Need (6 page)

I put on my glasses, walk to the window, and turn the blinds so I can see how hard the snow is coming down. It's not. I look down at the backyard below my window and once again hear the sound of a shovel hitting ice and snow. Why would someone be shoveling when there isn't any new snow?

I start to go back to bed, then change my mind. There's no way I'll sleep. Not while I'm wondering what's going on. I glance at my mother's closed bedroom door and am careful not to make a sound as I tiptoe by. There's no point in freaking Mom out unless there's really a reason.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I make a beeline for the living room window. The snow is reflecting the moon, and makes the front yard bright enough to see that there's nothing unusual out there. Shaking my head, I start to turn. That's when I see something move. A shadow at the edge of the yard by the large tree near the street. Not a shadow. A man, and he's holding a shovel. The shovel he must have used to dig the hole in the snow at his feet. And when he puts the shovel down and throws something in the hole, I don't think. I run to the front door, fumble with the locks, and throw it open.

“Hey.”

The guy starts, then reaches down, grabs his shovel, and runs. By the time I pull on my boots and race out into the cold he's almost all the way down the block. I run onto the street to try to see which way he will go next.

He looks back at me as he reaches the end of the block. I can't make out his face. Only that his coat is black and his hat is green and yellow. Then he bolts to the left onto Beloit Street and disappears from view.

I wrap my arms around myself as the frigid wind whips my hair. I grit my teeth and walk slowly toward the tree and the hole that he dug in the snow. A hole that is shaped like a rectangle. And now that I am closer I can see what he threw inside.

A rectangular cardboard box with writing on the top.

Get a clue. No one wants to help. You might as well just go ahead and die.

The box is supposed to be a coffin. The hole is a grave. And the note . . .

Suddenly it hurts to breathe. The wind stings my face as I read the words again. Words that can only be meant for my brother.

Anger builds and claws to get out. I need to move. I have to destroy the note and the hole so DJ never sees it. I have to do something. But all I can do is wrap my arms tighter around my body and rock back and forth as I stare at the cardboard coffin.

How could someone do this? How?

The snap of a twig makes me jump. I spin around to see if someone is behind me. No one is there, but that doesn't stop the fear that cuts through the horror and makes me run through the snow. Back to the house. Inside, where it's safe.

I close the door and start to shake. I'm so cold. So scared. So shocked that anyone could be this cruel. It feels like forever before I stop shivering. When I do, I stand, grab the first coat I find in the closet, and wrap myself in it. Then I do the only other thing I can think of. I dial the police on my cell as I go upstairs to wake my mom.

Two officers arrive. One of them looks familiar, and when he introduces himself to Mom, I realize his son, Logan Shepens, is in my class. Not that we're friends or anything.

Mom makes coffee for the police and herself, and hot chocolate for me, and repeatedly reminds us all to keep our voices down while Officers Shepens and Klein discuss what has happened. They want to talk with my brother, too, but Mom asks that DJ be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She shut his door after I woke her and is still worried about him fighting his cold. I'm not sure what difference an extra hour or two of sleep is going to make. Learning about the snowy grave and the message inside is going to hurt no matter when he finds out about it. But I don't question her. What's the point?

I hold a mug of hot chocolate in my hands, wondering if I'll ever feel warm again, and I answer the officers' questions. What time did I wake up? Why did I go outside? Did I recognize the person who dug the hole in the snow? Is there anyone I can think of who is angry with our family or has said anything negative about DJ's illness? The last question I don't answer.

“Ms. Dunham?”

I look down at my drink, wishing I hadn't gotten out of bed. That people weren't so mean.

“Kaylee.” My mother's voice is quiet, but I hear the tension. “Answer the officer's question. Do you know someone who would want to hurt DJ?”

There's an accusation in her voice. As if this is my fault. It's the same tone she used when she told me the test results. I wasn't a match. I couldn't save my brother. I was useless.

“Kaylee.” This time Officer Shepens asks.

And I answer. “Not exactly. But I got an email.” I glance at my mother. “When I learned I wasn't eligible to be DJ's donor, I started looking for my father.”

My mother's lips form into a tight line. Disapproval and anger shine in her eyes. During one of our fights, she forbade me to look for Dad. I promised I wouldn't, though I've never understood why she is so insistent about this, and neither does anyone else. I don't understand why she won't go to any lengths to help DJ. She always says we can survive without my father and that she will find another donor. But it doesn't make sense, and she hasn't. So I did. We both lied. And now she knows.

I squeeze the mug between my hands, trying to ignore the way everything inside me tenses and my eyes burn. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I've been sending emails to everyone I can think of who knows my father, hoping one of his friends has heard from him. A couple days ago, I got a message from someone. If you wait a minute, I'll go get it.”

Before the police or my mother can object, I jump out of my chair and run up the stairs to my room. When I received the email, I printed it out. Why? I'm not sure. Part of me wanted to make copies and put it up all over town. That way he'd feel as bad as he'd made me feel. Instead, I put it in my top desk drawer.

I touch my brother's door as I hurry past it, and when I walk into the kitchen I don't hesitate. I hand the paper to Officer Shepens and feel my mother's stare boring into me as he reads the words I'll never forget.

Get a clue. I don't want to help you track down Mel and he doesn't want to be found. Find someone else to harass because I don't care if the kid dies.

The email is from the account of Richard Ward. A bowling and fishing buddy of my father's, local Boy Scout leader, and deacon of our church. He's also the owner of the drugstore in the center of town.

Officer Shepens reads the note, looks up at me, and passes it to his partner. “Richard Ward sent that to you?”

“I use a different email address for the emails about my father.” I turn and look at my mother. “He probably thought he was sending the message to you.” Which makes it worse.

My mother's jaw tightens when Officer Klein hands her the printed email, and she doesn't say a word as they question me about the messages leading up to this one. There are two. The first when I asked if Mr. Ward had had any word from my father since he left town. The second a week later when I didn't get a response to the first one. And then this one that made me want to scream and throw things and pull my brother close and protect him from everything bad.

“This sounds more like a kid's prank than something a grown man would do. Do you think the man in the green and yellow hat looked like Richard Ward? Or could it have been someone else?” Officer Shepens asks.

“Of course it was him,” my mother snaps. “How much more evidence do you need? He even used the same words.”

Which is why I recalled the email when the police asked. But now that I'm thinking things through, I'm not sure. “The man looked bigger than Mr. Ward.” Or maybe his coat was bulky and that's why, as much as I want to, I can't picture my father's friend holding the shovel. The idea that someone else might hate us enough to write that message makes me shiver.

Officer Shepens checks his watch and tells my mom there's no point in waking DJ now. They'll come back later to speak to him, and will pay visits to the neighbors to see if anyone saw the man with the shovel. Until then, we should keep our doors locked and call the police at any sign of trouble.

Mom thanks them for their time and asks if there's any chance they would be willing to fill in the hole in the yard before they leave. “I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible. With everything that's happened in the last year . . .” She casts a glance at me and sighs as she looks back at the officers. “I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Officer Shepens says. “We can—”

“I'll do it,” I interrupt. “I want to do it.” That way if any of our neighbors look out the window, they won't wonder what the Nottawa Police Department is doing digging in our front yard. Not that it will stop the news from getting out, but it might spread more slowly. Mom should approve of that.

The police don't object, so I put on my boots as they leave. Mom looks at me for several long moments. I wait for her to yell or ask if we can talk or tell me she understands why I decided to try to find my father.

“Make sure you wear your gloves,” she says. Then she turns and walks away.

I stand in the kitchen for several minutes, surrounded by reminders of the family we used to be. The scarred wooden table and chairs. The stonework vase my mother bought from a local artist, filled with Popsicle sticks and paper flowers DJ made in school. Report cards and pictures on the fridge. I wish we could go back. To before. When I hear a door close upstairs, I put on my coat and go to the garage to get a shovel.

The neighborhood is quiet. The only sound is the crunch of my boots in the snow as I walk across the front yard. The box with the message is gone. The police must have taken it with them as evidence.

I drop my shovel and pull out my phone. The snow shines bright as I click a photo. The police have pictures. They told my mother we could ask for copies if we needed them, but this one is just for me. To remind me that people can't be depended on to be kind. No matter what Nate believes, no one is going to step up and offer to donate a kidney to DJ. If I want my brother to live, I'll have to find a way to save him myself.

 

 

 

 

NETWORK MEMBERS—632

NEEDS PENDING—628

NEEDS FULFILLED—108

“Y
VONNE, WHAT ARE YOU
doing here? You asked for today off.”

Yvonne jumps as Mrs. Lollipolous comes out from the kitchen in the back of the bakery. She gives her boss a friendly wave. “I know, but my family's plans fell through and I knew you were going to be really busy getting ready for this weekend. So, I thought I'd see if you still wanted me to help out.”

A relieved grin spreads across Mrs. L.'s flushed face. “You are a godsend, Yvonne. Marta called in sick, and Ricky and I are too busy in back doing the wedding cakes for this weekend to pack all the orders and also man the front of the store.” Mrs. L. wipes her hands on her flour-coated apron and nods. “I'd love you to handle things out here for a couple of hours, but only if you're sure you want to. You work so hard at school and here and I know how much you wanted a day off.”

“I want to work. Honest, Mrs. L.” Yvonne resists the childish urge to cross her fingers behind her back and adds, “There's nowhere else I'd rather be today.”

“What would we do without you? I should go out and thank your mother for changing her plans and making our lives easier.”

“No. You can't!” Yvonne almost shouts before Mrs. L. can walk toward the door. “Mom went to the drugstore. I told her I'd call her there if you didn't need me.”

It could be true. After all, her family can't afford cell phones. They can barely afford their landline. But Yvonne can tell Mrs. L. has heard the lie in her voice. She wants to apologize and explain, but she can't. She's not allowed to explain. All she can do is shift from foot to foot as Mrs. L. watches her with narrowed eyes.

Please don't be mad. Please don't fire me for one mistake. Please.

Mrs. L. sighs and pats the shoulder of Yvonne's faded, slightly too small brown winter coat. “Well, I guess I'll just have to thank her later with several loaves of bread and some of those sticky buns your sisters love so much. Ricky just made a big batch, even though we don't have orders for half of them. Why don't I pack some up now so they don't dry out before you bring them home? And maybe a few other surprises, too.”

Relief is followed by guilt. Yvonne's throat is tight and her eyes sting when she says, “Thanks, Mrs. L.”

Mrs. L. gives her a warm, sympathetic smile. “It's my pleasure. What good is running a bakery if you don't get to feed the ones you care for?” They both jump as a pan clatters in the back and Ricky shouts something in Italian. “I'd better get back there before he destroys the kitchen. Let me know if you need help. I'm coming! You'd better not have dropped my meringues!”

Yvonne takes off her coat, grateful that Mrs. L. left before the guilt got the best of her. She knows her boss thinks her family's finances are the reason Yvonne chose to come in to work. For once, being the responsible girl who never gets into trouble has paid off.

She hates lying to Mrs. L., but what she said isn't that far from the truth. Although this money isn't for her family. It's for her. College applications are expensive, and some of the schools recommend personal interviews on campus. There are hardship waivers, but her parents have already said they don't want to use those. They have their pride, and Yvonne wants them to keep it. But she'd also like to apply to more than the two schools they can afford.

And this one thing she has to do is kind of strange, but not bad.

Mouth dry, muscles tight and jumpy, Yvonne walks over to the door to the kitchen and peeks through the small glass window to make sure Mrs. L. and Ricky aren't headed up front. Then she walks to the register and pulls out the old-fashioned handwritten order book that Mrs. L. refuses to give up. Quickly, she writes yesterday's date in the top corner and an order for seventeen chocolate chunk cookies with ground peanuts. Next to the order goes the name Kaylee Dunham. Filled. Paid in full. Picked up.