says, “Thanks for the ride.”
I need to say something, but I don’t know what.
“Baker, wait.”
“Yeah?”
He’s hopeful and tense, and he leans in farther than he should, and I blurt out, “I’m not Carly.”
With a little snort of laughter, he swings back out of the car, and as the door squeals shut, I hear him say, “I know.”
I watch him unlock his front door and disappear into thewarm glow of his too small house, where his mom will have some horrible casserole on the table that his dad will complain about while his three younger sisters toss dolls and stuffed animals all over the place. I miss feeling at home there, sitting on the squashy couch next to Carly, with Baker on my other side as we watched movies. It’s another haven I’ve lost and then forgotten, and now it’s like losing it all over again, because everything has changed and I can’t go back.
It only takes two minutes to drive home, and I spend it all wondering what he’s been through in the last year, dealing with his pain alone while I was lost in the fog. I’m not the only one who suffered.
I park in the street, as close to the curb as I can so my mom won’t make me come back out and move the car. After double-checking that I left nothing of value inside, I leave the car unlocked and get my backpack out of the trunk. There are so many desperate people after Hurricane Josephine that leaving anything, even a grocery bag, in a car parked on the street is a great way to get your windows smashed. Sometimes they don’t even check to see if the car is unlocked first.
I walk up the front steps, and even though I feel awake and confused and freaked out, I know I have to pretend that I’m still on my meds. Too bad I didn’t ask Baker what I was like before. I hunch my shoulders, make my face blank and dull, and open the door.
“It’s past seven,” my mom says before I’m even inside.
“Sorry. Rehearsal ran late.” I try to hide my irritation at her instant attack.
“That Rosewater lady needs to respect family time,” she says, and I hang my backpack on the hook and just nod dumbly. I look at her, curled up on the old plaid couch with a folder full of papers, and I can’t help giving her a halfhearted smile. Her face softens in response.
“I’m sorry, honey. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just feeling grouchy. Too many people out of work, too many people in trouble. How are you feeling today?”
“Fine.”
She nods and smiles. Apparently, I’m playing along well.
“Dinner’s in the microwave. Just leave some for your father.”
I nod and go into the kitchen, even though I’m not at all hungry. I can’t remember when I ate last, but I feel oddly full, like my stomach is stretched out. Maybe it’s a side effect of going off the meds? I guess my dad can have as much of Mom’s enchiladas as he wants.
On the way to my room, I walk past his study and inhale. Wood glue, pipe smoke, and dust. My dad has worked the second shift at the factory for so long that I can’t remember the last time we had a meal together at night. I’m guessing it was sometime after Josephine, when the mill flooded and they sent everyone home without pay. My mom is dark and serious with a permanent V on her forehead, but my dad has a gentle smile and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and is always rubbing what’s left of his light blond hair. They couldn’t look or act more different, but it works. When I was little, he was always with me in the morningswhile my mom was at the office, but we fell out of step when I started high school and didn’t need help to get on the bus. He’s another thing I’ve missed.
As soon as I see my bed, I’m overcome with exhaustion. My feet shuffle like a zombie’s, and everything is fuzzy and thick, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t brush my teeth or wash my face or do homework. I don’t even stop to take off my bra and put on pajamas. I just fall into bed in my clothes, and I’m
I need to say something, but I don’t know what.
“Baker, wait.”
“Yeah?”
He’s hopeful and tense, and he leans in farther than he should, and I blurt out, “I’m not Carly.”
With a little snort of laughter, he swings back out of the car, and as the door squeals shut, I hear him say, “I know.”
I watch him unlock his front door and disappear into thewarm glow of his too small house, where his mom will have some horrible casserole on the table that his dad will complain about while his three younger sisters toss dolls and stuffed animals all over the place. I miss feeling at home there, sitting on the squashy couch next to Carly, with Baker on my other side as we watched movies. It’s another haven I’ve lost and then forgotten, and now it’s like losing it all over again, because everything has changed and I can’t go back.
It only takes two minutes to drive home, and I spend it all wondering what he’s been through in the last year, dealing with his pain alone while I was lost in the fog. I’m not the only one who suffered.
I park in the street, as close to the curb as I can so my mom won’t make me come back out and move the car. After double-checking that I left nothing of value inside, I leave the car unlocked and get my backpack out of the trunk. There are so many desperate people after Hurricane Josephine that leaving anything, even a grocery bag, in a car parked on the street is a great way to get your windows smashed. Sometimes they don’t even check to see if the car is unlocked first.
I walk up the front steps, and even though I feel awake and confused and freaked out, I know I have to pretend that I’m still on my meds. Too bad I didn’t ask Baker what I was like before. I hunch my shoulders, make my face blank and dull, and open the door.
“It’s past seven,” my mom says before I’m even inside.
“Sorry. Rehearsal ran late.” I try to hide my irritation at her instant attack.
“That Rosewater lady needs to respect family time,” she says, and I hang my backpack on the hook and just nod dumbly. I look at her, curled up on the old plaid couch with a folder full of papers, and I can’t help giving her a halfhearted smile. Her face softens in response.
“I’m sorry, honey. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just feeling grouchy. Too many people out of work, too many people in trouble. How are you feeling today?”
“Fine.”
She nods and smiles. Apparently, I’m playing along well.
“Dinner’s in the microwave. Just leave some for your father.”
I nod and go into the kitchen, even though I’m not at all hungry. I can’t remember when I ate last, but I feel oddly full, like my stomach is stretched out. Maybe it’s a side effect of going off the meds? I guess my dad can have as much of Mom’s enchiladas as he wants.
On the way to my room, I walk past his study and inhale. Wood glue, pipe smoke, and dust. My dad has worked the second shift at the factory for so long that I can’t remember the last time we had a meal together at night. I’m guessing it was sometime after Josephine, when the mill flooded and they sent everyone home without pay. My mom is dark and serious with a permanent V on her forehead, but my dad has a gentle smile and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and is always rubbing what’s left of his light blond hair. They couldn’t look or act more different, but it works. When I was little, he was always with me in the morningswhile my mom was at the office, but we fell out of step when I started high school and didn’t need help to get on the bus. He’s another thing I’ve missed.
As soon as I see my bed, I’m overcome with exhaustion. My feet shuffle like a zombie’s, and everything is fuzzy and thick, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t brush my teeth or wash my face or do homework. I don’t even stop to take off my bra and put on pajamas. I just fall into bed in my clothes, and I’m
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