The Perfect Place (22 page)

I wish I could be with Auntie and Terrance.

I wish I were home.

The wishes collide and cancel each other out until I'm left with nothing but the weight of the stone in the center of my palm. I place the stone in my pocket. “I think I'll save it.” I look up at the sky. Mom will be here soon. “We should go.”

 

We beat a path back the way we came, all the way to Auntie's house.

“You didn't have to walk me here,” I say.

He shrugs. “I'm a gentleman. Hey, you want to hang out again tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

He doesn't know that I'll be gone before the day is out, that I'm not even going to say goodbye. It's easier this way, for both of us.

“Okay, cool,” Terrance says.

I watch him walk away. “Thanks for the stone,” I call out.

“No problem,” he calls back, and then, for some reason, he takes off running. He's got an all-over-the-place run, like a puppy. When he's halfway up Iron Horse Road, he turns back and waves. I pretend not to see. Terrance is the kind of kid someone might be stupid enough to miss.

Soon he's a blur in the distance. I look away so I don't have to watch him disappear completely.

W
HEN
I get back to Auntie's house, she tells me to go upstairs and get everything packed and by the front door. Tiffany claims she's helping, carrying only her Disney Fund and Mr. Teddy D. I have to make two trips with the suitcases and my asthma machine. When we're done, Auntie makes us peanut-butter sandwiches and pours orange juice, and the three of us sit down at the table and eat.

“So are you gonna order sour-punch straws for the store or not?” Tiffany asks Auntie.

“Maybe,” Auntie replies.

“I think they'll really help your business, because they're delicious. One time I ate so many I burned a hole in my tongue.”

“It wasn't a hole, silly,” I say.

“It was.” Tiffany rolls her eyes at me. “Big as a quarter, that hole was.”

Auntie is watching Tiffany. Then she blinks, as though coming out of a trance. “You put every last drop of your stuff by the front door, girl?” I nod. “Good. I don't want to have to be parcel-postin' y'all stuff two months from now.”

“You won't,” I assure her. “By the way, when is Jaguar coming to clean the shelves?”

“I was thinkin' maybe next week sometime.”

“She shouldn't have messed with your store,” I say, smiling at the thought of Jaguar's fancy clothes covered in pine-scented cleaner.

“No,” Auntie says. “She shouldn't have messed with the two of you.”

My breath catches in my throat. “You did all that because of us?”

“Don't go gettin'—”

“A swelled head about it, I know: My dome is big enough as it is.”

“You got that right.”

The doorbell rings. Auntie gets to her feet.

“That'll be your mama.” Tiffany jumps up.

“Well, don't just sit there, gawpin',” Auntie says to me. “Get up off your butt, girl, and let's go.”

We meet Mom at the front door. She looks exhausted, but there's a smile on her face as she throws her arms around each of us in turn. Auntie offers to make her a peanut-butter sandwich, but Mom is ready to hit the road.

“Hang on a minute,” Auntie says, digging around in her pants pocket. She pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to Mom. “Five hundred and fifty dollars toward startin' over. Spend it wisely, 'cause Lord knows it didn't come easy.”

I stare as Auntie hands the money over to Mom.

“What, you thought I'd keep it to make up for all the food y'all ate?” Auntie says. I nod.

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Thank you,” Mom says, pocketing the cash. “For everything. I'll mail you a check as soon as we're settled.”

“From you, I'm gonna need cash or a money order,” Auntie replies.

Mom says, “Grace, you nut,” and slaps at Auntie's arm, but I don't think Auntie was joking.

“Did they behave?” Mom asks.

“Mostly,” Auntie answers, with a hint of a smile.

We start carrying our bags outside. It doesn't take long to load up the truck.

“Say goodbye and thank you to your great-aunt,” Mom instructs us.

Auntie is standing on her front steps. Tiffany runs up to her and throws her arms around Auntie's middle. Auntie pats her back awkwardly. She's not much for company, and she's not much for hugging, either.

“Don't forget the sour-punch straws,” Tiffany yells over her shoulder as she runs to the truck.

Now it's my turn to say goodbye. I walk over to the stairs and hold up my hands, palm out. “Don't worry. I'm not going to hug you.”

Auntie laughs.

Mom turns on the ignition and guns the engine. In just a few short minutes, the three of us will be shooting down the interstate toward Cranford, North Carolina. But what if Dad isn't there? What if he is? Panic wells up inside me.

“I'm not sure I want to go,” I blurt out.

“But you have to,” Auntie says.

“Will you at least miss us?”

“Every day.”

Auntie turns her face from mine. I know she's trying to make herself steel again. Make it so it doesn't hurt to have to say goodbye. I know because I've been doing it my whole life.

“I wish we could stay here,” I say. Six words, skipping over the waves of Black Lake.

“But you can't, because y'all don't listen,” she says.

“You don't clean.”

“You got a smart mouth.”

“You can't cook.”

“You talk back.”

“I kind of like you,” I say.

“I kind of like you, too,” Auntie says. “Now, go on, git.”

W
E
have an address: 1641 Brewer Street, Cranford, North Carolina. Mom has the map spread out across my lap. “Cranford is there,” she says, pointing.

“We'll take Route 29 till we get to the North Carolina border,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me, as she pulls out onto the highway. “Should take us a little over three hours.”

Tiffany is bouncing around in the back seat. Mom taps out a steady rhythm on the steering wheel.

“Why didn't he call instead of writing?” I ask.

“Because he knew I'd curse him out,” Mom says, jerking the car into the center lane.

We drive and drive. The sun is beginning to go down. The sky has gone from brilliant blue to the color of faded denim on the horizon. We still have an hour to go. My eyes try to close, but I won't let them. Mom turns up the radio and I sing along, just to stay awake.

She pulls off at an exit on the right. We drive on a smaller highway for a bit, and then a narrow two-way street. I stare out the window, unblinking. From either side of the street, small, lopsided houses stare back at me, their glass eyes lit dimly from inside. What would make Dad come to a place like this? Maybe Brewer Street is nicer. I make a note of each street we pass: Cedar, Pine, Everlet. Fields and trees. Mom's neck is damp with sweat.

“Are we lost?”

“I think I missed a turn or something,” Mom mutters.

We go back the way we came and find only more fields and trees. No Brewer Street. Mom pulls into a gas station. “Brewer Street?” she calls out to the attendant.

He tells us which way to go. A right puts us on First Street. We drive slowly past houses until we come to another stoplight.

“The street should be coming up on our left,” Mom says.

My skin prickles. Tiffany is leaning all the way forward, her face practically in the front seat. Mom turns onto Brewer Street. My heart climbs into my throat. What if Dad isn't here? What if he is? My eyes are glued to the rows of houses.

1641. Four rusted numbers on an old metal mailbox—the sight almost takes my breath away. We're out of the car the instant it stops. We stand on the sidewalk, staring at the house. Mom takes our hands in hers, and together the three of us race up the walkway to the door of a brown one-story house with curtainless windows and beat-up siding. A trailer sits beside it.

Mom smiles down at us. Then she rings the bell.

“I'm comin', I'm comin',” says a voice from the other side of the door. A woman's voice.

Mom tightens her grip on my hand. The door flies open to reveal a pocket-sized woman wearing overalls and a headscarf.

“Yes?”

“I'm looking for someone. My
husband,
” Mom says. “Darryl Daniels? He wrote us a letter from this address.”

The woman starts. “Yes, that's right. He did.” She has a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. She puts them on. “The big one looks just like him.” The woman smiles at me, but it is a slow, sad smile and it doesn't stay put for long.

“Is he here?” Mom asks impatiently.

“No.”

“No?”

The woman shifts nervously from foot to foot. “I'm sorry, miss. I rented my trailer out to him for a bit, a week, maybe a little more, but—”

“Do you mean that thing over there?”

Mom doesn't wait for an answer. She drops our hands and runs at the trailer, a mountain of metal and grime, and bangs her fists on the door. “Darryl, you come out of there right now. I'm sick of this.”

The trailer's windows are dark. No one answers Mom's cries. She pounds harder, the flimsy door shuddering with each blow of her fists, and screams, “You can't leave me like this!”

I run over to her, hollering “Mom, stop!” but Mom will not. She finds a new weapon—her feet—and kicks at the door again and again until I throw myself at her and wrap my arms around her waist.

“Mom, stop it!” I scream. “He's not here! Dad's not here!”

I feel Mom's chest heaving through her sweat-soaked T-shirt. I feel her body go rigid and then slack, and I know she's falling. I know it, but I don't let go. We land in a heap beside the trailer.

“He's not here,” Mom says in a hollow voice.

“He's not?” I turn to find Tiffany standing behind me, tears running down her face. I let go of Mom, stand up, and reach for her. She pulls away.

“Liar!” Tiffany explodes at me. “You told me we'd find Dad and he'd take us to the perfect place. You're a liar!”

Tiffany crumples, joining Mom on the ground, the two of them broken. My face is wet with tears, though I can't remember when I started to cry. I hoped. I got the address. I promised Tiffany. And Dad is not here.

The woman comes over to us. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I wish I knew where your daddy was headed, but he didn't say. He just left that letter to y'all and asked me to mail it off. When I saw that he hadn't put a return address on it, I did it for him and—I'm sorry. I didn't know y'all were looking for him. I didn't know he was running away.”

Is it true what that lady said? I don't look at her, and I don't look at Mom and Tiffany, still on the ground. I can't. I take off running down the sidewalk instead.

Is Dad really running away? From us? I break into a sprint, trying to leave the questions behind me.

The breeze slips under my shorts and the sleeves of my T-shirt and it's like I'm flying. Is this what Dad feels when he moves from place to place? No wonder he can't stop. I can't either. Where will I go? As far away as I can get.

I hear something behind me. Voices. Calling my name. I run faster and then I fall, skinning my knee. I get up, run, and fall down again. When I try to get up this time, everything suddenly feels heavy, even the air around me. It's like someone's laid a stone on my chest. My breathing is loud and desperate. I reach into the pocket of my shorts for my inhaler, but it's too late. I know even before I take a puff. This asthma attack is too far gone. I yawn, and yawn again, as my brain tells my body to get more oxygen into my lungs.

That's when I hear footsteps slapping the pavement behind me. When the dark shapes around me start to get fuzzy and I begin to cough and can't stop, Mom throws herself down beside me. I hear her voice, frantic and far away, and feel her dry hands on my face.

“Wake up, Treasure. Open your eyes!”

I try. But I can't.

I
N
and out. In and out.
Everything has been replaced by just one want: to breathe.
In and out. In and out.

Am I going to die?

Thinking about it makes my breath catch in my throat. I cough and cough.

I concentrate on taking the deepest breaths I can, and on what I know. I know I am lying down in the back seat of Mom's truck. Tiffany is up front beside Mom, and the way my head keeps bouncing from side to side tells me Mom is not obeying the speed limit.

At last we come to a stop. Mom lifts me up and carries me, her arms shaking, into the too-bright light of the emergency room. I shut my eyes against it and am vaguely aware of the air whipping around me in a flurry of action. Questions are fired, Mom answers them, her voice still frantic. I feel myself being put down on a hard bed with cool sheets. I hear the quick metal-against-metal sound of a curtain being drawn. Soon someone lifts up my head and places a plastic mask over my mouth. I hear the flick of a switch and the gurgling sound of a nebulizer, releasing medicine into my lungs. In moments, my chest loosens and so does the rest of me. I'm okay now. The stone has been lifted from my chest. I'm not going to die. I open my eyes.

It's like a scene from a movie. The curtain is drawn and everyone is still. Mom sits in a folding chair, holding on to Tiffany, and the nurse is at the end of my bed, holding tight to a clipboard. When they notice that I'm awake . . .
Action!

Mom and Tiffany come to the side of the bed. Tiffany pinches me—hard.

“You shouldn't have done that,” she says firmly. I can see the dried tears on her face and the red around her nose and eyes. She climbs onto the narrow bed beside me and rests her head on my shoulder.