“I’ll leave you here!”
“Then leave!” I looked away, folding my arms over my chest like a defiant child.
“Fine!” She started the car and drove off in a cloud of dust.
I didn’t watch her go. I sat staring at the wall of trees barricading the highway. They’d never looked so tall or ominous from inside the car. But out there, sitting amongst them, I felt almost insect-like. The approaching darkness didn’t help.
“I don’t care!” I told myself, hefting my aching body to my feet and starting back. I had to know if he was all right.
It amazed me how quickly night swooped down when one was on foot, in the middle of nowhere, without a single shred of light in sight. And even though I told myself there was an upside to not being able to see, none of which I could think of just then, but after tripping on my own feet for the hundredth time, those reasons became hazy… fast. Then like all good wildernesses, with the dark came the biting cold. I very quickly began to appreciate the warmth and security of the Rust-Bucket. But I refused to turn back.
The night pushed against me, feeling almost solid to the touch. I waved a hand in front of my face and saw nothing. A more rational voice in my head warned me to stop before I wound up in a hole or lost, but the pull just behind my belly button denied me. With every step, it grew stronger until it pulsed like a second heartbeat inside my chest.
It was undetermined how long I had walked. Even if I wore a watch, which I didn’t, time was iffy in the dark. But my legs were beginning to hurt, and the clicking of my teeth was beginning to drive me insane. I rubbed my bare arms, working to get some semblance of heat flowing. The toe of my sneakers caught something and I stumbled.
Is it really worth it? A voice in my head demanded when I righted myself and plunged onwards.
“Yes!” I panted aloud.
My mother wasn’t a murderer! She didn’t run people off roads. She couldn’t even take a pen without driving back four miles to return it. She was honest and kind and…
Then clearly, she had a good reason! The guy could be dangerous.
I faltered.
Why hadn’t I thought of that? My mom never did anything without a reason. Maybe she had a reason this time.
I started to head back, but stopped.
I couldn’t leave that guy out there. What if he was hurt, or worse? What if it was traced back to the Impala and my mother?
No, I had to do this. I had to find him.
The gravel crunched beneath my dragging feet. It was the only sound for miles. All sorts of horror movie scenes flashed through my mind, scenes of disembowelment, torture and cannibalism, making the decision seem even more reckless.
Stay where you are, Fallon. The voice was unfamiliar, and oddly sexy. It wasn’t the whiny tone that usual haunted my conscience. This tone was deep, husky and male.
I stopped walking, if for no other reason than because I was clearly losing my mind. I jabbed a finger into my ear and wiggled. Was it normal to hear male voices in the middle of a deserted highway?
I didn’t get the chance to dwell on it when a set of headlights pierced the darkness from in the direction I’d come from. I recognized the vibrating groan even before the Impala rolled up and stopped alongside me.
Ashamed for giving up so easily, I circled the hood and climbed into my seat. The warm interior enfolded me like a blanket. The leather creaked beneath me. All wonderful, comforting things. I didn’t stop my mother when she turned the car around and headed west once more.
We arrived at a little settlement just a few miles east of Quebec without ever exchanging a single word. At some point, we had both come to the same conclusion; that night never happened and we would never speak of it.
But despite that, I combed the morning paper with a fine-toothed comb, searching for even the slightest mention of the rider or his motorcycle. Surely, it would be all over the place if he didn’t walk away from it. I tried not to envision him lying in that ditch, battered, bleeding and dying. I tried not to think of the deserted highway and the possibility of no one seeing him. But most of all, I tried not to resent my mother for it. She must have had her reasons for what she did. Maybe she was in as much shock as I was and couldn’t talk about it.
But none of my rationalizing stopped the march of red, hot fire ants ravaging everything inside me, eating me, consuming my very soul. I felt torn, alone and powerless to stop something I had no control over. Even then, my anger was self-rooted. I hated myself. I hated just sitting there. I hated not being there, with him, in that ditch, saving his life. I hated feeling that a piece of me had been torn from me needlessly, abandoning me in the cold depths of a bottomless ocean. I wanted to cry, to run.
I glanced across the table to where mom sat in the driver’s seat, staring tiredly out the windshield. Pinched lines hugged her tense mouth. Her face was drawn and tinged slightly gray. She’d aged ten years since the incident. I wondered how I looked.
The town we pulled into, like the rest of the province, was canopied by an angry blanket of black clouds. Rain pelted the windshield, rendering the drive nearly impossible. But mom maneuvered every bend with a white-knuckled grip until we found cover under the eaves of an old motel. The hunched keeper showed us to our room — room thirteen — and gave mom the keys. He eyed me with something akin to pity before hobbling away. I was used to it. You would think I had orphan tattooed across my forehead the way some people looked at me sometimes. Maybe I looked like a waif, a pitiful creature all thin and gangly with no real attractive features. But, thankfully mom missed the gesture, or we would have been out of there so fast the man’s graying head would have spun for days.
“What do you think?”
I stumbled into the single bedroom dwelling and grimaced. The place smelt of urine, and from the look of the stains on the carpet, I could imagine why. There were cracks in the ceiling, a hole in the wall and the TV, which was no doubt stolen from the early 50s, had a dent in the side the size of an adult’s foot. There was a single, queen-sized bed dressed in paper-thin blankets and pillows with enough lumps to make me wonder if it was stuffed with basketballs. The lighting was pathetic and originated from a single, dangling lamp in the middle of the room. One glance at the room and I understood the keeper’s glance perfectly; no decent person would ever stay in such a place, not with a kid anyway.
“Uh… seriously?” Sleeping in the car didn’t seem so bad just then.
“I know it’s not much—”
“The roaches are going to kill us in our sleep!” I interjected, spotting one of the villains creeping up alongside the bathroom door.
“Oh, stop it!” she sighed heavily, dropping her bags down next to the bed. “This is only temporary.” I caught the wary glance she tossed the creepy-crawly.
“Look, let’s get something in town,” I suggested, refusing to set my bags down. “I really don’t want to go to school with lice… again!”
Mom paused in the middle of unrolling her sleeping bag and looked at me, her expression defeated. “I’m tired, Fallon,” she murmured, shoulders slumping, face drawn.
“I’ll drive!” I practically begged.
She sighed, hanging her head. “That’s not my point, baby girl. I’m tired. I just need some sleep. Give me a few hours and we’ll find somewhere else, okay?”
I stopped my arguing. I knew my mother well enough to know she didn’t mean just physically tired. There was a haunted glow in her eyes that scared me.
“Okay,” I murmured, deciding I was feeling pretty drowsy myself. A couple of hours couldn’t hurt anyone.
I closed the door and set my things down. Mom was spraying the bed down with citrus-smelling Lysol disinfectant when I got to her. Neither of us spoke as I helped her discard the pillows and sheets and replaced them with a plastic tarp, followed by our sleeping bags and pillows. She was already barefoot and crawling fully clothed into her side of the bed when I kicked off my shoes and did the same. The smell of citrus burned my nostril
s as I rolled onto my side and fell into a restless slumber.
Amalie met me like an old friend in my dreams. She was at her writing desk again, scribbling fiercely inside her journal. There were tears clinging to her chin, the only part of her face I could see from my kneeling position at her side. Ribbons of charcoal-black hair hung over her slim shoulders. Her hand moved frantically over the pages as though she was afraid she would forget something vital if she didn’t get it all down quickly. From that angle, I couldn’t see anything except the back of her wrist, her forearm and part of her side. But across from me, on her other side, a storm lashed beyond the French doors, slamming and rolling over a carpet of bubbling ocean.
“He will never stop!”
The rain was coming down with a vengeance when my eyes popped open for no reason at all. The world was still pitch black, but I could just make out the flickering lights from the parking lot outside the window. The pale shadows shifting across the room chased away the remainder of my sleep, and I was left feeling groggy and out of place in my stupor.
The dream had already begun to fade, becoming a distant memory I couldn’t even recall anymore. Kind of like having read something somewhere once. I remember doing it, but what it was actually about eluded me. So I lay there, watching the play of light against dark across the room.
Next to me, mom moaned in her sleep. Her tiny body twitched. She grumbled something that sounded distinctly like, leave her, but I couldn’t be sure. Then, she went quiet.
Mom didn’t have nightmares often, and she never confessed to it when she did, but during nights like that, when I was awake before her, what else could I do but hear it? To her, I never mentioned it. I always knew she had demons she didn’t talk about, not even with me.
I turned away from her, letting her suffer in privacy. Who knew more about nightmares than me?
In the still silence, I could hear the hum of nature, that eerie sound that emanated only when the world was enclosed in a blanket of absolute darkness. It pulsed with every whisper of the wind through the trees, and even with the interruption of civilization, the night always managed to overpower it somehow, as if it was taking over. And when I strained to hear the roar of traffic in the distance, the faint buzz of the florescent light just outside the door, twilight was all I really heard. It roared in my ears like the call of the ocean.
It was such a normal sound, a haunting sound. I hated and loved it. I hated it because it always felt like something sinister was lurking just beyond the door. I hated it because I felt like I belonged on that side of the door with whatever was calling to me, but I loved it for that reason as well. The sense of belonging anywhere was almost like a dream come true, and at the same time, it was ridiculous. There was never anything out there. But the feeling never went away.
I told myself it was the pressure of having to face yet another school, the stress of packing up and moving again, combined with the lack of sleep, but deep down I could feel the building weight pushing against my chest.
Desperation was my only companion during those wee hours of the morning.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a sleep I knew would not come again that night. It never did once my dream bubble popped. No matter what time it was, once my eyes opened… that was it.
And that morning, it was only three-thirty.
I was already showered, dressed and ready for my first day of school when mom woke up three hours later looking like death warmed over.
The uncomfortable plastic seat I sat on next to the grimy window squeaked when I shifted to unfold my legs out from under me. My battered copy of The Outsiders snapped closed in my hands as I set it aside and got to my feet.
“Morning,” I greeted her, plucking up the steaming take-out cup off the round table beside me. “I hit the restaurant down the street earlier and grabbed us some breakfast.”
Groaning, mom shoved upright, rubbing a stiff hand over her haggard expression and back into her spiky tresses; she looked like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.
“Thanks, babe,” she croaked, accepting the freshly brewed cup of coffee with a glint in her eyes akin to a dying man being offered a second chance at life.
The bedsprings jingled and the tarp made a rustling sound like a plastic bag as she threw back the sleeping bag and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. She paused to take a timid sip of her morning brew. Closed her eyes, sighed contentedly and finally got to her feet. I watched as she shuffle unsteadily to the bathroom and lock herself inside.
I returned to my book, the stiff, wobbly chair and the blueberry muffins filling the air with its sweet, buttery fragrance. Dawn kissed the window, pressing against the streaks of dirt. It didn’t quite filter through, but it was enough light to brighten the words written on the pages.
I was still reading when mom finally emerged dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white blouse. Her make-up was immaculate, and she wore her nicest pair of shoes. She was dressed to impress. I guess charging into a school that cost more than most mortgages, and looking like you came from some trailer park, wouldn’t be the best way to make an impression. Not that mom ever dressed like that, but anything that didn’t cost a couple hundred dollars would be frowned upon.
“How do I look?” she asked, opening her arms wide and doing a slow turn.
“As nice as ever,” I replied, reaching for my muffin and tearing off a piece. “But you don’t have to come in with me you know.”
Mom nodded, brushing small hands down the front of her blouse, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles only she could see. “I know, but I was thinking I would start job hunting as soon as I dropped you off. No point wasting an entire day.”
The morsel paused midway to my mouth, suspicion turning my hands cold. “Mom, how much money do we have left?”
Usually, after dropping me off at school, she would take that day to wait around the motel in case I needed to come back for whatever reason. The only time she didn’t wait was when the money was down to a few measly dollars. I guessed that was exactly what was happening, and she wasn’t telling me.
She brushed away my concern with a flick of her wrist, tactfully avoiding my eye, while plucking up her purse off the bed and all but crawling into it. “Oh, everything is fine! Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Let’s just get you to school.”
“Mom, if you need money—“
Her head came up fast, hands ceasing their rummaging inside her purse. Her eyes narrowed. “I said that was enough, Fallon!”
“Dad would have wanted you to use the money!” I shouted, as I always did. I slapped my book down on the table and shot to my feet. “Why won’t you use it?”
Her gaze dropped back to her purse — the one she was clutching with enough force to wrinkle the already wrinkled leather.
“It’s not that simple!” Her brows crinkled and she shook her head. “Just let it go!”
I didn’t want to let it go. I even opened my mouth to argue, but she was marching to the door before I could get a single word out. Her sensible, three-inch heels echoed loudly against the concrete making up the walkway outside the door. She stalked to the car, in the rain, uncaring of her neatly put-together appearance.
Air rushed from my lungs, heavy with trepidation. I knew she meant well. I knew she loved me and only wanted to make sure I never went without, but I knew that my father would never have wanted her to suffer the way she was. That money, whatever the amount, was meant for the both of us. She was just too stubborn to take it, which infuriated me like nothing else.
Maybe she thought the money rightfully belonged to me since the account was under my name, but I would have gladly signed the entire thing to her without a second thought.
As far as I was concerned, that money was for both of us. So what if I didn’t have enough to go to that fancy college or university she was envisioning in her head? What counted was we were together, and she wasn’t killing herself working all day and night when she clearly didn’t have to.
But I didn’t let it shadow me as I gathered my things. That would be the last time I would see her for the next six months, and I didn’t want an argument to be our last words to each other. Besides, I knew school would be tedious and starting out the first day in a crabby mood would only result in a depressing day, topping that off with a restless sleep, I’d be one cranky girl, and the teachers always complained about my lack of enthusiasm in class. But I mean honestly, how excited can one get over Algebra II? I could only muster so much excitement and that emotion was usually reserved for when the day was over.
Mom was already in the driver’s seat when I slouched my way to the car, bags in tow. I could see the white-knuckled grip she had around the steering wheel, and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, once I had shoved my duffle into the backseat and was seated comfortably in the warmth of the cabin
With a pained growl, she seemed to deflate inwards. Her forehead struck the steering wheel, and she closed her eyes. “No, I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the warn leather. “You know talking about your fath—him always agitates me.”
I hated that it was true. Any mention of my father was strictly prohibited. His very name was taboo. It was as if he never existed. Even after twelve years, it still hurt Mom to talk about him. So, I tried not to bring him up too often. It was hard when I wanted to know a little more about the man who had helped bring me into this world other than the fact that I had his eyes, a melted swirl of brown, blue, green and gray.
“Just—just give me a little more time, okay?” she murmured, pulling away from the steering wheel and turning her head in my direction, her expression pleading. “I’m just not ready yet.”
I gave her the required smile and pretended her answer didn’t frustrate the hell out of me. “Yeah, sure.”
She returned the smile and placed a loving hand on my arm. “Thanks, kiddo.”
I didn’t respond. I let her pull out of the motel parking lot and start down the gravel road.
Touching Smoke Page 2