Where the Stars Still Shine (18 page)

“I’m sorry.” I sit down beside her, not sure why I’m apologizing. I could ask her where she thinks I could have gone on my own, or how I would have found her, but this is my mother. She believes all of this is somehow my choice. And even though I know it’s her personality disorder that makes her believe this, I can’t silence the tiny voice in my head that agrees. “Aren’t you worried that you’ll be caught?”

Her face softens and she gives me a grin that dimples her cheek. “You should know by now that I’m excellent at not being found. And anyway, I won’t be here much longer. As soon as I have enough money for us to start over, we can get out of here.”

“How much did you get for the computer?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Can you get it back?”

She laughs. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it was mine,” I say. “You stole it from me.”

She reaches out and touches my hair. It’s comforting and familiar and I want to press my head into her hand for more. I want her affection back. “We can go to Colorado the way we planned or”—I see the excitement flicker to life in her eyes as she ignores my question completely—“anywhere. We can go anywhere we want, Callie. We can be
free
.”

Free.

“I, um—” In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve found a job, a friend—even as turbulent as our best-friendship has been so far—and a parent who grounds me when I mess up. Greg’s been a safety net when I fall. And that’s a kind of freedom I would have never expected. But none of this is what she wants to hear. I smile and rest my head on her bony shoulder. “Sounds good, Mom.”

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text message. She reaches for it and I see Alex’s name flash across the screen. “Ooh,
Alex
,” she teases. “Let’s see what Alex has to say.”

“Mom—” I make a grab for the phone, but she holds
it out of my reach as she fumbles for the button that will reveal his message. I stand and lunge for it, ripping it from her grasp.

Her eyebrows lift.

“Interesting.” Her voice is soft as I pocket the phone without reading his message, even though I’m dying to know what he said. “Is he Greek?”

I never told her about any of the other guys I’ve been with because they weren’t worth mentioning, but now—Alex might be worth it, and I’m afraid telling her will ruin everything. “He—he’s nothing.”

“Obviously.” She laughs and stubs out her cigarette in the candle again. I make a mental note to get rid of it before Greg sees. “Be careful with those Greek boys, though. They’ll break your heart.”

Except I know better. I’ve seen the photos in the red leather album that tell a different story about who’s heart was broken.

“I have to go to work in the morning,” I say. “You can stay with me tonight if you want, but you should probably be gone before Greg and Phoebe get up at seven.”

Leaving her sitting on the couch, I go into the bathroom to read Alex’s text.

It’s dark out tonight and the sky is thick with stars. I think you’d love it
.

I lean against the bathroom wall and close my eyes, trying to picture what he sees. Imagining him at the wheel of his boat as he heads out into the dark water of the Gulf of Mexico. I look out my little window but the sky is obscured by trees and houses. I send a message back, just four words.

I’m sure of it
.

The phone buzzes again.

I’m about to lose signal, but don’t make any dates this weekend
.

My mouth spreads to a mile-wide smile, as I answer.

Too late. Unless you’ve got plans with someone else on Saturday night
.

Buzz.

I’m all yours
.

I stand there, attempting to think of a clever response, but my brain has abandoned my head and taken off for the party my heart is throwing in my chest.
I’m all yours
. I can’t stop smiling as I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas.
I’m all yours
. I arrange my face into a less incandescent expression so Mom won’t ask questions, but by the time I come out of the bathroom, she’s already tucked beneath the covers of my bed.

Typical.

Most everywhere we’ve lived she’s chosen the best sleeping space, claiming that because she worked, she
needed a good night’s sleep. That usually left me with the too-short couch, or the uncomfortable foldout sofa, or the sleeping bag on the floor. That was the worst, especially when it was cold. Although the Airstream’s couch converts to a full-size bed, I climb in beside my mother, something I haven’t done since I was very small. She rolls onto her side and faces the wall, giving me what little room is left.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’ve got money,” I whisper. “If you can get my computer back, I’ll give you some of it. Just—please?”

I wait, but she doesn’t reply, except for the deep, even breaths that come with sleep. I shift so my back is against hers, stealing a little comfort from the soft vibration of her snores. Except my happiness that she’s here is eroded by worry that Greg is going to discover her in his own backyard, and I can’t sleep. What am I going to do when she’s raised enough money to leave? My life is complicated now and I’m no longer so certain I can just walk away from my dad. And this time I’m old enough to have a choice.

I draw Toot up under my chin and stroke my finger across the soft wales of a brown corduroy patch, the way I used to do when I was a little girl. It’s as soothing now as it was back then and I finally fall asleep.

When my alarm goes off the next morning, Mom is already gone.

“I can’t ask Kat because she’s already left for school.” Phoebe’s cell phone is wedged between her ear and shoulder, as she scoops oatmeal into a bowl on Joe’s high chair tray. He dips his fingers into the steamy mush. “Use your spoon,” she says, before returning to her call. “Are you sure you can’t come home? What about your mom? Do you think she could watch the boys?”

Tucker wriggles off his chair, saying my name over and over until it becomes a string of sound—calliecalliecalliecallie—and attaches himself to my leg. “Pick me up.”

“Greg—” Phoebe stops abruptly when she sees me, and I feel as if I’ve walked in on another private conversation about me. “I just—”

She’s quiet as she listens to whatever it is he has to say. I imagine he’s defending me because he does that. Pretending I’m not paying attention, I reach down for my little brother. As I hoist him up, I groan and strain, as if he’s too big for me to lift. “You must have grown a million inches last night, Tuck. Or have you been eating
rocks
?”

He giggles. “Yes. I ate a
stalagmite
for breakfast.” He
draws out the syllables in “stalagmite,” with a note of gravity in his voice. I love that about him.

“A
stalagmite
?” I finally lift him completely into my arms and feign a breath of relief. “You have to be careful not to overdo it on the stalagmite munching, buddy. You might end up stuck to the ceiling.”

“Callie.” His puts his hands on my cheeks to make sure I’m looking at him, that I’m paying attention. “Stalagmites. Are the ones. On the floor.”

I know this, but it completely knocks me out that he knows, too. “They are? Are you
sure
?”

He nods.

“Well, either way,” I say. “It’s important not to eat too many rocks, because then I wouldn’t be able to lift you. And that wouldn’t be good at all.”

I put Tucker back in his seat, where his bowl of oatmeal is waiting and Phoebe is staring at me. “Greg, I’ll call you back,” she says and disconnects the call. “Callie—”

“I can watch the boys.” I keep my voice level so I don’t sound like my mother. “I know you think I might be crazy and I get that my past is a mystery, so it makes sense that you don’t trust me, but—”

“It’s not that I don’t—”

“Yes, it is,” I interrupt. “You’re their mom and you want to protect them.” Unexpected tears make my eyes
burn, and I’m surprised that what I feel is jealousy. Tucker and Joe will always know what it’s like to have someone in their corner. “I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me, but if there is, I can’t feel it. All I know is that I would never,
ever
do anything to hurt them.”

Phoebe looks at me for a long moment, as if she’s searching for a sign, for that one thing that will make me trustworthy. If she sees something, I can’t read it in her face.

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Here’s the deal: my mom fell down, and even though my dad doesn’t think it warrants a trip to the hospital, I’ll feel better if I know she’s all right.” She gathers her purse and the keys to the SUV. “There’s a list of emergency numbers on the side of the fridge. I don’t think I’ll be very long, but if you need any help at all, call Gre—call your dad.”

“I will.”

“Please don’t let me down.”

Her eyes hold mine and I want to promise that nothing bad will happen while she’s away, but it’s not a promise I can make. Bad things don’t announce themselves. All I can do is assure her that I will do my best. That I will be better than my mother. “I won’t.”

“Be good for Callie.” She kisses the boys, then offers
me a smile that’s offset by the lines of worry between her eyebrows. “Thank you.”

Phoebe’s SUV is down the driveway and gone when panic sets in. This is different from playing with Tucker and Joe while their parents hover in the background. I don’t know the first thing about caring for little boys. What made me think this was a good idea?

Kat is already in class, but I send her a text message anyway.
I’m babysitting. What do I do?

A couple of minutes later, I’m stirring sugar into my bowl of oatmeal when my phone rings.

“I’m calling from the bathroom,” Kat says. “I told my history teacher I started my period. What’s going on?”

“Phoebe had an emergency with her mom, so she left me alone with the boys. We’re eating breakfast right now, but I’m not sure what happens next.”

“Oh, this is an easy one,” Kat says. “Wash them up, then let Tucker pick out a DVD. That will keep them busy long enough for you to clean up the kitchen. Then check Joe’s diaper—”

“His diaper?”

“Yeah, you might have to change it.”

“Oh, God.”

“Not gonna lie,” Kat says. “It’s horrendous. I’ve been babysitting since I was twelve, and the smell of baby
poop still makes me gag. Also, don’t forget that the tabs go in the back and attach in the front. It’ll make sense when you see it. The first time I ever changed Tucker’s diaper, I put it on backward.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it,” she says. “Oh, you might remind Tuck to use the potty. He has accidents sometimes. Aside from that, between the television and LEGOs—piece of cake.”

It doesn’t sound easy, but I’m grateful anyway. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says. “Anyway, I’d better get back to class. Good luck and I hope Phoebe’s mom is okay.”

I turn back to the table to find that Joe has rubbed oatmeal in his hair, and Tucker spilled orange juice down the front of his T-shirt.

“It’s wet, Callie.” Tucker tugs at the hem, trying to pull the damp spot away from his skin. “I want it off.”

“We’ll put on a clean shirt after breakfast, okay?”

“No, now.” The serious little man from before is replaced by an irrational, whining toddler. “It’s yucky.”

“God, Tucker, it’s just juice,” I snap. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

His bottom lip juts out, and I sigh.

“Fine. Come on.”

Leaving Joe in his high chair, Tucker and I go to the
bedroom, where we swap the damp shirt for one with Batman wings across the chest. He scampers back to the kitchen and we finish our breakfast, accompanied by his nonstop narrative about how his oatmeal is an island, he’s a pirate, and his spoon is digging for buried treasure.

After I wash up the boys, I park them in front of an animated movie, do the dishes, and then sit down on the floor with them. Joe worms his way onto my lap and leans back against my chest. There’s an oat still stuck in his hair. As I pick it out, he makes a grunting noise and his face turns bright red.

“Uh-oh,” Tucker sing-songs. “Joe is pooping.”

“Poop,” Joe agrees.

Even through his diaper and little stretchy-waist jeans, I can feel the warmth against my thigh and the smell creeps up between us. I dread having to change him and consider pretending I didn’t notice he’d soiled himself until Phoebe gets home, but if he smells this bad now, it can only get worse with time.

I carry Joe into the bedroom and put him down on the changing table. Tucker follows, repeating the word “poop” and giggling every time.

“Okay, Joe.” I unsnap the inseams of his jeans, revealing his chubby little legs. The smell is even more intense now and my stomach roils. “We need to do this really fast, so hold still for Peach, okay?”

He grins and points at my face. “Peach.”

Tucker climbs onto his bed and starts bouncing, arms outstretched as he proclaims himself Batman, Defender of the Universe.

I tear open the Velcro tabs at Joe’s waist and peel back the diaper. A wave of stink curls up my nose and I feel bile rise into the back of my throat. How does Phoebe do this every day without throwing up? How do I get the diaper out from under him? I think about texting Kat, but I don’t have enough hands available and I need to clean up Joe before I puke. I lift him by the feet and whisk the dirty diaper into the trash pail.