She's Not Home: A Novel

By Lena George

In SHE'S NOT HOME, a mother and daughter find that a goodbye may be what reunites them in a poignant story of family ties, shared grief, and the love between mother and child.

 

Sheryl alre

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harborview Press, LLC
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986678511

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Book Cover: She's Not Home, by Lena George

Praise for

She’s Not Home

Ambitious and lyrical

— Kirkus Reviews

A masterfully written exploration of loss, friendship, and complicated family dynamics.

— Book Club Babble

"A tragic accident and its attending grief cast a long shadow over Mariana as she tries to enjoy her senior year of high school. She’s Not Home is a tender coming-of-age story that deftly explores the intricate teenage dance of playing it safe to please your parents and finding the courage to follow your own dreams."

— Lisa Morgan, host of The Weekly Reader on WYPR

"A grieving mother in search of a do-over, a confused daughter on the brink of adulthood, a detaching father…all pushed to the brink in this emotive novel about love, remorse, anguish, and—finally—forgiveness.

"Lena George’s She’s Not Home examines the toxicity of grief and the struggle to break free of the ties that bind us to the pain."

— Shawn Nocher, author of A Hand to Hold in Deep Water

and The Precious Jules

She's Not Home by Lena George Harborview Press Baltimore

Harborview Press

P.O. Box 65221

Baltimore, MD 21209

[e-mail]

Copyright © 2023 Jaclyn Paul

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First edition April 2023

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, real places, or real institutions are used fictitiously. Other events, names, characters, places, and institutions are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, persons (living or dead), or institutions is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Jason Anscomb. Author photo by Annabelle McCormack.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 979-8-9866785-1-1

ISBN 979-8-9866785-0-4 (paperback)

ISBN ISBN 979-8-9866785-2-8 (hardcover)

—

Itch

Written by Ani DiFranco. 

© 1991 Ani DiFranco / Righteous Babe Music (BMI).

All Rights Reserved.

Reprinted by Permission.

What Sarah Said

Words and Music by Benjamin Gibbard, Nicholas Harmer, Jason McGerr and Christopher Walla Copyright © 2005 BMG Platinum Songs US, Where I’m Calling From Music, Shove It Up Your Songs, Giant Beat Songs, Please Pass The Songs and Songs From Defend

All Rights for BMG Platinum Songs US, Where I’m Calling From Music, Shove It Up Your Songs and Giant Beat Songs Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC

All Rights for Please Pass The Songs and Songs From Defend Administered by Songs Of Kobalt Music Publishing

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

For Mom-mom

1931-2020

And it came to me then

That every plan

Is a tiny prayer

To Father Time

– Part One –

- 1 -

Mariana

The creek was higher than Mariana had expected today. Moving quickly, too. Ripples shimmered in the afternoon sun. Mariana sped up as she approached it, then eased off the gas once her tires pushed into the water. She swung the wheel to the right to aim for the spot she knew was shallowest.

Water lapped around her headlights. As many times as she’d done this, she still got a flutter of nerves on the deep crossings. Fear whispered at the edge of her mind. An accidental acceleration sucking water into the engine. The unavoidable phone call to her mother. A silly mistake, but enough to conjure her sister between them, erase Mariana’s claim to a perfect record, prove she wasn’t above misjudging her abilities on a road she didn’t even need to be on.

But had Sheena loved driving these roads like Mariana had? Respected them? Felt them in her bones? Just when the water threatened to crest over the hood in earnest, the ground sloped up toward the opposite bank. The front of the car emerged dripping like a swimmer hoisting their body onto the side of the pool. Mariana gave it more gas to help the wheels grab the road and carry her out of the little valley.

Trees formed a canopy over the narrow road, their leaves blazing yellows and oranges and maroons. Sunlight moved in dappled golden patches across the gravel. Soon everything would change. These roads would still be beautiful, but it would be a harsher beauty: more exposed, no longer a secret passage flooded with color.

Driving home from school was one of the only times she felt truly connected to this place. She and Red Hill had a complicated history together, full of ghosts. And yet this little corner of Pennsylvania contained all the beauty she’d ever known. It was her home. For better or worse, it held a piece of her soul. A year from now she’d be far away. Finally free. At moments like this, the realization triggered a sweet pain in her heart.

But for now it didn’t matter. She inhaled the crisp air coming in the window and smiled. On afternoons Mariana didn’t have to work or give Cat a ride, she’d lose herself on these back roads and stretch the ten-minute drive to thirty or forty-five. Driving, especially driving alone, allowed her to suspend time. For this moment she could fly through the trees and exist on nothing but potential. Homecoming with Jeremy in a couple weeks, a last but not an end—she could imagine them coming back next year, living proof their love was more than just a high school relationship. After homecoming, an acceptance letter from NYU arriving in her mailbox. Graduation somewhere over the horizon. Her life on the cusp, about to open up before her.

At the bottom of a set of switchbacks, she left the pleasant crunch of tires on gravel behind and accelerated through the bends and rises of her last mile of freedom.

And then she was home. She guided the car into her parking spot in the driveway. The wind shivered the leaves on the trees here too, but she was no longer flying through them. Mariana killed the engine. Watched the back door for light or movement. Then she grabbed her bag from the floor behind the passenger seat and pushed herself out into the wind.

In the entryway inside the back door, Mariana held her breath for a few beats. Nothing. Again. The calendar on the wall listed her father’s flight as arriving at noon. She kicked her toes against her heels to slip out of her shoes, careful not to step off the mat. Maybe he’d only been delayed hours, but it was just as likely he’d switched it to tomorrow. Something caught her eye as she bent to put her shoes away. A pale blue sticky note hung over the opening to her shoes’ compartment in the entryway cubby shelf.

Mariana—

This a.m. I found a small pile of dirt on the floor in front of this shelf (not the first time recently). Please make sure to look at your shoes and do not put them away with large chunks of mud/dirt on them.

The tile floor shone beneath the shoe cubbies. Mariana peeled back the edge of the doormat closest to the shelf. Not so much as a layer of dust. Great. That meant there probably had been mud. No matter how hard she tried, she always managed to miss that kind of thing, and she’d been running late leaving for school in the morning so she wouldn’t have noticed then either. But instead of dealing with it for a few more hours until she came home, Mom had to take another opportunity to make her feel bad about something without giving her any chance to fix it. She pulled the note from the shelf and shoved it into her pocket. Her shoes looked clean enough not to get the shelf or the floor dirty, but she tried to guide them into place without touching the sides of their cubbyhole anyway.

She crept into the kitchen. The lights were off, everything wiped clean, the little magnetic sign on the front of the dishwasher turned so it read dirty. Through the window, afternoon sunlight set off the remaining leaves on the oak tree out back. Mom must have been out. Relief brought ease to the muscles around her temples and jaw. Maybe she’d have the house to herself until dinner.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Cat.

Sorry our conversation got cut short after school but I was gonna say, I really think you should ask your mom

About the bonfire

Bc thinking about it, like, what do you have to lose?

Mariana pursed her lips and considered her reply. How could she explain it? Knowing she could never be part of this tradition with her best friend, would be the person missing from all the memories, that was one thing. Having it thrown in her face was quite another.

I guess.

Don’t guess!

Just ask her. You could even say it like you just wanted to make sure, or something like that

If you’re afraid of it becoming an argument

Mariana sighed. It wasn’t just about something’s becoming an argument. Mariana accepted that as a consequence of having any conversation at all with her mother. This was different. A special kind of unfair. Not only her being kept from the bonfire every year but Cat’s getting to go, and how in a way that summed up their whole lives since the accident: Cat continuing to live in their families’ shared world, Mariana crossing the border for visits every chance she got.

None of that was Cat’s fault, though. It wasn’t either of their fault. And if they kept trying to close the distance…

I’ll try.

Cat didn’t text back, probably because she assumed I’ll try meant Mariana wouldn’t actually bring it up at all. She was probably right. Still, Mariana would try.

Anyway, Mom wasn’t even around to ask at the moment. Mariana hung her keys on the rack and headed down the hall.

At the top of the stairs she passed the room that used to belong to her sister but was now her mother’s dressing room. She didn’t look at the closed door as she quickened her step toward her own bedroom. To her left, a bedside lamp filled the far corner of her parents’ bedroom with dim light. Their four-poster bed cast heavy shadows across the floor.

She reached for her door. The glass knob felt cool against her skin, its facets firm and reassuring. She turned it and pushed. A scrap of paper floated past her arm to the ground, freed from where she’d hidden it between the door and the jamb. She smiled a little as she looked around the room. It was all hers. Untouched since she’d left for school. She picked up the paper scrap and put it on the bookshelf inside her door.

Mariana?

Shit. She froze midstep. Yeah?

Mariana ran her toes along the fringe at the end of the hallway runner. The pause continued. Her shoulders dropped. Mom wasn’t just saying hello. She stepped back into the hallway and poked her head into her parents’ room. Somehow she’d missed her mother sitting on the chaise by the bed.

I didn’t realize you were home.

I just got back from Pilates.

Her mother’s arms and legs were crossed, like she was trying to hold herself in. Unsure whether she should stay or go, Mariana shifted her weight on her feet and followed her mother’s gaze out the window. Her hand wandered to the messenger bag at her hip and her fingers traced the familiar outline of her notebook through the canvas.

Her mother stood and pressed her fists against the small of her back to arch into a stretch. Since you’re home, she said, I wanted to ask you something.

Mariana tensed. What was since you’re home supposed to mean? She couldn’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary, just her shifts at work and her normal time with Jeremy on Saturday. Maybe Mom was finally going to decide she had a problem with Mariana’s taking the long way home.

I give Cat and Jeremy rides home sometimes, she said. Heat spread across her cheeks. She hoped the flush wasn’t visible. Or talk to people after school.

Mom gave her a funny look. What does that have to do with anything?

Mariana tried to relax the muscles in her face. She didn’t need Mom wondering why she looked nervous. Aside from the shoe thing—and notes usually stopped at the note—she didn’t think she had anything else to worry about. She hadn’t missed curfew. Hadn’t left her laundry in the dryer. But if Mom wanted to find something, she would.

How are your college applications?

Oh. Mariana let her arms hang at her sides. Um—it’s pretty good? Mom raised an eyebrow and Mariana took another step into the room. I have my personal essay done. Ms. Becker’s writing me a recommendation and looking at the essay for me.

The heat register along the wall under the windows pinged to life. Mariana twisted her foot on the rug and watched her mother’s face. It revealed less and less the more she searched.

Good. Mom didn’t exactly smile when she said it. Mariana guessed she really meant I’m glad to hear there’s nothing to be disappointed about; a confirmation everything was happening as she expected. Sounds like you’re making progress. She turned to face the mirror above Mariana’s father’s dresser.

Mariana almost wished something about her mother looked out of place, but nothing did. The black leggings she wore looked brand-new; her exercise hoodie was zipped just to her collarbones. A tight bun above the nape of her neck kept her hair out of her face, even though Mariana couldn’t picture her needing that, couldn’t picture her sweating. She looked great in that way all the other moms probably envied. Thinking about it made Mariana sad. Those moms who wore pilling leggings and had to sweep the mess off the coffee table before they ate frozen pizza in front of the TV with a kid they actually liked spending time with? They shouldn’t want this. Any of it. They had no idea what it would do to their kids.

Her eyes met her mother’s in the mirror. Mom pulled bobby pins from her hair one by one and set them in a clay bowl on top of the dresser.

You’re going forward with early decision then? I still don’t see the benefit of locking yourself in with one school—what if you change your mind?

Mariana pursed her lips to keep from clenching her teeth. I’m not going to change my mind.

Well most people don’t plan on changing their minds.

I realize that. Mariana had first looked up NYU’s admission requirements in ninth grade so she’d have time to get everything perfect: her writing sample, a few columns in the school newspaper, even a summer workshop for teen novelists at Buck’s Bookshop. It’s just that I’ve been planning this for years and I want the best chance of getting in.

And if she got in, she might know before New Year’s. She might be able to hold the letter close, to put it in her desk drawer and know it was there no matter what, before the regular application deadlines even passed.

If. That was the other thing. Nothing about her was special. Her GPA was fine, but not when so many people were graduating with over a 4.0. She’d taken exactly two AP courses. She hadn’t been one of those overachievers who did volunteer work on weekends and quit her job to do some unpaid internship that would look good on her résumé. All she had was her writing. She had to hope one of the best writing programs in the country would understand she was willing to work as hard as it took on the stuff that mattered. Applying early decision apparently showed commitment. Helped your cause if they weren’t sure.

I don’t know what constitutes years of planning, her mother said, but I don’t remember hearing a word about it until recently. You’ll have to understand, to me it just seems like yet another thing you’ll obsess over and then change your mind about six months later. It sounds like if you get in this way, you’re committed. What if you decide you don’t actually want to live in a big city?

I’m not living there forever. I’m going to school there.

You know what I mean.

Mariana clamped her mouth shut. It wouldn’t get her anywhere, to let Mom know how much her words had stung. Yet another thing. She’d never believe Mariana had actually worked toward a goal for pretty much her entire high school career. That even though, yes, there were plenty of things Mariana had gotten excited about and dropped after a few months, her writing was different. Had always been different.

This was exactly why Mariana didn’t like talking to anyone about it too much, didn’t like to let on how important NYU was to her. She didn’t even really talk to Cat or Jeremy about it. They would never say anything, but Mariana couldn’t bear the idea of them being embarrassed for her even thinking she was good enough to apply.

Her mother frowned and looked like she was about to say something but caught herself. I guess as long as you’re sure you’ve thought it through.

Mariana nodded. Her mom pulled out the last hairpin and used her fingers to shake apart sections of hair as they bounced over her shoulders. Mariana glanced down at her own hair, which fell in a plain brown sheet, and crimped the ends between her index and middle finger. The electric-blue tips made it less boring, but her sister had gotten their mother’s hair: the waves that looked like polished straw. Mom had flipped out when Sheena joined her punk band and buzzed it all off for Locks of Love. Now Mariana liked to imagine the hair still existing somewhere, a part of her sister still alive and beautiful.

She shuddered and returned her thoughts to the moment. Her mother crossed the room and pulled her bathrobe from its hook on the back of the door. Mariana turned to leave but caught herself. Now would be as good a time as any.

So… She took a breath. Rubbed the place at the base of her left thumb where she’d penned ask off 10/19 onto her skin. She couldn’t remove it completely before she wrote it down somewhere better, but she felt weird having that date casually written on her skin now, felt weird about the idea of Mom’s seeing it when she asked. It wasn’t great, that homecoming actually fell on Sheena’s day this year, but she couldn’t do anything about it. This was the last one.

She began again. So Tristan is having a bonfire thing after homecoming, and…

Her mother stopped in the doorway and turned to face Mariana. The robe hung over her forearm. And?

Mariana tried to remember what Cat had suggested she say, but her mind went blank. Um, so, it’s not a party, it would just be a few of us, and they’ve asked me to go every year but—

If you’re asking to go, just ask.

Mariana’s gaze jerked up to her mother’s face. Would you actually say yes?

Mom’s eyes drooped a little at the corners. You know the answer to that.

Then why did you tell me to ask?

Because I didn’t want you going on and on about it. I don’t know what you think you’re going to get by making me guess at what you’re really asking, but you need to stop doing it.

Tears stung Mariana’s eyes. This. This was exactly what she’d wanted to avoid.

Oh no. Her mother’s voice cut at her.

What?

"You do not get to feel sorry for yourself here. Don’t you dare put your tears of injustice on me when you know full well it’s not just homecoming but the actual date, and you think you have a right to ask this?"

Mariana took a little step back and found the bed closer than she’d anticipated, her heel catching on the post. What did her tears have to do with anyone else? I’m not—

Oh you most certainly are. You don’t even care what you’re asking, or what you’re putting me through by asking, so you can get what you want for one night of your life, a night that—

But that’s kind of it though, it is one night. And this is my last chance to go. But instead of being with my friends or my boyfriend, I’ll be here by myself because—

If being with them is your concern, invite them here.

That’s not the same. They aren’t—

No, it’s not the same. Her mother’s shoulders slumped. The robe seemed to droop in her hands, too, like it somehow found Mariana just as disappointing as its owner did. That’s the point. And I cannot believe you’d have the audacity to ask me to go to the same kind of party, on the same night, as what happened to your sister. I simply cannot believe it. And with the same—look, I don’t care if you say you’ll stay wrapped in bubble wrap the entire night, I refuse to spend the ten-year anniversary of one child’s death knowing I’ve let the other one walk into the exact situation that caused it.

How is what happened at a totally different party, literally a decade ago, the exact situation?

Also, even though Mariana didn’t know how to say it, it wasn’t fair for Mom to use the number like that. She hadn’t let her go on the seven-year, or the nine-year, or any other anniversary. And it wasn’t like they were planning on doing anything as a family to actually remember Sheena or appreciate who she was. It was just another day for them to reduce her sister’s entire life to one wrong decision. Mariana made pincers with her right thumb and forefinger, locked her fingernails onto the fleshy triangle at the base of her left thumb, and squeezed until the muscles in her hand burned from the exertion. She focused her eyes on the polished oak surface of her mother’s nightstand.

Mom started to turn toward the hallway. Then she paused. This isn’t something I should have to explain to you. Obviously, I’m not referring to time travel. The fact that you would even consider playing the fool with a question like that says a lot about your character.

The words hurt every time, no matter how hard Mariana tried not to let them. What her mother didn’t understand was she would rather not be thought of at all. How was it selfish to just want to be forgotten and ignored?

Well what about Sheena? The words sprang from Mariana’s throat the moment they entered her mind. Satisfaction bloomed inside her when her mother flinched at the name. Don’t you think she would’ve wanted me to have a life? Do you think she’d be happy knowing you use her as an excuse to take everything away from me?

Excuse me?

Mariana looked down at her hand. A purple-gray arc remained where she’d dug in her fingernail. Her body trembled. This was her chance to take her words back, to say she hadn’t meant them, but she knew in her heart she couldn’t. If her sister had cared about her at all, Mariana hoped there was no afterlife. Or if there was, Sheena was somewhere she could never see the family she had left behind.

If you think this is taking everything away from you, her mother said, you have no idea. And do not use Sheena’s name to emotionally manipulate me into giving you what you want. Ever. Do not presume to know what she would’ve wanted. Am I clear?

Mariana nodded. The oriental rug beneath her feet wavered in her vision. She blinked quickly and met her mother’s eyes. As always, she could find no sense of warmth there. No recognition.

Do you even care that I’ve never done drugs? That I don’t even get invited to the same kinds of parties she went to? That my friends are nothing like that, and Cat is nothing like her brother? Does all of that just…not matter? Like, does it seriously not matter at all that I’m a different person than she was?

Her mother rolled her eyes and made a disgusted sound in her throat. Oh, Tristan Murray is nothing like that? Nice try. Everyone knows how many times his father has had to—

No. Mariana stepped toward her mother now, more of her hurt overflowing into anger. Maybe she deserved some of what she got. Not Tristan. It’s like you think every single person who smokes pot is just bad, and it doesn’t matter that Tristan is actually a really good person, and he would never drive high, or— Had she just called Sheena a bad person? Mariana started to bring her hands to the sides of her head, then clenched her fingernails to her palms and lowered them. Or anything.

Her mother shook her head. You can tell me all you want what a good and responsible person he is, and you know what? She narrowed her eyes at Mariana. If you hate me for this, fine. It’s worth it if you never have to find out just how wrong you are. You’re too young to remember this, but everyone thought Ben Mauro was an okay kid back then too.

Mariana’s feet felt light on the rug, like the tension in her body could almost hold her in place without the floor below her. Did Mom expect her to believe Cat’s brother had been anything like Tristan, even then? Sure, they’d only been in second grade when it happened, but that was old enough to remember Ben’s being an asshole to them. It was like Mom assumed her being young meant she didn’t remember or understand anything from back then. Plus, what other people had thought of Cat’s brother ten years ago had nothing to do with how well Mariana knew her friends now.

And I guess it only matters if— She swallowed. It only matters if I’m wrong? No one’s allowed to ask if you should’ve cared enough to trust me, that I wouldn’t do something stupid?

Trust you? I trust you every time I let you leave this house.

Not enough to let me go to a friend’s house on a night that just so happens to be after homecoming. It’s not even a party, there’s not going to be a ton of people there, I even—I even asked if his parents would be home. It’s not like I’m asking you to let me and Jeremy use the beach house, it’s a fucking bonfire—

Language!

Mariana exhaled. "It’s a bonfire. Every year, Cat and Tristan have done this bonfire—and the stupidest thing about this is it’s specifically planned to not be a party—and every year I’ve missed it. I’ve tried not to care because I thought, Oh, maybe next year, but now—" She pressed the end of her sleeve to the corner of her eye to absorb a tear before it fell. When she met her mother’s eye, the look on her face shifted something in Mariana. This was nothing to her. She was nothing.

"You know what, you’re right. I shouldn’t have asked, because God forbid I ask for one chance—one chance—she knew she was yelling too loudly now, but she was outside herself, watching like it was someone else—to have a normal senior year. A normal life. Just for one day." With the last word her bag was leaving her shoulder, leaving her hands, thankfully not hitting her mother, but when it impacted the bedroom door the door slammed into the wall and bits of something rattled and fell. She hoped it was only plaster somewhere invisible inside the wall.

Her eyes were dry and wide and fixed on her mother, whose knuckles stretched white over the bathrobe in her hands.

Early in her relationship with Jeremy, his mom had taught them meditation exercises, stuff Jeremy had rolled his eyes at while Mariana disguised her interest behind politeness. A wink from Beth had told her she understood, at least a little bit, how much Mariana needed the magic. It was almost like being able to leave her body.

Now she let her eyes go unfocused on one of her mother’s white knuckles and gathered her awareness in tight to the middle of her forehead. It was like closing an umbrella or rolling up a rug, like grasping a latch and slipping through a door at the last second.

By the time her mother started yelling she was somewhere else. She knew it all by heart anyway. How selfish she was, pathologically so, incapable of even the most basic consideration for anyone else. Her sister had died, for God’s sake, but that fact had made no impression on her whatsoever. Almost like it did not occur to her Sheena had also considered herself a good person capable of sound decision-making. How could this inspire no self-awareness on Mariana’s part? No desire to make life easier for her mother and prove herself smart enough not to walk ignorantly into the same mistakes her sister had made? Some children, when a tragedy struck their family, actually tried to make something better of themselves, or at the very least…

And of course her mother didn’t want to yell any of those awful things. Mariana should have known that, being the one who drove her to the breaking point over and over. Why did she think her father stayed away from home as much as possible?

Mariana tried to maintain her focus, tried not to let the words slip through, but all it took was a tiny wobble in her defenses. Then she would wish, bitterly—and so selfishly and ignorantly; even she could not defend this—that her mother would just beat her. Physical pain would seem like a luxury.