Don't Fail Me Now

by Una LaMarche

  “What about your schools?” he asks. “Want me to call them?”

  “Nah, they won’t care,” I say, flipping on my signal to pass the dick in the Prius. “They’re used to us being gone for no reason. My mom’s not exactly on the PTA.”

  “I can’t believe she’s okay with you guys driving to California by yourselves,” he says. “That’s so awesome.”

  I blink into the harsh late-morning sunlight, trying on this new image of my mother like a dress a few sizes too big, this blithe free spirit who probably sells handmade dream-catchers at craft fairs and treats fevers with essential oils and who trusts her kids to live their own lives and explore the world, sending them off to find peace with the father who left them. It’s a prettier picture, but still all kinds of negligent.

  “Yeah, she’s . . . hands-off,” I say. “What’s Karen like?” It’s an innocent enough segue that I hope Tim can’t tell that the answer to this question will unlock a Pandora’s box I’ve been dying to open for years. When I was younger I thought more about Leah, but recently, when I lie in bed at night imagining what might have been if Mom and Buck had worked it out, gotten clean, and turned into normal parents, I focus more on Karen. My mom has her issues, but back then she was young and bright and beautiful. What did this other woman have that Mom didn’t? What made him pick her over us?

  “She’s great,” he says. I wait for more but instead hear the tapping of Tim on his iPhone again. I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a guy.

  “Does she work?” I ask, trying to sound bored with my own question, like I’m just making conversation to keep from falling asleep at the wheel.

  “Yeah, she’s a real estate agent.” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Did she always? Or was she, like, a stay-at-home mom before?”

  “I think always.” Tap, tap. That battery’s gotta die sooner or later.

  “But she was young when she had Leah, right? Not even out of college?”

  “I guess, yeah,” he says distractedly. “I don’t know what she did then.”

  I decide to change my tack. What I really want to know is if Karen was wild when she was young—a junkie or a drunk or at least a rebel. I need to know if Buck was trading up or just hopping from one disaster to another.

  “Does she have any tattoos?” I blurt. I don’t realize how random and strange it sounds until the words come out.

  Tim laughs. “Um, yeah, actually. How did you know?”

  I shrug, keeping my eyes on the road, both for safety and because I know they’d give me away. “Just a guess. I mean, I know she married Buck, so . . .”

  “Right, he was covered in them.”

  “You met him?” I also need to know when Buck left Karen. He wouldn’t have overlapped with Tim unless he was still around three years ago, and that—I can’t even think about that.

  “No,” Tim says, sending my pulse back down to normal. “But I’ve seen pictures. Leah has a framed one in her room of the day he got hers.”

  “He got Leah a tattoo?”

  “No, the one of her name.”

  The tidal wave I didn’t see coming hits me full-force, so hard that I have to make a conscious effort to keep control of the car. I stare at the white slashes on the black tar ahead of me as blood rushes to my head so fast that dots start flashing in front of my eyes.

  “Woah, are you okay?” Tim asks, putting a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say. “I’ll be fine, just—” I take a gulp of air, which makes things a little better. “Just please don’t touch me.”

  “Sorry. Do you need to pull over?”

  I shake my head. What I need is to unhear that last sentence. I need to unlearn the fact that Buck spent money to tattoo Leah’s name on his body but could never seem to find the means to pay child support for us.

  “You know,” Tim says, “my dad left my mom, too. And she wasn’t that different from—”

  “Stop,” I say. If I wanted any more of Tim’s pity, I could have just told him the truth about Mom.

  “I just want you to know that I understand—”

  “No, you don’t,” I snap. “You do not understand.”

  “Maybe not exactly, but—”

  “There’s no but,” I say, my voice rising. “You don’t know, and you can’t know, and I can’t listen to how hard your cushy life is right now, okay?”

  Tim goes quiet for a minute. Not even a tap.

  “You know, you invited us,” he finally says. I shoot him an angry side-eye. “Okay, her,” he corrects himself. “But so far you’ve acted like you hate us.”

  I seethe silently at the road. “I don’t hate you,” I say, unconvincingly.

  “Well, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder about something.”

  “Just drop it, okay?” I look over at Tim, who’s staring ahead, squinting with worry or hurt, I’m not sure which. I know I need to stop taking out my anger on him when it’s really for Buck. And Mom. And Karen. And everyone else who made it so I’m sitting in the dying old car of a dying old man (okay, not old old, but midthirties, which is kind of old) with the half sister I never wanted and the non-brother I can’t seem to shake. But there’s just too much of it, and it keeps spilling out. I decide the best thing is just to not talk at all for a while.

  • • •

  Tim Google-maps a Kinko’s just off the highway in Cumberland, and I pull into a strip mall that looks almost exactly like the one we left from this morning. It’s funny—and sad—how so much effort must have gone into making every place in the country look basically the same, all of those architects and builders just slapping up the same crap from Tampa to Tacoma. I guess all this boxy plastic and glass and cement is supposed to feel comforting. But I wonder if anyone ever tried to tell them that familiar isn’t always comforting. Sometimes it’s what you’re running from.

  While Tim goes in to print his fake absence note, I send a quick text to Yvonne, who’s the only person I care about disappointing.

  Have to take the rest of the week off, I type. So sorry, family drama. I hit send before I remember to thank her for the money and then overcompensate in a second text with all caps and smiley faces. Part of me hopes she’ll let this truancy slide, but there’s also a shameful sliver of hope that I’ve filled my last burrito. If whatever Buck has for me is as valuable as he thinks it is, maybe it could float me for a while as I figure things out.

  “Where are we?” Leah suddenly cries shrilly from the backseat. “Where’s Tim?” She sits up looking absolutely horrified, like she’s woken to discover she’s in the middle of a carjacking. This wakes Cass and Denny up, too. Cass takes one look at Leah and hops out of the car, and then Denny shoves her, yelling, “You’re sitting on Max!” As her lower lips starts quivering, I almost start to feel bad for Leah. Almost.

  “Relax, I didn’t throw him out of the moving car,” I say. “He’s in the Kinko’s faxing a form to your school.”

  “Oh.” Leah looks down at her lap and taps on her own iPhone, which I didn’t notice has been clenched in her hand this whole time, possibly to keep it from falling into Denny’s eager, sticky grasp. “I guess I should text my mom.”

  “Don’t tell her where you are yet,” I say, frowning down at the dashboard and feeling more and more like a criminal. “Just . . . say you’re staying over at a friend’s house. Will she buy that?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “I’m hungry,” Denny announces, and I reach down into the plastic bag to get him a package of crackers.

  “Well, you have to make her buy it.” I shoot Leah a serious look in the rearview mirror.

  Leah sighs heavily, annoyed. “She’s gonna know I’m gone eventually. I can’t stay over for a week.”

  “I know,” I snap. I’m angrier at myself than at her—how could I not have thought about this before? Tim an
d Leah aren’t like us. They can’t just skip town without anyone asking questions. It’s not a relief to anyone when they disappear. I take a deep breath and try to change my tone. “I just need time to come up with something else.”

  “You could say we’re on a spaceship!” Denny offers, neon orange crumbs dropping onto the floor of the car.

  “Thanks, buddy, but I don’t think that’s very believable.”

  “A red spaceship,” he says, as if that changes everything.

  “Fine, I’ll just tell her I’m going to my friend Hannah’s,” Leah grumbles and carefully opens the door Cass just bolted from, stepping her long, porcelain legs over the seat cushions to keep skin-to-garbage contact at a minimum.

  “Can we leave her here?” Denny asks once the door slams shut, licking peanut butter from a deconstructed cracker sandwich. “Max doesn’t like her.” I smile in spite of myself. I’ve noticed “Max” likes to say things Denny thinks are too mean to pin on himself.

  “Tell Max for once I agree with him,” I say, turning around to grab a cracker. “But we can’t leave her. She’s . . .” I chew the cracker into a few sharp pieces and force them down my throat. “She’s family,” I finish, nearly choking on both the food and the words.

  Denny considers this, his little brow furrowing. I wonder how all these pieces connect in his brain and whether they make any sense to him yet. “Aunt Sam’s family, and she sucks,” he says.

  “You’ve got a point,” I laugh.

  “I just want you and Cass and Mom as my family,” he says, giving the back of my seat a hard kick for emphasis.

  Shit, Cass. I have no idea where she went. “Stay here for a sec,” I tell Denny, getting out of the car and surveying the overwhelmingly beige suburban landscape. Leah is standing in the middle of an empty parking spot a few feet away, staring intently at her phone. The lot is about half-full, and people amble from their cars toward the shaded strip that houses, in addition to the Kinko’s and RadioShack, a sad-looking gym, an Edible Arrangements, and a Mexican restaurant called Burrito Allegre.

  I lean against the hood, dial Cass, and try not to panic as it rings and rings. I don’t think she would actually try to ditch us—this is still the girl who, now that my mom’s legs aren’t long enough to hide her, darts around corners to avoid talking to strangers—but she’s not above laying low for an hour or two and making me sweat it out as punishment.

  “Cass, please come back to the car,” I beg after that Stepford female robot voice tells me to leave a message at the tone. “I know today has been crazy, but you’re only making it worse by hiding.”

  “Who’s hiding?”

  I turn to see Cass standing by the rear bumper, holding her backpack by one frayed strap.

  “I was just doing my shot,” she says. “The gym let me use their bathroom.” She leans in conspiratorially and gives me a little smile. “I could’ve even taken a shower, they didn’t care. For future reference.”

  “Thanks,” I say slowly, shutting off my phone. My sister is acting downright chipper . . . which happens about as often as a Halley’s Comet sighting these days. I’m thrown by the quicksilver change in mood, but hey, I’ll take it. Since we don’t have enough cash to get us all the way to Venice, we might have to rely on our sparkling personalities.

  Speaking of which, Tim has materialized with a triumphant grin and is chaperoning a reluctant Leah back to the car.

  “I got us some food,” he says, holding up a greasy paper bag. “Figured we could have a parking lot picnic.” I watch as Tim doles out tacos to the kids, calling the girls “m’lady” and goofing around with Denny—even offering food to Max. Having another person around to play grown-up might not be so bad after all.

  “And for you, I got a burrito,” he says, turning to me with a smile. “For old time’s sake.” He’s clearly very pleased with himself, and although I try to fight a reflexive smile, I can feel it starting to show.

  “What, I’m not worth a bouquet of cantaloupe?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips and nodding toward the Edible Arrangements.

  “Next time,” he says, “I’ll buy you a dozen long-stemmed honeydews. But for now: truce?”

  I take the foil sleeve and examine its contents. “What kind?” I ask, poking a finger under the wrapper.

  “Just bean and cheese,” he says. “I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian.”

  “Sour cream and guac?” I like to douse my food in more condiments than a normal human should consume in one sitting.

  “Yes and yes,” he says. “I decided to go for it.”

  The smile breaks through, despite my best efforts. “Thanks,” I say.

  Tim looks relieved. “So we’re good?”

  I cock my head and think for a minute. “Maybe just one more thing?”

  A few minutes later, Tim is punching Aunt Sam’s number into his phone, and I’m holding up a cue card made from the back of a Chinese take-out menu I found on the floor in the backseat. I’m 99 percent sure Aunt Sam won’t pick up a random call from an unknown number, but I bite my tongue nervously until Tim gives me a thumbs-up sign.

  “Hi, Mrs. Means,” he says, dropping his voice again. “This is Agent Yusuk from CPS. I’m calling to let you know we picked up your nieces and nephew and will be holding them for a few days to ask them some further questions. We’ll be sending you a check for your trouble. Take care.” He hangs up and shakes his head, laughing. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say. “Just know you got back some good juju.” Hopefully that message will keep Aunt Sam from reporting us missing or saying something to Mom, at least for a while. And I love picturing her checking the mailbox every day, resplendent in her kimono, for a nonexistent payoff.

  “Phew,” he says with a playful grin. “I guess things are looking up.”

  I take a bite of my burrito and look up at the bright, cloudless sky. I’m not convinced yet, but I have to admit, it’s a nice thought.

  EIGHT

  Wednesday Night

  I-70 W, Near Terre Haute, IN

  Almost nine P.M. and the Indiana highway is dark and quiet, with streetlamps only at intersections, so in between all we can see are the headlights of other cars flashing past like fireflies. In the past ten hours, we’ve been through four states. Pennsylvania was a breeze, just a quick shortcut across the southwestern corner (which took us right through a town named, ironically, California), but then Ohio was a long, flat slog punctuated by passive-aggressive fighting between Leah and Cass—who literally could not agree on a radio station to save their own lives—and Denny either complaining about being bored or having to use the bathroom. (An impromptu song consisting only of the lyrics “I HAVE TO POOP!” serenaded us through downtown Columbus.)

  Tim and I have spent most of our time hashing out a decent cover story. I have more experience crafting lies of omission, but it turns out that he, in addition to singing lead tenor in an all-boys a cappella group called the SkeleTone Crew, is co-captain of the McDonogh debate team, which means he always has to have the last word. So for now, we’re at an impasse.

  “I just don’t think it’s believable that I would borrow a friend’s car and then drive it three thousand miles on a whim,” he says. We’ve been trying to come up with an alternate vehicle for them to be riding in, since everyone agrees it’s best that Tim and Leah’s parents don’t know they’re with us.

  “Could you hitchhike?” I ask.

  “Ew, no way,” Leah says.

  “Yeah,” Tim says. “That would completely freak them out. They’d have our pictures on some national news site in about five minutes.” He sighs. “Missing kids drive page views like crazy.”

  “Depends on the kids,” I say, changing lanes. “What about . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

  Leah snorts, and Tim reaches back to swat her. “Why is that so funny?” he asks.
To me, he says, “Uh, not currently.”

  “Damn.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Believe me, I wish I did.”

  “It’d be a good cover for a car,” I shrug.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I feel color rising in my cheeks but hope it’s too dark for him to notice. “Not relevant,” I say. “I’m not driving with you, remember?”

  “Right,” Tim says. “I forgot.”

  “You can’t forget that part!” I say. “I don’t want the cops chasing me.”

  “They wouldn’t actually call the cops,” he says at the same time Denny announces, “Michelle doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Thanks, Den!” I say, hoping to cut him off there. I guess I don’t mind Tim and Leah knowing I don’t have a boyfriend—this trip means we’ll have to start getting to know each other, piece by piece—but I don’t want them to know I’ve never had one. The sad truth is that I’ve only been kissed once, in sixth grade, on a dare during a brief and regrettable period when I was trying to make friends with the popular girls in middle school. His name was Ernest Hudson, and we faced off on the basketball court like it was high noon, slowly moving closer and closer and then connecting almost violently, as if we were two magnets held apart and then let suddenly go. His potato chip–flavored tongue thrashed around in my mouth for exactly four seconds. I know because I counted, because I just stood there, squeezing my eyes shut, listening to the catcalls swelling around me in surround sound, thinking, Is this how it’s supposed to feel? I still don’t know, because I never tried it again.

  “What about that weird Russian guy in your grade who looks like he’s forty-five?” Leah asks. “Doesn’t he drive to school?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never even spoken to him,” Tim says.

  “Then he’s perfect,” I say. “So here’s what you tell them: Leah was going to sleep over at Hannah’s house, but then during English, the teacher mentions As I Lay Dying or something, and it makes her think about Buck, and she freaks out in the middle of class, so you decide to take her off campus to calm her down, and she starts begging you to take her to see him.”