Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 31

Changes

With Mom’s diary in my lap and her urn at my side, I sink my feet into the cool sand. The early-morning fog hovers over Santa Monica Bay like an invisible sponge, coating everything in a layer of dampness and raising goose bumps on my bare arms. The marine layer will supposedly burn off by midday, but after driving through the freezing desert all night, the slightly warmer ocean breeze is a welcome change.

“I guess this is it, Mom.” I scoop her urn from the sand and hug the cold metal to my chest. “Last stop on our tour.”

Just as I’d done at least a dozen times since leaving home, I open Mom’s diary and flip to the next entry. The photo of her riding a carved wooden carousel horse slips from the page into the sand. I rescue the picture and gaze into her soft expression. She looks older, as if she’d uncovered the secrets of the universe since her last entry. I wonder if I look different, too. With her image still burned into my retinas, I switch my focus to her swirly script.

July 22

As soon as we finished doing all the standard touristy stuff, like visiting the Chinese Theatre and Hollywood Walk of Fame, Mom and I headed to the beach. We spent the afternoon on Santa Monica Pier, stuffing ourselves with funnel cakes and cotton candy, and riding the merry-go-round. After getting booted off for taking lewd pictures on the horses, we wandered to the arcade. I totally kicked her ass at Skee-Ball, walking away with bragging rights, a strip of tickets as long as my arm, and a stuffed penguin. We walked down to the sand, past the cute boys in board shorts and the kids building castles, to watch the sunset over the Pacific. I knew we still had the whole trip home ahead of us, but with the tide rolling in and the sun going down, it felt like the last day of summer vacation. And I guess in a way it was. First thing tomorrow morning, we head home. Mom didn’t say anything, but I knew she felt it, too. I almost wish we could stay in paradise forever, bare toes in warm sand, no responsibilities, no worries about the future. I’m pretty sure if I say the word, Mom would make it happen. I tuned out everything but the sound of the tide crashing against the shore, pushing thoughts of tomorrow to the back of my mind, and listened for the sizzle when the sun finally sank into the ocean.

I rest my chin on her urn, my breath hitching as I fight back tears. A light gust ruffles my hair, and I close my eyes, imagining Mom running her fingers through the long strands the way she did when I was little. Part of me wants to believe she’s standing over me while I see this through.

A few tears make it past my defenses and slide down my cheek. “I think I finally understand why you wanted me to come. I know I wasn’t thrilled with the idea at first, but I’m really glad you made me promise.”

As if Mom’s trying to tell me something, the wind flutters through the pages of her diary, uncovering something I hadn’t noticed before: The last two pages are stuck together.

What the hell? Careful not to rip the paper, I peel the pages apart, revealing a new entry. Mom’s handwriting is less swirly—almost serious. And instead of the faded-blue ink of the earlier entries, this one was written with a black gel pen.

I’ve often wondered where life would’ve taken me if my mother hadn’t dragged me all the way across the country that summer to chase after the ghost of Ziggy Stardust. Even before Mom dropped her little bombshell in my lap, I loved Bowie’s music. I don’t know if that was Mom’s influence or simply something that was meant to be. Maybe he really was otherworldly, because from that first stretch of road, I was forever changed. I didn’t even realize until we were already heading home that not one minute of our journey had been about David Bowie . . . or my real father, for that matter, whoever he may be.

Wait! What? Confusion morphs into disappointment. I shake off the conflicting emotions, suddenly realizing how much I’d invested in the fairy tale. G-Lo’s story. Mom’s diary. The pictures. None of it had anything to do with Bowie?

“Why send me on this trip if you didn’t even believe her story?” A gust of wind ruffles the pages again, as if Mom’s spirit is urging me to keep reading. I heave out a breath and pick up where I left off.

Bowie may not have been my father—and as caught up as I was in the idea, I don’t think I ever really believed he was—but he was definitely the catalyst that brought Mom and me together again. His music provided the soundtrack of my life. And he was the glue that cemented my relationship with my mother. No matter where on the globe she may be, I feel closer to her when one of his songs plays. I’ll always treasure the summer we spent together—pretending I was someone we both knew I wasn’t—because that was the summer I discovered who I really was. I still don’t know if I was actually conceived on the Ziggy Stardust tour—knowing Mom, I guess it’s possible—but somewhere along the way, the dream of meeting my father was replaced with the reality of getting to know the woman who brought me into the world. Mom was, and always will be, an adventurous free spirit with a heart as big as an ocean. But as much as I love her, we’re as different as two people can be, and I had to follow my own path. I chose the life I wanted—a life that couldn’t be further from my mother’s world if I tried—and I have no regrets. Because for one special summer, we were heading in the same direction, and I’ll carry those memories with me for as long as I live.

I close Mom’s diary and stare out at the ocean, rhythmic waves breathing in and out, lapping at the shore with every exhale. In the distance, a lone surfer rides the swells toward the beach.

Now I really do get it. This trip was never about a concert tour or an obsession with a rock god. Mom wanted her ashes spread across the path she’d taken with G-Lo—the one time in her life she and her mom traveled the same road. A road that forever after diverged.

I laugh, and the ocean swallows the sound. It hits me that we both came to the same realization—we both needed to forge our own paths. I always thought I wanted the safe path, because that was the one Mom chose. But unlike her, I did inherit G-Lo’s free spirit. I want—no, I need —adventure in my life. The two years I spent caring for Mom changed me. This trip changed me. So maybe college isn’t in my future. At least not now. I’d like to experience everything life has to offer while I can. Travel . . . take pictures . . . keep a diary of my own. But before I can do that, I have to finish what I started.

Another gust tosses my hair over my shoulder. It’s time.

“Mom, no matter what happens next, I want you to know I’m really glad I made the trip.” I drag myself to my feet and unscrew the lid from the urn.

This is the moment I’ve dreaded since leaving home. I’ve always known I’d have to say our last goodbye at some point, but until now, I wasn’t ready. My stomach tightens into a painful knot as I tip the urn toward the ocean, letting the cool breeze reach into the vessel and swirl Mom’s ashes into the air. With a flick of my wrist, I shake the rest of the contents out until they scatter to the wind like snowflakes.

Instead of sadness, a sense of pride and accomplishment washes through me. I close my eyes and picture her the way she was before cancer ravaged her body, stealing the life from her eyes and the breath from her lungs. I did it, Mom.

“I’m so proud of you, Zoey.” Mom cupped my cheeks in her cool hands and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

I was nine—no, ten. It was only a few months before Dad moved out. Mom had to come to school because I’d gotten into a fight with a boy. He’d pulled up my skirt, and I punched him in the mouth, leaving him with a fat lip and a chipped incisor. I was so afraid she would be mad at me. But she wasn’t.

“Proud of me? But I hit Mason.”

“You defended yourself.”

“He did sort of deserve it.” I snickered. “But I thought hitting was bad.”

“Hitting for no reason is bad, but there will be times in your life when you have no choice but to take matters into your own hands. I won’t always be around to protect you.”

“Like your mom isn’t around to protect you ?”

“That’s true.” Sadness washed over her features. “Your grandma hasn’t always been around for me. But in her own way, she taught me everything I needed to know to be able to take care of myself. And now I know you’ll be able to take care of yourself .”

“Yup!” I wrapped my arms around her middle and squeezed. “I’m going to be just like you when I grow up.”

“If that’s what you really want. But Zoey”—Mom squatted so we were eye to eye—“you’ll have the whole world at your feet. You can be anyone you choose to be.”

“Even Grandma Lola?”

Her laugh quickly turned into a groan. “I’m hoping when the time comes, you’ll choose to be yourself.”

With my mom’s ashes still floating through the air, I pack up her diary and the empty urn, tucking them both into my bag with my shoes. Tomorrow, I can decide what to do with the rest of my life. But today, I’m ready for my next adventure.

The guy I’d seen riding the waves steps out of the surf carrying his canary-yellow board. With his wetsuit peeled down to his waist, his long sun-bleached hair matted and twisted from salt and sand, and his skin glowing with a deep nut-brown tan, he looks like an extra in the movie Point Break .

“Hey!” I call out to him as I walk to the water’s edge. “Will you teach me how to do that?”

He stops and rests the end of his board in the sand, eyeing my wrinkled Bowie shirt and G-Lo’s jeans—rolled up almost to my knees. “You wanna surf? In that ?”

“I know I don’t have a board or anything, but can you show me a few things?”

“No way.” He shakes his head, sending icy water droplets flying. “Water’s too cold without a wetsuit, bruh.”

A little voice tells me I should probably take his advice, but I’m too eager to start my next adventure. “I’m from Pennsylvania, I can handle the cold.”

“Okay.” He smiles, exposing his perfect white teeth as he picks up his board and jerks his head toward the shore. “Let’s do this.”

“Sweet!” A twinge of fear grips my insides, but the newly minted adventurer in me refuses to let it stop me.

Following “Point Break,” I run headlong into the surf, soaking my jeans to mid-thigh and nearly falling on my ass. “Holy crap, that’s cold!”

“Come on, Pennsylvania. It’s just right.” He throws his head back in a hearty laugh.

“I think I’ll come back later.” I stumble back to the beach, squeezing brine from the drenched denim. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll be here.” He waves before turning and paddling out to sea.

Lugging my bag over my shoulder, I hike through the wet sand toward the pier access.

Instead of rinsing my feet in the beach shower, I brush them off as best as I can and shove them into my sneakers before climbing the wooden steps. Maybe there’s a surf shop up there . . . not that I could afford to buy anything.

I grab a funnel cake and a Diet Coke on my way to the Looff Hippodrome, the building housing the hundred-year-old carousel. I don’t find anyone selling surfboards, but I do pass the sign marking the end of historic Route 66. I can’t help wondering if Dash made it back to his own On the Road trip.

How’s he supposed to finish his trip without a car, Zoey?

“I dunno, maybe he flew.” I answer my own question with a snort. It can’t be a coincidence that Ziggy Stardust was an alien and so is Superman.

I board the merry-go-round and scramble to find the same standing horse Mom rode thirty years ago before someone else gets it. As soon as I mount my trusty steed, I catch the attention of a woman riding with her little girl.

“Will you take my picture?” I ask.

“Sure.” She smiles and holds out her hand for my phone just as the organ music starts to play. After snapping a few pictures, she hands it back and lifts her daughter onto the jumping horse beside me. “Your battery is about to die.”

“That figures.” I check my messages, deleting another unsolicited text from Damian without reading it and pocket my phone, hoping I won’t need it before I get back to my charger.

“What’s your name?” the little girl asks.

She reminds me of me at that age—no more than about four or five—with wispy blond hair and curious blue-green eyes.

“Zoey.”

Her eyes widen and her little mouth pops open. “That’s my name, too!”

My stomach does a free fall. “Really?”

She nods, and a weird sense of déjà vu sweeps over me.

“Hold on tight, Zoey.” Her mom shoots her a stern warning. “No standing in the saddle this time.”

“She stood on the horse?”

“She did. Almost did a header onto the floor, too.” The woman laughs. “She’s a thrill seeker, this one.”

“I think all Zoeys might be.” A single thought pops into my head. This can’t be another coincidence.