Split (17 page)

chapter 26

h
e’s driving my car
, and we’re in Oklahoma. As we pass each state line, his elbows shrink closer and closer toward his sides while his hands stay glued at ten and two. I probably should have told him I’d get Mom myself.

I try getting him to talk.

“Mirriam is okay with this?” I ask.

“She said she’d make the turkey for when we get home,” he says, absently. “Do you still know Mom’s schedule?”

“Well, I know
his
, if that’s what you mean. No packing this time, all right?” I say. “Let’s just get her and go. I want her to be a ghost.”

I grimace at myself. I wish I hadn’t chosen that word.

He is silent.

“What kind of fast food do you like?” I ask, trying to distract him.

“What if she won’t come?”

“KFC? There’s one up ahead with a really grumpy window boy, so maybe we could go for Arby’s.”

“Should I pull over for this conversation?” he asks. “’Cause we are having it.”

“No, let’s keep moving.” I pause. “She’ll come.”

He is silent again.

“Okay,” I say. “So you were right; she wasn’t going to show up for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“It’s not about an ‘I told you so.’ I just want you to prepare yourself.”

“She’s just kind of confused, is all. She doesn’t want to go back to being lower-class.”

“She’s not worried about money, Jace. She’s committed to him, and I don’t know if she can change anymore. She was only twenty when they got married, and they’ll be celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary this year. She’s spent more than half her life with him. She has never lived as an adult without him. How easy would it be to leave that? I just mean that if either of us could decide for her, we wouldn’t be here, right?”

“She’ll come. Both her sons, no more worrying about all the little things that could set him off. We just won’t mention how small the apartment is.”

He smiles.

I continue, “If you don’t think she’s coming back with us, why are you here?”

He looks in his sideview mirror. “What do you think, Toad? That I’d let you walk back into that by yourself?”

My throat tightens up again. I don’t know how to tell him how much I needed him to come, how much it means that I’ll have backup, that there is actually someone else on this island of one, so I skip it.

“Let’s think positive, okay?” I say.

“No, let’s be realistic. If she doesn’t come with us, you’re going to have to let it go. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line of fire for her, all right? I did that—we both did that for too long.”

“She’s your mother too, Christian,” I say.

His jaw muscles jump, and he runs his hand through his hair.

“I don’t mean it like that,” I say. “You’re coming inside with me, right?”

“Right.”

“So you’re putting yourself in the line of fire too.”

“No, I’m not. We’re making damn sure he’s nowhere around before we set foot in that house, got it?” he says.

“Got it.”

“No chances.”

“No chances.”

Even though it’s nineteen hours both ways, it seems longer going back, while I watched the clock and decided that seventy-five in Texas, then eighty in Oklahoma, eighty-five in Missouri, and ninety all the way up I-55 could only garner me a speeding ticket, so who cared? While Christian was asleep, I went ahead and did a hundred. When he woke up, I dropped my speed to ninety. He looked at the speedometer but didn’t say anything about it. Instead we talked about everything Albuquerque, keeping it light—better for morale. But I noticed he started to lean forward as if urging us closer to Mom.
See, he cares about her
. I told myself.
Because if he doesn’t, if he really can cut her out of his life just like that, then what could he do to me?

As we get close, he becomes quiet and stares out the side window. When the skyline comes into view, he smiles; that’s a good sign.

I change paths, taking Lake Shore Drive a little earlier than necessary so we can see the water and so we can slow down. I miscalculated before. I want to make sure that Dad’s out of the house by the time we get there, even if he’s running late. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, so the traffic is lighter than usual; already people are taking the day off.

As we’re passing Hyde Park and the University of Chicago, Christian leans against the door, watching the lake rush and break in a spray along the concrete blocks. He points as we pass the Museum of Science & Industry. “Right there,” he says. “Can you see the really tall white apartment building over there?”

I nod.

“I lived in that little brick one, next to it.” He pauses. “5649,” he says softly, to himself.

“What?”

“Street address.”

“Where did you work?”

“In Greektown? Greek Islands Restaurant.”

“Really?” I think of the white stucco-like walls and the blue aprons on the waiters. “I love their lamb.”

He looks at me and smiles—strange to share a memory that we have in common, if not together.

“I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see it again,” he says.

I nod. Maybe that’s how he’ll feel when he sees Mom, too.

“You guys are in River Forest now,” he says, and rubs his fingers together, making the beaucoup-bucks sign.

My dad only made it to the bench after Christian left. The Seventh Circuit has been good to him.

“My bedroom is obscenely large. Probably bigger than our entire apartment.”

We’re quiet as we pass downtown, and I revert to big-city driving. Break, gas. Break, gas, and then the traffic begins to break up and it’s gas, gas, gas.

“The Costacoses are in Berwyn,” he says, looking south as we pass by the neighborhood on our way.

When we get to my house, I coast around the block once, hoping no one will recognize my car. The thin covering of snow is custom-fit to the lawns.

“Which one?” Christian says.

“There.” I jerk my chin at the house. “The brick one.”

I watch his face. No jumping jaw, no wistful remembering. That’s just me.

“No cars out front,” he says when I don’t stop.

“I’m looking for his car. You know, just to make sure.”

As I approach the house, I look down our block. The branches of the elms form a canopy of sharp points that pin the gray sky up. As I pull in to park, my wheels slip on the leaves that lie in wait under the snow. I kill the engine and stare at our two-story house. I don’t understand why places that felt like acid can work like salves after you’ve been away. I don’t know why seeing the patio swing, used only once since we moved in, makes me want to throw the door open and declare that I’m back.

Christian is watching me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. You ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, but we stay seated and stare at the house.

I hear a car engine approaching. I sink lower, just in case, and watch an unfamiliar blue sedan speed by. I put my hand on the door handle but don’t pull.

“We can just drive home if you want. It’s up to you,” he says.

But what if my dad knows that she was planning on leaving? What if she’s pinned to some wall? What if she isn’t breathing? I push the door open.

“Wait,” says Christian, grabbing my arm. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, he isn’t home?”

“Yes. It’s like ten.” I double-check it on my watch, making sure I’ve adjusted for the time change. “He leaves for work at seven-thirty. Gets back at five-thirty. We have a big window.”

“What if he’s sick today?”

“Let’s check the garage first.”

He nods and follows me around the house, past the bare Mock Orange bush to the garage. We peer in windows and see the empty concrete. My mom’s car isn’t there, either.

“Come on,” I say.

Christian lags behind me as I walk around to the front and up the six steps to the house. I insert my key, hear the tumblers slide and then pop. I flash on the last time I was here, screaming around my father for my keys. This time I’ll drag my mom out by her hair if I need to.

It is utterly quiet. I glance around the foyer. My stuff—my jacket, gloves, hats—are gone. I see my mother’s blue coat and touch the wool.

Christian starts to close the door, but I shake my head at him, and he pushes it back open. I want a quick escape route in case he is at home and his car is in the shop or something.

I step inside and look through the living room, into the dining room. Behind me, the oak floorboards creak under Christian’s weight. My breathing is shallow, and I can practically feel my adrenaline glands pumping. We split up—him to the left, into the living room, and me to the right. Out of habit, I knock on my dad’s study door. Empty. Files lay in stacks. One is splayed open, and his pen is resting on a page. I look at the leather chair in the corner where I used to do my homework.

The leather squeaks under me when I sit down. I slide my fingers around the cushion stitching, and they catch on something. From between the cushion and the arm, I dig out my dad’s old money clip. It’s empty. I pocket it. It isn’t exactly stealing; he intended to give it to me when I turned sixteen anyway, but he lost it. Is it so wrong to keep a piece of him?

I continue my sweep. In the downstairs bathroom, the one off the kitchen, I see a clear glass jar of Q-tips, identical to the one I broke the night I left. I stare at them until Christian says, “She isn’t here.”

I jump.

“Do you know where she is?” he asks.

“For all I know, she’s on her way to Albuquerque.”

I finally think to pick up the phone and dial, talk to the clerk: Is Judge Witherspoon there? He’s on the other line, would you like to hold or leave a voicemail? I opt for voice-mail and then hang up.

“I guess we’ve got the place to ourselves,” I say, making a bad joke, Dakota-style. His elbows release slowly.

I say, “Come on,” and head for the stairs.

As we walk up the steps, Christian stops, looking at the photographs on the wall: my mom on their wedding day (hard to believe they were so young); my dad when he was about seven, sitting on a pony with his cowboy boots on; me, leaping for a header, the soccer ball in midair, my blond hair flying; a shot of my mom in profile at the beach. As we walk up, it’s like walking back through the years; I young-ify—standing with my dad at Soldier Field when I came up to his shoulder; with my mom at the lake when I was skinny, but I was trying my best to make a bicep pop up; middle school graduation, purple cap in hand, the closed smile of junior high, hiding my braces; and my toothy pre-braces, fifth-grade grin. Finally we reach early elementary school, and Christian stops. He puts his hand on the frame.

“I took this one,” he says.

There isn’t a single picture of him on these walls.

“Mom has a whole box of pictures of you in the basement,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says.

At the top of the steps, I turn and walk into my parents’ bedroom. So much order. The bed is made and laid beside it are my dad’s slippers. I walk over and open her closet. Everything is hanging. Except for her brown boots, all her shoes are lined up.

In the bathroom, I crouch before the vanity, yank it open, and see the tampon box. I open it up: an envelope, thick with greenbacks, is taped to the inside.

“She hasn’t left,” I call out.

And Christian was right; I’ve been a total fool, relying on her. My cheeks go hot. I should have known she’d need help to get out. I sit down on the bed and look out the window.

Christian says, “Can I see your room?”

“Sure. I guess you haven’t gotten a tour.”

We walk to the end of the hall and push open the door to my room. I stop.

It is empty.

The mattress is stripped and lies naked. The walls are bare, and all that’s left is my furniture. Gone are my trophies, my poster of Beckham, the picture of Lauren and me at the Brookfield Zoo. Even my Cindy Sherman prints. Gone. I scan for anything that looks familiar.

It’s not like I wanted to live here again or anything, so why does the emptiness feel like a slap? It’s like I don’t exist anymore.

“Jace.” Christian puts his hand on my shoulder.

I shake him off, remembering something. I slide my hand between the mattress and box spring. My fingers reach fabric. I clamp down on it and pull—my queens. I sit on my bed and scoot them out into my hand. Ally, Guinevere, the whole crew. Their carved faces never changing, immobile and frozen. At least I can take them with me.

“Jace?” Christian says.

“Yeah.”

Christian sits down beside me. “Did you … You stole those?”

I look him in the eye. “Yeah, but I don’t anymore.”

“Why don’t you leave them here, then?”

“No,” I say, pulling them away from him. “This time, they’re coming with me.”

He sighs and looks around. “I’m sorry about your room.”

I suck in a big breath and am ashamed of the way it shakes. “It’s not a big deal or anything. It isn’t my room anymore, anyway.”

Short bars of rainbowed light start to float around the room.

“What is that? That isn’t my—?” Christian asks.

“Yeah, your prism.” I stand up and pull it from the window, the suction cup kissing loudly.

“I can’t believe you kept it. How many times did you move since I left?” he asks.

“Only twice. Mom figured out that whenever she made friends, he’d move us. He was clever about it; kept work close and friends far. Triangulated, probab—”

“Twice,” he says, his eyes still on my hands, “and you kept the prism?”

I pause, my focus shifting to the cut glass in my hand. “Yeah. I kept it.”

It was kind of stupid, I guess. When we moved right after Christian left, I freaked, afraid he wouldn’t be able to find us. I took his prism and hung it in my window, thinking that if he happened by our house, he would recognize it and know where we were. Now I hand it to him.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. I don’t want him to figure out we’ve been here.”

I hesitate, but I guess I don’t need it now. I return it to the window, trying to stick it back in the dustless circle.

“So …,” I say.

“Should we wait?”

“I guess so.”

We sit in silence for a minute.