by Wiess, Laura
“Do you want to try to stretch it out? You could lay it across my lap,” I say.
He shakes his head, wincing at the movement.
“All right,” I say, trying to think. What should I be doing to help him?
I don’t know.
But I need to know.
Think, Sayre.
The truck lights are on but the engine’s dead, so we have no heat.
Harlow is two miles away and I could go back and get him but he has no phone and once we’re tucked up in the woods at his place, there’s even less chance of EMS finding us.
We could sit here and blow the horn until it dies, and hope someone hears it.
We could light the woods on fire and hope someone sees it and responds before it roasts us.
I could go back up on the road and try the cell again. Or light a fire in the middle of it, if he has any matches. That would make someone stop. Of course all the wood is cold and wet, and even if I manage to get a little fire going the wind is still wicked . . .
Or I could go throw wood in the road. Pieces big enough to make someone stop, and once they do, we can blow the horn and flash the lights and yell for help.
That might actually work.
“I have to go back outside,” I say, putting his cell phone in my coat pocket. “Do you want me to bring in some snow for your knee, to maybe numb it?”
“Not yet,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “I can deal as long as I don’t move.”
“Okay.”
Slithering out the slider window is easier than climbing in, and I’m back on the ground and zipped into my coat in a heartbeat, revved with a fierce determination to help him, to get back up that damn bank and block the whole road if I have to.
I tug on my gloves. Fight my way to the top of the steep, slippery slope and crawl out onto the road, panting. Stagger to my feet.
Wood. I need to find wood.
But first, I try the phone.
Still no service.
“Cancel that contract,” I mutter, shoving it back in my pocket and crossing to the mountain side of the road where there’s a rotten log frozen to the ground. I push, pull, and kick at it, but it won’t budge. “Good, then stay there,” I mutter, sweating, and move on to a big branch farther up the bend. This one is just lying there so I grab the thick part and drag it back, leaving it right in the lane by the tire tracks, near my bag. Trudge up and down the edges of the road, checking the cell, shoving it back in my pocket and prying loose as many branches and limbs from downed trees as I can, feeling shots of blunted pain as my nails are bent backward and knowing that when my fingers finally thaw again they’re going to hurt bad, rolling rotted logs and dragging chunks of wood onto the pavement, laying it all out there in plain view where it can’t be missed, can’t be passed by, can’t be ignored.
Ending up with a roadblock that nobody could fail to stop for.
I plop down, chest heaving, thirsty, exhausted, and sweating, on the side of the road. Scoop up a clean handful of snow and eat it, then another.
It’s got to be at least four o’clock by now.
So much for Candy calling the ambulance.
I wonder what she told my mother when she went back to the hospital without me.
She would never tell her the truth, especially if it made her look bad. No, what she probably said was I found that little bitch of yours on the side of the road with Ben Greenwood’s boy, and she said she wouldn’t come without him, so I left her there.
“Great,” I mutter, shaking my head and checking the cell coverage one last time.
Nothing.
Okay, then.
The factory has already changed shifts and the bars are closed. Tractor trailers roll all night long to move factory product, but I have no idea if they’d take this steep, winding road in this kind of weather. And it’s not that I haven’t been out on these roads in the wee hours with my mother and whoever’s car we’re in, with the bleary-eyed driver creeping along trying not to get busted for drunk driving, and me, at thirteen, sitting right there next to him to catch the wheel in case he starts weaving off the road, but that was usually on a weekend.
Today is New Year’s Eve morning, and it’s Tuesday.
I stare down at the truck’s blood-streaked window, searching for movement.
Nothing.
Look up at the mountain, searching for even the tiniest pinpoint of light.
Nothing.
So that’s it. I really am alone.
The old pain sweeps back, stronger than a memory should be, and behind the image that haunts me is the guilt, the knowledge that I did nothing, only stood paralyzed with terror instead of moving faster, reaching farther, trying harder . . .
But I hadn’t.
If Harlow is right and there is something missing inside me, it’s because that was the moment grief sank its jaws into my heart and tore loose more than it left. That was the moment the wailing began inside me, a sound that should have echoed out over the mountain until it was naturally spent and all grief was exhausted, and it should have been all of us, howling out our misery like coyotes in a mourning chorus, but it never was. Instead, the high road fell silent and we sat and waited and never quite looked at each other, and when the final word came we crawled away and hemorrhaged separately, each huddled in our own bottomless pool of unspoken pain.
Or at least I assume we did.
I did.
I wipe my eyes and look back down the bank at the truck.
I didn’t know what to do six years ago, so I did nothing.
I still don’t know what to do, but it’s not going to be nothing anymore.
I’ve already seen what that gets me.
I push myself back to my feet and stand there, swaying. Look out at the piles of rotted stumps and broken branches and my footprints, hundreds of them, weaving in and out all around the roadblock, creating a silent scream for help.
Help.
I wipe my eyes.
I wonder what my mother wants to tell me.
It won’t be I’m sorry I gave you such a shit life, Sayre. I’m sorry about Beale and your baby sister. I’m sorry I never loved you. I’m sorry I love my painkillers more than you, my meth more than you, my drinking and guys and Candy more than you. I’m sorry for all those times I said you were just like your father and your father was an asshole. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .
If she would say any of that, just once, then maybe we could clear up a few other things, too.
Like why, since she’s been peeing orange for ages, the whites of her eyes are tinged yellow, and she’s weak and shaky and riddled with spider-vein bursts all over, and her muscles have wasted away, her temples are sunken, and her skin is stretched tight across her skull, since she knows she has liver problems, why then, why had she deliberately blown the transplant team’s interview to get her evaluated and onto the organ donor list?
Or maybe she would tell me why, when living with Beale and Aunt Loretta and sweet little Ellie had been so wonderful, so much like a beautiful dream come true, with her clean and sober and Beale loving us and us loving him, with laughter and affection, warm beds and clean clothes and as much food as we wanted to eat, had she started drinking again and destroyed everything?
Or even more important, maybe I would find out if she’d ever, even for just one spontaneous, surprising second, loved me.
I look up the blind curve in the direction of the hospital, eleven snowy and treacherous miles away.
What if she is dying? What if I’m wrong about why she’s in the hospital this time, and Candy is right? What if she dies before I can get there, and the last thing I ever said to her, no, flung at her, was, You’re sick, Mom, you really are, and I can’t even stand to look at you anymore. You deserve what you get, so go ahead, hate me some more, do whatever you want, because I don
’t care. Merry Christmas. You’re finally getting your wish. I’m out of here for good.
And I was.
I did it, I left her to the things she loves most. I did the thing I never thought I could do because she’d betrayed me in the worst possible way, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.
And what did I think would happen? Did I think she’d sit up and finally realize what she’d lost, and try to get clean again so we could start over?
Maybe.
Yes, hopefully.
I thought maybe it would shock her, my finally saying how I felt out loud.
I thought maybe it would matter.
I thought if I stayed within reach at Harlow’s, maybe she’d come looking for me. Maybe she’d say All right, let’s try this liver transplant thing again, Sayre, because you know what? I’m only thirty-three and that’s too young to die, especially without ever really knowing you.
I thought maybe she would say that.
Instead, she went into the hospital, and if Candy’s not lying, this time she won’t ever come out again.
Chapter 9
I GO BACK DOWN THE HILL and shimmy into the truck.
Evan stirs, and opens his eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just freezing,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself and huddling in the seat. “I blocked the whole road, so if anyone ever shows up, they’re gonna have to stop.”
“She didn’t call, did she,” he says and it’s an acknowledgment rather than a question.
“No, I’m pretty sure,” I say, sighing and glancing at him. His head wound has stopped bleeding and it looks like he tried to clean some of it up because the dried, clotted blood is smeared from his hairline to his chin. Grisly. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Just wait, I guess,” he says. “What else can we do?”
“But you’re . . .” I make a sweeping motion because I can’t say gross looking. “You’re hurt and there has to be something I can do.”
“Talk to me,” he says, closing his eyes. “Maybe it’ll take my mind off my knee.”
Talk to him. “About what?” I ask, pulling off my gloves and examining my throbbing fingers. Two of the nails are bent back below the skin, one is torn low, and a ripped cuticle is bleeding. I grit my teeth and quick flip the bent nails back the right way, my eyes tearing at the pulsing pain, then ease my gloves back on and gently tuck my hands up into my armpits. I sniffle, and say, “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a faint shrug. “You’re a girl. What do girls talk about?”
“Guys,” I say, and then, “Themselves.”
“Well, I don’t really care about guys, so . . .” His mouth curves into a slight smile. “Come on, I’m a captive audience. Let’s hear your life story.”
“Ha.” The snort comes out before I can stop it. “No, that’s okay. The last thing you need right now is a horror story. Why don’t you tell me your life story instead?”
He cracks an eye. “I already know my life story and it’s boring.”
“Boring isn’t necessarily bad,” I say, and mean it. “Were you, uh, on your way to work when you, uh . . . ?”
“Yeah, when school’s on break I come home and work part-time down at the factory for extra cash,” he says and points at a half-full bottle of Gatorade on the console. “Would you open that for me, please? And have some if you want.” He waits until I unscrew the top and hand it to him. Drinks and hands it back. Watches as I take a cautious sip. “Have more.”
“No, I want to make it last, just in case,” I say, closing the top and putting it back.
“Just in case what, we’re here for a week?” he says.
I glance at him, stung, and realize he’s teasing. “Hey, you never know, right?” I gesture out the window at the fat, fluffy snowflakes. “If this turns into a real blizzard . . .” And then I sit up straight, struck with a thought. “The plow truck! They’ll send the plow out to do the road before everybody leaves for work in the morning!”
“That’s right,” he says, nodding. “So then all we have to do is wait.”
And then I’m struck with another thought, one not so bright and way more panicky. “What if the plow comes and doesn’t stop, just plows right through the blockade? I mean, that’s what plows do, you know? Plow stuff. What if they don’t even hesitate? What if—”
“Hey, whoa, it’s all right,” he says, reaching his good hand over and touching mine. “They’ll stop, and if they don’t, when we see the headlights coming I’ll just lay on the horn and you can get back out the window and start waving your arms and yelling and all. They’ll see us, Sayre. Don’t worry. We’ll make ’em see us.”
We’ll make ’em see us.
His words bring tears to my eyes. “Okay,” I say hoarsely, staring out the window at the long plunge down the bank beside me. He’d touched my hand, not in a bad way but like he’d wanted to reassure me, and I can’t remember the last time someone did that. I clear my throat and look back at him. “Okay, so listen, you tell me the boring story of your life, and then I’ll tell you the horror story of mine. How’s that?”
“Hmm,” he says. “I thought the whole point of this was to entertain me.”
“So did you go to Sullivan High?” I ask, giving him a look and settling in.
He smiles again and gingerly tilts his head back against the seat. “Yeah, and now I’m in my last year up at SUNY-ESF. Uh, Environmental Science and Forestry, Syracuse,” he adds at my puzzled look. “You?”
“We’ll get to me later,” I say because really, what am I going to tell him? That I’m a Sullivan high school senior with good grades and a crappy attendance record, thanks to never knowing where I’ll be waking up in the morning or where the closest bus stops are? Uh, no. “Forestry, huh? Cool. So, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
The minute I say it a memory of Mrs. Grinnell, my fifth-grade teacher, flashes through my mind, of her asking us all that exact same question and me, eleven years old and fresh out of the tragedy at Beale’s, looking right at her and saying with complete sincerity, An orphan.
“I’m getting my degree in Fisheries Science. I want to do something with the rivers, hopefully somewhere along the Susquehanna,” he says, perking right up. “Did you know that the Susquehanna’s over four hundred miles long, goes through three states, and provides about half of the fresh water to the Chesapeake Bay? You’d think that’d be a good thing, right, but back in 2005 it was named America’s most endangered river because of the pollution.”
I open my mouth to say really? but he barrels on.
“I mean, c’mon, what the hell are we doing here? The river dates back to what, the Paleozoic Era? It’s managed to stay alive for sixty million years and now we’re gonna kill it for cash?” He catches my puzzled look. “Manure? Chemicals? Hazardous waste spills? Factories spewing pollutants? Contamination? Gas-well drilling? Fish not safe to eat? Water tests taken upstream of the waste pipes instead of downstream where the discharge is so the toxin readings are inaccurate?”
“Ohhh,” I say, nodding and stifling a grin. “You’re going to be one of them.”
“Them?” he echoes indignantly, and catches my smile. “Wiseass. But yeah, I am. I mean, I grew up on this river, we camped on the islands, caught trophy bass and watched the bald eagles and it shouldn’t be—” He tries to sit up higher in his seat, and groans. “Oh shit, I shouldn’t have done that. My knee.” A sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead. “Damn. Uh . . . it shouldn’t have to be jobs or clean water, you know? Jesus.”
“Can I do anything? Do you want to put snow on it yet?” I ask anxiously, leaning across the seat toward him. “I can go get some. It’s right—”
“No,” he says, voice strained and good hand white-knuckled around the steering wheel. “You talk. Just talk, Sayre.”
Ta
lk. Okay. I hunt frantically through my life, trying to find something that doesn’t spell Loser and can’t believe I can’t think of one thing that—
“What were you doing out there so late?” he mumbles, eyes closed and face pale. “I swear to God the worst minute of my life was coming around that bend and seeing you standing there. I really thought I was gonna hit you.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry.” And then, because he wants me to talk and I can see how hard he’s trying not to scream with pain, I go ahead and say it. “I was trying to get down to the hospital because my mother’s in there and supposedly she’s . . . dying.”
He opens his eyes and stares at me. “For real?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a helpless gesture. “I didn’t think so before, but now I think . . . maybe, yeah.”
“That’s what that lady was all pissed off about? Because you didn’t go with her?” he says.
I nod.
“And you didn’t go because I made you promise to stay with me.” He rubs his forehead with his good hand, and the look he gives me is an unhappy one. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. I never would have asked you to stay if—”
“No, really, it’s all right, or at least it was then.” I know I’m not making sense, so I take a deep breath and say, “My mother’s been in the hospital before, like six times, and she’s always come out again. I thought that’s what was happening this time, too, only now I don’t know. She’s had liver problems for so long and she doesn’t take care of herself at all, and she won’t talk about anything with me . . .” My fingers are aching and absently, I rub them. “A week before Christmas she had to go to the doctor’s because she was really sick and the doctor did these tests and said her liver was failing and that’s why she was so vague and lethargic, because the ammonia was built up in her brain. So he quick set up an appointment for an interview with the organ transplant evaluation team to see if she was physically strong and emotionally stable and . . . and if she had a family support system to help her and I don’t know, all the other stuff you have to go through just to be evaluated for getting on the transplant list . . .” My voice is wobbling and I can’t stop it.