“It is pretty awesome,” she agreed, eyes lingering on his neck. “Where is it now?” “It was made for children, so I eventually outgrew it. Sarah wears it looped around her wrist.” Noah looked down at Aly, the present already clasped around her neck. Distracted, half his foot landed on the edge of the road. Catching his feet, he pretended he hadn’t nearly fallen over himself.
This girl even messes up my walking. It occurred to him that he hadn’t stopped talking since they left the tunnel, rattling off every other memory that slipped into his brain. Swallowing, he rolled his shoulders, asking, “I’m not totally overwhelming you, am I?”
She laughed. “Of course not. I love seeing the town. In two days, I feel like I’ve lived here half of my life.” She quickly added, “Which is a good thing.”
He blinked. “Seriously?” “I’ve been all over the place. I was actually terrified I’d spend the rest of my existence locked in an ice fishing shack, or a cabin in the middle of a glacier while my father documented the natural scavengers of the north or something. Instead, I get to hang out with you.”
Why does it feel so good that she sounds so happy?
“It hasn’t been the worst weekend for me either,” he grinned. “Too bad we’re stuck in Ashland.”
“It’s better than some frozen mountain range. Ashland is more like how I pictured a little coastal town in Oregon.”
“We’re not all snowmen and Eskimos,” he agreed.
“And man-children,” she teased. “Just a bunch of drunken artists with half-baked lives.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, staring at the sky. “It’s unique. It’s wonderful, actually.” “Really?” He quirked a brow, surprised. “The people or the culture? Because if it’s the former, you really ought to be tested for brain injury.”
“It’s a sense of identity. Something to ground you, to be proud of
– even when it’s not all glamour. People are gritty, life is hard. There’s something beautiful in the fall. ” Aly turned to meet his eyes. She seemed eager to read his expression, to know he appreciated what he had. “I’m this indistinct… list, mostly guesses and selfappointed infatuations, kind of zigzagging all over Europe.”
“I thought you were Italian.” “My cousins are – Francesca and Giovanni, because my aunt, Lauren, married my uncle, Vincent, who’s from Italy. But me… I’m all over. My mom thoughtshe might be French, but that’s about all we know.”
“I can see that,” he smiled, observing the petite fingers laced between his own. “I think sometimes we can be just as artificial as the wanderers, though.”
“Ever read Tolkien?” she inquired, quoting, “’Not all wanderers are lost’?”
“Not much. I’m more of an Orwell-Palahniuk type of guy, though,” Noah countered. Her lips parted, what Noah had grown to recognize as the Alyson-equivalent of a jaw drop. He might be slightly offended if he hadn’t been pleased with himself for surprising her. He raised an eyebrow, curious to her response. “Advanced English at the Regional.”
“And thatmade my day,” she announced, a smile gradually spreading across her face. “See? If I didn’t know better I’d think the boy with the leather jacket was bad news.”
“I’m not wearing it today,” Noah offered.
“It’s there to compliment the guitar,” she decided, her voice playful.
“Better than the apron?” He mimed the hook of his head, although he always folded it around his waist.
“Definitely,” Aly affirmed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re quite possibly the best waiter I’ve ever seen.”
“Of course I am,” he laughed. “It’s my job.”
Aly smiled. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Tell me about it.
“Well,” he teased, “That I might take the wrong way.”
“All I mean is, you’re too good for this town.”
“Nah. I’m a productof this town,” Noah smirked.
She winced, slapping a hand across her forehead. “Wow. That sounded terrible, didn’t it?”
“I knew what you meant,” he grinned, nudging her elbow with his own. “Though I have to say the face-palm made my entire day.”
“Who knew?” A giggle slipped from her lips. “There are face- palms in Alaska.”
“Where there’s internet, there’s a way.” “You’re talking to the girl who spammed her own profile so she didn’t have to see lists of condolences.” Chewing on her own words, she grimaced, adding, “Sorry. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
He laughed, unbothered. “What? Being Aly?”
She looked away, hiding her smile. “I guess so.”
“So, what about the girl in the boots– bad news?”
“That depends on who’s asking.” Her gaze dropped up and down, taking in his height. “I think you can handle it.”
“Really,” he stated, as though he considered the word on his lips, mulling it over. “Sure, a strapping young man such as yourself. You’re brimming with angst and defiance– or so I’m convinced.” Her voice shifted into a British accent, holding despite the wavering of amusement. “I’m sure you’ve done terrible things.”
So much better than Luke or Owen’s – maybe they can ask for lessons.
“Have a degree to go with that theory?”
“My father does,” she giggled. “Seriously, what’s the worst?” He considered her question, grimacing at the memory. His hand subconsciously probed his side as though the skin was still tender with blacks and blues. He said, “I’ve been drunk exactly once. Worst night of my life. I woke up the next morning and I was still drunk, and spent the entire day sick as a dog. My father kicked me so hard I tasted my ribs.”
“Oh my God,” she blurted, eyes wide. “I hope that’s a one-time deal.”
“Drinking sure as hell is, at least for me.” “I meant your dad,” she corrected, frowning in concern. “I thought teens were supposed to be experimenting and all that. I think my mother was disappointedwhen I didn’t go through that phase.”
“That doesn’t alarm you?” “It’s not like she wanted me to jump for drugs or try to pull off any wild parties – which, between our budget and neighbors on each side of the condo would not have worked at all.”
“I thought your dad was super rich or whatever.”
“I never saw him growing up. He didn’t help financially until my mom was terminal.”
He sympathized, “That sucks.” “I wasn’t a priority,” Aly shrugged. “I had my mom, which was way better. I literally spent my entire life trying to please her. Like I said, she was kind of disappointed I never really screwed up. I don’t know if it’s because she got kicked out when she went to college or if it’s because she was pregnant so young. I think it’s the books.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The books made her do it?” “No, no. I mean… She had all these parenting books and magazines – filled with sticky notes and dog-eared pages. I guess most of the Your Troubled Child & You types proved irrelevant. When she worked late I used to sit in her closet and flip through them, trying to imagine what she was using to shape me. I think she was bummed she never got to use them.”
“And that doesn’t alarm you either?”
“It wasn’t a closet -closet. That’s where the bookshelf was – with an ottoman and a light.” She groaned, frustrated with her own inability unable to relieve the amused expression on his face. “I swear it’s not as weird as it sounds.”
“Sure. Because most kids read their parent’s parenting books in a closet.”
“Yes, because most kids get beaten when they drink,” she retorted.
He raised his palms in surrender. “I was kicking myself anyway.” Noah sighed, rubbing his neck.
She frowned, her face ridden with concern. “It seems harsh.” He shrugged. “So does ditching your kid at a diner.”
~
Following the road home, they moved up his back driveway. It consisted of dark concrete ridden with crumbled sec
tions, fishing and jerky shacks off by the tool shed.
“Shortcut,” Noah explained, holding the back entrance with his foot. It wasn’t heavy, spray painted wood panels on an offset hinge. Aly mimed a curtsy and breached the foyer, waiting as he took the front to lead her through. Gripping the screen’s handle, he swallowed, bracing himself to reveal his less-than-extravagant home.
Please let everyone be wearing pants. Passing the back hall, they made their way through the tiny living room. A tan, fauxleather loveseat and Lee’s mustard, carpet- textured recliner were positioned around a small, wood-boxed television. The furniture was situated amongst floor lamps that probablydated back to the 70’s, or at least belonged there. Floral flesh-colored wall paper plastered the space, peeling with age and yellowed with cigarette smoke.
How they managed to kick that habit in the midst of all their problems is beyond me. Even that was too expensive. Mary-Agnes lay on disheveled couch cushions, half pulled from the frame. Curled into a ball as much as her weight and gout permitted, she twisted on her side to stare at the ceiling, a mug slack in her hand. Lee stood over her, scratching his neck and mumbling unintelligibly.
What the hell are they doing? The man’s face flushed as he realized he had company. Alyson stood at Noah’s side, analyzing his expression with concern. He straightened his shoulders, forcing his dropped jaw shut. “Is everything alright?” Noah asked, hesitant.
He didn’t make small talk with his parents, especially with his father. They rarely spoke beyond organizing chores and work, or defending drunken fits and making excuses for missing paychecks. This scene wasn’t right, though. It didn’t look like Lee had hurt Mary-Agnes, but this was something he only saw when venturing out of his room in early morning hours. They shouldn’t even be at the house. Lee belonged at the deck, or the fishery. Mary-Agnes belonged at the cash register or in the kitchen.
Something’s not right. “Why? How could you bring strangers into my house?” Mary - Agnes mumbled, sounding like she had been crying or was about to. Everything about her screamed wooziness, a flagrant sign she was unstable in every sense.
I don’t want to be around when this goes down.
“Shortcut,” he muttered, tugging Aly’s wrist as they moved past them.
I don’t even want to know. He felt like he could wake up one day and the house would be empty, Yazzie’s falling apart. The docks would have fallen into the ocean. Life would be gone, red skies and ruins. He wasn’t sure he’d care– being alone, for once, belonging to nothing and no one.
Noah didn’t know what he wanted from his parents, to be seen and accepted or invisible and released. He didn’t want whatever was waiting in the room at his back.
Cutting through the attachment from the house to Yazzie’s, the sudden hollers of an argument passed through the walls. He couldn’t tell who was speaking, or which side it was on. Confused, he exchanged a look with Aly.
Entering the diner, he sprinted through the white hall into the eating section. As she tried to keep up, Aly knocked over the heavy frames filled with pictures of the various grand re-openings over the years. He waved her off when she tried to retrieve it, wordlessly insisting she shouldn’t worry about it.
The front of the diner was in chaos, patrons raising their hands, some already walking out. With the bang of industrial pans hitting the floor, Sarah screamed, a following wail resonating through the wall. Kennedy’s voice rang back, too muffled to make out the words. The whirr of the water pipes shuttered in the wall, the room empty and silent enough for the noise to carry.
Noah ran for the doors, pushing himself up and over the counter in the same way he had yelled at his brothers for doing a thousand times. He slammed through, a stumbling mass of people following at his back.
The first thing he saw was blood – a lot, everywhere. It took a moment to realize the thick liquid was actually maroon sauce, either a marinade or a soup base, sprayed across the burgundy tiles. It steamed, splashed across the floor, running down the walls, splattered on the legs of tables. The huge pan still rolled on its side, a red-handed culprit.
Kennedy had Sarah bent over a dishwashing sink, forcing both of her hands beneath a running faucet. She sobbed in his arms, her face buried in his chest, twisted away from the water, unable to look at the burns. As Noah jumped around the mess, he placed each foot wherever the stuff wasn’t with as much care as panic allowed, rushing to their side.
He couldn’t tell what was skin and what was sauce, though wherever the water was running clear was swollen with white patches or angry reds with noticeable welts. His own scars stung just looking at it.
“Oh no,” his mother said, her voice high and confused, “Oh dear, oh no!”
I thought she was half-dead in the living room. When did they get here? He prayed it wasn’t as bad as his had been. The memory rushe d into his head – eight years old, racing through the kitchen screaming, John fast at his back, face flushed. His brother had grabbed the handle of the pan from the fryer, whipping it forward, splattering boiling oil. His jacket had protected his back, but his neck bubbled. For the first twenty minutes his body was in shock. By the time he was treated at the clinic, the pain returned with a vengeance in the nerves that hadn’t been burned through. The next few months were agony.
The scar still covered the flesh of his neck, concealed by shaggy hair and a hoodie, slightly dipping between the shoulder blades. It was the only time he had ever seen his father angry with one of the golden boys, a fault in the flawless prodigal sons.
She’s already screaming – that’s a good sign. No nerves fried. He shivered, his hands uselessly outstretched, trembling. He realized his mouth was moving, demanding details and screaming at his parents. Mary-Agnes shrunk back, Lee leaning against the door, half-dazed and half-stewing. Aly was frozen, her eyes locked on Sarah, seeming oblivious to his shaking breakdown.
“M -momma was drinking. She just left me. I- I just t-tried to take over” Her voice cracked, her head shaking fiercely. She tried pulling her hands back, crying thatit hurt, it was cold, he’s hurting her. When he didn’t budge, she bit down on her lip, eyes squeezing shut.
“Your mom walked out. I told her we could close, Sarah refused. She said she could take care of the kitchen because she knew most of the menu. Erma was going to come back from break, we thought Mary-Agnes would come back. She ran to get a plate she forgot and bumped the edge of it, I don’t know, with her arm swinging or something. Usually the handles are turned in, she had it to the edge, I don’t-” Kennedy spoke fast, his panic launching him into the role of auctioneer rather than credible witness.
Noah ran his hands through his hair, unable to think. His head pounded, anger and frustration building until his chest as though he could physically explode. On the verge of a scream in the chaos, he stumbled back, arms crossed over his head.
Aly shoved past him. The wide handle of a red tool box slid down her forearm, awkwardly slamming against her shoulders as she tied her long hair behind her head. Dropping it on the table, a white cross dragged the recognition that it was a first aid – an old kit kept beneath the register after the irregular health inspector dropped in through a town scouring.
She pulled Kennedy off Sarah, taking his place so his sister couldn’t recoil. Catching the boy’s eye, Aly said, “I need you to clean that stuff up before someone else gets hurt. Can you do that?” He blinked, looking between the floor and Sarah before nodding quickly. Aly’s smiled reassured. “And Kennedy? You did a really good job – probably saving a lot of her skin. Your surprise from your grandfather is sitting on one of the tables. You should deliver it yourself. Oh, and please don’t slip.”
Kennedy mumbled, for a second looking at her the same way Noah did. He disappeared, stepping around what remained of bored bystanders. Noah heard his father yell for everyone to leave the restaurant, ignoring questions for plates and bills.
Mary-Agnes stood muttering to herself in the corner, eyes wide in shock. He realized he mirrored h
er, although silent, frozen and shaking, unsure what words had spilled from his mouth. Looking at the horror across his mother’s face, he closed his dropped jaw. They tasted like profanity.
“Noah? I need you to call 911 – or whatever it is you guys have here. A housecall doctor or an ambulance.” She said carefully, squinting to examine Sarah’s forearms, guiding her wrists to each side beneath the stream. Sarah had fallen silent, releasing occasional whimpers.
“Nana did,” Mary -Agnes yelled suddenly, her chubby face too wet to tell where tears, droll, and snot began. She was a patchycheeked mess. He couldn’t even look at her, the anger clenching against the compassion he would normally shower on his mother. “I called, babies, Nana called.”
“Who did you call, Mama?” Sarah whispered, her eyes glowering beneath tears.
“Mr. Jacob. I call Mr. Jacob and he say, ‘It’s okay, I come to Yazzie’s,’” she slighted, her words slamming together. Aly looked doubtful, her brow knitted as she looked to Noah for reassurance that it wasn’t a drunk fit. He nodded, replaying her distinct recall of the volunteer paramedic in his head. His mother was like a child when she was drunk – too much coincidence made a lie unlikely and accurate details were short-term memory.
“Alright – I’d rather have a professional look at it, but I think we can do a temporary bandage,” Aly announced, catching Noah’s gaze. “Give me a hand? Grab the first aid?”
As he retrieved the box from the opposite counter, Aly dragged the chopping stool into the light. By the elbows, Aly eased Sarah down. Noah pulled another to her side, sitting. Lee returned through the doors, Mary-Agnes at his back as they stumbled around Kennedy, streaking the remaining sauce with their feet.
“Listen here. This can’t happen. You can’t be your running mouths or nothing,” Lee demanded, his droopy eyes wide with rage. “This was real dumb.”
“This,” Noah yelled, “is your fault.” “You’d better watch your ungrateful mouth,” he sneered. His gaze suddenly fixated on Aly, unable to look at the wounds she tended.
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