Define "Normal" (8 page)
My head fell into my hands. “Please, God,” I whispered. “Please make them be okay.” Just then the phone rang.
I snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”
There was a heavy silence. Then a weak voice said, “Antonia? Could you come and get us?”
“Michael!” My heart crashed through the floor. “Where are you? Are you all right? Where’s Mom? Is Chuckie with you?”
Michael sniffled.
“Okay,” I said more calmly. “Just tell me where you are.”
“I don’t know.” He sniffled again. “In a hotel.”
“What hotel? Where?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted.
“Okay, take it easy. Is Mom there?”
Michael paused. “She can’t come to the phone.”
A vision materialized in my head. A crashed car. A woman lying in a pool of blood. It made me shudder, and I banished it. “Can you see the name anywhere? Is it on the phone or the door? Is there any writing paper with the hotel’s name on it? Look around, Michael.”
He said, “I’m not in the room. I snuck out.”
A siren blared in the background, then a roar. A close one. Airplanes, I thought. He must be in a phone booth by the airport. “Is there a neon sign anywhere by the hotel? There must be something. Look.” I didn’t mean to sound frantic.
“I can’t read it,” Michael said in a tiny voice. “I don’t know the words.”
“Well, spell it.”
He spelled, “W-y-f-a-e-r-i-n.”
I wrote it down. Sounded it out. Something like Wayfair Inn. “What else do you see?”
“A bar across the street. We stopped there. Me and Chuckie stayed in the car.”
A bar? “Can you read the bar’s name?”
“No.”
Great, I thought.
“But I remember it,” he added. “Lucky Lady Saloon. Mom said, “Lucky lady, that’s me.’ And she went inside.”
My heart sank again, this time with a thud. “Good, Michael. Okay. I think I can find you. Is there a number on that phone?”
He read me the number. I had to ask. “Is Chuckie okay?”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “He’s asleep.”
He’ll be scared to death if he wakes up in a strange place, I thought. “Go stay with him,” I told Michael. “And Mom, too. Take care of them until I get there.”
“Antonia?” The weak, wavery voice returned.
“Yeah?”
“Mom’s sick.”
My throat constricted. “I know. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Michael inhaled a long breath. “I don’t think so,” he said.
There was no Wayfair Inn in the phone book, only a Wayfarer, but it was near the airport. The Lucky Lady Saloon. I looked it up, too, and confirmed the location. How did they get clear out to the airport? And why? Where was she going? Why would she stop at a bar? She didn’t drink. At least, not a lot. Sometimes she used to go but for a beer after work with her girlfriends. But that was a long time ago. I wasn’t even sure she had girlfriends anymore. I unfolded the bus map. “Oh, man,” I thought aloud, “it’ll take me hours to get there. I’ll have to transfer twice.” Dad never let us ride the bus
at night. He said the crazies came out at night. The homeless, the winos, the thugs.
“Like you care,” I muttered. “Why aren’t you here to help?” Then I lost it. Waving the bus map at the ceiling, I screamed, “It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t gone and—”
The phone rang. I lunged for it. “Hello?”
A familiar voice said, “Tone? Hi, it’s Jazz.”
“Oh,” I said dully.
“Mom made me call. Did your mother get home?” she asked.
My head reeled. If I lied and said yes, she might not believe me. She might ask to speak with Mom. Mrs. Luther would, for sure. Then I’d have to lie again. So many lies. I hated lying. I was already going to hell for leaving Michael and Chuckie alone today, so what difference did it make?
It made a difference. I didn’t want to lie to Jazz. I was her peer counselor.
“Antonia?”
“Do you know anyone who drives?” I asked her.
She thought for a minute. “Yeah.”
“Great. I need a ride somewhere.”
T
he BMW pulled up to the curb fifteen minutes later. I felt betrayed. When Jazz got out to let me in up front, I snarled at her, “I didn’t mean your mother.”
Jazz glared at me. “My Corvette’s in the shop.”
“So, where are we off to?” Mrs. Luther asked cheerfully.
I slid in and gave her the address I’d copied from the phone book. As we headed toward the highway, my breath got shorter and shorter. My whole body shook. Even though the heater was blasting, I pulled my jacket tight around me.
Mrs. Luther chattered at me over the CD player. After a while, after I didn’t answer her a couple of times, I guess she gave up. Jazz just stared at me from the backseat. I could feel her eyes drilling black holes in my head.
My stomach felt queasy. If that lobster dinner hadn’t cost forty dollars, I would’ve upchucked on the leather seat. No kidding. What was going to happen when we got to the hotel? Discovery. Disaster. Everything was going to come crashing down. I bit my trembling lip. A gush of salty blood trickled over my tongue.
“And Jazz plays the piano. Did you tell Antonia about your music?”
Jazz said, “Yeah, when I introduced myself. I said, “I’m Jazz Luther. You know, the famous pianist.’”
Her mother ignored her. “She plays beautifully. Her teacher says she has the talent to attend Juilliard. But Jasmine refuses to compete or give a public recital.”
“No, I don’t,” Jazz said. “You won’t let me.”
Jazz played the piano? That got my attention. I tried to envision her at the keys, playing a recital, going to Juilliard. The image wouldn’t stick.
Mrs. Luther went on, “She’s going to have to act more mature if she ever plans to audition for Juilliard.”
Jazz clucked. “Who says I do?”
Listening to them bicker was better than the war raging inside my head.
The flickering neon sign was exactly as Michael had described it. The A and Y were burned out. It wasn’t a hotel, though. Just a rundown, sleazy motel off the highway ramp. I’d forgotten to ask Michael what room. It didn’t matter. He was huddling outside one of the red doors.
I took a deep breath. “You can just pull in over there.” I pointed. “By that kid.”
Mrs. Luther whipped the Beamer into one of the dozen empty spaces and turned off the ignition.
“You don’t have to come in,” I told her, lifting the door handle.
“Nonsense,” she said.
“No—”
But she was already out of the car and heading toward the room. Jazz scurried out behind her.
Michael scrambled to his feet when he saw us. “This is my brother Michael,” I introduced them.
Mrs. Luther reached out a gloved hand. His scared eyes met mine. I didn’t know what to do either, so I nodded okay. He shook the hand limply. She said, “We’ve come to help.”
Then go away, I thought. Get in that Beamer and drive back to paradise. Leave us alone here in hell.
“How’s … everyone?” I asked Michael.
He caught my drift. “Not good.”
“Why don’t we go inside out of the cold?” Mrs. Luther suggested.
Michael met my eyes. His sick expression mirrored my feeling of foreboding.
Mrs. Luther opened the door.
Chuckie lay curled in a ball on the single bed, his thumb in his mouth. “That’s my other brother, Chuckie,” I said quietly “Let’s just get him and go.”
“Where’s your mother?” Jazz asked.
I shot eye-daggers at Jazz. She didn’t flinch, just continued to hold my gaze. Then she blinked off and looked at Michael. His eyes strayed to the corner. Don’t look, I pleaded silently.
But she did.
There, behind the TV, sat Mom. She was hunched up, hugging her knees on the filthy floor. “Mrs. Dillon?” Jazz’s mom said softly.
A sort of whimper rose from Mom’s throat. A wounded-animal sound. Mrs. Luther approached and knelt down in front of Mom. She touched her shoulder. “What’s your mother’s name, Antonia?” she asked without taking her eyes off Mom.
“Patrice,” I replied.
“Patrice. I’m a friend, Patrice. Can you hear me?”
Mom whimpered and scrunched up tighter. I walked over and pulled Mom’s dress down over her knees so you couldn’t see … you know. “She gets like this sometimes,” I said. “When she doesn’t take her medicine.”
“Medicine? What kind of medicine?” Mrs. Luther stood up suddenly.
I stepped back. “I don’t know. Something for her nerves.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Luther frowned. “Do you know her doctor’s name?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry.” My voice caught.
“All right.” Mrs. Luther removed her gloves and stuck them in her purse. “I’m going to the motel office to make a few phone calls. Antonia, Jazz, you get Chuckie and Michael into the car.” She handed Jazz the keys. “I’ll be back to help with your mother,” she said to me. Her hand grasped mine and squeezed. “Don’t worry, Antonia. Everything’s under control. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Fine, I thought. Whose definition?
After she left, Michael grabbed my coat sleeve. “Why’d you bring her?” he snarled. “She’s going to ruin everything.”
I stared at the motel door. He was right. But for some reason, I felt relieved.
Jazz said, “Don’t worry, Michael.” Her words didn’t convey much comfort, especially when she added, “My mother’s a control freak. Believe her when she says everything’s under control.”
“Where are we going?” Michael asked as soon as we were all bundled in the car and driving away. Mom was strapped in up front next to Mrs. Luther, while the four of us crammed together in back. Chuckie lay in my lap, sucking away on his thumb. Out the window, I watched the wavering Wayfarer sign slowly disappear in the distance. “Are you taking us to the cops?” Michael asked.
Mrs. Luther glanced back at him. She smiled. “Of course not, sweetie. Why would I do that? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I could tell he didn’t believe her. He scootched closer to the side window, scrunching up his shoulders.
“Where
are
we going, Mom?” Jazz asked.
Her mother exhaled. “Home. You’re all coming over to spend the night with us. Won’t that be fun?” She winked at us in the rearview mirror.
Jazz smiled at me like, See? Control freak.
Leaning around Jazz, I said to Michael, “They have an indoor swimming pool.”
He shrugged.
“And a game room,” Jazz added. “With a big-screen TV We have all the Disney movies.”
That perked him up.
She tweaked his cheek. “It’ll be fun.”
He jerked away.
Fun. For how long? I wondered.
We pulled into the driveway at the Luther estate. At night, with the outdoor globes illuminated and lights twinkling in the upstairs windows, the place looked like a gingerbread house. The fragrance of cinnamon even swirled through the air. Or maybe that was Mrs. Luther’s sweet perfume. I opened the car door and slid out, carrying Chuckie. Jazz took Michael’s hand. When Mrs. Luther didn’t follow with Mom, my heart raced. “Where’re you taking her?” I said.
Mrs. Luther smiled somberly. “I have a dear friend, a doctor. I called him at the motel and he said to go ahead and bring her in.”
“In where?”
“St. Joseph’s Hospital,” she said.
I paused. “She’s afraid of hospitals. Doctors, too.”
“She’s afraid of everything,” Michael said.
I glared at him.
“Well, she is.” He kicked an imaginary pebble.
Jazz’s mom bent down in front of Michael. “Sometimes we’re scared of things that are good for us. Like doctors and hospitals. We just need someone to help us get over our fears. Okay?”
He nodded.
I held Chuckie tighter.
“Come on.” Jazz tugged on Michael’s hand. “She’ll be okay, guys. Trust us.” She caught her mom’s eye, then blinked back. “Trust me, at least.”
I looked from Jazz, all black smiles, to Mrs. Luther, all red smiles, and thought, Who are you? I don’t even know you people.
“By the way, Antonia,” Mrs. Luther added. “Is there someone I should call? A relative? A grandparent? Sister, brother?”
Mom’s sister, Aunt Hannah—but she and Mom didn’t get along. Besides, she lived in Ohio. “No,” I told her. “There’s no one.”
“How about your father?”
Jazz yanked Michael harder. “There’s no one, Mom, okay? Just go.”
I
didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep, but suddenly it was morning. A vague memory resurfaced—dragging up the stairs, settling Michael and Chuckie in, falling into bed beside Jazz. Now sunlight streamed in through Jazz’s window, blinding me. I propped up on my elbows and peered over the lump of flowered comforter to Jazz’s digital clock. Nine-thirty-eight. Oh, no! School. Then I remembered it was Sunday.
Jazz groaned.
As quietly as possible, I took off the nightgown Jazz had loaned me, put on my sweater, and swiveled my skirt back into place. Tiptoeing out into the hallway, I slipped into my shoes and went in search of my brothers.
Mr. Luther had put them in a guest bedroom last night. He wanted to give each of them a separate room, but I said no. Chuckie couldn’t sleep alone. He woke up crying at least once every night. He had nightmares. Monsters and bogeymen were always after him. Usually it was me who got up to calm him down. Plus he had that … other problem. Now I felt guilty. I’d slept clear through the night. Who’d gotten up with Chuckie?
The guest room was empty. I panicked. My family was missing again. Then I heard voices downstairs. The smell of frying bacon hit my nose.
It took a while to find the kitchen, but there they were —Mr. Luther at the table with Chuckie in his lap. Michael sat across from them. “Antonia, good morning.” Mr. Luther set down his fork and scooted back his chair. He stood. “Please.” He waved to the table. “Have a seat. Would you like O.J. or grape juice?”
I slid into the empty chair next to Michael. He grinned at me. “I had both.”
“Or both?” Mr. Luther grinned at me, too.
“Orange juice,” I said. “Thank you.”
Mr. Luther swung Chuckie over his head and planted him atop his shoulders. Chuckie whooped with glee. “Do you like your eggs scrambled, over easy, or sunny side up?”
I looked at Michael. “I had scrambled,” he said.
“Scrambled is fine. Thank you.”
