A/N: this is it, guys- the last part. (and, I suspect, the part most of you have been waiting for.) ;)

thanks for reading and especially reviewing!

April 19, 1992

6:53 p.m.

'

Ringggg. Ringggg. The doorbell.

I click off Wheel of Fortune and set the bag of potato chips down on the sofa beside me. Dad is in his study with the door closed, as usual, and Mary Ann is in her room, so I know I'm the only one who heard it ring. I stand up and wipe my greasy hands off on my jeans on my way to the door, hoping it's mom and that she's picked up dinner on the way home. I'm starving and potato chips only go so far.

I wonder why she's coming to the front door instead of going through the garage when I remember that yesterday she tripped and almost fell over the carburetor I left on the floor next to the Marquis. She's probably afraid of a repeat performance. I had hoped Dad would help me work on it today when he got home. But when I asked, he brushed me off again, saying "maybe tomorrow" and disappeared into his study.

Sometimes I wonder why he even bothered to buy it. Growing up, I heard stories about how great this one car was, a black 1974 Mercury Marquis. It was the first brand new car he ever bought and the way he smiled when he talked about it, you could see he loved it. And there are not that many things my dad loves.

He and mom had to sell it when I came along. They needed the cash because babies and diapers are expensive and cops only make so much money. I always kind of felt guilty that he had to sell it because of me. So, I was only slightly surprised when he came home with one a year ago. The thing could barely run and never moved again once it made it into our garage. But what did surprise me is what my dad told me next- that he bought the car for me, not him. That his favorite car would be my first car. And that we would fix it up together.

For a while, we did. We would spend hours in the garage, my dad showing me the ropes of how a car runs and how to fix it. I learned a lot about cars, but also a little about my dad. We had always had a bit of a hard time talking to each other and having the car there, between us, helped bridge the gap.

Then, slowly, our time together tapered off. Mom had started working again and I guess that stressed Dad out a bit. He didn't have as much time for me. And, eventually, he didn't have time for me at all. He spends all of his free time in his study, hunched over who knows what. When I asked him about it one day, he just said he was working on a case. What he didn't have to say was the case was more important than me.

When I open the door, I see two cops in their uniforms. I don't recognize them, but then again, I really don't know many of my dad's co-workers. But one look at their faces, and I know. I know my mom is not coming home.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

I try to call to my dad, to let him know the police are here and that something's wrong, but my mouth is dry and my voice doesn't work. I see the taller of the two officers is talking. I can see his mouth moving, but I can't make out any of the words. The dull buzzing in my ears blocks out all the other sounds. After a moment, the cop's mouth stops moving and he gestures like he would like to come inside. I stand there for a minute, then numbly move to the side, letting them pass.

My dad has evidently heard them enter and wanders in from his study to see who is here. I look past the backs of the officers to my dad and watch as all the color drains from his face. I'm not sure if they said anything to him or not; the buzzing is still there. Or if he knew, by looking, just like me.

It all seems so surreal. How can my mom be gone?

Just this morning, I saw her. But did I really? My mind registered she was there, remembers her presence, her bustling about, talking to my dad and plating up breakfast before she disappeared down the hall to get Mary Ann ready for school. But did I even look at her, physically? Surely I did, but I can't remember what she was wearing. I was too busy reviewing for a chemistry test and eating bacon and toast to pay attention. Bacon and toast that she cooked. For me. This morning. The last time I saw her. Will ever see her. And I can't even remember what she was wearing.

I rack my brain trying to remember what, if anything, I said to her. Did I thank her for breakfast? Did I tell her to have a nice day? Did I even tell her goodbye? I'm shouting at myself now. Find something! Find something to cling to. Something to remember. Something to tell me that my mom's last day on earth was not marked by my indifference.

Then I remember.

I was rinsing off my breakfast dishes and putting them in the dishwasher when she walked back into the house. She had just left for work but came back inside immediately because her car battery was dead. My dad said it was not a problem. She could take his car and drop him off at the precinct on her way and he'd catch a ride home. He left to get his car keys from the bedroom. As I closed the dishwasher, I looked up and my mom and I locked eyes for a moment. And she smiled at me. Not a normal everyday smile, but a mother's smile. A smile full of love and pride and acceptance all wrapped up in one look, as only a mom can do.

And, thankfully, I smiled back.

fin