What She Left Behind (6 page)

“Does it have ‘Wildfire’ on it?”

“Try it and see.”

I slip it into the player and skip through the tracks until I get to the one I’m looking for. My mom used to play “Wildfire” on the stereo all the time. It’s the song I was trying to play the day Dad snapped. The song has something to do with a horse and a woman who’s chasing after it in a blizzard. That’s all I really remember, since each time I listen to it I get caught up in the chorus and forget to pay attention to how the story comes out. With the speakers blaring and Alex and I flying down the road, I kind of feel like I’m on the back of that runaway horse.

The song ends and I turn off the stereo. I’ve managed to space out again, so I still don’t know how it turns out. Did she find the horse or not?

I check out Alex’s profile. He seems mellow, relaxed, without a care in the world. Although we’re going fast, I feel safe. Protected. I almost tell him about my mom, but I want him to stay like he is.

It starts to rain harder. We ride in a silence that might have been uncomfortable if this were a date, but since I’m trying to pretend it isn’t, I simply lean my head back against the headrest and think about the rain and my mom, and pretty soon I’m back at my eleventh birthday party.

“Girl!”

“Umbrella!”

“Rain!”

“American Idol!”

“Singing in the rain!”

“You got it!” My mom pointed at Amber. “Your turn.” Amber got up and took the dry erase marker from my mom. She twirled it in her fingers for a few seconds, then started to draw.

“Your mom is so cool,” Lauren said. We were sitting next to each other cross-legged on the floor.

I shrugged. At all of the other parties I’d ever been to, there was an unspoken agreement that moms were to keep their distance. My mom was the only mom who dared to hang out with us. Of course, the only reason that my mom was so fun and happy was because my dad was away for the weekend. Which was the only reason I was allowed to have the party in the first place.

Alex taps his fingers on the steering wheel, dragging me back into the present. “That your house?”

“Yeah, this is it.” Fear crawls up my legs.

“It’s awfully dark. Don’t you guys believe in lights?”

“A waste of electricity,” I say weakly.

“Your parents out?”

“Looks like it,” I say.

“Want me to come in and wait with you?” From the way he says it, I get the feeling that he has more in mind than just waiting.

That would be great, except my dad hates when I have friends over. Even if you were to leave the second he got home, he’d still be mad.

“Nah. I’ll just light a few candles. Read a little Stephen King. It’ll be great.”

Alex laughs and puts the car in park.

Should I really go in? Maybe I should just ask him to drive me back to the Dairy Dream.
I open the car door and the dome light illuminates Alex’s face. Is this the last time I’ll see him? My brain divides itself into two teams, one that’s cheering for the answer to be yes, and the other for no. I imagine myself in his backseat, making out with him, his hands in my hair. My tongue in his mouth. I feel myself blush and realize that I’ve been staring. Only, I think he’s been staring too. He gets this funny look on his face and starts leaning in closer to me. I chicken out at the last second and turn my head.

“Guess I should go in,” I say.
Idiot! You just blew your last chance to kiss those lips! What were you thinking?

“I suppose so,” says Alex. “Bye, then.”

“Bye. Thanks for the ride.”

I wave and walk up the front porch. All thoughts of kissing Alex, of happiness, of anything good, disappear as I touch the cool door handle. What’s on the other side of the door? I feel like I’m in the oatmeal dream again. Sick. Drowning.

There’s no smell of dinner, no one reading in the living room. The house feels empty. I walk into the kitchen and turn on a light. There are no pots on the stove, no dishes in the sink. I continue to the living room and have this urge to turn the TV on so the house
will stop being so quiet. My heart pounding, I make my way down the hallway to my parents’ room and turn on the light.

I stifle a scream. My dad is sitting on the bed, fully clothed, completely awake. In the dark.

“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I say.

My dad just stares. I’m used to his silences by now, but this is excruciating.

“Your mom’s gone,” he says matter-of-factly.

It’s like I’m trapped inside some Stephen King novel instead of my own life. How does Dad know? And why am I not with her?

“What?” I ask finally.

My dad reaches over to the nightstand and gets his pack of cigarettes. He shakes out the last one, lights it, and takes a drag, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. He crumples the empty pack and tosses it at me. It bounces off my arm.

“Training seminar in North Carolina. The person who was supposed to go got food poisoning, so they sent your mom.”

“When is she coming back?”

“A week or so.”

My dad takes another puff of his cigarette, then flips on the TV and doesn’t say another word—he just sits there and smokes. I want to wave my hands in front of his face and make him tell me more, but he would probably break my arm. So instead I back away.

The first thing I notice when I get to my room is that Sam, my stuffed dog, is on my bed. My back starts to feel prickly. I know I put Sam in my duffel bag. I look at my desk. My photo album sits neatly on the corner.

I go to my bathroom. My toothbrush is in its place in the yellow duck holder.

My whole body shakes. With an urge to scream, I pick up the edge of my comforter and peek under my bed. My duffel bag is there. But it’s empty. Someone has put everything back where it belongs. But who?

I lie on the floor and hug my arms to my chest. I try to calm down by concentrating on breathing slower. In, out. In, out.
Mom, Dad.
In, out.
Mom, Dad. Mom, Dad. Mom, Dad.
It isn’t working. The worry builds to a crescendo in my head.

I force myself to think,
MOM
. I say it in my head as loud as I can.
MOM.
It must have been
MOM
who put everything back. Even though everything has been put back very neatly and precisely, the way Dad would do it. For some reason Mom must have known she wouldn’t be able to pick me up today, so she put everything back.
Hey, wait a minute—maybe she unpacked my bag and left a note!

I sweep my arm under the bed and fish out my duffel bag. I tear the main zipper open and feel around all over the inside. Then I try the top zipper and both side ones. A scream grows from the tips of my toes and ripples through my entire body until I have to cover my mouth with my stuffed dog to keep it in.

Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad
is turning into just
Dad, Dad, Dad. Dad
unpacked my bag. I shake my head, trying to come up with something that makes sense. If Dad thought he could drive me crazy, make me doubt what my mom and I planned, it’s working.

If my dad put everything back, where’s my mom?

Dad’s voice echoes in my mind.
Don’t even think of leaving.

What if he caught her dragging my bag out to the car?

I will find you. Guaranteed.

I have to get out of here. I snatch my duffel off the floor and put it on my bed. I dump all the contents of my drawers onto the floor in massive piles, then I start flinging things into the bag at random. Pants, shorts, T-shirts, shoes, a handful of socks. I take my photo album and slam it down as hard as I can into the bag.

And then I lie down on the floor and cry. Because I know I can’t leave. Maybe my dad came home while Mom was putting her suitcase in the car and she had to make up the story about the training seminar. Maybe she decided to change the plan, to find someplace for us to live first. If that’s the case, she’ll be coming back for me. And I have to be here when she does.

Even if it kills me.

M
y alarm clock moos. It’s one of those novelty kinds that’s shaped like a cow. Matt bought it for me because he knew how much I hate things that beep.

I open my eyes and stare at the Picasso print on my wall. Picasso’s my favorite artist. I like his stuff because of all the bright colors. That, and it’s ugly. Take the
Portrait of Dora Maar
. She’s this lady with, like, three quarters of a yellow face, one eye that’s red and one that’s green, and a chest in the shape of a triangle. I like to stare at her face because you get double vision without even having to cross your eyes. If I stare at her long enough, hopefully I can quiet the voice inside my head.
Where’s Mom? Why didn’t she come get me? When is she coming back? Did I just imagine packing my bag?

I lie there for a few minutes, tensing my muscles, staring at Dora Maar and clutching Sam. Every time I try to get rid of him, I
can’t do it. Let’s face it: The only way I can even give him away is if I sew up his neck, and that isn’t happening.

Whenever my mom gets out the sewing machine, she starts to swear. She usually doesn’t curse, but just opening up the sewing table makes her drop the F-bomb. Then she tries to thread the needle.

I’ve discovered that sewing skills are actually genetically linked. Once I tried to do needlepoint. I was making a toaster cover. (Yeah, I know. Who actually needs a toaster cover? We certainly don’t.) I sewed that sucker right onto the skirt I was wearing. Ruined the skirt and the toaster cover. So there’s no way Sam will ever be sewn up. That just leaves putting him in the trash and there’s no way I can do that.

As much as I want to stay home and bury myself under the covers or take off running and never come back, I decide to go to school. Maybe there’s some reason Mom couldn’t pick me up yesterday. Maybe she’ll come today. And I’ll be ready at the Dairy Dream.

I go to the bathroom and make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes are more red than blue. I try to put in my contacts but they sting, so I pry them back out and settle for my glasses.

I decide to skip showering. I pull my hair into its usual ponytail, minus the butterfly clips and the curling iron. My eyes start welling with tears again as soon as I have the eyeliner on. It smudges. I don’t fix it.

“Morning,” says my dad, looking up from his
Time
magazine and Wheat Chex as I walk into the kitchen. “Want a ride to school?”

A whole sentence in a pleasant voice. My dad almost never speaks at breakfast.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say. I have early-morning band practice so I can’t take the bus. Normally Mom would take me.

As I eat my cereal, I try to figure out what made my mom marry my dad. They don’t really have that much in common. Frankly, I think it might have been the whole man-in-uniform thing. Only, my dad doesn’t wear a uniform anymore. Though he does a pretty good job making it look like he still does. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He has on a crisply ironed short-sleeve blue shirt, jeans, and a pair of brown shoes that he ordered from a catalog—when one pair wears out he orders another exactly the same. I think it makes him feel like he’s still a cop. He’d go back to it if he could. That is, if it weren’t for Internal Affairs. He hates running the hardware store, but he puts on a good front for everyone else. He used to take his frustration out on Matt and Mom. Now, just on Mom.

“I don’t have time to watch him run around a soccer field. I have work to do.”

I look up from my cereal, momentarily startled. It’s as if Dad memorized every hurtful thing he ever said to my dead brother. Then he replays them to us at random. As long as we make agreeable sounds back at him, everything is fine. If we ignore him or try to disagree, he smashes things. Or smashes Mom into things.

Dad stares at me expectantly.

“Right. Of course you don’t,” I say.

He gives a quick nod and goes back to his magazine.

Dad is nearing the end of his second bowl of cereal. I take my own bowl and glass to the sink, add some soap, and wash them. Then I open the dishwasher. We don’t actually use the dishwasher as it is intended. That would make too much noise for my dad, so we use it as a drying rack.

I pull out the top rack and put my clean dishes inside. Then I notice a glass that’s cloudy. It definitely has lip prints on it, as if it didn’t actually get washed. I take it out and am about to wash it when I notice another dirty glass. When I look closer, I realize that all of the dishes are dirty.

Shit!
I glance over at my dad to see if he’s noticed anything. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention.