In the last twenty-four hours or so I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things that I can’t figure out why I hadn’t thought about before. I feel as if I’m walking out of a dense fog after being lost for two months. I’m by no means completely free, but the murkiness is lifting and my vision is a little clearer.
I remember that someone gave us everything from the car before it was hauled away to wherever totaled cars from fatal accidents go. I wonder if Ben cancelled Caitlin’s cell phone contract. Was there a disconnect fee or do you draw a bye in the case of death? It seems morbid to be thinking such a thing, but in a way it feels good. Like it’s drawing me into some sort of normalcy.
But whom am I kidding? What’s going on in this car is anything but normal.
I just threw a perfectly good iPhone out the window.
I basically kidnapped my teenager.
There are probably laws against holding seventeen-year-olds against their will in a Toyota RAV4. Without a cell phone to her name.
And not only did I take one daughter against her will, but I took my ten-year-old out of school without notifying anyone. You don’t just take a kid out of school for two weeks without filling out the proper forms, making arrangements for homework and makeup tests and quizzes. Not nowadays you don’t. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to take Izzy out of school for this long.
I know Ben thinks I’ve got a screw loose. Maybe he’s right.
I head north, around the city. I don’t even know where I’m going. I mean, I know where I’m going. I’m going to Maine. I’m going to Laney’s house and I’m going to have a glass of wine with her on her front porch. But I don’t know exactly what highways I’m taking. Yesterday I google-mapped from here to Portland, just to get an idea of which way I should go. You have to go north or south to get around the Grand Canyon from Vegas. I decided to go north for no reason other than that I like driving through Utah and I haven’t in years. When we make our first stop, I’ll put something into the GPS. Maybe not Laney’s address, but a general direction at least, so we don’t end up in Canada.
I glance at Izzy, beside me. She’s looking a little wild-eyed. The cell-phone-out-the-window thing must have scared her. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything crazy like that in front of her. It’s been years since I did anything crazy at all. The impulsiveness of my teenage years ended when I married Ben and we had a family.
I glance at Izzy again. It was probably a mistake to go back for her. She shouldn’t be in this car with us. Not with Haley in the state she is. My eldest daughter’s so angry with me that nothing she could do would shock me right now. I shouldn’t be subjecting Izzy to this. If I had any sense at all, I’d get off the beltway and call Ben to come get her. It would be the smart thing to do.
But then I look at Izzy again and she turns to me and beams the way she did when she was a little girl and I don’t have the heart to call Ben and tell him to come get her. I just don’t.
So I reach out and grab her hand and squeeze it. “You sure you want to do this?” I ask her quietly. Not because I don’t want Haley to hear us, but because I need Izzy to understand the gravity of this voyage. I know she has to know Haley’s a mess, but I’m not sure she understands just how big a mess her sister is. “We can meet your dad somewhere. You can go home with him,” I tell her, putting my hand back on the steering wheel. I’m still feeling a little shaky.
Izzy shakes her head violently. “I don’t want to go back, Mom. I want to stay with you. I don’t want to go home with Dad.”
She makes no mention of wanting to be with her sister in her time of need, but that’s probably expecting too much.
I glance in the rearview mirror. Haley is curled up in practically a fetal position on the backseat. Her eyes are closed. She’s put her earbuds in her ears even though there’s no music to listen to now. She’s blocking me out. Blocking the world out. Her hand is moving. I glance at the highway and then at her again in the mirror and I realize she’s rolling that ball around in her hand.
“Haley and I need to talk about some serious stuff, Izzy,” I try to explain. “Stuff a ten-year-old girl shouldn’t have to hear.”
She’s quiet for a second, then, “Is it worse stuff than my sister is dead because my other sister crashed her?” she asks.
I feel my lower jaw quiver. I concentrate on the road in front of me. Even though I’m going the speed limit, I feel like we’re moving in slow motion. It seems like everyone, the world, is flying by us, but we’re standing still. “Probably not any worse than that,” I hear myself say.
Izzy laces her fingers together, drops her hands to her lap, and looks out through the windshield. “I didn’t think so.”
I can’t help but smile and for a moment I enjoy the warmth of the sunshine coming in through the windows. I wonder when my Isobel became such a wise, old soul. Maybe she was always this way and I never noticed before. “It could get ugly,” I say.
Izzy cuts her eyes at me. “Uglier than the last two months?”
I press my lips together and concentrate on the road. “Probably not.”
We drive for a couple of minutes in silence. Then Izzy asks, “So what did she do? She tried to off herself, didn’t she?”
When I don’t answer, Izzy goes on. “You might as well tell me what she did. I’m going to find out. We’re going to be in this car at least five days. It’s not going to be quick between you having to stop to pee every two hours and driving the speed limit all the way.”
I almost laugh. My bladder isn’t what it once was. I do have to stop a lot.
“So did she try to end it all?” Izzy’s tone is not very sympathetic.
“I can hear you talking about me,” Haley shouts from the backseat.
I glance in the rearview mirror at Haley. Right now, I’d prefer her mouthiness, even her swearing, to this silence. Her silence scares me. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, girls. We need to be civil to each other.”
“I can be civil.” Izzy folds her hands together again. “Totally. So what did she do? She try to OD on Nana’s pills? Or did she try to snuff herself by slitting her wrists? She uses a lot of gauze and stuff from the first aid kit in the bathroom. I’ve been seeing the wrappers for weeks.”
I look at Izzy, then at the road again. I want to ask her why she didn’t tell me if she was suspicious that her sister was doing something unsafe, but I don’t because I wouldn’t want her to think that what Haley’s done is in any way her fault or her responsibility.
“Do you mind if I tell her?” I ask Haley, looking in the rearview mirror again.
“It’s pretty obvious what I think doesn’t matter.” Haley’s words drip with resentment.
I exhale, debating what to say. I wasn’t planning on having this conversation today, although I have been thinking about things we need to talk about.
Last night, when I was lying in bed beside Haley, it occurred to me that we haven’t talked about Caitlin’s death. Not at all. We’ve all been floating around our house in such stupefying shock, but we haven’t said anything to each other. Not even that we miss her.
That’s one of the first things Haley needs to do, I think. She needs to acknowledge the loss. Maybe what we all need to do, me included. We need to concede, out loud, and to each other the profound loss we feel. Along those same lines, I was thinking that we need to talk about the end result. About Caitlin being gone and Haley still being here.
But I wasn’t counting on Izzy being with us. And I was thinking maybe Haley and I could somehow work our way up to some of the difficult conversations we need to have. But I hadn’t thought about having to talk to my ten-year-old about a complicated thing like self-mutilation. I’m not even sure where to begin.
So I just say it. “Haley’s been hurting herself.”
Izzy’s brow crinkles. “What do you mean?”
I take a breath. “Have you ever heard of cutting?”
Izzy stares at me for a second and then recognition
crosses her face. “Like cutting yourself up with a knife and making yourself bleed?” She turns around and looks at Haley and I realize this may be the first time she’s looked at her sister since Caitlin died. “You gotta be S-ing me.”
I look at her, putting on my “Mommy disapproves of your language” face.
“What?” Izzy asks, turning back around. “I didn’t say the word.” She rides along for a minute in silence and then asks, “Is that why she was using all the gauze?”
I nod.
Again, Izzy frowns. “Why would she do that? Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I can still freakin’ hear you,” Haley shouts.
I don’t know what gets into me. The same thing that made me throw the phone out the car window, I suppose. I signal and pull off the beltway onto an exit in a sudden movement.
Izzy’s wide-eyed again.
I don’t say a word until I’ve pulled into a mini-mart, parked the car, and shut off the engine. Then I turn around in my seat. My heart is pounding. A part of me wants to fold up into a fetal position like Haley in the front seat of my car and cry. But I don’t. Instead, I speak slowly and calmly, but with a tone that makes it clear I mean what I say. “You will not speak that way to me. Do you understand me, Haley Grace? I’m your mother. You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to love me, but you’ll show me the respect I deserve. Do I make myself clear?”
Haley doesn’t look at me, but she nods. It’s a barely adequate movement to signify assent, but it’s enough.
I turn back around, putting my hands on the steering wheel. I’m breathing hard. How the hell am I going to do this? I’m barely in one piece. How am I going to help my daughter pick up her pieces?
Everyone is quiet in the car. The sounds outside—the traffic, a man and his son walking past us in the parking lot—seem far away.
The first thing I need to do if I’m going to help Haley is pee, I decide. I was in such a hurry to get out this morning that I didn’t think to run to the bathroom before we left. Now I really have to go.
I pull my key out of the ignition. “Can you grab my wallet out of my bag?” I ask Haley. I had thrown my handbag in my duffel bag this morning.
She makes a sound that expresses that she’s clearly put out by my request, but I hear her seat belt unbuckle. I almost exhale audibly with relief. I have no clue what I would have done if she’d refused me.
I look at Izzy, who’s now acting as if all of this is everyday stuff. I have no idea where I’m finding the strength to do this. I’m waiting for the bottom to fall out any second. Mine.
“Pit stop.” I sound almost cheery when I speak again. “Go to the bathroom and then we’ll get some snacks.”
“Can I have an Icee?” Izzy asks.
I think for a second. I usually try to get her to get a bottle of juice or something a little healthier than a big bucket of frozen sugar, but I nod. Secretly, I like frozen drinks out of mini-mart machines, too, especially the Coke ones. “You can, and I think I’ll have one. And while we’re here, we might as well gas up. Next stop, Utah.” I open my door, which unlocks Izzy’s, but not Haley’s, because the child safety locks are still deployed.
“I knew it!” Izzy says excitedly. “I was hoping this was the way we were going.” She opens the car door and wrestles with her pillow and backpack to get out. Once she’s out of the car, she pulls off her sweatshirt and throws it on the seat. She stands there like she’s considering something, then asks, “Can you pop the back?”
I release the hatch, close my door, and take a breath before I open the back door. I have no idea what I’m going to do if Haley runs. I can’t see myself chasing her across the parking lot, but I can’t see myself just letting her go, at this point, either.
She hands me my wallet without making eye contact.
“Thank you. Now come on.”
“I don’t need to go.”
“You’re coming anyway. You don’t think I’m leaving you alone in the car, do you?” I step back and hold open the door. “Go to the bathroom and get a drink. Grab a snack if you’re hungry or anticipate being hungry later. I didn’t pack anything.” I was once one of those mothers who cut up fruit and packed a cooler of drinks when we went somewhere in the car. “It will be another three or four hours before we stop again.”
She slowly gets out of the car and walks toward the convenience store door. Her body language is screaming protest, but she’s going. She’s doing what I say.
“Izzy,” I call.
“Coming.”
I watch Haley open the convenience store door and go inside. I don’t want to let her get out of my sight.
“Come on, Izz,” I call.
She’s got her head inside the back. She sounds like she’s talking to herself. Just as I’m about to holler to her again, she stands up and closes the hatch. I hit the remote in my hand to lock the car and wait for her.
“You want me to go into the bathroom with her?” she whispers to me as she walks into the store in front of me.
I eye Haley’s back. “We all go together.”
Chapter 24
Haley
50 days, 10 hours
I can’t believe she’s going to follow me into the bathroom. Does she think she’s going into the stall with me too?
I go into the last stall, pull down my jeans, and sit. I pee and wipe, but I don’t get up. I listen to the two of them in the other stalls. I roll the ball between my fingers because I don’t want to bounce it on a public bathroom floor. That would be gross.
I can’t believe she’s really going through with this driving-to-Maine thing. Unbelievable.
I have to get out of here. I have to get away. I just don’t know how, now that I don’t have my phone.
I hear one toilet flush and Izzy’s footsteps, then Mom flushes and walks out of the other stall. Water comes on. Izzy says something about the blue soap in the dispenser; she thinks it smells like blueberries. Mom laughs and says she thinks it does too.
I listen to the water running in the sinks and their voices. Izzy’s trying to decide if she’s getting a blue Icee or a red one. She’s acting like she’s on summer vacation. She’s such a doofus. And it’s so cute. I wish soap in a public bathroom that smells like blueberries could make me as happy as she sounds.
The rumble of the blow dryer echoes off the tile walls and I drop my head to my hands. Mom and Izzy are still talking.
I can’t do this. I have to get away from these two, but I don’t know where I can go or how I can get there. I need Todd. He’ll come get me. I just have to figure out a way to call him.
A phone, a phone! My kingdom for a phone!
I did a project in the fall in English class about literary quotes still used today and how we change them. Richard III said that in a play written by Shakespeare, only he needed a horse, not a phone.
Izzy doesn’t have a phone; Mom says she’s not old enough to have one yet. Izzy does have an iPod touch that I might be able to text from, but I’m not sure if she brought it and even if she did, how do I get it?
I hear the bathroom door open and Izzy goes out. I can tell by the sound of the footfall that it’s her. She slaps her feet as she walks, like her feet are too big for her body.
“Haley?” Mom calls.
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
I make a loud sound so she knows how annoyed I am. “It’s not like there’s a back door in here. I’ll be out in a sec.”
She hesitates again. “Okay. I’ll be in the store.” She opens the door, then calls back, “Do you need anything from your bag?”
I guess she means a tampon. I wish I did need one. I’m starting to get a little worried. “Nope. I’ll be out in a minute.”
The door closes behind her and I listen, just to make sure she really left the bathroom and isn’t trying to fake me out. When I’m sure she’s gone, I flush and pull up my jeans. Just as I’m walking to the sink, a woman a little ol
der than Mom comes in.
“See you soon,” she says into her cell. She makes eye contact with me and smiles. I smile back. A big Caitlin smile. I have no idea why I do it. I’m not usually smiley with strangers.
Caitlin was the friendly one of the two of us. No surprise there. No one could resist her gorgeous blond hair and green eyes. I’m sure she was destined to be Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, and Queen of the freakin’ May.
In the mirror, I watch the woman go into the bathroom stall behind me. My gaze shifts to my reflection. I look like total crap. My skin is blotchy, my eyebrows need plucking, and I didn’t even bother with eyeliner this morning. My eyes look little and squinty.
I squirt blue soap from the dispenser into my hand. I can’t resist. I lift it to my nose and sniff.
And as shitty as my life is, it makes me smile because it does sort of smell like blueberries. I rub my hands together, soaping them up.
I eye the closed door of the stall behind me and it occurs to me that I don’t have a cell phone but she has a cell phone. So how do I get it? If she sets it on the sink while she washes her hands, do I just take it and run? Then what? Run where? I don’t know where we are. I’m not even sure what exit we got off on. And what if she calls the police? I’m pretty sure Todd can’t pick me up from jail.
I don’t want to keep her phone. I just want to borrow it for a minute.
She flushes behind me and I keep soaping up my hands. As she comes up to the sink beside me, she smiles at me again. I wonder if I remind her of someone else she knows because I don’t look like the kind of girl you smile at in a public restroom, even without my eyeliner. Maybe I remind her of someone she likes. I smile back, my Caitlin smile, and wish for the one-millionth time that Caitlin were here with me. She’d know how to charm the phone off this woman. Caitlin was my little sister, but she was better at this kind of thing. Basically, she was better at life. She knew what to say to people, how to say it.
“Hi.” I try not to sound like the crazy girl who cuts herself.
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