by J. C. Davis
As I pull the front door closed behind me, I can hear Reverend Beaudean’s voice, more tired than ever, “Lord, how did I make such a mess of things?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Lies We Tell Ourselves
The house is dark when I get home, but Rust Bucket is sitting out front. I’m about to walk past when a sudden movement makes me stop. There’s someone sitting inside. Actually, two someones. And they’re kissing. I’m ready to shrug it off, except there’s something odd about that second figure. I take a step closer, totally spying on my brother and not even caring. I need the distraction just now.
The two figures break apart and Emmet sees me through the passenger side window. His face goes blank and then panic sweeps over his features. Beside him, the guy he’s been making out with twists around to face me. The guy he’s just been making out with. My brother was frenching some random dude in our driveway. I back away and then bolt for the front door.
“Del!” Emmet calls, but he doesn’t follow me and I don’t stop. I slam my way inside and stand in the entryway, chest heaving. A moment later, Rust Bucket roars to life and tears away from the house.
I climb the stairs feeling like my shoes are coated in concrete. What is happening to my life? Mr. Beaudean is a lying, miracle-faking jerk and apparently my girl-crazed brother has decided to start dating boys. Or at least locking lips with them.
There isn’t any peace in my room and my mind won’t stop whirring around, trying to figure out how I’m going to claw my way back to normal after everything that’s happened. I catch sight of my blue notebook. It’s filled with notes about the miracles, motives, suspects. I snatch it up and begin ripping out pages. I keep tearing until my bed and the floor are covered in ragged white confetti, until even the best puzzle master couldn’t put the pieces back together. Then I start on the Polaroids. I yank out pins and let the pictures fall to the floor, stepping on them as I reach for more. I don’t stop until my walls are bare and empty, my floor completely covered with battered, crumpled photos. There aren’t any truths left in the world. Even pictures lie.
When there’s nothing left to tear down or rip up, I flop onto my bed, trying to catch my breath. The quiet feels like it’s going to swallow me whole. I stay that way for a long time, but I can’t sleep. Finally, I give up and head for the living room. Maybe some mindless late-night TV will make my head stop spinning.
I’m passing Mom’s room when I notice the light spilling out from under her door. She must have left the light on when she headed out earlier. How times have changed. She used to chase Claire and me through the house turning off lights and lecturing us about all the electricity we were wasting.
I consider leaving a snarky note on her bedside table but decide to just turn off the light. Her door creaks when I open it. Mom looks up from where she’s sitting on the bed and I freeze in the doorway.
“Del?” Her voice is husky and uncertain.
Mom’s hair frizzes wildly around her face like a mad scientist and she’s wearing her robe. Her eyes are red-rimmed, nose bright as a cherry. Used tissues lie on the bed beside her and one of the old photo albums is balanced in her lap, the faux leather cover just visible in all its gaudy glory.
When I was little, I used to help Mom put the pictures in, sliding each image into its plastic sleeve. She’d laugh and say things like “Look at your father’s hair, it’s sticking straight up.” Or “Do you remember when Pops gave you that sour licorice and you threw up after eating the entire bag?” Yes, my mother actually has a picture of my green face, lips stained with sour sugar just before I blew chunks all over the kitchen. Our photo albums are filled with gems like that, enough blackmail potential for a lifetime.
I haven’t looked at them in years.
“Aren’t you working tonight?” I blurt.
Mom shakes her head and runs a hand over the page she was looking at. “No, I called in sick.”
Mom never calls in sick. Never. The Everything Store has this insane sick policy that basically means if you call in sick more than twice you get fired. Last spring, Mom went to work even though she had a super high fever and sounded like she was about to hack out a lung. If she’s home now, whatever she has must be serious.
“What’s wrong?” I demand. “Did you see a doctor?” The C word hangs in the back of my mind, as it so often does, and I covertly eye Mom, trying to spot any obvious bruises or lumps.
“I just needed a night at home.” Mom sighs and glances down at the photo album again. “I can’t believe it’s been a year.”
My stomach uncoils, but only slightly. Of course Mom would be obsessing over Claire again. Is there anything else in the world? I’m still a shadow person where Mom’s concerned and the only one who matters, who ever mattered, is darling Claire. At least my mother’s still predictable.
“I ditched school for an entire week last spring,” I say.
Mom looks back up, forehead creasing. “What?”
“And last month, I drank all the vodka from Dad’s liquor cabinet and spent the night puking in your rosebushes. But you wouldn’t know that either. I know it’s been a year because I’ve been here this whole time.”
“You drank your father’s vodka?” Her mouth is drawn down, puckered with confusion. She’s looking at me like I just told her I’m an alien with three heads.
“Yes. And all the brandy. It was nasty but I choked it down. And Emmet’s been sneaking out. Ever wonder where he’s at, because I’m pretty sure it’s not a pep rally. In fact, I can guarantee you’d be shocked at the things he’s getting up to. You used to care what happened to us. Now all you do is sit around and cry over Claire’s baby pictures and how you lost your perfect little angel. I lost my whole family.”
Mom’s eyes fill with tears again and she snuffles, snatching a tissue to dab at her nose. “Oh, Del, honey. I’m so sorry.”
I back up a step, shaking my head. “You know the worst part?” My voice is verging on a scream but to hell with it. It’s been a long couple of days and I’ve earned a meltdown or two. “I actually thought things were going to get better. You said we’d start having family dinners again. You acted like maybe you were done with the zombie impersonation you’ve been doing. Then along come those stupid miracles and you’re back to Claire pity party central. They’re not even real. I have proof the miracles are fake. But I bet you don’t care about that either. Because all that matters is maybe some hunk of processed cheese might have saved Claire. News flash, Mom: nothing would’ve saved Claire, just like nothing’s going to save this family.”
I whirl and walk away. I can’t believe I ever thought proving the miracles are fake would fix things. Sometimes broken things just stay broken.
I lock my door behind me and fling myself on the bed, burying my face in a pillow. I am not crying. And even if I am, there’s no one here to see.
My doorknob rattles and Mom’s voice drifts through the door. “Del? Please open up.”
I shove my face harder into the pillow and try to block out her voice.
It’s quiet for a long minute. She’s probably back crying over the photo albums again.
“I’m sorry,” Mom whispers. So faint. But I can hear her.
I turn my face to the side and stare at the closed door.
“I screwed up,” Mom continues. “I didn’t mean to push you and Emmet away. I never wanted to lose you too. Things will get better. I promise, Delli. And no more raiding Dad’s liquor cabinet. I’m emptying any bottles that are left down the drain right now. I will try, honey. I will try to be better. To be here.”
She pauses and I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door. But I don’t trust her anymore. Not after this year. Not after the past few weeks. She probably has some deep, dark secret she’s hiding too.
“I love you,” Mom whispers, and then there’s the shuffle of feet as she walks back to her room.
I turn my head away and draw in a deep breath, ignoring the tears burning their way do
wn my face. I am not crying for Mom or myself or Gabe or how screwed up life is. I’m not crying at all. If I keep telling myself that, it might eventually be true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Little Girl Lost
Saturday morning, I wake up to the smell of pancakes. At first I’m sure it’s a hallucination. We haven’t had pancakes in years. Photos slide under my feet when I walk to my closet. I don’t bother cleaning up the mess. It feels fitting, somehow. The first honest thing in a while. After I’m dressed, I follow my nose downstairs.
Mom’s sitting at the table, dressed in a yellow sundress and slathering butter on a stack of pancakes at least a foot tall. Clearly she’s been replaced by a clone. She glances up, butter knife poised over the pancakes, and gives me a nervous smile.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Mom says. “I thought it’d be nice if we had breakfast together. Why don’t you go wake up Emmet and we’ll all sit down together. I think the three of us need to talk.”
Just then a door bangs open upstairs. There’s a groan and the sound of someone throwing up violently. I’m pretty sure Emmet didn’t make it to the bathroom.
“Don’t think that’s gonna work out for you,” I mutter.
The pancakes smell so good. But I cannot be bought with pancakes, no matter how delicious they look. I’m sure by tonight she’ll be back in her bedroom sobbing again, this little overture forgotten. How can I trust her?
“I hate pancakes,” I lie. “And I’m late for my shift at the Gas & Gut.”
Mom scowls and her eyebrows lower to battle position. I bolt for the front door before she can stop me. I’m glad I don’t have to face Emmet yet. I don’t know what to say.
I wasn’t just lying about the pancakes. I never work Saturdays; that’s Andy’s shift. But what else am I going to do today? I’d feel weird showing up on Gabe’s doorstep after everything that’s happened and calling him doesn’t feel quite right either. I can’t stay at home and I’ve got nowhere else to be.
I call Andy and beg to take over his shift. He pretends like he’s reluctant but finally mumbles something about a pasture party that evening and agrees. I ignore his mention of picking up party favors. He’s not talking about balloons or a piñata.
The store is busy all day, packed with people looking for cheese wheels, Cheesus buttons, and the tacky rubber Cheesus bracelets Ken just ordered last week. It’s a steady distraction from my thoughts.
A little after five, Maybelle Jensen totters in, sucking her false teeth and narrowing her eyes at me as she clears the front door. “I thought Ken switched his hours on Sunday so you could attend church. Why haven’t I seen you at St. Andrew’s?”
I smile sweetly. “Now you know I’ve been attending Holy Cross, Mrs. Jensen.”
“There are big things happening at St. Andrew’s, girl.” Maybelle raps her swollen knuckles on the counter. “Big things. The Lord’s at work, healing the sick and bringing comfort to his people. Why, if that cheese wheel had been found a few years ago, I bet that sister of yours would have turned out fine.”
I grit my teeth. I know Maybelle’s the one that’s been filling Mom’s head with nonsense about the miracles and Claire. I’m so busy fuming I only half hear what she’s saying, but the word cancer drags my attention back to her.
“What?” I interrupt. “What did you say?”
“I said there was a girl sick with the cancer like your sister. Her family drove all the way from Amarillo so she could be healed. Pale little thing, skinny and near bald. Makes a person’s heart shudder just looking at her. Bobby held a special prayer session at the sanctuary last night, laid her hands on the cheese wheel and I do believe I saw a golden glow around the both of them. Mark my words, she’ll be right as rain in no time.”
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at Maybelle. I knew people were visiting the cheese wheel and then claiming to be healed. But that’s minor stuff. A sprained ankle, a cold, a nasty skin rash. But no one terminally ill.
“Are they staying in town?” I ask, knotting my hands around a cleaning rag.
Maybelle breaks off mid-word and stares at me. “What, dear?”
“The family with the sick little girl, where are they staying?”
“How would I know that?” She sniffs. “They might be at the Ford dealership, Hershel’s renting out spaces for RVs.”
Maybelle rattles on for a while but I’ve stopped listening. I give a halfhearted smile when she finally gives up and leaves. All the way out of the store, Maybelle mutters about the horrible manners of young people today.
When Ken shows up to take the evening shift at six, I explain about swapping with Andy. Ken just waves me away and says not to mess with his schedule again without warning him. I nod, trying to look contrite, and scurry out the door. The spot where Gabe usually parks is empty. I never called to tell him I’d be here. Of course he hasn’t called or texted me all day either.
I consider going home but I turn toward the Ford dealership instead.
I spot the family long before I reach the dealership and the rows of RVs now filling the lot where shiny new trucks used to crouch. The three of them move slowly, inching along on the opposite side of the road. The dad is hunched, his clothes wrinkled and face drawn as he pushes a small wheelchair. He looks as if he’s been walking across the Sahara and hasn’t had a drop of water the entire way. Beside him, his wife chatters in a high-pitched voice, kinky blonde curls bobbing as she smiles and gestures with her hands. Her movements are jerky and false. There’s an oxygen tank strapped to the back of the wheelchair, as big as the girl riding in front of it.
The girl is so small. Younger than Claire was when she was diagnosed. Nine maybe? In the cancer ward, when I visited Claire, half the kids were bald, a few with odd patches of hair clinging to their heads and a few looking so normal you’d never know they were sick. This girl has hair that brushes the tips of her ears, shorter than a pixie cut and pale as dandelion fluff. It surprises me.
A bald head is the first thing you think of when someone says cancer. Like you can’t have the one without the other. When Claire lost all her hair, including her eyebrows and eyelashes, I used to draw silly shapes on her with different colored eyebrow pencils and then she’d draw squiggly pictures on my cheeks. I’d pull out my camera and we’d lean in close together, her chemical breath brushing my cheek as I snapped pictures.
Is it better or worse that the girl looks nothing like Claire? It still hurts to see her.
The front wheel of the wheelchair catches on a crack in the sidewalk and the entire thing lurches sideways. The dad quickly yanks the chair upright, and the little girl clings to the armrests. I’m across the street before I can reconsider.
“Are you all right? Do you need help?” I’m out of breath, and not from my short sprint.
The woman is bent over, fussing at her daughter and smoothing a hand down the girl’s bony arm. She looks up at me, fake smile tacked in place. “We’re fine, dear. Thanks so much for offering.”
The man nods.
I take a step back, regretting my impulse to run over here. It’s worse beside them. I can smell the same antiseptic chemical scent wafting off the girl that I remember from Claire’s hospital room. The girl’s eyes are sunken and rimmed with dark smudges like charcoal, but these smudges won’t ever rub off. A tube runs from the tank at the back of the wheelchair to the girl’s nose, providing a steady stream of oxygen. She looks so tired. The way Claire looked at the end. Like breathing is too much effort. I can feel tears behind my eyes. Can see Claire sitting there instead. The little girl drags in a harsh breath and coughs, grimacing. When the cough passes she presses a hand to her lips, wiping them, and then smiles at me.
“I like your shirt.” Her voice is high and thready, a faint echo of her mother’s.
“Thanks,” I say, glancing down. I wasn’t paying attention when I grabbed a shirt from the closet this morning. It’s black with a smiling cartoon bunny and the words school prepares you for real
life, which also sucks. Gabe bought it for me last Christmas, and while it’s not exactly my style, it did make me laugh when I first saw it.
“I have a bunny poster in my room,” the girl offers. She starts coughing again, harsh, racking coughs that bend her body in half as she clutches her sides. Her dad reaches down and twists the nozzle on the oxygen tank, increasing the flow. The coughs subside.
“Emily’s getting tired,” the woman says, one hand clutching the back of her daughter’s chair. “We need to get back to our RV.”
I take a step back, nodding. “Okay. I hope she feels better.” The words are out before I can stop them. The sort of stupid platitude I absolutely hated when Claire was sick. Because she wasn’t ever going to feel better. What the person meant was “I don’t know what to say and I want to get the hell out of here so I can stop feeling so bad that you’re dying.” Meaningless words. They piled up around us in the hospital, suffocating. And now they’re tripping out of my mouth like a belch, horrible and loud and unstoppable.
“Emily is going to be fine. This is the hometown of miracles, after all.” Emily’s mom gives a brittle laugh and I can hear the edge of desperation behind it.
Emily’s dad has been silent this whole time, but his frown deepens and his eyes look glassy. I don’t think he believes in miracles any more than I do.
“Bye,” I mutter and hurry away.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing at the edge of the cemetery.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Graveside Confessions
A waist-high chain-link fence surrounds the cemetery, interrupted on one side by a gate with hinges that screech. I’m not sure why the fence is here. Anyone who wants in could easily climb over, even if the gate was locked. And that flimsy little fence isn’t going to keep the dead inside if the zombie apocalypse happens tomorrow.