“This astrological wonder is calling your name, and you know it. You can make a wish on it or something girly like that.”
I shake my head and look toward the trailer, where the blinds are all closed. My mom’s car is in the driveway. She’s supposed to be at work by now. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“So Noah and the ark for next week?”
“Yes, but this time, I want to be the lead. I’ll be Noah.”
Tate grimaces. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see you with facial hair.”
I shut my door and eye the steps with dread.
“I’m going to help you up there, so there’s no point in hiding behind the back of the house this time.”
“You saw that?” I close my eyes and sigh. “All right, let’s go.” He grabs my purse and leads me up the stairs, talking to the cats like they’re his long-lost friends.
“Blackie says you haven’t gotten him that filtered water yet.”
“It’s on my list.”
He stops at the door as I pull my key out. “Just make sure Stony Peak is on your list.” And he hops down as I shut myself in.
“Mom?” No answer. I crutch it back to her bedroom and knock on the door. “Mom?”
The fan on her dresser blows across the room, sailing over her body and ruffling her washed-out hair. Sprawled on the bed, she opens a bleary eye. “Whaddyawant?” Her mouth barely moves.
“Mom, you’re supposed to be at work.” I shove my watch in her face. “It’s twelve-thirty.”
“Don’t feel like it. Call in for me, would you?”
“No.” I feel her head. No heat. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Dread settles in my stomach.
“Leave me alone. Shut the door.” She yanks the sheet over her head.
“Mom — ”
“Out.”
I stand there for a moment, my heart heavy, my brain in overdrive. What do I do? Do I call the salon for her? Tell them she’s sick? Do I let her take care of it? Do I call a doctor?
I call Millie.
Closing my bedroom door, I feel my burden lighten as soon as I hear her sweet voice.
“What’s new with my girl? How are you?” Though I can’t see her, I know she’s smiling.
“Hey, Millie. Just . . . um, got back from church.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think my mom is sick.” I give her a vague description of her condition. “What should I do?”
“If you think she’s sick, just let her sleep a while. If she’s not better in a few hours, then you need to call me back.” Millie asks a few more questions. No, I don’t think she’s thrown up. No, she isn’t running a temp. Yes, her color looks fine. “It doesn’t sound too serious. Maybe she just needs the rest.”
Mom’s been home every night this week, though. Why does she need any more rest? “Yeah, I’m sure she’s fine. Just wanted to check with you.”
“Katie, if she isn’t up and around by this evening, we can come get you.”
“No. We’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I’ve nursed her through stuff before. “I can’t wait to see you guys on the Fourth. You’re still bringing Frances when you come and get me, right?”
“Um . . . about that. Katie, I talked to your mom last week.” I hear Millie stacking dishes in the sink. “She’s asked that we cancel our Fourth of July plans with you.”
“What?”
“She said she wanted to have you to herself on the holiday.”
“No!”
“It’s understandable, honey. She is your mother, and she has the day off. She doesn’t get many of those.”
Oh, she gets more than you know.
“Katie . . . I know it’s not what you wanted.” Millie’s voice lowers. “It’s not what we wanted. But we’ll get to see you for Chihuahua Days the next week. You can’t miss that. Bobbie Ann said we could have you all weekend. And you can spend all the time you want with Frances.”
I rest my head on my desk and hot tears spill onto my cheeks.
“Katie?”
“I’m here.” I rub my hand over my nose. “I gotta go. I’ll let you know if anything changes with Mom.” And I hang up.
I crawl onto my bed, curl myself into a ball, and lie there until the sun tucks itself in.
When I hear the front door open and the Cougar start, I don’t even get up.
Chapter twenty - nine
THE POUNDING ON THE DOOR shakes me from a dream Monday morning. I throw on a short robe and race to the door.
I look through the peephole. A woman who could be Iola Smartly’s twin scratches her gray bun with her Bic pen and waits.
“Yes?” I say from my side of the door. I don’t know this woman. Sure, she looks like a teacher on the verge of retirement, but for all I know she could be a serial killer. Her frumpy tweed suit could be her cover. Maybe she charms her victims with efficiency and poor clothing choices.
“I’m Janice Holloway. I’m with Child Services of Norton County.”
Oh, crap.
I crack the door and speak through the screen. “Yeah?”
“I have an eight-thirty appointment with Bobbie Ann Parker. Is that your mother?” Her eyes take in my morning attire. I know. The combination of the skimpy robe and the Aircast is mesmerizing.
“Yes. Bobbie Ann’s my mother.” But she’s not here. And I don’t think she’s been here since she took off last night. I never heard her come in, and I waited practically all evening. And no Pop-Tart laying out for me this morning. Guess I’ll be missing another doctor appointment.
“May I come in?”
“Um . . . Now’s not a good time.” Never would be good. Come back never.
The woman frowns sternly and steps closer to the door. “Are you . . .” She consults the file in her hand. “Katie Parker?”
Yes, but wouldn’t I pay a million to be anyone else right now. “Yeah.”
“I’d really like to come in, Miss Parker.”
“My mom’s not home right now. She’s at work.”
“Work? She was supposed to meet me here this morning. We have a scheduled visit.”
“Um . . . I think her job has been pretty hectic lately. They’ve been calling her in a lot.” The work of a shampoo girl is never done. Lots of dirty heads in this town.
“Katie, might I come in for a minute?”
“I can’t let you, ma’am. I’m not supposed to let strangers in the house,” I say like I’m in first grade.
She pulls out some identification and holds it to the screen. “I would like to wait on your mother, if you please.”
The screen door creaks as I open it wide, letting Mrs. Holloway into my living room. “I’m just going to change really quick, if that’s okay.” I don’t wait for a response, but hop back to my room. It’s everything I can do not to lock myself in there and jump out the window. Except the trailer’s too high off the ground, and I know I’d sprain something else.
Thirty minutes later Janice Holloway and I still sit in the living room. By this time I have offered her a glass of water, a snack cake, and remote control privileges. She looks around the trailer and jots things down in her file.
Mrs. Holloway clears her throat and peers at her gold-tone watch. “I believe I will call her employer before I leave.” She consults her file and punches in the number on her cell. “Can I speak with Bobbie Ann Parker? Yes, I know you’re not open for business yet, but I was told she was there. It’s important that I speak with . . . what? Oh. I see. Very well then. Good-bye.” She slips the phone in her purse and regards me over tiny glasses. “Your mother is not there.”
I stare at the floor, unsure what to say.
“Has everything been going okay here at home, Katie?”
“Yeah, sure. Great.” Horrible. Lousy. I mean, I thought things were going to change. I thought we had a chance. But the last few days — I don’t know. A few days ago my mom was reminiscing about Gilmore Girls and now she’s AWOL.
“When was the last
time you saw your mother?”
My eyes flit to the refrigerator where a bent picture of Mom and John hangs by a magnet. “T-today.”
The caseworker stands up and smoothes her skirt. “You tell your mother I stopped by. This does not please me that she wasn’t here.” She hands me her card. “Tell her to call me as soon as possible.”
I don’t release my breath until the woman drives off. Then I close the door and sink to the floor. Mom, what are you doing? Where are you?
At noon Tate picks me up to take me back to his house to work on our Noah’s ark script for Sunday.
“The first cross-dressing Noah.” He taps the wheel to a Maroon 5 song. “I like it. Noah will be a little feminine, but maybe he’s just metro, right? He’s in touch with his — hey, are you in there?”
His hand waves in front of my eyes and I drag my concentration back to the present.
“You’re a hundred miles away.”
Don’t I wish.
“You’re not thinking about the stench of the ark or why they brought the skunks onboard, are you?”
I force a smile. “No, but I’ll work on that. I’m all about getting into character.”
He brakes at a four-way stop and swivels in his seat to face me. “What’s going on with you? Anything you can talk about?”
My heart rips a little at his constant kindness. It’s like he always knows the right words, the exact thing to say. Is this boy even human? “I’m good. Really.” Then I apply fake smile number six. It’s the one I usually reserve for moments when you have to say “Oh, what a pretty baby” and it’s so ugly your eyes burn.
The street is empty and the Explorer doesn’t move. The pastor’s crazy son rests his hand on mine. “You know you can talk to me, right? You can tell me anything — well, not anything. I don’t really understand feminine products or thongs, but I would still be willing to listen.”
This drags a smile out of me. “I’m glad I met you, Tate.”
He winks a crystal blue eye. “The ladies always are, Katie. The ladies always are.” He jiggles my hand playfully then throws it back in my lap. “I can sit here all day long until you talk.” He stares out into the barren street. “Probably gonna cause a traffic jam any time now, but I’m a patient guy.”
“Would you mind . . .” I hate to ask. I really hate to get him involved and have him know my business. “Would you mind taking me by Sunset Salon before we go to your house? I need to check on something.”
His intense gaze stays on mine for a moment before he responds. “Okay, then. Off to Sunset Salon we go.” And with one last glance in my direction, he hangs a left and heads downtown.
I open my door before Tate even puts the car in park at the salon. “I’ll be right back.”
“Do you want me to — ”
“No.” I force myself to relax. “I’ll just be a second. Stay here and keep the car cool.” I don’t need witnesses for this.
The salon door jangles as I enter, and a teenage receptionist greets me with a smile.
“I’m Katie, Bobbie Ann Parker’s daughter.” Her smile drops. “Is she here?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She holds up a finger to wait and slips off her stool. “Mom!” she yells to the back. A large woman trimming a poodle perm looks up. “Bobbie Ann’s daughter is here.” The woman nods, says something to her gray-headed client, and ambles my way.
“Katie, right?” I nod and struggle to remember her name, knowing I met her on my first day in Middleton. “I ain’t seen your mama.”
“What? She’s supposed to be here.”
The owner plants her hand on her hip, and I read the name on her smock. Polly. “Girl, she was supposed to have been here the last three days. I ain’t seen her since Friday.”
“Friday?” The words pound in my brain. “No, she came to work Saturday. She was here all day. She even worked late.”
Polly huffs through her nose. “Believe me, she wasn’t here Saturday. I had to wash heads myself, and we were backed up all day.” She steps closer, and I smell cheap, sweet perfume. “You tell your mama we’ve had enough. Last week she was late every day, always with an excuse about you and the doctor. But Saturday she just plain didn’t show. And I don’t have time for that. I run a tight ship, and anyone who can’t pull their weight don’t get to stay aboard.” The owner swivels on a Birkenstock, returning to her curly-headed victim and permanently ending our conversation.
Even though Polly’s daughter stares at me, the tears pool in my eyes. I look up and blink them away. Punching my crutch into the tile floor, I turn.
And there stands Tate. His expression dark, his mouth set. He lifts two fingers in greeting to the receptionist, envelopes me in his arm, and leads me out.
He starts the engine, cranks up the air, and turns the radio off. “Tell me.” When the words don’t come, he reaches out and rubs my forearm. “Talk to me, Katie.”
I lift an indifferent shoulder. “Nothing. Let’s just go.”
“It’s not nothing.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t even know you, Tate. I’m not going to get into all of this.”
“You know me.”
I meet his penetrating stare. “Yeah, for a week.” I study the set of his jaw and know he’s not going to budge. “All right . . .” I run my hand through my hair and lean into the seat. “Last year my mom got arrested.”
And I launch into the whole epic tale. I tell him about Sunny Haven Home for Girls, Iola Smartly, meeting the Scotts, my friends at In Between High. I tell him about finding God and finding my life in the spotlight of the Valiant Theatre. And I tell him about Charlie, and I try to describe Maxine yet find there really aren’t words to explain her.
“I knew there was a story to you,” Tate says. “But I had no idea. You’ve got more plot twists than Harry Potter.”
“Maybe you could just take me home now? I think I’m out of the mood to build an ark and save God’s chosen people.”
“Thanks for telling me. I hope you know it won’t leave this vehicle — won’t go any farther than the Sunset Salon parking lot.”
I give him a small smile. “I know.” And I do. Somehow, though he’s practically a stranger, I know I can trust this guy. God has blessed me with a great friend just when I needed one.
“Is there anything I — ”
“No.” I shake my head. “You can’t help, but thanks.” Spare me your pity. I’ve had more than enough of it in my life. “Let’s just go.”
“But you’ll tell me — if you ever need anything?”
And with my reluctant promise to come to him for help, he backs the Explorer out and takes me home.
“Are you sure you’re safe here?” Tate leads me up the last step of the trailer.
“This is not new to me. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.” Granted, I got used to the good life at the Scotts’, where the line between parent and child wasn’t so blurred. “I’ll see you later. Seriously,” I say when he hesitates. “I’ll be fine.”
“Mom?” My voice bounces off the thin trailer walls when I close the door. No answer. I head back to her bedroom, where, again, I find her sleeping. “Wake up, Mom.” I shake her shoulder until she mumbles a protest. “Wake up.”
“What?” she whines, her eyes still closed.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Work.”
“No you haven’t. I stopped by there today.”
“Been working.”
“You’re lying, Mom.” I stand there until she opens an eye. “The lady from child services came by today. Are you listening to me? Not only did we miss my doctor’s appointment again, but you missed your meeting with the woman who decides if I stay or go.” Her eye drifts shut. “Don’t you care?”
“Get outta my room. Tired.”
“Where have you been?” My voice rises, slightly desperate. I shake her again. “Where have you been? You’re using again, aren’t you?”
“No. Go away.”
I swipe
a tear away, not one of sadness, but anger. Frustration. “Sit up and talk to me!”
I flip on the light and jerk open the shade covering her window.
“Ow! Stop!” Her arms flail, and she covers her eyes. “If I get up,” she slurs, “you’re not gonna . . . like the consequences.”
“Oh, really? What are you going to do to me?” I loom over her. “I can take you out with one crutch. You want to talk to me or do you want to talk to your parole officer?”
With a string of curses, she rolls over, her eyes bloodshot, glazed.
“Do you want me to call John? Your sponsor? Mom, you need help. We need help.”
“I don’t need help. I need sleep.” She pulls herself up to a slumped but seated position. “Don’t you ever go to my work again. Understand?”
“You don’t have a job, Mom. You haven’t shown up for three days straight. Your job is gone.”
“You’re a liar. I was there yesterday.” But she frowns in confusion. “What day is this?”
Does it matter? “Why did you tell the Scotts I couldn’t see them on the Fourth of July?” I feel the hurt punch at my chest again. “You don’t even intend to let me go to In Between for Chihuahua Days, do you?” I’m so aware of how stupid that sounds coming out of my mouth.
“I don’t want you around them. They put ideas in your head. Those people aren’t like us, Katie.”
“Oh, you mean like they have jobs and don’t roam the night like vampires?”
“See?” she bellows. “That’s just what I mean. You will not talk to me like that in my own home.”
“There’s not going to be a home if you don’t have a job. And the state won’t let me live here if you don’t pass your next drug test or home visit. And you have to at least be home for the home visit. That’s kind of how that thing works.”
“Shut up!” Her roar startles me. She throws the covers off and staggers out of bed, clutching the wall. “Get me a glass of water. Now!”
I hop backward on my crutches. “Why are you doing this?” I hate how pathetic I sound. “Why are you hurting us? Me?”
“You don’t understand anything.” A sneer distorts her ruddy face. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”
The Big Picture Page 21