What She Left Behind (18 page)

I stare at the roses, using them to transport me to last night’s happy moments. To the dancing, the laughter, the kisses.

Our house used to be filled with flowers. Mom has dozens of vases, and sometimes before Matt died she filled every last one of them, then scattered them throughout the house. I try to remember where the vase with Alex’s roses is from. Niagara Falls? Or is it Colorado? The only way to know for sure is to check the log.

The log! I sit up straight in my bed.

My dad keeps what he calls a “log”—basically a date-oriented record of events. It’s a journal minus any emotional component, or at least any that he shares with the rest of us. He refers to it whenever anyone has questions like, “Who remembers what we did on that vacation to Colorado?” Then he pulls out the old log and reads it to us: “Camped in woods by river. Went horseback riding in the a.m. Lunch cooked by guide. Purchased tickets for scenic railway for following day.”

The logs are in spiral notebooks, a new one for each year. They’re all locked in a trunk in the basement in my dad’s train room. All except for the current year, that is. Dad keeps that one in his office at the hardware store for making his daily entries. If my Dad truly believes that my mom is on a business trip, he would have recorded it in his log. If he knows she isn’t, well, he wouldn’t exactly lie to himself in his own log, would he?

“Matt! Sara! Wake up!” My dad’s voice thunders down the hallway.

I grab the vase and shove it under the bed. It makes a slight thunk.
As long as the water doesn’t come spilling out where Dad can see it.

“What was that?” My dad bangs open my door. He’s already dressed.

I think fast. “I knocked a book I was reading off the nightstand.”
Can he smell the roses?

“Which one?”

“This one.” I hold up
The Catcher in the Rye.

“Haven’t you been reading that all week?”

I swallow. “Rereading. We have a test Monday.”

“What the hell are you still doing with this?” He picks Sam up from the bottom of my bed.

I reach to take him back.

“It looks pathetic.” He squishes Sam under his arm. “Tell Matt to trim the bushes. I’m leaving for work.”

“I—I still like him.”
And you gave him to me.

“You’re sixteen years old. Grow up.” He stalks out of my room. “Don’t forget to put another trash bag in the garbage can.” And just like that, Sam is on his way to the Dumpster at the hardware store, where Dad takes all our garbage. My stomach feels hollow.

Outside, Dad has set the electric trimmer and clippers on the front porch. I don’t exactly mind trimming the bushes—except for the whole
Mom, where are you, Mom, where are you, Mom, where are you
recording that is playing in my brain. Now I won’t even have Sam to hold on to at night. Why
did
I need a stuffed dog at age sixteen? I got Sam for Christmas when I was five. There was one last present under the tree.

“It’s for you, Sara,” my mom said. She handed me a plain white box with a blue bow. I flung the cover off, stuck my hands inside and pulled out an adorable stuffed dog. I squeezed it tight and planted a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I love him! Thank you so much, Mom!” She smiled and shook her head.

“Don’t thank me, thank your dad. He picked it out.”

Even at that age I knew that Mom did most of the shopping, so knowing Dad had chosen him made the stuffed dog extra special. I ran over to Dad and jumped into his lap. “Wow,” I said.

He laughed and tousled my hair. “It was a long and difficult search, but when I saw him, I knew he was for you, angel. Whatcha gonna name him?” asked Dad.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Sam,” he said. “I think he looks like a Sam.”

“You’re right! Hi, Sam!” I petted Sam’s head and snuggled next to Dad.

Lately, when Dad did something that hurt one of us, I would think about that day and I would remember him the way he used to be. The way I believed he could be again someday.

Somewhere between last Tuesday and today, I stopped believing.

Chester grazes near the fence while I’m trimming. Every once in a while I look up and watch him. He hardly moves, and when he does, he’s limping badly.

I go in and call Mrs. Harper, the lady with the horse stable.

“Hi. This is Sara Peters. My brother and I used to ride horses over at your place sometimes. We just ran into each other again at the library the other day?”

“Right. Of course, Sara. What’s up?”

“The thing is, I know someone who—there’s this horse that …” I sigh. “It’s kind of a long story, but there’s someone I know who has an old horse that they don’t really want anymore. I hoped you might
know someone who would be interested in taking it in. Someone not in the glue-manufacturing business, that is. And it needs to be soon, really soon. Because he’s got this bad limp that his owner hasn’t done anything about.” I fill in the rest of the details I know about Chester.

“Hmm. Let me see what I can do. How about I check around and give you a call back?”

Just as I hang up, Keith Urban starts singing from my cell. I’ll have to get a new ringtone for my next phone, because I’ll never be able to hear that song again without thinking of Alex.

“Hi, Alex,” I say softly.

“I don’t care if you’re mad at me. I’m coming over to see you.” His voice is gentle, pleading.
Dear, sweet, Alex. God, I love you.

“Actually, now’s not a good time. I’m on my way out.” I try to sound businesslike. My voice cracks.

“Where’re you headed?”

I hesitate. This is it. I need to either tell Alex everything or let him go. “I’m going to the movies. With Zach.” I use my cold voice. My pseudo-Dad voice.

“Zach. Him, again.” It’s hurt that I hear.

“Yeah.” I don’t explain that Zach is like my replacement brother, how going to the movies is just part of the way we cope. Because in the end, I’m going to be leaving. And everyone knows that if you don’t want to be found by the wrong person, you can’t even tell the right one where you’re going. As soon as I find my mom, I’m going to have to disappear, and I can’t have Alex looking for me.

“So you’re telling me that me and you, these past few days, it meant nothing?” His voice cracks too and my heart breaks.

It’s meant everything.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, and I hang up before I can change my mind.

Zach and I go to the movies in Brookton. I don’t really watch the film. The banker-turned FBI-agent is definitely hot, but I have no idea what actually happens. Images flicker in front of me, but I don’t really see them. Different images flash through my brain. Me, age six, a worm in one hand, a fishing pole in the other, next to my dad. Walking across the entire span of the Mackinac Bridge on Labor Day with Matt and my parents. Snowboarding with Matt at Boyne. Matt’s funeral. Mom crying. Dad already wandering around by himself, talking to nonexistent people in corners. Dad’s “logs.”

The credits roll.

“I, um—I need to stop by the hardware store,” I say, standing up. “If you can just drop me off, I’ll meet you back at Zelda’s Diner.”

“Drop you off? I’ll just wait for you. But isn’t the store closed?”

I look around to make sure none of my dad’s spies are lurking among the theatergoers. “Yeah, I need to look for something.” I clear my throat.

Zach lifts his eyebrows but keeps quiet until we’re inside the car.

“Look for what?”

“My dad’s logs. I need to know if he’s written anything about Mom. Look, Zach, I don’t want you in the middle of this. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Don’t be sorry. I want to help.”

“But if my dad finds out we’ve been at his store … It’s better if I go alone.”

“I’m coming with you. Let me do this, Sara. I wasn’t there for Matt, but I can be here for you.”

“You can’t blame yourself for Matt. He made his own choices.”

“But it’s okay for you to blame yourself?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“And I’m going with you.”

The hardware store is also in Brookton, halfway between the mall and the first farm on the way out of town. It isn’t the best location (that would be the strip between the mall and Pizza Hut), but it isn’t bad. It’s perfect for what Zach and I are about to do—break in, that is.

If you think about it, we aren’t exactly breaking in. I have the key on my keychain because Dad had them made for all of us when he first got the store. And I know the alarm code. Or, at least, I hope I do.

There’s just one thing I have to do before we go inside. “Mind if I do a little Dumpster diving first?”

Zach narrows his eyes and shrugs. “Sure, if you think it will help.”

I lead him around the back of the building and peer into the Dumpster. “Great.” I groan. “Looks like this was recently emptied.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It means that the bag I need is all the way at the bottom. I’m going to have to climb in.”

“I’ll do it,” says Zach.

“I got it,” I insist. “Hold my purse?”

Zach rolls his eyes and holds it as far away from his body as he can.

I pull myself up until I can bend at my waist into the Dumpster. I try to imagine I’m on the monkey bars. The stench of rotting tuna reminds me that I’m not. I swing my legs over the side and jump in, landing on something squishy. The bags are all very efficiently double-knotted. Dad’s signature. I try to undo the first one. Then I just give up and rip. I get spaghetti sauce and a few noodles on my foot. That was supposed to be our last meal together. I try another bag. Sawdust and shards of wood. When I open the third bag, Sam’s ear flops out. He’s been sitting in a bed of cigarette ashes, but I brush him off and hug him anyway. “I’ll decide when I’m ready to get rid of you,” I whisper. Then I carry him over to the side of the bin. “Catch?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

I wait for Zach to drop my purse and hold up his arms so I can see them over the edge of the Dumpster. Then I send Sam in an arc through the air. His long ears fly upward in the wind. Matt and I used to love to watch him fly for just that reason.

As soon as I climb out of the Dumpster, Zach hands Sam back to me. I tuck him under my arm as we walk around to the front of the hardware store. I unlock the door with my key and we step inside.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm nags me for the code. Is it 2791 or 2971? I try 2791.
RETRY
. My palms start to sweat. I wipe them on my pants. 2971. The beeping stops.

“You had me worried for a minute,” Zach says, looking pale.

“You and me both.”

“Should we lock the door?” asks Zach.

“Nah. The closed sign is up. This shouldn’t take long, anyhow.”

I walk down an aisle filled with bins of nails, screws, and bolts. I pick up a handful and let them fall through my fingers to hear the clinking sound. Then I remember I’ve just been Dumpster diving and go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

I dry my hands on a paper towel. “Can you look behind the counter?” I ask. “I’m going to check out the office.”

The microwave is the first thing you see as you enter the office. There’s a splatter of spaghetti sauce on the top of it. It’s small. Not everyone would have noticed. Except for Dad. Dad really should have noticed and wiped it off. I glance up. For a second I think I see a spot on the wall too, a red spot, like spaghetti sauce. Or blood. But I know it’s just a trick my mind is playing on me. Kind of like how if you stare at something for a long time and then look at a white wall, you can still see the image, if only for a few seconds.

This time when I shake my head to make the spots go away, they disappear from the wall but not from my mind. In my mind, Dad has a paper towel in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other and he’s spraying the wall and wiping it, but there is still a little speck of blood on the wall. I know I need to get up and run out of here. Now.

“What are you staring at?”

I jump, but it’s only Zach standing behind me.

“Nothing,” I say, going over to sit at the desk. “Can you check the filing cabinet?”

A coffee mug sits on top of the desk alongside three neatly arranged stacks of unopened mail. Dad must have been really busy
at the store lately.
Too busy to open the mail?
I feel weird opening the desk drawers. Kind of like I’m walking in on someone naked. But there really isn’t much there except for a gallon-size freezer bag of rubber bands. I don’t think I could use that many rubber bands in my whole lifetime. The only other thing in the top drawer is a scrap of paper with the number 362947 and the name “Carter.” Is it a phone number? If so, it’s missing a digit. I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I don’t know when or why. I copy it down on a sticky note and stick it in my purse.