What She Left Behind (20 page)

Tomorrow is Tuesday, the day I’ve determined my mom will be back.

What if instead of coming to get me, Mom comes back to stay?

Decides to forgive Dad like she’s always done before?

What will I do?

Will I stay here with her?

Or will I run?

Away. Far, far away.

Where Dad can never find me.

Z
ach and I have lunch at the Dairy Dream again on Tuesday. Without Alex.

“You want to sit here?” Zach asks, pointing to our usual table.

“It looks like there’s something sticky on that one,” I say. Actually, I just don’t want to sit on that picnic bench without Alex.

“Is it my imagination or is Mrs. Hamilton glaring at us? Maybe we should buy something.” Zach looks behind us, as if to see if there was anyone else she could be giving the evil eye to.

“She’s just mad at me on account of Jessica’s nose,” I say weakly.

“Huh?” Zach furrows his brow.

“Turns out Jessica was supposed to be in some beauty pageant the day that I hit her with a volleyball. Apparently her nose swelled all up, got all red and puffy. She didn’t win.”

“I don’t think that’s the only reason she didn’t win.”

“Zach—”

“I know, I know. But it’s the truth. Don’t you have to be nice to win one of those pageants?”

“Moving on.” I pull out the ham sandwiches I packed and hand one to Zach. “You know how my dad tends to put things back where they belong?”

“Wow. That’s an understatement.”

“Well, I was in the barn last night and I noticed that the shovel is missing.”

“Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

“Missing. As in, not there.”

“Okay, so?” Zach takes a bite of sandwich.

“Well, you don’t think it means anything, do you?”

“Like what?” he asks, looking at me weird.

I can’t help but think that Alex would have caught on to what I meant. But then again, Zach doesn’t read Stephen King.

“You don’t think my dad could have—You don’t think he would have used the shovel to—You don’t think he buried my mom somewhere, do you?” I pick at my sandwich, unable to eat.

Zach stops chewing. “Wow.”

“Can you stop saying ‘wow’? I mean, you don’t really think so, do you? My mom is getting things set up for us somewhere, right?”

“Probably. I mean, maybe. I mean, we’d probably better check the field and the woods behind your house. Just in case.” Zach takes another bite, then wraps up the rest of his sandwich and gets up from the picnic table.

Zach was supposed to be calming me down. Telling me that this was just crazy talk. Seeing him so agitated was making me feel like I had rocks in my stomach. I stand up quickly, banging my knee on the table, and throw my sandwich away without having eaten a single bite.

It’s easy enough to skip afternoon classes. I’ve done it so much lately that I’m becoming a pro. We simply walk from the Dairy Dream to the parking lot and get into Zach’s car. No one stops us or questions us. I guess it helps that Scottsfield’s not big enough to have a parking-lot attendant or security guard.

“Park on the grass, next to the camper,” I say when we get to my house. “Just in case Jack drives by the place and reports back to my dad.”

Ever since my brother killed himself, Jack had increased his patrols past our house and reported anything suspicious back to Dad. A car in front of the house during school hours would definitely qualify as suspicious.

I slam the car door and look out at the hay fields dancing in the wind. “So what’s the plan?” I ask.

“Why don’t you start here and walk straight back. I’ll go over that way about twenty feet and do the same. When we get to the end, we can move over and head back this way.”

It feels good to have someone else making the decisions, even though I know I could have figured that out for myself. I put my arms in front of me as if I’m swimming, make a part in the hay, and step through. I try to walk as carefully as I can so my dad won’t see any sign that we’ve been trampling through the field.

“How are you doing?” Zach calls.

“Okay, I guess.”

What I really want to do is to throw myself on the ground and scream.

We find nothing, which is good news, I guess. No sign that anyone’s been dragged, dumped, or buried. But there’s still the woods, and the field in front of the house.

“The front field is too exposed,” says Zach. “No one in his right mind would …” Zach’s voice trails off.

Yeah, right.
Still, I have to agree with Zach that we should concentrate on the woods. They belong to the farmer behind us, but they might as well belong to nobody, because as far as I know, no one ever sets foot in them.

As I enter the woods, a knot forms in my stomach. The tall trees, some starting to change colors, block the sunlight, lending a chill to the air. The wind picks up and the sound of leaves rustling reminds me of a fast-moving river. The tops of the trees creak, as if one might fall over at any minute. I duck involuntarily. Weaving this way and that, I try to find a clear route. Twigs and small branches slap my face. I turn back around, trying to make sure that I’m heading in as straight a line as possible, but I can no longer see our house or anything outside of the woods. I shiver as I imagine Dad carrying my mom through the woods and setting her down in front of the maple tree before me, confident that no one can see what he’s doing.

I trip. I scream and clench my eyes shut, certain I’ve stumbled over Mom’s leg. I can hear Zach’s shoes crunching twigs and dried
leaves as he runs to me. When I feel his hand on my shoulder, I dare to open my eyes. It’s only a root.

Zach gives me a hug and we keep going, but this time he stays closer. We get to the marshy part and uneasiness trickles through my veins. The muck and water cover my ankles. With each step there’s no way of knowing what I’ll put my foot down on. Unlike the field in front of the house, this is the perfect place to hide a body. I start to shake. So much so that Zach notices.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can wait at the edge and I can do it. Or we can call the police.”

“No. I can do this.” If I call the police, Jack Reynolds and his crew will come busting back into our lives, Dad will convince them that my mom is on an extended vacation, and I’ll be left alone with my dad who will know that I know.

The muck clings to my shoes. Every time I lift my foot it sounds like a sock stuck in the tube of the vacuum cleaner. Filthy water splashes my jeans and my shirt. I break a cattail in half and scatter the white fluffy filling in the water to distract myself from the real reason I’m here. Ten steps. Another cattail. Repeat. Twenty-seven cattails later and we’ve made it through the marsh.

“It’s almost five,” Zach says. “I better get out of here before your dad shows up.” He extends his hand and we trudge back to the house together.

We go in through the garage and take a few careful steps to the laundry room. “Crap. I think these shoes are ruined. Yours too.” I pry off my shoes and socks. “Hold on a sec,” I say. “I’ll get us some dry clothes.”

In my room, I put on a new pair of jeans and grab some gray sweats for Zach. In the kitchen I get a jumbo garbage bag for our dirty stuff. I toss Zach the sweats. “What shoe size are you?”

“Eleven.”

Close enough. Matt was a twelve. I go to Matt’s room and fling open the door. “Hey, Matt, mind if Zach borrows your tennis shoes?” I say to the air. “I’m going to grab a pair of socks, too.”

Zach must know the shoes are Matt’s, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Just let me stash this bag somewhere and I’ll walk you out.” The bag stinks. I stuff it in the back corner of my closet.

When I get back to the laundry room, Zach is wiping the floor with a towel. “Thanks,” I say.

Five ten. My heart starts to beat faster. I take one last look to make sure that everything is the way it was this morning.

“You better get out of here,” I say.

As we walk to his car, I look over at Zach, in my too-small sweats and Matt’s too-big shoes. And for once, I just see Zach. Not my brother. Not my brother’s best friend. My friend. “Thanks for doing this with me,” I say.

“Of course,” says Zach. “You know, I’m not sure you should be staying here. Maybe you should go stay with your grandparents. Or I can ask my parents—”

If Zach knew about the whole “let me force you to smoke a cigarette” incident, he’d be even less sure. “I’ll be fine,” I say. I close his car door and wave. Then I jog inside to start dinner.

The first thing Dad says when he gets home is “Who made those tire tracks out by the barn?”

My fingers and toes throb. Do I say something like, “Lauren came over to work on history”? I really want to blame it on he-who-refused-to-take-a-police-report Jack Reynolds, but that would buy me fifteen minutes at the most, before Dad un-verified it. The seconds tick by on the cuckoo clock.
Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock.
“What tracks?” I say, approximately six seconds too late.

“Don’t play games with me.”

I expect a slap, or perhaps a shove. Instead Dad grabs my wrist and drags me after him. Like a high-speed train, we whip through the house and out the front door. When a train is going fast enough, all you see are flashes of scenery. The same thing is happening to me, only the scenes that fly past are only in my mind. Me and Matt at the zoo, watching Matt’s favorite animals—the monkeys. Us at home, making monkey faces at each other. Matt and I playing Uno at the kitchen table (Dad safely at work, so there’s no chance he’ll yell at us for playing something with Spanish in the title). Then we’re in the auditorium at school. Matt is onstage and I’m in the audience, laughing out loud at a line he’s just delivered.

By the time we reach the barn, my little mind-movie is over. It ends where it always does: with Matt dead on the dining room floor. I want so badly for it to start over, even though I know it will always end the same.

Dad pushes me to my knees, then, clutching the back of my neck, he propels my face toward the flattened grass, as if I’m a dog who’s just messed in the living room. “These tire tracks.”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“Like hell you don’t!” He pushes hard and quick, and my face slams into the grass. The pain in my nose forces tears to my eyes. I lick my lips to see if they’re bleeding and end up tasting a paste of dirt and blood.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who made these tire tracks?”

I don’t hesitate this time.
Whatever you do, don’t say Zach. Don’t say Zach. Don’t say Zach.
I’m not getting Zach any more mixed-up in this mess than he already is. “I really don’t know.”

Dad kicks me in the shin. The knee. The stomach. I seal my face with my arms, making it hard to breathe, and squeeze my eyes shut. This time the flashes are all of my mom—her head slammed into the wall, the frying pan thrown at her feet, the broken arm, the hand shattered by the car door.
If you had said something, if you had done something, Sara, this wouldn’t be happening now. You deserve this.
A boot strikes my back and I whimper. Then the footsteps crunch away and it’s quiet except for a fly buzzing overhead.

The truck rumbles to life. I expect it to take off and fade away. Instead it roars louder as it closes in on me. He’s going to run me over!

I scramble to my feet. It’s like I’m stuck in a dream with the horn of a train blaring at me to get out of the way, only I can’t move because, of course, it’s only a dream and your legs don’t work when you’re stuck inside a dream. But this isn’t a dream because there’s no horn blasting, no conductor wanting me to move, only the roar of the truck that doesn’t care what it flattens.

Run! Run! Run! Far away! Don’t stop!
Thump!

My eyes tell my leg about the tree stump, but only after it’s too late. The air gets sucked out of my lungs as I slam into the ground. I don’t know if I can get up again. I wish I had time to say good-bye to Zach. To Alex.

Alex! God, how I wish I were back in history class. That I’d fallen asleep reading Stephen King and that Alex was tapping my shoulder. No, take that back—kissing my ear. Pitching paper airplanes at me. Whatever. Doing
anything
so I can just wake up! Goddamn it, why can’t I just wake up?

Brakes shriek. The truck idles a few feet from my head. I can feel its hot breath panting down on my face. Then I hear the angry sound of the gear shift being slammed some way it doesn’t want to go, and the hot breath is gone. The truck careens backward as recklessly as it had sped forward, cutting paths in the field. Forward again. Only this time it rumbles down the driveway and out onto the road.

I look up at the sky. The clouds float serenely by, as if nothing has changed. Just like at school, where everyone still worries about the grade they got on their math test and if a certain shirt makes them look fat. It’s nearly impossible to watch everything and everyone act the same when for me, the whole world has changed.