table. My mom set the flowers that had been in my hospital room next to them. I felt uneasy again, even though I was glad to be out of the bright sunlight. Is this really it?
    “I’m so glad you’re home, honey.” Mom pulled me close for a hug.
    “It’s okay,” I said, pulling away. I’d reached my limit; I wanted silence. “I’m fine.”
    She nodded and scurried around me, straightening up. “I got your favorite cinnamon rolls.” She opened the refrigerator and showed me a small plate of the thick, frosted dough from the diner on Emory Avenue. “I thought you’d be happy to have one after hospital food.”
    “I ate hospital food?” I had no memory of hospital food.
    “Um, yes. Well, a little. You didn’t like it. You’ve never liked bland food.” Mom looked disturbed, but shook it off. “Oh, Robin. You don’t…never mind.”
    She cut one in half—they were pretty big—and we shared it, standing up in front of the sink like we were breaking the rules. It tasted extremely sweet to me, and not in a good way. I’d have to check one of those brain injury books later to see if whacked out taste buds were a symptom of brain damage. Was anything not a symptom?
    “Thank you,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice I’d only eaten two bites. I remembered people liked the words thank you. I sounded too formal, like I was a guest.
    “Any time,” She reached out to touch my face, as if she were making sure it was really there. I could tell she wanted to squeeze me for a couple of hours, but I edged away from the sink. Nausea rose up in my entire body and I worried I’d immediately reject the two bites.
    “I think I’ll go to my room,” I said in an unsteady voice. Maybe in my bedroom, surrounded by my things, I’d feel better, less like I wanted to shatter into a thousand tiny, vomit-y pieces. “Where is it?” I whispered.
    She didn’t hear me, but I found it. Our place was small. “I left it exactly the way it was,” Mom called. “And I didn’t touch your computer. I fed Zelda, though.” She wiped her hands on a towel hanging from the fridge handle. Zelda was my goldfish. She’d been alive for a record five months.
    “Thanks. Mom?” I hesitated. “Um, does Dad know what happened?” I knew my voice was too loud, but I couldn’t help it.
    “I don’t know where he is,” she said slowly and deliberately, like she didn’t want to be contradicted. “I haven’t heard from him in a long time. I’m sorry, sweetie. I tried his cell phone, but it said the number had been disconnected.”
    I nodded and opened the door. My room was totally different than the rest of the apartment. It wasn’t dark, for one thing. The windows didn’t have regular blinds; they were covered in pretty, sheer silver panels. I saw my three floor lamps, but all I wanted at the moment were black-out curtains. The space was very clean, sterile even. There was a wooden dresser,