What She Left Behind

by Tracy Bilen

  “I’ve missed it, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Watching you two pretend to fight.”

  Lauren puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “We’ve missed you, too.”

  At halftime we’re tied. Normally I would leave with my mom as soon as the band was done playing the halftime show. She usually comes for the first half so she can watch me play. Neither of us is ever interested in the end of the game. But today I kind of want to see how it turns out. Or rather, I want to see if Alex makes another touchdown. I also wonder if he’s going to get any sort of break. One where he takes off that stupid helmet so I can see him a little clearer. So I stay for a few minutes. My dad and I haven’t actually discussed when he’s coming to pick me up. I figure I’ll call him when the game is over. Or maybe I won’t have to call him at all. Maybe I’ll just get a ride home with Alex. A few butterflies float around in my stomach.

  Twenty-one to twenty-four. We’re behind. Alex runs with the ball. The next thing I know, half the other team piles on top of him. My phone vibrates. I freeze. Mom! It’s just past halftime—we can leave like we always do, only this time we won’t go home.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket. Dad.

  “Hello?” I try to sound happy to talk to him.

  “Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting in this goddamned parking lot for twenty minutes. How long does it take to put a clarinet away?” I know Lauren is trying not to listen but my dad’s shouting makes it impossible for her not to. Her eyes get real big.

  “Sorry. I’ll be right there.”

  “Your dad?” Lauren says after I hang up.

  “Yeah.”

  “How come your mom’s not here?”

  “She’s out of town on business.”

  “Oh. Your dad sounded pissed. You want me to go with you?”

  “No, I’ll be okay.” I stand and give a little wave good-bye as though it’s no big deal.

  Lauren isn’t buying it. “Look, you can call him back and tell him Jay and I’ll bring you home after the game.”

  “Really, don’t worry.” That would only make him more pissed.

  I hurry to the truck. As soon as I slam the door shut, my dad takes off, tires squealing. I fumble with my seat belt.

  “What were you doing?”

  “I, uh, I was watching the game.”

  My dad makes a rolling stop at the stop sign and takes a right out of the parking lot. He floors it. Dad is driving so fast, it makes driving with Alex seem like riding the kiddie train at the zoo. Each time we hit a pothole I’m sure we’ll careen out of control, flip through the air, and land upside down with a smack.

  “Watching the game? Did you think I was just sitting around waiting to pick you up? I have stuff to do!”

  My lips are frozen. I can’t say a word.

  “Well?” His voice roars and his furious eyes lock with mine.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly, looking down.

  “What? I can’t hear you.” The right wheels of the truck dip down into the shoulder. Dad whips the truck back onto the road. The back of the truck rocks side to side.

  This is it. We’re going to die. I clench my eyes shut. “Sorry!” I shout.

  He slows down for a moment and regains some semblance of control over the truck. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” he seethes. He stomps back down on the accelerator. “I shouldn’t have to wait for you. Ever! Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I say loudly, tears springing to my eyes. Please, God, just let me get out of here. There’s a section in my Worst-Case Scenario book about escaping a moving car. I think about opening the door and rolling into the field. I want to be anywhere but here with him, but I know it isn’t that simple. If I survive, Dad will drag me right back into the truck. Then he’ll be more pissed and drive even faster.

  He shakes out a cigarette from the pack on the bench seat and lights it. Then he opens the window two inches. The air whips in like a tornado, but the truck fills with his cigarette stink. I want to cough. Vomit. Rip the cigarette from his fingers and smash it against the window. Instead, I sit there and take it. Like I always do.

  As if yelling about my lateness had been a mere preamble, Dad switches subjects. “There are consequences when you don’t do your chores!” he says. “Matt didn’t stack the wood in the basement so he didn’t get to go to the Homecoming dance. End of story. He knew he would be punished. He knew it! Didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I manage to say. “Of course he did.”

  “I did him a favor. That girl isn’t good enough for him.”

  Let’s see. She was smart, popular, and sweet. “No she isn’t.”

  When we finally get home I feel as if I’ve been in the truck for hours, though it has only been minutes. Dad pulls up to the front door and stops.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get out!”

  My hands tremble as I feel for the door handle. I jump out. I’ve barely shut the door when the truck roars back down the driveway, kicking up clouds of dust. Collapsing into a pile on the driveway, I curl up in a little ball. I want to go home. I want to go home. But of course I am home. Only, home is never going to be the same again.

  CHAPTER 8

  Saturday

  There are nights you’re excited about something, so as soon as your head hits the pillow it’s, like, wham! You’re wide-awake and you can’t stop thinking. When you’re afraid, it can go both ways. Every night since my mom left, I’ve stayed awake thinking and worrying. About Mom. About Dad. About Matt. About me.

  But last night was different. Last night I piled the covers over my head like I was in a cave and did a high-speed rewind to last week when everything was normal—or sort of—and hit pause. I slept and slept and didn’t get up to go to the bathroom even when I really had to because I knew if I let my bare feet touch the bathroom floor my dream world would be gone.

  “What the hell are you still doing in bed?” Dad’s voice rips me out of the dream.

  I look at my clock. Seven.

  “Half the day is gone already.” Translation: Get up and clean the house.

  I go to the laundry room and try not to think about the smell of frying bacon that would be wafting through the house if my mom were here. Or of my mom’s perfectly made-up face—her violet eye shadow and apple-blossom blush. My dad insists she wear makeup even if it’s Saturday and she isn’t going to leave the house.

  I grab my cleaning supplies: spray for the counters, powder for the sink, blue liquid for the toilet, glass cleaner for the mirrors, two dishcloths, two towels, and a paper towel roll. Still in my pajamas, I spray the mirror in my bathroom and wipe it clean with paper towel. I think about how when Matt and I used to share this bathroom it was so much harder to clean the mirror, because he would manage to get tiny chunks of food on the mirror while he was flossing. I always had to chip them off. It annoyed the heck out of me. I miss them now. As I spray the counter, I try to imagine what my mom is doing.

  By now she must have found a new town for us. It has to be a place that has more than one traffic light. Maybe it even has a Starbucks. She’s probably staying in some crappy hotel while she looks for our apartment. Maybe she’s sitting at one of those little hotel room tables, paging through the want ads, circling leads, calling them.

  I sprinkle the white powder into the bathtub and turn on the faucet. As I slosh the cloth around, I try to calculate how long it will be until my mom comes back for me. A day to drive there (wherever “there” is), maybe two or three days to find a job, a couple of days to find an apartment, and another day to drive back. So I tell myself Tuesday. If my mom has gone off to do all of those things, she should be back by Tuesday. I’ll repack my bag this weekend so I’ll be ready. And the reason she hasn’t called? If I don’t know anything, there’s no way my dad can pry it out of me.

  Why didn’t she take me with her in the first place? That’s the question that keeps a constant ball of fear in my stomach. Every reason I think of,
in the end, just doesn’t make sense.

  The hardware store is open Saturdays, so at eight thirty Dad leaves for work and I finally have the house to myself. I put the cleaning supplies away, eat breakfast, and go to sit in the doorway of the dining room, in the crackpot hope that I’ll feel some sort of vibe from my brother that will tell me where my mom is.

  The dining room is where Matt chose to die. It’s been painted, but sometimes I see a speck of something dark and I wonder, Is that him?

  Most of the time, we don’t go in the dining room. We eat in the kitchen, even though it’s a little crowded. After Matt died, I thought that we should get some of those seventies-style beads to hang in the doorway so we wouldn’t have to look in. But that would have been too tempting. I’d have probably walked through them to hear the clink of the beads. And then I’d have been sorry. No, we should have just bricked-up the place.

  Where is she, Matt?

  There is no vibe, no answer. Maybe the dead really are just dead.

  I think about the card I found stuffed in my mom’s shoe—the one that had a heart followed by the name Brian. Is it possible that my mom’s having an affair? It would be hard for her to keep that kind of secret from me. She has a hard enough time keeping my birthday and Christmas gifts a secret, which is one of the reasons she never shops for them more than one week in advance. But since the florist card is the only lead I have, I decide to call my mom’s used-to-be best friend. Like me, she ditched her when we buried Matt.

  “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” I say.

  A long, shrill, toddler shriek prevents her from answering.

  “Connor, give that back to your brother! Now! I said, now! Sorry, Sara. Gosh, it’s good to hear from you. How’s your mom?”

  I take in a deep breath and spin my latest web of lies. “Great. She’s great. I’m planning this surprise party for her, and I wondered if you knew her friend Brian? Because I wanted to invite him.”

  “What a neat idea—let me know if you need any help. Now, let’s see—Brian … Brian. You mean, Brian Paterson?”

  “Does she know another Brian?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “I guess he’s the one, then. Would you happen to have his address?”

  “Hold on, I’ll have to look.” Glass shatters in the background. “Connor! Get over here this instant!” There’s a loud thump. I think she dropped the phone.

  “Hello, Grandma? I broke a glass,” a little voice says into the phone.

  “Hi. This isn’t your grandma.”

  “I’m three.”

  I think about saying “I can tell,” but I settle for “That’s nice.”

  “Connor, give me the phone.”

  “Bye.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ve got the address. Seven-twenty-two Willow. In Fulton. I don’t have the zip, though. Sorry.”

  “No, that’s not a problem. I can always look it up. Thanks.”

  A few pleasantries later, we hang up, and I start to call Zach. Then I remember he’s at work. Crap. Who can I call? Lauren. I know I should call Lauren. Except that her parents always give her the third degree when she tries to borrow the car. Where she’s going. What she’s doing. I could just lie to her so she won’t have to do the lying. But I talk myself out of it. Alex. Alex won’t ask questions. He doesn’t have to ask his parents to borrow the car. And none of that matters anyhow, because you can talk yourself into anything if you really want to, and I really want to see Alex.

  I dial his cell.

  “What page are you on?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Stephen King. Misery. I loaned it to you. Of course you’re reading it now, so we can talk about the end soon. I’m dying here.”

  “Can you come take me to Fulton?”

  “This wouldn’t be your way of proposing we make out in the back of my car?”

  “No.” But I imagine his lips touching mine anyhow.

  “I’m guessing we’re not going to a party.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. I’m in,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I said, I’m in.”

  “It’s okay if I don’t tell you why?”

  “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  The ride to Brian Paterson’s house takes us from one dirt road to the next.

  “Looks like we’ll get a ride through the car wash out of this,” says Alex.

  “Sorry. Those things freak me out.” And so does Dad’s voice in my head. Don’t even think of leaving.

  “It’s a little cold to be playing with hoses, but if you insist.”

  “Uh-huh.” I will find you.

  “Is this helping?”

  “Is what helping?” Guaranteed.

  “Is my talking about completely useless things helping you forget about whatever it is that’s freaking you out? And I’m not talking about the car wash.”

  I smile.

  “Yes and no. The distraction is good.” Because I’m close to losing it. “But I also need to think.” Because there’s got to be something I’m missing.

  “I’ll shut up now.”

  “Thanks.” Where are you, Mom?

  As we churn up the dust on Mr. Paterson’s driveway, I try to imagine my mother living in the plain brick ranch that’s ahead of us. There’s no sign of her car.

  A chill is in the air, so I pull on my hooded sweatshirt as we walk up the stone path to the front door. I ring the bell.

  “Please tell me we’re not doing the Jehovah’s Witness thing,” says Alex.

  I hear him, but I’m not really listening, so I don’t say anything.

  “Crap. We are doing the Jehovah’s Witness thing. Okay, you do the sales pitch and I’ll stick my foot in the door when they try to slam it in our faces.”

  A woman answers the door. Not my mother. I just kind of stare at her. Finally Alex nudges the side of my shoe.

  “Hi,” I say. “We’re looking for Brian Paterson. He’s a friend of my mom’s. Michelle Peters.” She doesn’t react, she just stares back at me, zombie-style.

  “Is he home?” Alex prods.

  “Just a minute,” she says, turning away from us. Toenails click on linoleum and one of those slobbery Labrador retrievers looks up at me. Definitely not my type. Or my mom’s. Which is also what I think about Brian Paterson when he appears on the other side of the screen. Square glasses with giant frames. Reddish-brown hair. Mustache. And he’s short. Quite short, actually.

  “Hi, Mr. Paterson. My name is Sara. Laurie Young said you were a friend of my mom’s.”

  He stares at me just like the woman had. “And your mom is …?”

  “Michelle Peters.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. We used to work together. Is your mom still at Essence? Sorry about not recognizing you, Sara. When you first moved here, you must have been this high.” He put his hand roughly at the level of his Labrador’s head. Surely I had been taller than that. But I let it pass. “How is your mom?”

  Either this guy hasn’t talked to my mom in months or he’s a really good actor.

  “Fine,” I say. I hope.

  “Would you like to come in?” he offers.

  I start to say no, but figure I should at least take a peek inside. Just in case there’s something I’m missing.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  He holds the screen door open. As I step into the entryway, the slobbery dog presses his slimy nose against my wrist and licks my hand. I try to pretend it doesn’t bother me. We pass through the kitchen with its dog-scratched cabinets and into the living room, which has knickknacks on every surface. Lots of dog figurines, a few elephants, and statues of kids that are supposed to be cute, but that are really just cheesy.

  “Would you like some lemonade?” asks the woman who answered the door.

  Now, I really don’t need or want any lemonade, but I don’t want this guy to hold anything back about his relationship with my mom because she’s there so I say, “Y
es, please. With lots of ice.” Hopefully they have an ice maker like ours that’s always getting plugged. We’re always having to open the drawer and rattle the collection tray. That should make enough noise to drown out our conversation.

  She looks at Alex. “Would you like some too?”

  I guess he saw my little nod of encouragement because he says, “Yes, thanks very much.”

  As soon as she’s out of the room, I say, “I’m surprised that you haven’t talked to my mom recently. She talks a lot about you.”

  Mr. Paterson doesn’t look away or blush or stammer or try to jump in with any excuse like guilty people do on The Winds of Change.

  “That’s nice to hear. I keep meaning to call.”

  I leave an opening, an uncomfortable gap in the conversation for this man to say “Just kidding” and call my mom out from the back bedroom. He doesn’t.

  I look around. Amid the figurines there are lots of pictures of Mr. Paterson and his friend. Presumably she’s his wife, since he’s wearing a wedding band and he has his arm around her in more than a few of the photos. No children or friends, just them and the slobbery old dog.

  Mrs. Paterson comes back in with our lemonades. Mine has lots of ice, just as I asked, which makes it easy to down in a few swallows. It’s also just the right amount of sweet, like Mom would have made it. I almost ask for more.

  “So the reason we stopped by—” I pause and drink the last of my lemonade while watching for any change in expression. Mrs. Paterson is vacantly staring and Mr. Paterson sits at the edge of his seat.

  I start to put the glass down on the coffee table, but there aren’t any coasters and it looks nicer than the fiberboard one we have in our living room, so I set it down on the carpet. The dog promptly comes and tries to stuff his entire snout down into the glass. I look Mr. Paterson in the eye and continue, “Is to invite you to a surprise birthday party for my mom.”

  Mr. Paterson looks confused. Admirably, Alex doesn’t, he just nods and smiles and shakes the ice in his glass.

  “Isn’t her birthday in November?” asks Mr. Paterson.

  How does this guy remember her birthdate? Does he just have a good memory or is he closer to my mom than he’s letting on? I think quickly. “Yes, but I wanted people to be able to set aside the date. That, and we were in the area for the Chicken Broil. It was good. You should go.”