What She Left Behind (10 page)

I set my water glass on the runner my mom keeps on her dresser. Everything is neat and precise, just like my dad likes it, except the lampshade on my mother’s nightstand is noticeably crooked. I shiver. Did Dad push Mom into the lamp? Did he hit her with it? I click the switch, but the light doesn’t go on. I unscrew the lightbulb and shake it. Burnt out. Should I change it? Better not. I screw it back in.

Lifting up the rose-covered comforter, I look under the bed. A stray pack of cigarettes is the only thing there. If there had been a fire in the fireplace, I would have flung them in, but instead I shove them in the pocket of my jeans. At least Mom’s suitcase is gone.

Just to be sure, I go into their bathroom and check out the palm-tree toothbrush holder. Only one toothbrush. Blue. My dad’s.

I open the cabinets under the sink and look for my mother’s makeup bag. Gone. Hair dryer—gone. Curling iron—gone. At least her things haven’t been magically put away like mine were.

I hope that somewhere there’s a clue as to where my mom went or a note that she has left for me. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I look anyhow. I check the drawers of her dresser and nightstand and her jewelry box.

That’s when I find it. The locket that Matt had given her three Christmases ago. She wears it every day. Without fail. Weekdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Why isn’t she wearing it now?

I open the locket and look at the tiny pictures of Matt and me on the inside. They’re pictures from when we were much younger. And happier.

I want to keep the locket, so I can feel a little closer to both Mom and Matt, but I know I have to put it back. My dad notices everything.

I start to put the locket in the little drawer. Wait a minute. The chain is broken. I inspect the damage with my fingers.

It’s as if someone had yanked off the necklace.

In anger.

Don’t be ridiculous, Sara. It just broke. Nothing sinister in that.

I return the necklace to the little drawer and put the jewelry box back on the dresser. In the same place, I hope.

I try to remember whether or not my mom was wearing the necklace Monday night or Tuesday morning.

Sinking down on the bed, I attempt to calm my nerves.
Your dad did not yank it off her neck on Tuesday. She probably broke it before that.

Still trying to convince myself that everything’s okay, I go and get a kitchen chair and look behind all of the sweaters on the top shelf of the closet. I manage to knock three to the ground. Underneath one, I find a pair of Mom’s god-awful navy blue dress shoes that wouldn’t look good on anyone. I can’t believe my mom still has them—she promised she would never wear them again. I grab the shoes and walk to the garbage can. I am about to let them drop when I realize I can’t. Dad would notice. A flash of color in one shoe catches my eye. It’s one of those cards you get when someone sends you flowers. Handwritten on the card is a scrawled heart and the name “Brian.”

Does the card mean anything? Or is it simply one of the many we got for Matt’s funeral? And who is Brian? I put the shoes back and go to the spare bedroom that my mom uses as an office. I leaf through papers in the filing cabinet, go through the desk drawers, and even look under the plants. Nothing.

Where would Mom hide something she didn’t want Dad to find?

Matt’s room.
I walk down the hall and stand outside his room. Then I take a deep breath and push open the door. It brings me back to another day. The day before—well, the day before the
end.

I peeked through his doorway. Matt was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Whatcha doing?” I asked him.

“Just thinking.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do you ever wonder what it’ll be like when you die?” he asked. “I mean, we either have some sort of existence that goes on forever, or—poof—that’s
it, black hole, that’s the end. I’m not sure which one scares me more.”

“That’s a bit intense. And here I thought you were just putting off doing your homework.”

“Nah, haven’t got any,” he said.

What was it Alex said to me today?
You didn’t do the homework because you knew you weren’t going to class.

I finally knew what Matt had meant.
He didn’t do the homework because he knew he was going to die.

I haven’t been in Matt’s room since the funeral. The first thing I notice is that it no longer smells like him (sweat mixed with aftershave). It smells like the rest of the house, except the cigarette smell is less obvious since the door has been closed for months.

Matt could have been a designer for T.G.I. Fridays—he had the weirdest, coolest collection of random objects hanging on his walls. First, there’s his collection of out-of-state license plates. His favorites had been Alaska and Maine—he went for the rugged states. Personally I like the one that says
OKLAHOMA IS O.K.
It’s kind of stupid, but you have to admit it has a ring to it. Then there’s a railroad sign that Matt picked up from an old crossing after they tore up the unused tracks. He mounted the muffler that fell off my mom’s old Chevy (before she bought the Ford) on the ceiling, and a surfboard hangs on the wall next to his bed. One of those mounted singing fish is by his dresser. I push the button, but nothing happens. I guess the batteries have worn out.

My parents are shrine-keepers by default—my mom because
she doesn’t have the energy, and my dad because he’s pretending Matt’s still alive. Everything in Matt’s room is just as he left it, except for the dirty laundry. That’s been washed and put away. I look through the trophies on his bookshelf (soccer, soccer, and more soccer) and stuff from the plays he was in and ones that he had seen. Matt loved acting, loved pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

I fan the pages of his books (mainly plays, including a few in Spanish) to check for papers. All I find is a baseball ticket for a Tigers game. Father’s Day. We went together. After it was over we ran the bases along with all the other kids and their dads. I think the Tigers lost, but I’m not sure. Soccer is the only sport I can stand to watch, and that’s only when Matt or Zach are playing. I check in all of the drawers but they just have Matt’s clothes.

Mixed in with Matt’s coin collection I find a letter, but it belongs to Matt. From his last girlfriend, Shannon. He brought her over for dinner one Friday night. It must have been my mother’s idea. She tried her best to make us seem like a normal family. She made a beef pie. If we were a normal family, beef pie would be one of those special dishes that she makes for company. But since my dad doesn’t usually allow dinner guests, it always feels like her specialty for us.

The conversation went something like this:

Shannon: “My dad says your hardware store is really nice.”

Dad: “Umm, Michelle, why are these carrots cold? And they’re still crunchy. You know I don’t like them that way. Put them back in the microwave.”

Mom: “So, Shannon, you and Matt are in Spanish class together?”

Shannon (looking at Matt with adoring eyes): “Yeah, it’s my favorite subject.”

Dad: “A bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. How much of it can you learn in high school anyhow? Not enough to make any difference, that’s for sure.”

Not enough to save your partner’s life? Is that what you really meant, Dad?

Matt’s face had turned red but he didn’t say anything. Shannon had looked like she was ready to crawl under the table. They broke up the next week. I don’t know if it’s related, but it certainly couldn’t have helped.

If there is any clue as to where my mom is, I finally decide it isn’t in Matt’s room. It’s getting late. My dad will be home soon, so I turn off the stereo and go to the kitchen to start dinner. I pop some fish fillets in the oven, then I turn on the TV and scroll through the list of recorded programs until I find yesterday’s
Winds of Change
. Julia is telling Ramón that she had a dream she had a daughter and that it seemed so real, it was like it had to be true.

Good, Julia! She
is
real!
Then Ramón puts on his sad face and tells her that, yes, they had a daughter, but she died in the house fire. Julia knots her brow in confusion.
Don’t fall for it, Julia! He’s lying! Leave Ramón and go back to your daughter!
But instead she puts her arms around Ramón and says, “Thank God I still have you!”

When my dad gets home, he hangs his baseball cap on the peg in the kitchen, adjusts the sugar canister slightly to the right, and evens the blinds.

“Did your brother call to say when he’d be home?”

Here we go again.
Yes, but the cell-phone reception from heaven sucks.
Usually my mom just changes the subject. And me? What does my stupid, messed-up, sleep-deprived brain whisper to me?
Two can play this game.
So I say, “Yeah, he said he’d be back after play rehearsal.”

Wrong move.

“Not that stupid god-damned sissy-ass play again! I told him he had to quit. What the hell is he still doing at rehearsal? You call him and tell him to get back here right now.”

In my imagination, I run to my room, grab Sam, and fling myself onto my bed. In real life, my heart beats faster and faster and faster and I can’t move.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Dad yanks the portable phone off the wall and flings it at me. “Dial!”

I dial my mom’s cell. When the voice mail picks up I say, “Matt, Dad says you have to come home. Right now.”

Satisfied for the moment, he stalks off.

I get out the can opener and try to open a can of corn. My hands won’t stop shaking. I twirl my ponytail.

“Sara!”

I drop the can opener on the counter.

“Get in here!”

I follow my dad’s shouts to my parents’ bedroom. The bed is crooked and all of the covers have been ripped off.

“Where are my cigarettes? I left a pack here on the nightstand.”

I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. I hope the pack I found under the bed isn’t poking out of my pocket. I don’t dare look down to see.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? What’s that glass doing over there?” He points to the glass of water I left on the dresser. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”

“Nothing.” My voice comes out quiet and not very confident.

Towering above me, he stinks of cigarettes and a trace of beer.
Great.
He grabs my shoulders and starts to shake me. “Answer me, young lady!” Then he looks down and sees it. “What the—?” He yanks the pack of cigarettes out of my pants pocket and pushes me into the wall.

“What are you doing with these? My own daughter, stealing from me? What were you going to do with these? Huh? Huh?”

Why is this happening to me?
I feel like I must be in a dream, and I’m desperate to wake up. I can’t answer. I know that whatever I say will be the wrong answer. So I just shake my head as the tears stream down my face.

Then he takes out a cigarette and rams it up against my lips.

“You want to know what it’s like to smoke a cigarette? Is that what you want?”

I shake my head from side to side.

“Is that what you want? Huh?”

When I open my mouth to say no, he shoves the cigarette in and squeezes my lips closed. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out his lighter.

This can’t be happening. I’m the Watcher. Invisible. I’m supposed to be left alone.

He flicks the lighter open. There’s a metallic clicking sound and
then a flame dances above me. I freeze. He lights the cigarette and I try not to breathe in but it’s no use, and pretty soon I’m choking and gagging. Finally he lets me go and I crush and pound the cigarette into the ashtray.

Then he’s gone. The truck door slams, tires squeal, and gravel pings against the siding. I can’t stop my own thoughts—I wish he would drive the truck right into a tree.

I pick up the cigarette and try to tear it into bits. Only, cigarettes are a lot tougher than they look, so I grab a pair of scissors and I cut and cut until all of the cigarette guts are in the toilet, and I flush.

I know I should leave. Leave this house. Leave Dad. Leave this life. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know what happened to Mom.

T
he free-writing topic for English class is “Shopping.”

“How can the topic be ‘Shopping’? Isn’t there some sort of alternate topic?” That’s Nick.

“Nope.” Mrs. Monroe shakes her head and gives a big “Shh!”

I slip a couple of Ritz Bits in my mouth for inspiration and start to write.