What She Left Behind, Page 4

  It’s better to think of food than what must have happened to my mom. So I try to think of what I’d eat if I could just imagine something and it would appear right in front of me. Only, I think of spaghetti. Which brings me back to last night. And my dad. Surely Mom isn’t at home fixing supper for him, our plan forgotten. Is she?

  A silver car speeds past going at least forty in a twenty-five. Not my mom’s. But it puts on its brakes a little way down the street and does a U-turn. The car slows as it approaches my bench, and the window comes down.

  “Sara?”

  “Hi, Alex.”

  “What are you still doing downtown?” Alex asks.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Have you eaten dinner?”

  I shake my head.

  “Hop in. I’ll treat you to a burger at Lucy’s.”

  “I’m kind of waiting for someone.”

  “I don’t mean to pry or anything, but it seems like you’ve been waiting for this person all day. I don’t think they’re going to show up. Have you tried calling?”

  I nod, blinking hard to keep from crying.

  “Look, I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t want to get something to eat?”

  I take one last look down the road, then I open the passenger door and get in. Well, I try to get in. First I have to wait for Alex to clear the fast-food wrappers off the front seat.

  “You must drive around a lot,” I say, mainly to avoid thinking and talking about my mom. We don’t have any fast-food restaurants in Scottsfield.

  Alex looks a little sheepish. “Not really, actually. It’s just that I don’t clean my car out very often.”

  Alex does another illegal U-turn and drives the half block to Lucy’s.

  “Let’s sit here,” I say, pointing to a booth in front of the window. At least I can still watch for my mom, although it’s starting to get darker and harder to see.

  Lacey (Lucy’s sister) is our waitress. “What can I get for you today?” she asks. She’s so cheery, I want to vomit. My life is spinning out of control—for her, probably the worst thing that’s going to happen is that she’ll mix up a hamburger order.

  While I concentrate on an approaching set of headlights, Alex orders. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.”

  “I’ll have the same, except make mine a root beer,” I say, still tracking the headlights. Matt and I used to drink root beer all the time when we were little. I’d stopped drinking it at about age ten. It’s too sweet. I took it up again after Matt died because whenever I take the first sip I get this whoosh feeling and I think—just for a second—that I’m sitting on the porch swing next to Matt.

  “You missed a thrilling algebra lesson,” Alex says. “Something about x and y, I think.”

  I’m having a hard time focusing on what he’s saying.

  “Okay, so that wasn’t very funny.” He clears his throat. “There’s a party Saturday night at Nick Russell’s house. Want to go?”

  “Why?” I ask absently.

  Alex looks confused.

  “You mean why did I ask you to the party?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t know—you seem kind of depressed. I thought it might cheer you up.” He pauses. “That, and I can’t think of anything else to say.”

  I laugh a tiny bit.

  Alex gets a happy smile on his face.

  Lacey brings us the cheeseburgers, but she forgot the cheese on mine. I eat it anyway. What does it matter?

  “So you want to go see a movie or something?” Alex asks.

  My heart thumps. “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  I say what’s easiest and what Alex would expect from me: “It’s a school night.”

  “See, I knew you were a straight shooter. That skipping-algebra thing was just a fluke, wasn’t it?” He showers his fries with salt and then points the shaker at me. “In fact, you probably only skipped because you hadn’t done the homework. No. That can’t be it. You didn’t do the homework because you knew you weren’t going to class. Am I right?”

  I want to answer because he’s so cute and sweet, but I can’t.

  Tell no one.

  Alex clears his throat. “So are you coming to the football game Friday night?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I hate football, but I play in the band.” And, in my head, I’m really hoping I won’t be here on Friday.

  “Okay then,” says Alex, as if I’ve just insulted him.

  I realize my stupidity. “Oh, right, sorry.” Alex is on the football team. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

  The darker it gets, the more worried I feel. I finish my burger and fries in record time. Alex is only about halfway through his when I get up. “Can you take me home, please?” I say, digging through my purse for some money.

  “Let me just get a box and the check,” he says. “My treat.”

  An electric charge surges through my body. All of a sudden I feel like we’re on a date. Me and Alex Maloy? Matt would have laughed his head off.

  We cruise down Scottsfield Highway going at least seventy in a fifty-five. When I apply the imaginary brake on my side of the car, my foot crunches down on a CD case. I pick it up. “You have a Smooth Seventies CD?”

  “My mom’s,” he says. “She had to borrow my car last week while hers was in the shop.”

  “Does it have ‘Wildfire’ on it?”

  “Try it and see.”

  I slip it into the player and skip through the tracks until I get to the one I’m looking for. My mom used to play “Wildfire” on the stereo all the time. It’s the song I was trying to play the day Dad snapped. The song has something to do with a horse and a woman who’s chasing after it in a blizzard. That’s all I really remember, since each time I listen to it I get caught up in the chorus and forget to pay attention to how the story comes out. With the speakers blaring and Alex and I flying down the road, I kind of feel like I’m on the back of that runaway horse.

  The song ends and I turn off the stereo. I’ve managed to space out again, so I still don’t know how it turns out. Did she find the horse or not?

  I check out Alex’s profile. He seems mellow, relaxed, without a care in the world. Although we’re going fast, I feel safe. Protected. I almost tell him about my mom, but I want him to stay like he is.

  It starts to rain harder. We ride in a silence that might have been uncomfortable if this were a date, but since I’m trying to pretend it isn’t, I simply lean my head back against the headrest and think about the rain and my mom, and pretty soon I’m back at my eleventh birthday party.

  “Girl!”

  “Umbrella!”

  “Rain!”

  “American Idol!”

  “Singing in the rain!”

  “You got it!” My mom pointed at Amber. “Your turn.” Amber got up and took the dry erase marker from my mom. She twirled it in her fingers for a few seconds, then started to draw.

  “Your mom is so cool,” Lauren said. We were sitting next to each other cross-legged on the floor.

  I shrugged. At all of the other parties I’d ever been to, there was an unspoken agreement that moms were to keep their distance. My mom was the only mom who dared to hang out with us. Of course, the only reason that my mom was so fun and happy was because my dad was away for the weekend. Which was the only reason I was allowed to have the party in the first place.

  Alex taps his fingers on the steering wheel, dragging me back into the present. “That your house?”

  “Yeah, this is it.” Fear crawls up my legs.

  “It’s awfully dark. Don’t you guys believe in lights?”

  “A waste of electricity,” I say weakly.

  “Your parents out?”

  “Looks like it,” I say.

  “Want me to come in and wait with you?” From the way he says it, I get the feeling that he has more in mind than just waiting.

  That would be great, except my dad hates when I have friends over. Even if you were to leave t
he second he got home, he’d still be mad.

  “Nah. I’ll just light a few candles. Read a little Stephen King. It’ll be great.”

  Alex laughs and puts the car in park.

  Should I really go in? Maybe I should just ask him to drive me back to the Dairy Dream. I open the car door and the dome light illuminates Alex’s face. Is this the last time I’ll see him? My brain divides itself into two teams, one that’s cheering for the answer to be yes, and the other for no. I imagine myself in his backseat, making out with him, his hands in my hair. My tongue in his mouth. I feel myself blush and realize that I’ve been staring. Only, I think he’s been staring too. He gets this funny look on his face and starts leaning in closer to me. I chicken out at the last second and turn my head.

  “Guess I should go in,” I say. Idiot! You just blew your last chance to kiss those lips! What were you thinking?

  “I suppose so,” says Alex. “Bye, then.”

  “Bye. Thanks for the ride.”

  I wave and walk up the front porch. All thoughts of kissing Alex, of happiness, of anything good, disappear as I touch the cool door handle. What’s on the other side of the door? I feel like I’m in the oatmeal dream again. Sick. Drowning.

  There’s no smell of dinner, no one reading in the living room. The house feels empty. I walk into the kitchen and turn on a light. There are no pots on the stove, no dishes in the sink. I continue to the living room and have this urge to turn the TV on so the house will stop being so quiet. My heart pounding, I make my way down the hallway to my parents’ room and turn on the light.

  I stifle a scream. My dad is sitting on the bed, fully clothed, completely awake. In the dark.

  “I didn’t think anyone was home,” I say.

  My dad just stares. I’m used to his silences by now, but this is excruciating.

  “Your mom’s gone,” he says matter-of-factly.

  It’s like I’m trapped inside some Stephen King novel instead of my own life. How does Dad know? And why am I not with her?

  “What?” I ask finally.

  My dad reaches over to the nightstand and gets his pack of cigarettes. He shakes out the last one, lights it, and takes a drag, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. He crumples the empty pack and tosses it at me. It bounces off my arm.

  “Training seminar in North Carolina. The person who was supposed to go got food poisoning, so they sent your mom.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “A week or so.”

  My dad takes another puff of his cigarette, then flips on the TV and doesn’t say another word—he just sits there and smokes. I want to wave my hands in front of his face and make him tell me more, but he would probably break my arm. So instead I back away.

  The first thing I notice when I get to my room is that Sam, my stuffed dog, is on my bed. My back starts to feel prickly. I know I put Sam in my duffel bag. I look at my desk. My photo album sits neatly on the corner.

  I go to my bathroom. My toothbrush is in its place in the yellow duck holder.

  My whole body shakes. With an urge to scream, I pick up the edge of my comforter and peek under my bed. My duffel bag is there. But it’s empty. Someone has put everything back where it belongs. But who?

  I lie on the floor and hug my arms to my chest. I try to calm down by concentrating on breathing slower. In, out. In, out. Mom, Dad. In, out. Mom, Dad. Mom, Dad. Mom, Dad. It isn’t working. The worry builds to a crescendo in my head.

  I force myself to think, MOM. I say it in my head as loud as I can. MOM. It must have been MOM who put everything back. Even though everything has been put back very neatly and precisely, the way Dad would do it. For some reason Mom must have known she wouldn’t be able to pick me up today, so she put everything back. Hey, wait a minute—maybe she unpacked my bag and left a note!

  I sweep my arm under the bed and fish out my duffel bag. I tear the main zipper open and feel around all over the inside. Then I try the top zipper and both side ones. A scream grows from the tips of my toes and ripples through my entire body until I have to cover my mouth with my stuffed dog to keep it in.

  Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad is turning into just Dad, Dad, Dad. Dad unpacked my bag. I shake my head, trying to come up with something that makes sense. If Dad thought he could drive me crazy, make me doubt what my mom and I planned, it’s working.

  If my dad put everything back, where’s my mom?

  Dad’s voice echoes in my mind. Don’t even think of leaving.

  What if he caught her dragging my bag out to the car?

  I will find you. Guaranteed.

  I have to get out of here. I snatch my duffel off the floor and put it on my bed. I dump all the contents of my drawers onto the floor in massive piles, then I start flinging things into the bag at random. Pants, shorts, T-shirts, shoes, a handful of socks. I take my photo album and slam it down as hard as I can into the bag.

  And then I lie down on the floor and cry. Because I know I can’t leave. Maybe my dad came home while Mom was putting her suitcase in the car and she had to make up the story about the training seminar. Maybe she decided to change the plan, to find someplace for us to live first. If that’s the case, she’ll be coming back for me. And I have to be here when she does.

  Even if it kills me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Wednesday

  My alarm clock moos. It’s one of those novelty kinds that’s shaped like a cow. Matt bought it for me because he knew how much I hate things that beep.

  I open my eyes and stare at the Picasso print on my wall. Picasso’s my favorite artist. I like his stuff because of all the bright colors. That, and it’s ugly. Take the Portrait of Dora Maar. She’s this lady with, like, three quarters of a yellow face, one eye that’s red and one that’s green, and a chest in the shape of a triangle. I like to stare at her face because you get double vision without even having to cross your eyes. If I stare at her long enough, hopefully I can quiet the voice inside my head. Where’s Mom? Why didn’t she come get me? When is she coming back? Did I just imagine packing my bag?

  I lie there for a few minutes, tensing my muscles, staring at Dora Maar and clutching Sam. Every time I try to get rid of him, I can’t do it. Let’s face it: The only way I can even give him away is if I sew up his neck, and that isn’t happening.

  Whenever my mom gets out the sewing machine, she starts to swear. She usually doesn’t curse, but just opening up the sewing table makes her drop the F-bomb. Then she tries to thread the needle.

  I’ve discovered that sewing skills are actually genetically linked. Once I tried to do needlepoint. I was making a toaster cover. (Yeah, I know. Who actually needs a toaster cover? We certainly don’t.) I sewed that sucker right onto the skirt I was wearing. Ruined the skirt and the toaster cover. So there’s no way Sam will ever be sewn up. That just leaves putting him in the trash and there’s no way I can do that.

  As much as I want to stay home and bury myself under the covers or take off running and never come back, I decide to go to school. Maybe there’s some reason Mom couldn’t pick me up yesterday. Maybe she’ll come today. And I’ll be ready at the Dairy Dream.

  I go to the bathroom and make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes are more red than blue. I try to put in my contacts but they sting, so I pry them back out and settle for my glasses.

  I decide to skip showering. I pull my hair into its usual ponytail, minus the butterfly clips and the curling iron. My eyes start welling with tears again as soon as I have the eyeliner on. It smudges. I don’t fix it.

  “Morning,” says my dad, looking up from his Time magazine and Wheat Chex as I walk into the kitchen. “Want a ride to school?”

  A whole sentence in a pleasant voice. My dad almost never speaks at breakfast.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say. I have early-morning band practice so I can’t take the bus. Normally Mom would take me.

  As I eat my cereal, I try to figure out what made my mom marry my dad. They don’t really have that much
in common. Frankly, I think it might have been the whole man-in-uniform thing. Only, my dad doesn’t wear a uniform anymore. Though he does a pretty good job making it look like he still does. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He has on a crisply ironed short-sleeve blue shirt, jeans, and a pair of brown shoes that he ordered from a catalog—when one pair wears out he orders another exactly the same. I think it makes him feel like he’s still a cop. He’d go back to it if he could. That is, if it weren’t for Internal Affairs. He hates running the hardware store, but he puts on a good front for everyone else. He used to take his frustration out on Matt and Mom. Now, just on Mom.

  “I don’t have time to watch him run around a soccer field. I have work to do.”

  I look up from my cereal, momentarily startled. It’s as if Dad memorized every hurtful thing he ever said to my dead brother. Then he replays them to us at random. As long as we make agreeable sounds back at him, everything is fine. If we ignore him or try to disagree, he smashes things. Or smashes Mom into things.

  Dad stares at me expectantly.

  “Right. Of course you don’t,” I say.

  He gives a quick nod and goes back to his magazine.

  Dad is nearing the end of his second bowl of cereal. I take my own bowl and glass to the sink, add some soap, and wash them. Then I open the dishwasher. We don’t actually use the dishwasher as it is intended. That would make too much noise for my dad, so we use it as a drying rack.

  I pull out the top rack and put my clean dishes inside. Then I notice a glass that’s cloudy. It definitely has lip prints on it, as if it didn’t actually get washed. I take it out and am about to wash it when I notice another dirty glass. When I look closer, I realize that all of the dishes are dirty.

  Shit! I glance over at my dad to see if he’s noticed anything. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention.