by J. C. Davis
He stalks out of the room. I don’t even hesitate before chasing after him. The garage door is already rumbling up, wheels grinding in their tiny metal tracks as I slip inside. Gabe flips on the fluorescent light and it flickers fitfully. To my right a set of plastic shelves hold old paint buckets, garden tools, and a roll of black trash bags that’s probably hiding a flourishing spider colony. Half the floor is taken up with boxes and gray plastic storage bins. The area around the work bench is clear, though, an old wooden stool drawn close to the pitted work surface. The wood burner is nowhere in sight and neither are the wooden planks or the cans of wood stain from the Polaroid. There are some fresh gouges in the tabletop, however, and a small burn near one corner, as if something hot was set down.
Gabe gestures at the work bench. “Nothing. I told you.”
“But it was here.” I touch the burn mark.
Gabe frowns. “Maybe. But why would anyone break into my garage? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I might know where the burner and wood stain are,” I mumble.
Gabe turns and gives me a dangerous look. Like he already knows what I’m going to say. “Where?”
“There was a box in your dad’s office at the church. I found it when I was looking for the towels on Sunday.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lost and Found
Gabe growls under his breath, but turns on his heel and stomps out of the garage and down the driveway. The church is dark when we get there, no cars in the parking lot. Gabe fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. We flip on lights as we move through the building, making a straight line for his dad’s office.
It’s as messy as last time I was in here. Gabe hesitates in the door and I slide past him, focusing on the boxes. Glancing over my shoulder, I wave toward some on my left. “We’ll have to check all of them. I can’t remember which one had the wood burner and stain.”
Gabe moves to a box, pulls back the lid, and pulls out a colorful package of beads with a wooden cross pendant—an activity kit for one of the Sunday school classes. “With evidence this damning, I’m not sure why Dad hasn’t turned himself in already.”
“Just help me look. I know it was here.” I shift one of the boxes closer and begin going through it.
“You’re wrong.”
“Maybe someone’s trying to frame your dad. Ever think of that?” Remembering Reverend Beaudean’s face when he found me in this office, I sorta doubt it, though. I keep that thought to myself.
Gabe nods slowly and puts the bead packet back into the box in front of him. “Yeah, I guess so. This is all crazy.”
“Things have been crazy since Baby Cheesus showed up. We’re rolling with the times,” I mutter.
It takes us half an hour to go through all the boxes, but the wood burner and wood stain aren’t in any of them. I turn and face Reverend Beaudean’s newly cleared desk. We moved each box into a stack after searching it so you can actually see the dark brown desk top now. And the drawers on either side. I’m reaching for the bottom drawer on the right when Gabe grabs my arm.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“We have to check everything. That means the desk, too.”
“You said you saw that stuff in a box. We checked all the boxes. Admit you imagined the whole thing and let’s get out of here.”
I jerk my arm away and glare at Gabe. “I didn’t imagine anything. That stuff could’ve been moved. It could be in one of the desk drawers.”
“There’s private stuff in there, church business. You’re not going through it!”
“I’m not leaving until we’ve checked. I know what I saw.”
Gabe’s face is flushed again and his mouth is a tight, grim line. “Fine. Then get out of the way. I’ll check the drawers.”
I’m too surprised to object and Gabe nudges me aside, dropping into his father’s desk chair. He pulls out the top drawer and rifles through it, finding only paperwork, some highlighters, and a few mismatched paperclips. The next drawer isn’t any more exciting. The bottom drawer sticks when Gabe tries to open it and he has to give a good yank to get the thing to move. It’s filled with a vertical stack of manila folders.
Gabe’s about to slide the drawer closed, but I rest a hand on the drawer edge. “Check behind the folders, there could be something in the back of the drawer.”
Gabe huffs out a breath, but he begins pulling the folders out, revealing the dark space behind them. Other than a few dust bunnies as big as cocker spaniels, it’s completely empty.
“Satisfied?” Gabe snaps. He piles the folders back into the drawer, one small stack at a time. “I told you this was stupid, there’s nothing here.” A newspaper cutting flutters down from where it’s been clinging to the back of a folder and lands on the desk top.
We both stare at it, falling silent.
It’s an obituary: columns of small, neat black type and a tiny picture of Gabe’s mom with the title Montgomery, Lila just above.
All the breath squeezes out of my lungs, and I shove a hand against my mouth, trying to keep the little air I have left. Even though the last name is wrong, there’s no mistaking that picture. In it, Lila is turned away from the camera, looking back over her shoulder with a laugh. Her hair’s wild around her face and her eyes are huge and filled with trouble. She looks ready to grab onto life and wring every last drop of fun from it that she can.
Gabe’s hand shakes as he traces her name at the top of the page.
I read over his shoulder, skimming the text. “Lila Montgomery, thirty-four, of Plymouth, New Hampshire, died Sunday as the result of a traffic accident on Interstate 93.” The worst part, however, is the very last line of the obituary: “Mrs. Montgomery is survived by her husband, Peter Montgomery. She will be dearly missed.” There’s no mention of Gabe or his dad. It’s as if they never even existed.
How many times over the years have we searched for Lila on the Internet, always coming up blank? Whenever I thought of her, I pictured Lila traveling the country, living her life as wild and carefree as she could. She was the big mystery, the thing that began our friendship.
Something breaks inside me and I struggle to find words that don’t exist. My hand squeezes Gabe’s shoulder, too hard, but I can’t seem to stop. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s not her,” Gabe says in flat voice.
“It has to be,” I say gently. “That’s your mom’s picture and there can’t be that many Lilas running around.”
“But that’s not her last name. My parents never got divorced. There’s no way she could have remarried. And what would she be doing in New Hampshire? My mom hated the East Coast.”
“I don’t know. But your dad had that obituary in his desk. You should ask him about it,” I say.
Gabe’s head whips around and he glares. “We’re here because you think my dad has been lying for weeks, faking miracles and duping people. I’m surprised you think he’d tell the truth about anything.”
My face flushes hot, but I don’t look away. “I never called your dad a liar.”
Gabe makes a disgusted sound. “Not out loud.”
He snatches a manila folder off the top of a stack, dumps its contents into the open drawer, and slips the obituary inside. He sweeps the rest of the folders back into the drawer and slams it shut.
I step back as Gabe stalks past me and out of the office. We don’t say another word as we leave the church. I want to hug him but I’m afraid of what he’d do. Gabe pauses long enough to lock the doors to the church, but then he’s back to stomping away from me again.
“Wait, we need a plan,” I call to Gabe’s back. My feet are glued to the ground and I rest a hand against the worn bricks by the church entrance.
He stops, but doesn’t turn to face me. “I’m going home. You should too.”
The words slice into me like scalpels and I stagger back a step, back pressing into the side of the church. He starts walking again and doesn’t look back once. Gabe, who
’s always been there whenever I needed him, walks out on me as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Friday, Crappy Friday
I arrive at school Friday minus my backpack. Somehow, with everything going on last night, it got left at Gabe’s house. After I left the church, the walk home felt like a thousand miles, and even though I was exhausted when I finally stumbled inside, I tossed and turned for hours.
Gabe isn’t waiting for me on the school steps and I doubt it’s traffic related this time. I shake it off. He’s inside, that’s all. He probably had to grab something from his locker. But I don’t spot Gabe in the halls either. Maybe he skipped school. There’s a first time for everything and finding out your mom is dead is a pretty good reason to ditch.
All around me students chatter and gossip. Whispers of miracles and divine cures fill the halls. Pretty much business as usual. Except for the miracle merchandise. I see a half dozen T-shirts mentioning Baby Cheesus and only a handful are the ones Mayor Thompson passed out. i saw cheesus buttons are attached to backpacks and baseball caps. Anna is even showing off a Cheesus key chain.
Our town is officially a freak show.
Seconds before the tardy bell rings, Gabe dashes through the door of homeroom and takes his seat. He drops my backpack at my feet without looking at me. Despite the risk of Mrs. Winnacker’s wrath, I scrawl a quick note and try to pass it to Gabe under his desk. He ignores me, acting like he has no idea what I’m doing. When the bell rings, he’s out the door before I can say a word.
I stare after him, feeling like cement is filling my lungs. We’ve never done the no-talking thing. Never had a fight that lasted more than a few hours. I don’t know what to do. What if he’s decided our friendship isn’t worth the trouble?
By lunch break, I’m ready to start screaming in the middle of the hall if it’ll get Gabe to look at me. Wendy bounces over as I enter the lunch room and I snarl, “Leave me alone.”
“Well,” she huffs. “That was rude. I’ll pray for you to develop a better attitude.”
“So not gonna happen,” I mutter, scanning the room for Gabe. I spot him and stalk over, slamming my books down on the table. “I am done with the silent treatment. You want to end us? Fine. Have the courage to say it to my face.”
The kids at the tables on either side of us go quiet and I can feel them all staring at me. My world is crumbling to bits and they can jump off a damn cliff for all I care. In this moment, Gabe’s the only thing that matters.
He stares up at me. There are dark patches under both his eyes and a bit of stubble scattered on his chin. He looks as if he’s missed a couple nights’ sleep instead of only one. The anger and tension ease a little inside of me. I want to hug him and say it’ll be all right, even if it’s a lie.
“What are you talking about?” Gabe asks in a quiet voice, glancing at the people staring at us.
I grit my teeth and sit down, back statue straight. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been avoiding me all morning. I get that you’re pissed at me, and yeah, you’ve got reasons. But I never figured you for a coward. If our friendship is over, then fine. I’ll deal. But you look me in the eye and say it.” My words are hissed out, hard, tossed like rocks between us. They burn my tongue until my mouth is numb.
Gabe’s lips tighten and he gives me a flat look. “You’ll deal? So you’re fine with not being friends anymore? Six years and you can walk away that easy?”
“I’m not the one walking away! I never turned my back on you, not once, and I never would.”
“That’s rich.” Gabe leans forward, voice dropping even lower, every word precise. “When Claire died you ran away from me so fast I never had a chance to catch you. You decided you didn’t need anyone or anything and certainly not me. I spent months trying to get you to talk. You couldn’t be bothered. It was easier to get drunk, smoke pot, and pretend nothing was wrong. So who’s the coward? And when you came back from that little insanity trip, I was still here, waiting for you. You act like you’re the only one who ever lost someone. My mom left me behind like a pile of trash. She erased me from her life and I didn’t even get a mention in her obituary.”
I open my mouth but Gabe makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand. “No. This time you listen.” His voice drops even lower. “I found out my mom is dead. And according to you there’s a good chance my dad’s a fraud. I gave you months to figure yourself out and you can’t even give me a handful of fucking hours?”
It’s the f-bomb more than anything that chokes the words in my throat. Gabe hardly ever curses. Especially not an f-bomb. He’s too much a preacher’s kid for that. With a sick feeling, I realize he’s right. About all of it. I’ve been so wrapped up in my hurt and my pain, I haven’t had time for anything else. Not him. Not my family. His world is crashing around his head and instead of trying to be understanding, I’m pissed he needs a while to figure it out. Hurt he’s not talking to me. I feel as big as a mosquito and just as welcome.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I drop my eyes and take a deep breath, shoving the hurt down, the guilt. If Gabe needs time, I’ll give it to him.
I move to get up and Gabe grabs my arm, stopping me. “You want a ride home tonight, after your shift?” His voice is gruff.
I meet his gaze uncertainly. “Sure.”
He squeezes my arm gently and drops it. “We’ll talk then.”
I nod. I’ll wait all night for him if I have to.
A wave of whispers follows me as I walk out of the cafeteria, every student in the place talking about the very public and unprecedented fight Gabe and I just had. A dozen rumors are being born right now and I’ll bet everyone thinks we were fighting over the miracles. For the first time in weeks, the miracles are the last thing on my mind.
That night, Gabe’s five minutes late picking me up from the Gas & Gut. I’m in the middle of a full-blown panic attack—sweaty palms, shortness of breath, and extreme tunnel vision—by the time his car pulls up. I wrench the door open and fling myself inside before he’s even had a chance to put the car in park.
“Something on fire?” Gabe asks quietly, turning off the motor.
I shake my head and settle my backpack at my feet, finally feeling like I can breathe again. He showed up.
The silence grows into something living. The car hasn’t moved and Gabe’s hands are well away from the ignition, resting in his lap. I break under the weight of all the words neither of us are brave enough to say. My eyes are blurry with tears when I lean over, armrest digging into my side, and hug him. He doesn’t hug me back, just sits bonelessly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I feel like I’ve said those words so many times today but they won’t stop, pouring out and wrapping around us like a noose. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for: accusing his dad, his mom being dead, or having been such an awful friend this past year. Maybe all of it.
Seconds, minutes, maybe hours later, Gabe winds his arms around me and we cling together. Gabe pulls away first and I let him.
“He knew.” Gabe’s voice sounds like rocks are stuck in his throat. “All this time, my dad knew and he never said a word.”
I expect tears, but Gabe’s face is hard.
“What are you going to do?” I ask softly.
“I’m going to make him tell me the truth.” Gabe clenches his fists and glares at the dashboard.
For a moment, I consider grabbing the keys and throwing them out the window, trying to keep Gabe here before he does something he regrets. But I can’t blame him for wanting to confront his dad. Isn’t searching for the truth what I’ve been doing for months? Floundering through the dark to try to find something real to hold on to. First with Claire, and then with the miracles. And what about Gabe? What truth does he need to find? I think about the Polaroid with those wood panels in Gabe’s garage, the wood stain I saw in Mr. Beaudean’s office. I thought the truth would help the world make sense again, but instead, everything’s been twisted inside o
ut.
I put a hand on Gabe’s arm. “I want to come with you.”
“Why? So you can accuse my dad of faking the miracles?” Gabe pulls his arm away and it feels like a slap.
“No! This isn’t about the stupid miracles. It’s just …” I flounder, trying to find the right words but they aren’t there. I settle for telling him the things I should have said a long time ago. “I wish you’d been with me when Mom called to tell me Claire was dead. And I know that’s not your fault, it’s mine. I shut you out. I can’t roll back the clock, but I can be there for you now. With this.”
Gabe shakes his head. “This isn’t the sort of conversation you invite friends to.”
“I know. But it is the kind of conversation maybe you need to talk about afterward. You don’t have to do this alone. Please. I’ll stay out of the way,” I wheedle, keeping any trace of pity or worry out of my voice. “I can hang out on the porch or hide in your room. I—”
Gabe holds up a hand. “Fine. But we’re doing this tonight. I waited six years, I’m not waiting another day.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Late Night Confrontations
Once again, time is bending and warping around me, only now it’s cramming our ten-minute drive into a handful of seconds. We pull up in front of Gabe’s house long before either one of us is ready.
Gabe lets the car idle, sliding it into park. Another long, awkward silence fills the interior, but this time I don’t bother breaking it. He takes slow, deep breaths, eyes fixed on the house. Finally he turns the car off and reaches into the backseat for the manila folder from last night. When he gets out of the car, the door slams shut behind him, loud as a gunshot.
I wince, but get out as well. Nausea rolls in my stomach and I shiver as I follow Gabe. I’m responsible for this mess. If I hadn’t insisted we go to his dad’s office, he never would have found his mom’s obituary.