by Em Garner
Our house always used to smell good. Like baking bread or the scented candles my mom liked to burn in different “flavors.” My favorite was Clean Linen. The smells lingering in the family room aren’t clean; they sting my nose and the back of my throat, and I don’t really want to think about what made them.
From her place on the couch, my mom watches me. Actually, she doesn’t watch, she stares but doesn’t seem to see. Her gaze is steady, unblinking and blank. Her mouth drops open. Drool leaks from her bottom lip, stretching thin like a spider’s thread down her chin and hanging in the air.
“Mom.”
Nothing. She doesn’t move or speak or react. Her breath rattles.
I tell myself she’s tired, worn out from walking and the drive. It feels like an excuse, but I keep making it because I don’t want there to be another reason why she’s gone so silent. I busy myself with cleaning up the room, even though I’m tired, too.
All the dust is making me cough and sneeze. My eyes water, and I scrub at them. My back aches. I’ve cleaned up a lot, but the couch is still overturned. I rub at my runny nose and study it. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it turned over on my own.
“Mom, can you help me?”
No response. I struggle with the end of the couch. My fingers slip on the leather. I grunt and yank, but the couch is easily eight feet long and really heavy. It took two big burly deliverymen to get it in the house, and even when we tried to move it for vacuuming during spring cleaning, my dad had to help Mom.
I can’t do this alone, and I’m suddenly frustrated. Sore. I shove at it again, barely shifting it. I need someone else to help me tip it, that’s all it would take.
“Mom!”
Again, she doesn’t answer. She sits on the pile of cushions without moving or blinking, her mouth gaping wide. She looks old. She looks demented.
“Mom, get up!” Anger is boiling in me, my fists clenching, even though I feel like I’m staring down at myself, watching, and sick in my guts at my fury. I kick the couch and let out a scream. It doesn’t make me feel better.
I want to break something.
Is that how they feel? I wonder, as everything inside me twists and shifts and breaks apart. Is this how the Connies feel when they can’t control themselves any longer?
“Mom, I need you! I need you!” It’s what I used to scream in the night when I had a bad dream, when she’d come running down the hall to turn on the lights and chase away the monsters.
There is no light to turn on now, and who’s the monster? Her? Or me?
I’m leaning over her, my fingers clutching at her shirt. I mean only to get her attention, to make her look at me. I want my mom to see me. Her hands fly up, fists. I duck, jerking back, but she’s not trying to hit me. She’s being defensive.
She hunches over suddenly, hands still in front of her. People compare Connies to animals. To dogs. And I can’t deny that’s what she reminds me of just now, a growling, scared dog.
My heart hurts for whatever she went through while she was missing, that she should automatically assume someone grabbing at her means her harm, and I can’t blame her because I was being too loud. Too abrupt. I’m ashamed.
I put my hand out slowly. They say you shouldn’t do that to dogs, that you’ll just get bitten. But she’s not a dog. She is my mother, and I’ve said that to enough people already that I need to make sure I act like it now.
“Mom. Shhh. It’s me, Velvet. I just need you to help me with the couch, okay? Get it turned over so we can sit on it. Okay? It’s okay.”
She gets slowly to her feet. She pushes on the end of the couch. I take a couple of steps back, and she watches me.
“See? I’m going to the other side. Then we’ll push it together. Okay?” First, I move the end table and lamp, useless without electricity, out of the way. Then I go back to the couch’s other side and put both hands on it. “We have to tip it together, at the same time.”
I know she hears me, but does she understand? I’ll just have to find out. I take a deep breath, count slowly to three. We both push at the same time. I push too hard, not expecting help from her, and the couch tips but also slides. I manage a grin. “Yes! Again! We almost got it!”
I count slowly again. On three, we both push. The couch tips from being upside down to rocking onto its back legs, then all the way upright. It’s a mess, the leather scratched and dirty. Cushions are missing. But as with the others, they don’t seem to be chewed or ruined by rodents.
“Yes!” Fist pump. High five.
She hasn’t raised her hand for it. I end up putting mine down while she stares. Then I reach for her. Hold up her hand. Smack it gently with mine. She doesn’t tense this time. She does hold her hand up to her face, looking at it curiously. This time, when she settles herself on the couch without moving, I leave her alone. I’ve figured out what my mom had always meant by “I can do it faster by myself.” And really, does it matter? The only place I have to be is Opal’s school at 3:30, and I still have a couple of hours before I have to leave in time to get there.
I work until it’s time for me to leave. My mom stares at nothing for a long time before she gets up and stands in one place for a while. I keep an eye on her, but all she does is shuffle from one spot to another.
For lunch I pull out the bologna sandwiches I packed from the last remnants in the fridge in the apartment and some canned soup from the pantry. We’ll have the same for dinner, unless I can pick up something else from the convenience store on the way home from getting Opal. Real groceries will have to wait for the assistance check—and somehow, a ride.
Then I remember.
“My bike!”
Mom is picking up and putting down pillows from the love seat we shoved back into its place in the corner. I’m not sure what, exactly, she means to do with them. Pick up, put down. Then again. She’s not rearranging them or anything, just picking them up and putting them down. She looks up at my shout, though.
“Oh, man, that would be excellent.” I jump up, more excited by this than I’ve been about anything else. “Stay here, Mom. I’ll be right back.”
My dad kept all our bikes in the shed, which he also kept locked. The key is still in the kitchen, hanging from the wooden plaque shaped like an owl. I grab it, head out through the front door, since the sliding glass door in the back is unusable. I don’t even peek through the windows first. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle the disappointment if they’re gone.
Nobody’s done anything to the shed. And there they are. Four bikes, and—oh, wow, this is great! Opal’s old baby cart that attaches to the back of a bike. She’ll be too big to sit in it, but it’s big enough for groceries.
For a second I want to fall down on my knees right there. Pass right out from relief. This will make a huge difference to us.
What I find next is even better.
Because we live in the woods, and the wires are all aboveground, we always had a lot of power outages. It got so bad one winter that my dad went out and bought a generator. He even had an electrician hook it up to the house so when the power went out, all we had to do was fire it up and flip a switch. We could run a few lights, the fridge, the stove. We’d have heat from the fireplace. No washer, dryer, computer, hot water, but it was better than being stuck in the dark until the power company came.
I don’t know how to use it, but I can learn. All I need is gas, and I can get that from the station, put it right there in the can beside the generator. Suddenly, everything looks a whole lot brighter. This was the right choice, coming back here. I know it.
Before I can even get back to the house, I hear the sound of footsteps in the crunchy, frosted grass. I round the corner, heading for the front door, and find my mom, arms flung out, mouth open, eyes darting wildly. She’s stepping forward, then back, then turning. Panicked.
“Mom?”
She whirls at the sound of my voice, and her expression goes blank. I study her for a moment before taking her arm
and leading her back inside. She’s shivering, and it could be from the cold or maybe from something I can’t begin to understand. I sit her in front of the fire to warm up, and I sit with her to make sure she doesn’t burn herself.
I tell her the good news about the bikes and the generator. I search her face for a smile, for anything, but maybe the crying or the cleaning took too much out of her, because she’s passive and blank. No longer silent, though. She’s humming something tuneless, low and under her breath. I don’t recognize it as a song, but at least it’s not a scary noise. It’s a happy sound.
“Mom?” I take her hands. “Mama? Are you happy?”
She doesn’t say yes, but I think she is.
I am, too.
SIXTEEN
IT TAKES ME LONGER TO LEAVE THE HOUSE than I expected. I can’t leave my mom alone without restraints, but I can’t keep her tied up, either. There’s no safe place to put her except the guest bedroom, which has a bed and a desk but not much else in it.
“Mom. Stay in here, okay? I’ll be back.”
I wish I could lock the door or find a way to keep it shut, but closing it will have to be good enough. As it is, I’m already late picking up Opal, even with how much faster the trip is on the bike. The buses have all left when I get there, out of breath and panting. Steam’s practically rising off me from the heat I generated pedaling.
Opal’s looking scared and sad, sitting in the office with her feet dangling and her book bag next to her. The principal, Mr. Benedict, is waiting with her. I can see them through the window, and my stomach sinks as I push the intercom button so they know to let me inside.
“Velvet,” he says sternly. “You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It… I had to ride my bike. It took longer than I thought.” To Opal, I say, “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I did my homework while I waited.”
I’m pretty sure this was Mr. Benedict’s idea, not hers. “Good.”
He smiles at me then. “Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”
“No. I won’t,” I promise, then figure I might as well tell him. “Actually, we’ve moved. Can Opal get off at a different stop from now on?”
“Moved?” He frowns. “Where did you move to? I thought you were living in the assisted housing over by the mall.”
“We were. We… uh… well, we decided it was time to move back home. To our house.”
His frown deepens. “Which is where?”
“Spring Lake Commons.” I really need a drink and think longingly of the fountain I can see just outside the office. “Can she get the bus out there? We used to always ride the bus.”
“Yes, well… unfortunately, Velvet, the buses don’t run out that far anymore. We don’t have any students out there, or if we do, their parents drive them.” He pauses, looking grim. “I thought that neighborhood was… closed.”
“It’s open now. She’ll need a ride to school. I don’t have a car. And it’s not safe for her to ride her bike all that way.” I throw this in as a trigger. Teachers are always crazy for safety.
“No. No, it’s not.” Mr. Benedict’s frown looks like it hurts, that’s how deep it creases his cheeks. “But I just don’t know about the bus situation, Velvet. I’m sorry. How is it that you moved all the way out there…?”
“My mom’s come home to live with us.” I say this firmly, no hesitation to give him reason to resist the news. “But of course she can’t drive.”
“Of course,” he says too quickly, his gaze shooting to Opal, who’s busy coloring the back of her notebook. “But you’re certainly right about the bike ride. It’s too long.”
“And along the highway.”
He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, where his glasses have left a red dent. “The problem, Velvet, is that the bus can’t get back into that neighborhood safely. There are trees down, and if it snows…”
He trails off.
Nobody plows, right. We’re far enough out of town that nobody cares. They opened the neighborhood gate but will do nothing for anyone who lives behind it. Still, I’m not going to give up.
“What if the bus picked her up at the highway? I could get her to the front of the development. She could get the bus there.”
“A bus stopping on the highway? I just don’t know.…”
“Mr. Benedict. Please. It’s the only way to get her to and from school.” I put desperation into my tone, amazed at how the art of manipulation is something I’m learning.
“I don’t mind,” Opal puts in. “I’ll stay home.”
Mr. Benedict laughs at that. “Now, we don’t want that.”
“I do,” she grumbles. “I don’t,” I say.
I didn’t love school or anything like that, and I have no hopes for college now. But I’m sorry I had to quit. I don’t want Opal to miss out on an education, too. The future might change. Might be different for her.
“I guess we’ll have to see what we can do.” Mr. Benedict smiles down at her, but his smile for me is tinged with pity. “No guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“She has to go to school,” I tell him. “It’s the law, isn’t it?”
“But the law doesn’t say we have to get her here, unfortunately. We have to think of the needs of the rest of the students, Velvet. I’m sorry.”
I’m talking about the law that says I can keep guardianship of Opal so long as we follow the rules. I don’t know what law he’s talking about. Mr. Benedict might not care if I lose my sister, but I do.
“When can you let me know?”
He shrugs. “I’ll have to talk to the bus driver. Maybe the school board. Things like this can’t change just like that.” He snaps his fingers to demonstrate. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you.”
Lots of things can change like that. Frustrated, I try to keep my cool. Then I realize. No more phone.
“Can you call me at work?” I scribble the number on a piece of scrap paper with a dull pencil they use for parents to sign out their kids.
He tucks the paper into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I don’t think I’m an ungrateful person, but my day of thanking people is wearing thin. “Thanks. C’mon, Opal, let’s go.”
She grabs my hand as we leave, already excited. “You got your bike? Where’s Mama? How’s the house?”
“I did. Put your stuff in the back there.” I show her the baby cart, and she giggles, trying to fit inside it. She actually does. Her knees hit her chin, but she does.
“Look, Velvet!”
“Yeah, I see that. I’m not sure I can pedal with you in there like that.” But it will be better than balancing her on the crossbar. I’m using my dad’s bike, which is almost too big, anyway. It’ll be safer if she’s in the carrier. “Hold on.”
I can’t make it go uphill, but I push it to the top of the school’s driveway and get on. I had adjusted the seat, but even so, my toes barely touch. Once I get going, I’ll be okay, so long as I don’t have to stop.
The good thing is, there’s not much traffic, and I can safely ride more to the center of the lane than on the edge, where the road drops off into a drainage ditch. I pick up speed. The wind swats at my face, and it’s cold but feels good. Pushing the pedals harder, I stand, coasting down the hill. Gravel crunches under my tires. From the back, Opal screams, but in excitement, not fear. We’re really picking up speed, and it feels…
Free.
For the first time since I can’t remember, I feel free and easy. I could almost be riding my bike just for fun, not because it’s the only way I have to get around. I could be taking my little sis on a spin around the block just because I’m a good big sister that way. For a few minutes, I feel like I can be a kid again, not some excuse for an adult.
It doesn’t last long, just until we get to the gas station and I pull in. There’s not very much room with Opal in the carrier, but I fill the gas can halfway and shove it in there under her feet. I add a couple of flashlights and
batteries, some matches, a few rolls of toilet paper. I also pick up a few subs—and it’s been a long time since we did that. Ordered subs. I spend the money Mr. Behney gave me, add a couple bags of chips and a carton of milk. I try not to feel bad about it. It’s food, right? I know I should hold out, spend less money for more food from the grocery store. I can’t help it. I’m hungry, and it feels like after everything, we need something as frivolous as buying subs instead of making cheap mac and cheese.
“You’re the best sister ever!” Opal crows when I pass her the bag.
“Don’t get gas on it,” I warn.
I was overheated before, but night in February falls early, and it’s getting cold. I want to make it home before it’s completely black—the highway doesn’t have streetlamps and neither does the neighborhood. My dad’s bike has reflectors and a light on the front that goes on only when you pedal. It’s two miles from the gas station to the entrance to Spring Lake Commons. By the end of it, my legs are trembling, my butt is aching, and my lungs are on fire from the cold air. I manage to get us through the gate and down the first hill, but faced with an uphill ride, I have to stop. “Opal, we need to walk for a while.”
“What? Why?”
I look in on her, snug as a bug in a rug, as my mom would’ve said back in the old days. I can feel the heat built up in the carrier, which has flaps to protect it from the wind. She’s cradling the subs, and her feet are on top of the gas canister, so she can’t be comfortable.
“I can’t go up the hill, that’s why. C’mon, Opal, don’t argue. We’re almost home.”
She gets out slowly, reluctantly. The subs spill onto the ground. We both stare at them.
“They’re okay,” Opal says nervously.
I’m too tired to holler at her. They’re all a little squished, but fine. We put them back in the carrier and start pushing the bike. I don’t have the energy for a lot of chatter, but Opal’s strangely silent. We get to the top of the hill, and the street we have to turn on to get to our house.
“How much longer?” she asks.
“It’s about a mile from here.”