The Waiting Sky Page 3

  “That good, huh?” Ethan asks, studying my face.

  “He was her brother,” I say, more defensively than I mean to. “She’s really upset.” So much so that for these past few months, she’d started hitting Larry’s, the neighborhood bar, hard. Not to mention the local party store. Since Uncle Pete died, the cost of her drinking has started to outweigh the cost of anything else in our house—even rent.

  “She putting her pain into the bottle, then?” Ethan asks, as if my thoughts are just laid right there on the pool deck for him to read.

  “Not really,” I lie. “It was tough for a little bit, but now she’s fine.”

  Ethan gives me this funny look like, poor kid, and I wonder if he thinks asking these questions, or having me around this summer, makes him so generous. Like he’s so involved now or something. But really it’s the least he can do, considering he gets a charmed life as a handsome researcher down here in Oklahoma and I’m trying to hold everything together back in Minnesota.

  Except Ethan’s on your side, I tell myself, remembering the time Ethan taught me to cook macaroni and cheese, and when he drove to the drugstore to get me tampons when I got my first period, even though his friend Trey worked there and might have seen him.

  “Look,” I say, “can we just drop this? Home is home. Here is here. Let’s not mix the two, okay?”

  Ethan runs a hand along the tanned back of his neck as if he’s not quite sure about that idea. For a second, he looks like the only thing he wants is for those things to mix. But a moment later, he’s eyeing the camera bag at my feet. “So, you want to go through your pictures from today and pick some to put up on the website?”

  I nod, relieved that we’re onto a different subject. I grab the camera, and Ethan scoots in closer. Together, we flip through the images on my small screen.

  “This one’s really good,” he says, pointing at a picture of silvery leaves tossed by a wind gust. Afternoon light slants through the dust behind them.

  “Thanks,” I say, my heart swelling. The picture had been one of my favorites too, and secretly I like that Ethan’s taking all this interest in my work.

  “Whoa,” Ethan says when we land on an image of him and Stephen running through a field, their bodies blurring as they bolt toward the black sky. “That’s badass.” The late-afternoon sun is igniting the other side of the horizon, putting everything in sharp contrast. Ethan’s and Stephen’s shadows are deep and dark—almost solid enough to be two more people. Ethan points at them. “It’s like Ethan and Stephen Junior,” he jokes.

  “Too bad we left them out there,” I reply. “I wonder if they got sucked up in the storm.”

  “They probably found a ditch and covered their heads.”

  “Oh, then I’m sure they were fine. I mean, what’s a two-hundred-mile-per-hour wind gust when you have your head covered?”

  Ethan grins. “Exactly.”

  We click through a few more images until a square-jawed motel employee rattles the pool gate. “This area is closed,” he says, like he caught us drinking or partying, instead of just sitting here.

  “Sorry,” Ethan says, raising his hand in a half wave. “We’ll be out of here in a minute.” We collect our stuff as the motel Nazi watches. Lightning flashes in the distance, and Ethan pauses for a second to watch it.

  “No matter how many times I see a storm,” he says, “I can’t get enough of them. Runs in the family, I guess.”

  “What, chasing?”

  “No. Addiction.”

  I picture the mass of beer bottles in the recycling bin at home. I meant to haul them to the curb before I left, but didn’t get around to it.

  “I don’t know about you,” Ethan continues, “but I don’t drink at all. If I go out, I’ll have a Coke. That’s it. Used to be I wouldn’t even go near a bar, but I’ve mellowed in my old age.” He winks at me, like joking about being twenty-three is hilarious.

  Plenty of kids my age drink, but I’m like Ethan—I steer clear of it. I can’t even stand to be the designated driver at parties, because carting around sloppy drunk kids is the opposite of a good time in my book. On the weekends, I’m usually over at Cat’s, holed up in her basement watching movies.

  “I know what we should do,” Ethan says after a moment. “You and I should find something completely benign and get hooked on it.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. How about butter?”

  I can’t help but giggle. “Maybe not. In large doses, it’s pretty fatty.”

  “Insects?”

  “Gross. How about shoes?”

  “Too expensive,” Ethan says, as we shuffle past the motel Nazi. “How about stamps?”

  “Meh. Boring.”

  “Tiny dogs that never get any bigger than a hamburger?”

  We’re inside now, and my laughter bounces off the hallway’s faded wallpaper and threadbare carpet. “Trained rabbits that can hunt and kill zombies?”

  Ethan snorts. “Candy that never makes you fat but still tastes delicious?”

  “Recyclable water bottles that automatically fill themselves?”

  “Hamsters that can stop hurricanes?”

  “That’s the one,” I say, sliding my motel card through my door reader. “That’s the winning idea.”

  Ethan sighs, relieved. “Well, thank God. Now we can go to bed happy.”

  I hug him good night, wishing silently that was all it took.

  3

  The next morning, I’m up early to get breakfast at the motel’s complimentary buffet before the Torbros hit the road on another chase. After packing up my small bag and cramming it with more free toiletries, I brush out my hair and place a vintage, feather-patterned headband just so on my head. It’s beautiful—and the perfect thing to distract people from noticing my lame T-shirt that reads GO MILLERS! (courtesy of Minnetonka Mills High).

  I pull my door shut behind me, thinking about how my mom put the headband on the kitchen table next to a glass of milk and a steak at six thirty in the morning, just days after the accident.

  “What are you doing?” I’d asked when I’d dragged myself out of bed. Not only was Mom awake without me having to force her to get up, but she was dressed and cooking. In the gray morning light, her pale skin and yellow hair seemed ethereal—and I wondered for a minute if I was imagining her entirely.

  “The gas works,” she said, motioning to the stove, where another steak was sizzling. “Figure we should eat up what we can until they turn the power back on. I splurged and bought the meat for a special occasion, but I guess we’ll just have it now. And look!” She opened up the cupboard underneath the sink and pulled out a bag of tea lights. Her eyes sparkled. “Got them at the dollar store. We can add ambience!”

  She placed a few of them around the kitchen and immediately the room was transformed. The cold edges were replaced by a soft, warm glow. “Isn’t it romantic, dahling?” she asked, and I laughed, giddy with the improbability of all of it. “Go on, eat,” she said, pointing to the steak, and that’s when I saw the headband.

  “What’s this?” I asked, picking up the arc of soft feathers.

  “Found it at a garage sale and knew you had to have it. I know you love those old fashions.”

  It’s more like when you’re broke, you get good at figuring out how to have a sense of style for cheap, which usually means buying old, old stuff. Not that I was going around dressed like a flapper or anything. Mostly I spent what little money I had on a hint of flair here or there. A scarf. A bracelet. One time I found a pair of fur-trimmed satin shoes from the 1940s at a Salvation Army. Because if I was going to have to wear castoffs, the least I could do was jazz them up. Last season’s crappy hoodies from Target looked way better when you stuck a faux Depression glass pin on them.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, stroking the feathers. “Thank you.”

  My mom plunked down next to me at our battered table—the one with toilet paper shoved under two of its legs to keep it from wobbling. “
Let’s eat these steaks,” she said. “It’ll be like a picnic. And then you can get in the shower before they turn off the water, too.”

  We smiled at each other, then ate the steaks like it was totally normal to be gnawing on a slab of beef before school. While we chewed, we talked about my mom’s coworkers at the women’s clinic where she works, and about our neighbor Mr. Eisengrath, who went for a walk the other day in nothing but his robe.

  And this is what I thought the whole time we were sitting there talking: My mom is not like other moms. It was the most awesome truth in the world right then. Because, okay, fine, the power’s off, but so what? My mom is young, and she’s beautiful, and we’re hanging out and talking like friends, which we are. And we’re having a super unconventional breakfast because we’re trying to make the best of things. Together. Her and me. Us versus the world.

  You don’t go through things with people and not love them more for it. It’s like those guys in the army who fight in muddy trenches and drag each other out of harm’s way and are blood brothers for life because of it all. Only in our case, my mom and I faced eviction notices and power shutoffs together.

  We talked about the free concert we could go see that weekend and whether it would snow again, even though it was May, but in Minnesota there was always a chance.

  But the one thing we didn’t talk about was the accident.

  Not once did we bring up how we’d turned on the news for three nights in a row, biting our nails and watching the screen, wondering if someone had died out there on the roads (no one had). Not once did we mention the cuts on my face that I was covering with makeup, or the Honda, battered and crunched in the apartment’s parking lot, dripping oil onto the blacktop like blood. But still running—somehow, thank God.

  And we didn’t talk about Cat.

  “Are you babysitting tonight?” my mom asked, sweeping the dishes into the sink when we were all finished.

  “Yeah,” I replied, “for the Bargers.”

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Anyone else lined up?”

  “The Clydes asked for Sunday night, but I have a test on Monday so I’m not—”

  “Oh, you can manage it,” my mom said, pushing my hair back to kiss my forehead. “Can’t you?”

  I poked at some of the toilet paper under the table with my toe. “I guess. But you just got paid last Friday, right? We can’t need money that badly already. I only paid the cell phone bill online so we should have—”

  “There you go again, Mr. Scrooge!” she laughed. “Being so tight with the funds all the time.”

  “I can’t be tight with it when it just disappears,” I say.

  “Funny,” she says giggling like this is all a big joke.

  “Did you spend it all at Larry’s again?” I pressed. “Is that where it went?” Lodged in my throat was the real question I wanted to ask, which is whether or not Mom was getting into something bigger, maybe speed or meth, because we were just so broke all the time. Surely she wasn’t drinking enough to bankrupt us, was she?

  “Not all of it. But I had a couple baby showers at work. Donna invited me to lunch, and I splurged on the steaks. I promise I’ll be more careful next time. If you’ll just babysit for the Clydes, we’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

  I nodded. I wanted to believe her. “I guess so.”

  Mom picked up one of the tea lights and blew it out. “I need to run, gotta get to the clinic early today. You’ll handle cleaning up?”

  I took in the grease splatter around the stove and the little tea lights, some tipped over, wax dripping down the counters and onto the linoleum floor. What had looked romantic twenty minutes ago was more like a crime scene now.

  “No problem,” I said anyway, because I didn’t want to spoil the mood.

  My mom smiled. “Thanks, honey.” She gave me one more kiss before heading out the door. I watched her go, heard the clatter of the Honda shuddering to life, and told myself she really was going in to work early. There was no way—not after the accident—that she’d be stopping for a forty of Coors before work.

  Just to be sure, I peeked out the front window and looked down at Hyde Street, watching my mom turn left out of the apartment complex. My heart sank because her work was the opposite way. But there was a party store just down the road in the direction she’d headed.

  I made my way back to the kitchen, trying to decide what to do. The answer, as usual, was a big fat nothing. I couldn’t call her and ask her what she was up to; she’d flat-out lie. I couldn’t call her work and tell them she’d been drinking; they’d fire her and then we really wouldn’t be able to pay our bills. I couldn’t tell anyone at school because, in the end, they’d probably call some state agency, and no way was that an option.

  Suddenly, there was a reckless beating inside of me, like a trapped bird’s wings. For a second I thought I was having a heart attack until I realized—it was fear. The beating quickened, and I felt as if the glass from the accident was pumping through my bloodstream.

  There’s no time for this, I thought. I gritted my teeth and fought the emotion, struggled upstream against it. Do something. Stay busy. Don’t stop.

  I had to start cleaning. I took a breath, figuring I could tackle the kitchen for about fifteen minutes before I’d have to get in the shower and head for school. But when I went to run the water for the dishes, there was only the wheeze and groan of empty pipes.

  The water had been shut off, too.

  Think. Keep going.

  I grabbed my backpack, which always had a change of clothes and a toothbrush in it. If I got to school early enough, I could shower there. I pulled out my wallet for bus money, and my mouth dried up when I realized it was empty.

  I’d had ten dollars in there yesterday.

  My mom had taken it.

  I opened the cupboard above the coffeemaker to check the change bowl, but that was empty, too.

  I checked my phone for the time. At least my cell was still working, thank God. It was 7:16, which meant the (free) school bus I could catch three blocks down had left ten minutes ago.

  The birds’ wings wanted to come back, but I forced myself to relax. No use in getting stressed. You’re the problem solver. You can do this. You always figure out a way.

  Cat could come get me, I reasoned after a while. Cat’s mom let her borrow the car when it was important. This qualified, right? She could pick me up, and once I got to school, I might not have time to shower, but I could at least wash my face and brush my teeth.

  Cat.

  I juggled my cell in my hand. We hadn’t talked much since the accident. I mean, we’d talked—like in the hallways and stuff at school—but we hadn’t talked talked. Not like before, when we’d just chat about anything and everything in our easy way because that’s what best friends do.

  I scrolled to Cat’s number. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, you,” she said, like she was forcing herself to sound glad to hear from me.

  “Hey, Cat,” I replied. “I don’t mean to be a total pain here, but I’m kinda stuck without a ride to school. I was wondering if you could come get me.”

  Cat paused. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She left for work already,” I said. “The clinic’s having a free vaccination day, and she had to get there early to set up.”

  The lie left my lips so easily. Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I just leave it at “she had to work early”?

  Cat grunted. She wasn’t buying it. “No money for the bus?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Huh. You’re still babysitting all the time, though, right?”

  My jaw clenched. So this is how it’s going to be, I thought. Cat gets to bust my balls because of the accident. And I just have to take it.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked finally. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Cat didn’t respond. My heart froze, and I worried she’d hung up on me. Then I heard a sniff and realized she was crying. “I’m sorry, J
ane,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I don’t. I know your mom has a problem . . .” She trailed off. I swallowed down the lump in my own throat.

  Tears are just eye pee, I could hear my mom saying, and nobody likes it when you piss your face.

  I blinked to hold them back.

  “I’ll come get you,” Cat said, “but we’re not going to school. We have to talk. Okay?”

  I nodded, even though Cat couldn’t see it. “Okay.”

  I hung up and waited in the dark, dirty kitchen for Cat to come get me.

  4

  My sandals hardly make a sound on the lobby’s stained carpet as I approach the breakfast room. But even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to hear it above the cacophony of the Torbros arguing.

  I round the corner to see them bent over a table, studying the radar on Mason’s laptop, trying to figure out where to chase today.

  “There is no way we should go that far south when we’ve got dry lines right here,” Hallie says, pointing at the computer screen. “They look better than the ones that are farther away.”

  Victor scoffs. “Remind me again why we should listen to someone who learned weather by watching Al Roker?” He pushes his lanky black hair out of his eyes and glares at Hallie. His ugly scar makes him look even angrier, and I mentally give Hallie full props for not backing away from him.

  “Enough,” Stephen says. “Insults won’t be tolerated, Victor. Watch your tone.” Stephen stands to his full height. He hasn’t shaved since we’ve been down here, and right now his beard makes it seem like there’s even more of him, if that’s possible. If I were Victor, I’d reverse a few steps, but of course Victor doesn’t, probably because he’s older than Stephen and, somewhere in his brain, still thinks he’s the boss.

  “What, so you’re on her side now?” Victor asks, his dark eyes blazing.