Something Fierce (8 page)

“He’s not like that. I
know
he’s not. He covered me up when he thought I was asleep. He made me breakfast. He took care of me when I was having an attack. He’s different. But even if I’m wrong about him, it’s worth the risk, Timmy. Isn’t it? My whole life has been a mess. One fuck up after another. I have to see where this goes. I have to. Please tell me you understand.”

Timmy nodded that he did.

She brushed the hair out of his eyes. “We have to keep it a secret until I know where it’s going.”

Timmy nodded, sort of sadly. He’d been keeping her secrets his whole life.

The first thing Kerri did Friday morning was call off of work. Feigning sickness was made easier with a voice groggy from lack of sleep. Thoughts of the dinner with Seth had kept her up most of the night. The second thing she did was lay out everything she was going to wear that evening, right down to the underwear. She’d changed her mind half a dozen times since Wednesday and packed and repacked an overnight bag—that would stay hidden in her trunk so as not to appear too eager—in case things went as wonderfully as they had on Monday.

Then Seth called and cancelled.

S
eth was on his
way back
to Cherry Run for his Aunt Rita’s funeral when his youngest sister, Gail, called, sounding very un-Gail-like, frantic and near tears, “We can’t find Mom.”

“What?” he said, turning the radio down.

“She just took off,” Gail said, in a voice, hushed and anxious. “What do we do? I don’t know what to do?”

“I can barely hear you.”

“I’m in the car. Steffi’s asleep in the back seat and I don’t want to wake her.” Gail blew her nose. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I wasn’t thinking. I just call you and start babbling—”

“It’s okay. Just take a breath. Calm down,” he said like he used to do when they were at home and she’d wake him up after having a nightmare. That’s the Gail he saw in his mind just then—not the busy wife, mother, and hub of the family—but his baby sister wearing a pink Care Bear nightie with most of the sparkles worn off, her long, pin-straight hair framing a small face streaked with tears. Her big brother was always her first choice when she needed comforting, over Mom, over Tina, even over Dad. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“We were at the funeral home. Me and Mom,” she said, trying to compose herself. “She’d picked out Rita’s dress this morning and we met at the funeral home to go over the arrangements. I did most of the talking, made all the decisions. Mom just stood there like she was a million miles away. I kept asking her if she was okay and she said she was fine. Then she just walked out. Not a word. Nothing. I figured she needed some air so I gave her a few minutes but when I went outside, she was gone. Her car was gone.”

“Does she have the cell phone?”

“No. That’s the first thing I did. Dad answered. He said she left it on the kitchen table. We both thought she’d go home, but she didn’t. He’s worried too. He’s out in the truck so we can cover twice as much ground. Everyone else is still at work.”

“I’m sure she just needed to get away for a few minutes. This has to be really hard on her.”

“It can’t be any worse than the last seven years. If anything, it is a relief. Oh God, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Alzheimer’s stole their sharp-witted, favorite aunt and their mom’s older sister and best friend from them one memory, one faculty at a time over the past years, leaving a shell of a person with a vacant stare who didn’t recognize any of them, couldn’t feed herself, or remember how to use the bathroom.

“If Mom needed to get away,” Gail said, “she would have said that. She wouldn’t just disappear. That isn’t like her at all and you know it.”

His sister was right. One of Janet Hardy’s greatest concerns was putting anyone out, being a burden in any way, worrying anyone. Taking off without telling a soul where she was going was absolutely out of character. “Picking out the clothes for her sister to be buried in, going to the funeral home, that’s stressful, painful,” he said. “A person acting strange at a time like this is not strange at all.”

But of course, this wasn’t why Gail was so upset. Their mom had become forgetful lately and they were all silently worried, quietly terrified that she might be showing early signs of the disease that robbed Aunt Rita of her life and her dignity years before actually killing her late last night. He heard his niece start to cry in the background and Gail instantly switched gears from scared daughter to nurturing mother. “It’s okay, baby,” she was saying. “Mommy’s here. We’re just going for a little ride. You like rides, don’t you?” Stephanie cried harder. Back into the phone, Gail said, “Poor girl has a terrible cold. I was hoping she’d sleep longer. I’m going to have to go. How far away are you?”

“Maybe an hour and a half. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Don’t speed, okay. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I’m not worried. Mom is fine. I’m sure of it. She just needed a little space, that’s all.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes. If you don’t hear from me, call me as soon as you get in.” He could barely hear her over Stephanie’s wailing, “Oh, I know, honey, I know. Hey! Do you want to stop at the Dollar Store?” This seemed to quiet the little girl some and Gail said to Seth, “She loves going into the Dollar Store. You really think everything’s okay?”

“I do.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, Gail. Honestly.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding much calmer than she was a few minutes ago. “Thanks, Bro. See you soon.”

He tossed the phone on the passenger’s seat. He shut the radio all the way off so there was just the sound of the road whipping by under the tires and the wind of this cold, clear day. His mind raced and meandered and then drifted. Though he hadn’t lived in Cherry Run for nearly twenty years, he’d been back to visit his family as often as possible over that time so it was easy to picture the funeral home on Main Street and his mom’s old red Cobalt sitting in front of it. He could imagine her walking to the car, slow on account of her arthritic knees, wearing her puffy, pink winter coat and jeans and the boots she was proud of because she’d gotten them for half-price at the end of the season last year at the Walmart in Clarion. “I’ll just set these away and next winter, I’ll have a brand new pair ready to go,” he remembered her saying. She wouldn’t be wearing a hat because she hated the way they messed up her hair, which was shoulder-length and dyed to maintain its original light-brown. He could see her getting into the driver’s seat too, but that was as far as he could visualize. “What’s going on, Mom?” he said, aloud, as if she would somehow answer him.

Growing up, he’d idolized his dad, but his mom was his buddy. It was through her that he developed his penchant for believing in long shots and dreaming big. She was the first person he’d told that he wanted to be a writer. He’d just gotten his learner’s permit and she was teaching him how to drive. Even though he’d rarely seen her with a book, she’d told him that she knew he’d make a great writer. “Because I’m always reading?” he’d asked.

“Nope,” she’d said. “Because you never miss a beat. Ever since you was little, you listened more than you talked; you watched people and you always wanted to know how things worked and why people was the way they was. If that ain’t the makings of a good writer, I don’t know what is.” She’d told him then she had always wanted to be a movie star when she was his age and had planned to go to Hollywood.

“How come you didn’t?” he’d asked.

“I didn’t know how to go about it, I guess. Hollywood might as well a been the moon. Plus I suppose I was scared. Just didn’t have the gumption to take off on my own. Then I married your dad and had you kids and,” she’d laughed, “here I am, old and fat.”

He’d assured her that she was neither and she’d told him he was sweet but that mirrors didn’t lie. “Things are different with you though. You ain’t afraid. You jump right in. I don’t know where you got it, but you got it. You’ll be as famous as that Jack London or Stephen King,” she’d said, noting the two authors he’d read most often at that age. “You watch and see!”

Despite his best effort over the past several years, he couldn’t help but feel he’d let her down though her faith in him was unyielding. She believed in him as much now as she did during those driving lessons all those years ago. This fact was as comforting as it was upsetting.

Finally getting off the highway and driving down the winding country roads that led home, Seth found himself thinking about the long Sunday afternoon walks his family used to take together. It was something they’d done as far back as he could remember. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. Always in the woods. No parks—not that there were any in Cherry Run—but no well-marked trails either. The more remote, the better, like they were wandering around out there in search of something no one knew existed let alone thought to look for.

When his mom’s knees started getting bad, the family walks took on a different dynamic. Mom opted for country drives. Dad wasn’t interested in country drives and though it was never discussed, it didn’t seem to bother either of them, and the kids, of course, adapted. Seth walked with Dad and the two younger sisters—Tina and Gail—rode with Mom.

Aunt Rita started joining in on the rides, always riding shotgun, and Seth too would sometimes join them when it was raining or Dad couldn’t take the walk for some reason or another. On those occasions, Seth would pile in with the girls and they’d stop at the general store and load up on coffee and pop and chips and candy and set out for the most deserted roads they could find. Some paved, some not. Sometimes they’d go for over an hour without seeing another car.

Seth called Gail. “Remember the Sunday afternoon rides we used to take with Mom and Rita?”

“Oh my gosh! Why didn’t I think of that? I’m clear up in Clarion and Dad is all the way down in Butler.”

“I was usually walking with Dad. Do you remember some of the areas you used to go to?”

“All over the freaking place. Always out in the boonies. I was so little. I don’t really remember. I’ll bet Tina does though. Her and Mark are out looking now too and Troy’s home with Steffi.”

He called Tina. “Turnip Hole and Alum Rock,” she said. “And the Turkey City area too. But where we went most was down where Grandma and Grandpa used to live. Where Mom and Rita grew up.”

“Right. Right. I’m almost home. I’m going to go there right now.”

“This isn’t a good sign, Seth. Her taking off like this.”

“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s just find her.”

Cherry Run hadn’t changed much since Seth was a boy. The most notable change was that the two gas stations that had once framed the town—the Pennzoil and the Texaco—were long gone and replaced with a Convenience Center and the ever popular Dollar Store. In between those two, hung the town’s single red light. The handful of businesses all looked pretty much the same, though most of them had all shut down and been reopened and renamed a time or two, usually by an out-of-work local taking a desperate and usually ill-fated shot at being their own boss.

It didn’t take Seth long to get “out in the boonies” where there were even fewer changes. He slowed down to look at what used to be his grandparents’ old place. It was looking bad. Paint peeling. Junk in the yard. The old garage that his grandpa had built himself had fallen in. Seth considered stopping to ask whoever was living there now if they had seen his mom’s car but she wouldn’t have drawn any attention to herself and she certainly wouldn’t have stopped. She would have slipped right past like a ghost, unseen, unnoticed.

This area was called Blue Goose, he remembered, though there never had been and still weren’t any signs saying so. He felt sure she was somewhere around here. He came to a crossroads and stopped. When they used to come to a crossroads on the Sunday afternoon rides he’d joined in on, Mom would always say, “Which way, kids?” And one of them would shout out a direction or point one way or the other and that’s where they’d go. “Which way, Mom?” Seth said, waited a moment and turned left.

After passing Wildcat Hollow Road, he stopped and backed up. Though there was a crooked, rusted sign warning, “No Winter Maintenance,” the narrow, snow-covered road had a set of tire tracks going back it. They didn’t appear to belong to a truck and only someone who wasn’t thinking, someone whose mind was “a million miles away,” would attempt it in a car.

He put the SUV in four-wheel drive and started back the road. Driving past an empty field and a frozen pond that dipped into a hollow of huge, dark trees, he remembered taking the road on one of those long-ago Sundays. He was pretty sure that it ascended to a peak that offered a great view of the area before winding back down the other side. Moving through the bottom of the hollow, he saw his mom’s little red car sitting broadside, blocking the road in the distance where it made the sudden, steep incline. Along with relief, he felt uneasy because the car wasn’t running and the windows were fogged so he couldn’t see if she was inside or not. He stopped and got out.

“Mom!” he said, walking toward the passenger’s side, which was facing him. Just as he reached for the door, they saw each other and she leaned over to unlock it. He got in and before he could say a word, she threw her arms around him. It was clear that she’d been crying. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head no. “I shoulda known better.”

“How stuck is it?”

“Really stuck. Tires just spin. Won’t budge an inch in either direction.” She shook her head, discouraged. “Your sisters and your dad already think I’m outta my tree and this’ll add fuel to the fire.”

“They don’t think that. Not at all.”

She eased out of the hug and looked him in the eyes. “Then why are they always trying to make me go to the doctor and get checked?”

“They are just worried about you. They love you.”

“Well, I ain’t going.”

“Okay. That’s fine. No one can make you go if you don’t want to go.”

“Cotton-picking right, they can’t,” she said, wiping her eyes with a wadded up tissue. “Just because a person forgets things now and then don’t mean they’re losing their mind.”