What She Left Behind (5 page)

When Dad came home that night, we knew that Jack had called him. Dad stomped in, slamming the door. Mom’s hand jerked away from the wooden spoon she was using to stir the ground beef. I stopped drying the glass in my hands and clutched it to me like a baby.

“What lies have you been telling Jack about me, Michelle?”

“I just … I thought …”

Dad’s face was red, his eyes narrow. “You thought what? That you wanted me in jail? Is that what you thought? Do you know what they do to cops in jail?” Dad skipped over the fact that he’s no longer a cop.

“No, I … Of course I …” She stepped away from the stove to get further away from my dad. Big mistake.

My dad whipped the towel off the counter and pulled the cast-iron pan from the front burner. Then he flung it at my mom. Ground beef flew in all directions as the heavy pan hit her foot with a
thunk
. She was still wearing dress shoes and nylons. The nylons melted and stuck to her foot. I can still hear her scream when I close
my eyes. Once again I did nothing, said nothing, changed nothing. What kind of daughter was I?

At the hospital she said it was an accident. She dropped the pan on her own foot. After that she stayed away from Jack Reynolds.

And now that same man is staring at me with his wolf eyes. “Okay,” I say.

I turn and walk away quickly, hoping his walkie-talkie will crackle to life with news of a crime or car accident to distract him. I know the odds aren’t in my favor. Nothing ever happens in Scottsfield. Except to my family, that is.

I force myself to count to a hundred before I look over my shoulder. Jack is still watching me. Why the hell can’t he leave me alone? I cross at the blinking light in front of the school and then dare to look back. He seems to be gone. I run as fast as I can back to the Dairy Dream.

I pull my phone out and try my mom’s cell again. I call her work number, but it goes straight to voice mail. Then I try our home phone. Nothing.

Next to the Dairy Dream is Dr. Duncan’s office. He’s the town dentist. We don’t go to him. I’ve heard he’s a hack. I can’t very well sit in the waiting room all afternoon for an appointment that I don’t have, or ask for a consultation and end up with a filling I don’t need. Since the parking lot is in the front of the building, I decide to hide out in the back. I still have a good view.

Pressing my back against the building, I turn my face so I can watch the Dairy Dream. I stay like that for about a half hour, until I’m sick of standing.

I try crouching down but that’s too much trouble, so finally I just sit on the grass. Which isn’t the greatest idea, because now it’s raining. The only way I could stay dry under the overhang would be if I were a superskinny person like Melanie Rogers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not fat—but only thanks to my hyperactive metabolism and not my willpower. Big drips keep streaming off the edge of the overhang and landing in the middle of my hair.

I’m cold, tired, and wet, and I’m also freaking out. It’s past three o’clock and still there’s no sign of my mom. At least school is out, so I no longer have to hide behind a dentist’s office. I get up and walk like Frankenstein to keep my damp jeans from rubbing too much against my legs.

The Scottsfield Public Library is on the other side of the Dairy Dream. As I walk into the tiny building, the head librarian, Mrs. Evans, looks up and frowns at me. I wish the other librarian, Mrs. Scott (Scottsfield is named after her family), was here. Mrs. Scott always greets me by name and asks how she can help. Mrs. Evans is about twenty years past a normal retirement and seems to deliberately not recognize me, even though I’m what anyone would consider to be a regular. I’m glad I didn’t try to hide out there while school was in session. She would have called the school on me within minutes.

The library is made up of a single small room sectioned off by a bunch of strangely painted bookshelves. I sit down at a table in the children’s section because it’s directly in front of the big picture window.

“What are you doing here?” says a little voice. “This is the kids’ section.”

“Billy!” His mom, Mrs. Harper, gives me an apologetic look. She’s a sweet lady who owns a riding stable over in Brookton, where you can rent horses by the hour. Matt and I used to go there sometimes. She always fed us cookies after we’d ridden.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say to Mrs. Harper. I try to feel flattered that I’ve just been referred to as an adult. Even if it was by a five-year-old. “I’m watching for my mom.” It’s refreshing to actually tell the truth.

“Oh. You want to read me a book?” Billy holds up a big book with a dinosaur on the front cover. Matt was obsessed with dinosaurs too at that age.

“Billy, I’m sure she’s busy.”

“Actually I would, but I don’t want to miss seeing my mom. She’ll be in a hurry to pick me up.” Billy looks so disappointed that I wish I could change my mind.

Billy and his mom leave, and the library is empty for a while. Mrs. Evans rearranges the books displayed in the window. I get the urge to shout “Get out of my way! I can’t see!” but I don’t want her calling the cops (i.e., Jack Reynolds) to throw me out of the place, so I keep my mouth shut.

Mrs. Evans comes over to the table and makes a big production of reaching around me to put away books that have been strewn all over. She sighs as if I’m responsible for the mess. Some kid left a drawing on the table. Mrs. Evans picks it up. With a disgusted frown, she crumples it and throws it away. I think back to another piece of paper destined for the trash. It came in the mail addressed to Matt. A pamphlet from Middlebury College. Think Vermont.
Snow. Peaceful. Especially peaceful. My dad had it poised over the garbage can as he was sorting the mail, but Matt plucked it away at the last second.

“Hey, wait,” he said. “I’ve heard of this place. They specialize in languages. You’re assigned to dorms based on the language you’re studying and you have to sign a pact that you’ll only speak in that language.” Matt was a whiz at languages. Mrs. Jameson said that Matt was the best Spanish student she’d had in years. Spanish is the only foreign language you can take in Scottsfield, but Matt didn’t let that stop him. He borrowed Teach Yourself Chinese CDs from the library and listened to them at home for fun.

“You don’t need to learn a foreign language to live in Scottsfield,” said Dad. “Everyone speaks English here. Besides, we don’t have the money for a fancy private college. Brookton Community College will do just fine. You can live at home and work at the hardware store on weekends to pay for it. End of story.” Dad snatched the flyer from Matt’s hand, ripped it in half, and stuffed it in the trash.

Matt reached defiantly into the garbage can and pulled it back out. Then Dad punched Matt in the face.

When people asked, Matt said he got the black eye playing baseball with his sister. Which fit really well, since everyone knows I’m terrible at sports. It didn’t of course explain why I would have agreed to play baseball with him in the first place, but most people didn’t make that connection. Just Zach.

At five minutes before seven, Mrs. Evans flicks the lights, even though I’m the only person there. I stay where I am. At seven
o’clock, she turns them out completely. I use the bit of light coming through the picture window to find my way out of the building. Mrs. Evans locks the door behind us and takes off down the street without even a glance at me or a good-bye. It’s only drizzling now, and I’m somewhat dried out from the library, but I’m still miserable from the cold and from how I’m feeling inside.

In front of the library there’s a red bench next to a planter of flowers. I lay my backpack on the bench and sit on top of it, vaguely hoping it’ll keep the water on the bench from soaking through my pants. I slope forward a little because my history binder is still in my backpack from before lunch. Which, come to think of it, I never ate. Unless you count the ice-cream cone. Which I don’t. I like to eat, most of the time.

It’s better to think of food than what must have happened to my mom. So I try to think of what I’d eat if I could just imagine something and it would appear right in front of me. Only, I think of spaghetti. Which brings me back to last night. And my dad. Surely Mom isn’t at home fixing supper for him, our plan forgotten. Is she?

A silver car speeds past going at least forty in a twenty-five. Not my mom’s. But it puts on its brakes a little way down the street and does a U-turn. The car slows as it approaches my bench, and the window comes down.

“Sara?”

“Hi, Alex.”

“What are you still doing downtown?” Alex asks.

I shrug my shoulders.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

I shake my head.

“Hop in. I’ll treat you to a burger at Lucy’s.”

“I’m kind of waiting for someone.”

“I don’t mean to pry or anything, but it seems like you’ve been waiting for this person all day. I don’t think they’re going to show up. Have you tried calling?”

I nod, blinking hard to keep from crying.

“Look, I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t want to get something to eat?”

I take one last look down the road, then I open the passenger door and get in. Well, I try to get in. First I have to wait for Alex to clear the fast-food wrappers off the front seat.

“You must drive around a lot,” I say, mainly to avoid thinking and talking about my mom. We don’t have any fast-food restaurants in Scottsfield.

Alex looks a little sheepish. “Not really, actually. It’s just that I don’t clean my car out very often.”

Alex does another illegal U-turn and drives the half block to Lucy’s.

“Let’s sit here,” I say, pointing to a booth in front of the window. At least I can still watch for my mom, although it’s starting to get darker and harder to see.

Lacey (Lucy’s sister) is our waitress. “What can I get for you today?” she asks. She’s so cheery, I want to vomit. My life is spinning out of control—for her, probably the worst thing that’s going to happen is that she’ll mix up a hamburger order.

While I concentrate on an approaching set of headlights, Alex orders. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.”

“I’ll have the same, except make mine a root beer,” I say, still tracking the headlights. Matt and I used to drink root beer all the time when we were little. I’d stopped drinking it at about age ten. It’s too sweet. I took it up again after Matt died because whenever I take the first sip I get this
whoosh
feeling and I think—just for a second—that I’m sitting on the porch swing next to Matt.

“You missed a thrilling algebra lesson,” Alex says. “Something about
x
and
y
, I think.”

I’m having a hard time focusing on what he’s saying.

“Okay, so that wasn’t very funny.” He clears his throat. “There’s a party Saturday night at Nick Russell’s house. Want to go?”

“Why?” I ask absently.

Alex looks confused.

“You mean why did I ask you to the party?”

I nod.

“I don’t know—you seem kind of depressed. I thought it might cheer you up.” He pauses. “That, and I can’t think of anything else to say.”

I laugh a tiny bit.

Alex gets a happy smile on his face.

Lacey brings us the cheeseburgers, but she forgot the cheese on mine. I eat it anyway. What does it matter?

“So you want to go see a movie or something?” Alex asks.

My heart thumps. “Now?”

“Why not?”

I say what’s easiest and what Alex would expect from me: “It’s a school night.”

“See, I knew you were a straight shooter. That skipping-algebra thing was just a fluke, wasn’t it?” He showers his fries with salt and then points the shaker at me. “In fact, you probably only skipped because you hadn’t done the homework. No. That can’t be it. You didn’t do the homework because you knew you weren’t going to class. Am I right?”

I want to answer because he’s so cute and sweet, but I can’t.

Tell no one.

Alex clears his throat. “So are you coming to the football game Friday night?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I hate football, but I play in the band.” And, in my head, I’m really hoping I won’t be here on Friday.

“Okay then,” says Alex, as if I’ve just insulted him.

I realize my stupidity. “Oh, right, sorry.” Alex is on the football team. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

The darker it gets, the more worried I feel. I finish my burger and fries in record time. Alex is only about halfway through his when I get up. “Can you take me home, please?” I say, digging through my purse for some money.

“Let me just get a box and the check,” he says. “My treat.”

An electric charge surges through my body. All of a sudden I feel like we’re on a date. Me and Alex Maloy? Matt would have laughed his head off.

We cruise down Scottsfield Highway going at least seventy in
a fifty-five. When I apply the imaginary brake on my side of the car, my foot crunches down on a CD case. I pick it up. “You have a
Smooth Seventies
CD?”

“My mom’s,” he says. “She had to borrow my car last week while hers was in the shop.”