“I’m fine.”
“I call bullshit, but whatever. Me, Amber, and a few girls from the team are going to the beach tomorrow. Why don’t you come?”
“Nah, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“What do you do all day?” Lea asks.
I research gangs, pretend to be someone I’m not on-line. “I watch TV.”
“You need to get out of that house. Come to the beach. You can pick me up, and we’ll take the top off.”
For a moment, I wonder if Lea only called me because she wants me to drive her. “I can’t. I have to help my dad with the pool. He wants to uncover it.”
“Bullshit again. And even if you did, that wouldn’t take all day.” Lea is persistent when she wants something.
“I just don’t want to go, Lea, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Fine! I’m just trying to help. I’m worried about you. I miss you. We all miss you.”
I feel the tears coming. “Lea, I gotta go. But thanks for calling.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
“Okay. I will.” I know I won’t.
I hang up and toss the banana in the garbage, no longer hungry.
Minutes later, I hear my father’s car pull into the driveway. It reminds me of what I still need to do, or rather what I need to ask. I bite down on my already gnawed thumbnail. My stomach churns, and my legs turn restless, like every time I ever wanted to go into the city to see a band I liked—back when those things mattered to me—and worried he’d say no. But right now, I’m more afraid of him saying yes because once he does, there is nothing else stopping me from leaving home, other than my fear, of course. I release my thumb and look down at Duke, weighing my decision.
“Hey, kiddo.” My father walks into the kitchen, fresh from a workout. Duke doesn’t bother to look up. He never does when a bone is involved.
“How was the gym?”
“Good.”
Dad pours himself a glass of water, and neither of us mentions my mother. Instead, we make small talk about his workout, and then I get to it. “So, Dad, I was thinking about going away to basketball camp. What do you think?”
He stops the glass from meeting his lips. “Really? You want to go camp?”
“Yeah, I do. There’s one in July at the University of Delaware that I can still get into. I called, and they have room.”
He takes a sip of water. A huge smile forms on my father’s face, and for the first time in a very long time, he actually looks happy. “I think it’s a great idea, honey. I think it’ll do you some good.”
“Me too. But it’s a sleep-away camp. So I’d be gone for a few weeks.”
He shakes his head as if it’s not a problem. “Alex, if you want to go, you should go.”
“I do. Thanks, Dad.” I give him a big hug.
That evening, my father happily hands me a deposit check, and I now have a legitimate excuse to leave home.
Chapter 11
As soon as school lets out for the year, I make a point of saying goodbye to Dr. Evans. In our previous session, he had asked me if I was going to walk at graduation. I told him I hadn’t decided yet. Both he and Dad thought I should. Prior to Jenny’s death, my mother never would’ve allowed me to miss it, and I wouldn’t have wanted to, but when my cap and gown arrived in the principal’s office, I never bothered to pick them up. I think they’re still there.
I pop my head into Dr. Evans’s office and knock on his open door. He looks up, surprised to see me. “Hey, Alex, what’s going on?” He puts aside his work, and I take a seat across from him. “You look happy.”
“I do?”
He smiles. “Yes, you do.”
I’m not sure I agree, but I nod. “I decided to go to basketball camp. I signed up for one at the University of Delaware.”
“That’s great! I’m glad to hear that.” His excitement fills the room. He leans back in his chair, throws his arms behind his head, and stares intently at me. “So what made you change your mind?”
I think about telling Dr. Evans the truth, and in a way, I do. “I need a change of scenery.”
“Well, you’re going to love Delaware. They run a good camp there. I know one of the coaches. She’s been doing it for years. You need anything, you call me.” He looks at me sternly. He knows how I am. “I mean that. Anything.”
I smile. “Yeah. No worries.”
He rises from his desk, and I hug him. I have never hugged Dr. Evans before. Maybe I hug him now because I worry I may never see him again. Or maybe I just need a hug.
“See ya, Dr. Evans.”
“Hey, Alex…”
I stop and look back at him.
“I’m proud of you.”
I nod and walk out.
On my drive home, I call the University of Delaware’s Basketball Camp Director to let him know I won’t be attending the session I had enrolled in just weeks earlier. “I’ve got strep throat,” I say, trying to sound like I actually do.
The camp director tells me he’s sorry to hear that and apologizes for not being able to return my deposit money. “I’m sorry, but due to the late notice…”
“That’s okay.” I’m grateful. The last thing I want is my father receiving his deposit check back from a basketball camp I’m supposed to be attending. The director wishes me a fast recovery, and we hang up.
As far as my father knows, the session I enrolled in starts the second week in July. But camps run all summer long. If I wanted to, I could literally spend my entire summer attending sports camps. It’s insane, and most players don’t, but it isn’t completely unheard of. And depending on what happens, I may need the extra time.
Chapter 12
My mother is in good spirits, thanks to whatever drugs the hospital gave her two days ago when they released her. I stand next to her in the driveway, watching my father load my duffel bag into the back of my Jeep. He’s wearing his weekend clothes: khaki shorts, faded college T-shirt, and cross-training sneakers. He slams the door closed and walks toward me to say goodbye. Much like Dr. Evans, Dad looks proud. My going away to summer camp means I’m ready to start living again. But I am not. I just can’t live at home anymore.
“Love ya, kiddo.” My dad hugs me tightly.
“Love you, too, Dad.” I mean it.
Saying goodbye to my mother is a lot more difficult. I can’t remember the last time my mother hugged me or even told me she loved me. We had been fighting pretty bad right up to Jenny’s death.
“Love ya, Mom,” I say, noticing how much weight she has lost. I can feel the bones in her back when I hug her.
“Call us when you get there,” my mother says matter-of-factly.
I look back at Duke, who runs around the front lawn like a nut, chomping at the air, most likely chasing a bug or a fly. “Duke!” I yell. He halts in mid-gallop and races over to me. I bend to the ground and get slobbered by his big wet tongue. “I love ya, buddy. I’m gonna miss you.” I kiss his dopey, handsome face and hug him for dear life, almost crying.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him,” Dad says.
I give Duke one more kiss and a great big hug, then I let go. He runs off to hunt the bug. I climb into my Jeep, and a pang of guilt hits me for leaving Duke.
My father puts his arm around my mother’s waist. He smiles and waves. For a moment, they look like a normal, happy couple. I drive away with that image in my head.
By the time I arrive at the Turnpike entrance, what I’m about to do becomes very real. I start taking in long, deep breaths. I suffered a panic attack—or what I thought was a panic attack—when I was in third grade. My mother had left Jenny and me in the car while she went into an Applebee’s to grab dinner to take home. She was in there so long I thought she had been kidnapped or, worse, had left us. By the time she returned to the car I had both Jen
ny and me in hysterics. My mother saw our faces and worried something tragic had happened.
“I thought you’d left us,” I said, crying.
My mother looked so sad for us. “No, of course not. It took forever. There was a long line inside,” She rubbed my back until I calmed down. I remember Mom was especially sweet. She even popped open one of the Styrofoam containers and let us eat chicken wings in the car, something she never allowed. As we drove home she said, “Don’t worry, girls. If anyone ever kidnapped your mother, they’d toss me back so fast you and your dad would never miss me.”
I take in another deep breath. It’s not too late to turn back and go home. But instead, I pay the toll, press down on the gas pedal, and keep heading south toward Cantor.
After an hour of driving, I exit the Turnpike and follow the directions on my GPS until I arrive at Tom’s Used Car Lot. It looks exactly like it does online: small, with American flags flapping in the wind and a row of used cars facing the highway. A sign reads Trade-Ins Welcome! A pit forms in my stomach as I shut off my Jeep and step out onto the lot. I haven’t even closed the door when Tom, an older man in a suit and tie, approaches me with a smile. I know it’s Tom because of the dorky photos he posts of himself on his website.
“Hi. How can I help you?” His huge smile glares at me.
“I want to sell my Jeep.” My voice cracks.
“Do you have the title and paperwork for it?”
“Yeah. I own it.”
Tom examines my Jeep, and the pit in my stomach grows larger. A wave of memories hits me as I remember how much Jenny loved riding around in my Jeep, especially in the summer months when we would head to Sandy Hook Beach with the top down and the music blasting.
“It’s in good shape. Are you looking for a trade-in? Or cash?”
“Both, but I want something older. Not as nice.”
“Let me show you some of our cars, and what’s your name?”
I stare at Tom, suddenly not wanting to follow. “Hold on. I’ll be right back, I need to check something.” I walk away and take out my iPhone, pretending to be texting someone when really, I’m trying to decide if I can go through with this. I don’t think I can. Another overwhelming bout of anxiety bubbles up. This time, it’s much worse, like I drank a whole case of Coca-Cola at the same time the oxygen decided to leave earth. Can I really do this? Should I really do this? Then finally, after leaving Tom standing alone for several minutes, I make a deal with myself. If I can’t go through with my plan, I’ll simply come back here, buy back my Jeep, and go home. But what if Blue Beauty isn’t here? I try not to think of that as I walk back to Tom to sell what used to be my most prized possession.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting inside Tom’s office watching him print out a bill of sale from an archaic computer. “Do you want the check written out to Alex or Alexandra?” Tom asks.
“Alexandra.”
“You got it.” He finishes writing out the check and neatly tucks the bill of sale along with a stack of paperwork into an envelope. He scribbles “Alexandra Campbell” on the front and hands both the check and envelope to me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I feel nauseous about the transaction.
“Come on.” Tom rises from his desk. He grabs a set of keys off the wall, and I follow him out the door.
The trade-in car is something an old person would drive.
“It’s a gas guzzler, but it flies.” Tom stops in front of a dark-blue Oldsmobile four-door sedan.
I open the heavy door and move behind the wheel. Unlike my Jeep where I used to sit up high, the cloth seats are much lower to the ground. There’s a long scratch along the dash, and the carpeting is faded, but other than that, whoever owned this car kept it in pretty good shape. It has a standard AM/FM stereo system with a CD player. There’s no built-in GPS system or Bluetooth. The only fancy thing about this car is its pop-out plastic cup holders.
I insert the key, turn the ignition, and the engine roars to life.
“You take care,” Tom tells me.
I barely touch the gas pedal, and the car explodes forward. Driving away, I already miss my Jeep. But I am grateful for one thing: the Oldsmobile is fast, much faster than my Jeep.
I make one more stop before I get back on the Turnpike. It’s a check-cashing store, and after a woman with long acrylic fingernails matches the signature on my driver’s license to that on the back of the check I received for my Jeep, I walk out with almost four thousand dollars in cash.
Finally, after an exhausting drive, I reach the Cantor City exit on the Turnpike. That sinking feeling in my stomach returns, and I know what I’m doing is nuts and that I should turn around right now and go back home. But I don’t. I take a breath, hand my ticket and money to the toll agent, and keep moving forward. Again, I tell myself, if I can’t do this, I’ll simply head home.
The motel I selected is less than ten minutes from Lori Silva’s house. It’s an efficiency motel on the edge of a highway that mostly serves welfare recipients. It’s run-down and has maybe fifteen rooms. On the opposite side of the street are a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, a Burger King, and a liquor store. There’s a liquor store on just about every corner in Cantor.
I park right in front of the office, next to one other car that occupies the motel’s parking lot. The car is filthy and looks abandoned, with papers and trash piled high in the windows.
I enter the office, and a fan blows warm air in my face. An older man with sagging skin and tattooed arms sits on a stool watching TV. He brings a nub of a cigarette to his cracked lips. His face is lined with wrinkles, reddened around the cheeks, and slightly bloated. He laughs at the people on the TV. He’s watching Judge Judy.
He sees me, rises from the bar stool, and stamps out his cigarette. “Can I help you?”
“I need a room with two double beds.”
“How long?” He stares at me curiously.
The question makes me squirm. I look down at my Fossil watch that I wear religiously on my left wrist—big faced, sterling silver, leather band. It was a Christmas present from Jenny two years ago. My eyes follow the second hand as it crawls around the bolded numbers. My fingers fidget with the knob, turning it even though the time is perfectly set. I look up at the office manager, who raises his furry eyebrows at me, waiting for an answer. I consider telling him I made a mistake. But I don’t. “Two weeks,” I say in my most adult voice. I step closer to the counter, placing my hands on the worn wood and hesitantly adding, “It might be longer. I’ll be staying here with my grandmother until I find her a nursing home. She’s not doing well.”
He nods, looking uninterested in my lie, then retrieves a small index card and places it in front of me. It’s the hotel’s registration form. I grab a chewed Bic pen off the counter and scribble. Name. Address. Phone number. None of it is real.
The room is forty-nine dollars a night. I pay in advance and walk out of the office with a key in hand. I stop to collect my duffel bag from the Oldsmobile and walk to my room. A few doors down from where I am heading, an elderly woman sits outside an open door fanning herself with a folded newspaper. Next to her is one of those four-wheeled shopping carts like you use at ShopRite. In fact, I think it is from ShopRite. Her skin is pale white, and she has varicose veins that look like little purple spiders running down her legs. She wears an oversized cotton dress that sticks to her large frame, and her eyes never leave me as I approach my room.
I unlock the door, expecting the worst, but aside from the dank smell, the room is clean. I let out a cough and drop my duffel bag on the bed closest to the door. There are two full-sized beds centered in the middle of the room. I place my hand on the thin red-and-yellow-patterned comforter and press down a couple times to check its firmness. Satisfied, I remove my hand and glance around the hot room. It’s like a sauna in here. I don’t see the air-conditioner, but there aren’t too many p
laces it could hide. There’s a bedside table with a lamp and a small refrigerator in the corner. On a chest of drawers are a TV and a sign that reads Free HBO and Wi-Fi. I walk across the tired brown carpet toward a closed window and see a small white plastic box sticking out about an inch on the beige wall. I click the little red on button and press an arrow until sixty-seven degrees appears. A warm burst of air filters through the vents above my head, then gradually, the air turns cold.
My bladder presses against my jeans, and without further inspection, I head to the bathroom. I flick on the switch, and fluorescent light showers the room. The tub is nasty with long strands of black hair circling the drain, and the plastic shower curtain is mildewed. I kick up the lid of the toilet and cringe at what looks like an upchucked Burger King meal floating inside.
“Jesus.” I flush with my sneaker and consider asking for a different room, but despite the nastiness of the toilet and tub, the room is clean, and the motel seems safe, so I tell myself I can do this for at least a day. But if I’m going to survive the night, there are a few things I need to do first.
I drive to a nearby drug store and purchase rubber gloves, bleach, disinfectant, trash bags, air fresheners, and scrub brushes. I move into the home beauty section and pick up a pair of scissors. At the checkout counter, I grab candy and several packs of gum.
When I return to my motel room, I slide on the rubber-gloves and go to work drenching the entire tub and toilet in a gallon of bleach.
An hour later, I’m determined to stay. I’m stripped down in my black bra and shorts scrubbing the bathroom floor. I’m manic, and the scrubbing keeps me from thinking. It’s good for me not to think. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Clean. Clean. Clean. I have never scoured a bathroom so hard in my life. My mother wouldn’t even recognize me right now. The tub is no longer grimy. The mirror is no longer dingy.
Finished, I stare at my reflection. Sweat drips from my forehead and down the sides of my face. My hair, tied back with a rubber band, looks greasy. I examine my face, and everything looks the same: dark-brown eyes, thick arched eyebrows, full lips, strong nose. I keep staring, wondering who the hell I am. I know I’m a female. I know I have two arms. Two legs. I know I used to be a basketball star. I know I used to laugh. I know I used to have friends. I know I used to have a sister. But I have no idea who I am.
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