Once Was Lost (24 page)

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Authors: Sara Zarr

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #General, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse

BOOK: Once Was Lost

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“We’ll never hate you,” Vanessa says. “I’ll start. Sam can close. Okay, Sam?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

One Week Later

I ride my bike to the hardware store. Big late-summer
clouds roll across the sky, but I think I can beat the rain this time.

At the jingling bells, Cal looks up from the pile of coins he’s counting and rolling. “Hi there,” he says.

I don’t know if the police ever talked to him, or if my anonymous tip came too late for that, or if he ever knew anyone called in with his name. All I know is I feel a little bit guilty for suspecting, and I’m glad it wasn’t him.

Also, I need a job. I reach in my pocket and pull out the folded-up piece of paper and hand it to him.

“What’s this?” He unfolds it, and sets his wire-rim glasses on top of his head.

“A job application.”

“Oh. I didn’t know I was hiring.” He smiles at me and looks at the paper. “No experience. Very tempting.”

“I’m trying to help out with the family finances. And it’s pretty dusty around here… I could help you organize and keep things neat. Even a couple hours a week.”

He nods, and refolds the piece of paper. “I’ll run it by my business manager.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

On the way out I pass the rack of seed packets, and, on impulse, grab the one with the most colorful, huge, impossible-looking flowers on it. I turn to Cal. “How much are these?”

He puts his glasses back on and squints at the packet, then says, “How about I just deduct it from your first paycheck.”

I almost ask him if he’s sure, then decide not to overanalyze a good thing and slip the seeds into my shorts pocket. “Thanks.”

The bells jingle behind me, and I pedal home.

One Month Later

Dad pushes the cart. Mom holds the list. Their backs
are in front of me, together, their voices saying the most regular things:

“We could grill some chicken later in the week.”

“There’s a good deal on pasta sauce.”

Mom’s been home awhile now and we’re adjusting. She has to keep reminding me and Dad that we don’t have to walk on eggshells around her. And Dad has to keep assuring us that the change he’s made to his work schedule is going to stick, he’s committed. The church hasn’t found an assistant pastor yet but he’s sticking to his forty-hour-a-week schedule and turning off his cell phone for whole evenings at a time.

Mom turns to me now. “Sam, why don’t you pick out some ice cream?”

I go down a few aisles to the frozen foods, stopping in front of the ice cream. The gourmet kind I like is on sale, but the store brand is, too, for less. We are about completely broke. Beans and rice, peanut butter and jelly, stretching our ground beef with oats, washing out every single plastic bag I use for my school lunches… broke. Our one splurge today is a new bag of potting soil for the single container Mom’s been using to teach me xeriscaping. Even she has a goal of looking for a job after she’s been home eight weeks solid. Margaret said not to rush things.

Of the cheap ice cream, two flavors are left: Rocky Road and mint chip. Dad isn’t crazy about mint chip but none of us likes Rocky Road. I shiver from the cold air that wafts out of the freezer and let the door thunk shut.

I turn, moving the mint chip from hand to hand so I don’t freeze my fingers. As I come around the corner where the eggs are displayed, I almost run right into Jody Shaw and her mother.

Time compresses. In one moment, I remember those thirteen days that changed me: what it felt like when I first heard she was missing, the heat on the day of the search, Nick’s hand on mine in the truck. I remember standing on her porch with Erin and looking at the piles of flowers, wondering if the blue ribbons would ever come down. I think about the letter on my desk at home, the one I’m writing to Nick in response to his first letter to me, which came last week.

“Sam?” Mrs. Shaw is saying my name.

But I can’t take my eyes off Jody. The Shaws haven’t been back to church and Jody is doing home school for a while, so I haven’t really gotten a good look. Jody’s cut her hair into a little bob, no more braids. She seems taller, prettier. And there’s something else. “You got your braces off,” I blurt, as if that was the most remarkable thing that had happened to her all summer.

She smiles, showing straight and perfect teeth. She looks so much like Nick.

Mrs. Shaw starts moving their cart forward. “Tell your folks we say hello.”

I step out of the way. My fingers are getting numb from the ice cream. Jody lifts her hand to wave good-bye. “See you, Sam.”

I watch them round the corner out of my sight. I want to follow them through the whole store and watch them shop, watch them stand in line. I want to look at Jody again and study her. Her looking so different isn’t just because she’s growing up, or the haircut, or the braces. I don’t know how to say it other than there were shadows there, in her face, in her mom’s face. It makes me think of Lazarus. He must have had those shadows, too, after his miracle. You don’t spend time in the tomb without it changing you, and everyone who was waiting for you to come out.

But I leave them alone, instead speeding up to find my parents, looking up and down every aisle until I find them. Dad is setting two cans of turkey chili into the cart while Mom studies the list.

“Here I am,” I say.

They both look up at once. They both smile.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Fred Burmester and Mark Miller for answering technical inquiries early on. Extreme gratitude to Tara Altebrando and Ann Cannon for reading drafts. Kisses to Lauren, Sarah F., Sarah M., Tara, Alan, John, Emily, Maggie, and Maryrose for always being there on the other end of the e-mail. Life without regular writing dates with Anne Bowen, James Dashner, and Emily Wing Smith would be dull indeed. Hugs to Sarah Wick—I miss you already. I love all you guys and gals.

Love and thanks also to Michael Bourret, for regularly keeping me from going off the deep end, and for being a great friend and first-rate partner.

Many thanks to the LBYR family: T. S. Ferguson, Amanda Hong, Alison Impey, Zoe Luderitz, Ames O’Neill, Victoria Stapleton, and everyone who helps them. And thanks most of all to my editor, Jennifer Hunt, who is nearly almost always right.

As always, bonus thanks to my husband, Gordon Hultberg, for being here day in and day out in all of the unglamorous reality.

I’m thankful for Karin Bergquist and Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine for their generosity with beauty, and for their song “Idea #21 (Not Too Late),” which helped me understand the questions I ask along with Sam. I owe a debt of gratitude to them and to all my other personal patron saints—the artists, musicians, writers, poets, and thinkers who articulate pain without losing hope, and whose boldness in doubt continues to show me the way.

Table of Contents

Day 1: Saturday, early August.