juice. Then out the door. Had he said good-bye?
She has to come back soon, wherever she is, they have to find her and bring her back. Maybe she fell, maybe she ran out of gas and was walking to the gas station when she fell and now she has amnesia and can’t get to them.
His father is a basket case. He’s been in the kitchen the past two nights with his Jack Daniel’s, one eye on the rooster clock over the sink and the other on the back door. Waiting. That’s what they are all doing: just waiting. The police have been to the house seven times, asking questions, taking information, borrowing one of his mother’s shirts. For the scent, Detective Olnowski tells them, the dogs need it. Quinn’s life has suddenly turned from routine to erratic in the span of fifty-two hours.
She’ll be back, he knows it, and there will be a good reason for her absence, he knows this, too. It will all make sense the second he sees her face, hears her voice, then everything will be all right, back to normal.
He lifts his head from the tunnel of his arms, blinks to adjust to the light. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 3:18 P.M . Annalise will be coming home from Aunt Rita’s soon, and then she’ll be looking for him, knocking on his door, peeking in, making sure he isn’t going to disappear, too. Quinn has taken to putting her to bed at night, removing the barrettes and elastic bands from her long brown hair, pulling the blanket to her chin, tucking her in with Penelope, the pink hippo, sometimes even reading her a few poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends . Ten-year-old brains aren’t equipped to handle death, or loss, unless it is a squished worm or a sick hermit crab, and even then, the tears and questions can resurface for days. But parents don’t die in a ten-year-old’s mind and they never just disappear; washing T-shirts and underwear one day, gone the next.
No one has told Annalise they don’t know where her mother is or when she’ll be back—not if, but when. They say she’s gone on a trip to Philadelphia for a few days to visit a sick relative and Annalise, unfamiliar with the adult world of lies and deceit, believes them. There are no questions, not who the relative is, aunt, uncle, cousin, or why she’s never heard of this person before. It is all simply accepted.
Lies. They tell her lies, Quinn, too. He feels bound to expand on the reasons his mother isn’t home: a very sick aunt who’s bedridden and in danger of losing a leg. Mom had to leave right away, plane to catch, no time to say good-bye. On and on he goes with the convoluted tale, until Annalise yawns, curls up on her side, and pulls Penelope to her. He watches her until she drifts off, wishing he could be ten again.
***
She wonders after how she made it out of the store. Did she walk, run? What the manager thinks when he finds her abandoned cart by the magazine aisle, piled high with beef and pork roasts, chicken, potatoes, toilet paper, fruits, and vegetables.
It takes twenty-eight miles before Evie realizes she is driving and another sixty-two before she runs out of gas. She eases the blue station wagon along the berm of the road and starts walking. She doesn’t bother to lock the doors.
The sun is high and hot as she trudges along the gravel in her scuffed loafers, mindless of everything but the need to stay in motion. Her white cotton shirt clings to her chest, spots of sweat soaking her underarms and neck. She doesn’t hear the truck behind her, its huge tires spewing gravel and dirt as it pulls off the road. The driver blasts the horn and Evie jumps, spins around, faces the shiny grill of a red semi. When the driver rolls down the passenger window, Evie is surprised to see a woman sitting behind the wheel. Her upper body is thick and stocky, her arms strong beneath the rolled up T-shirt.
“Need a ride?”
“Yes, yes I do.” Evie scrambles up onto the black vinyl seat, fumbles with the seatbelt, finally latches it and turns to the
She has to come back soon, wherever she is, they have to find her and bring her back. Maybe she fell, maybe she ran out of gas and was walking to the gas station when she fell and now she has amnesia and can’t get to them.
His father is a basket case. He’s been in the kitchen the past two nights with his Jack Daniel’s, one eye on the rooster clock over the sink and the other on the back door. Waiting. That’s what they are all doing: just waiting. The police have been to the house seven times, asking questions, taking information, borrowing one of his mother’s shirts. For the scent, Detective Olnowski tells them, the dogs need it. Quinn’s life has suddenly turned from routine to erratic in the span of fifty-two hours.
She’ll be back, he knows it, and there will be a good reason for her absence, he knows this, too. It will all make sense the second he sees her face, hears her voice, then everything will be all right, back to normal.
He lifts his head from the tunnel of his arms, blinks to adjust to the light. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 3:18 P.M . Annalise will be coming home from Aunt Rita’s soon, and then she’ll be looking for him, knocking on his door, peeking in, making sure he isn’t going to disappear, too. Quinn has taken to putting her to bed at night, removing the barrettes and elastic bands from her long brown hair, pulling the blanket to her chin, tucking her in with Penelope, the pink hippo, sometimes even reading her a few poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends . Ten-year-old brains aren’t equipped to handle death, or loss, unless it is a squished worm or a sick hermit crab, and even then, the tears and questions can resurface for days. But parents don’t die in a ten-year-old’s mind and they never just disappear; washing T-shirts and underwear one day, gone the next.
No one has told Annalise they don’t know where her mother is or when she’ll be back—not if, but when. They say she’s gone on a trip to Philadelphia for a few days to visit a sick relative and Annalise, unfamiliar with the adult world of lies and deceit, believes them. There are no questions, not who the relative is, aunt, uncle, cousin, or why she’s never heard of this person before. It is all simply accepted.
Lies. They tell her lies, Quinn, too. He feels bound to expand on the reasons his mother isn’t home: a very sick aunt who’s bedridden and in danger of losing a leg. Mom had to leave right away, plane to catch, no time to say good-bye. On and on he goes with the convoluted tale, until Annalise yawns, curls up on her side, and pulls Penelope to her. He watches her until she drifts off, wishing he could be ten again.
***
She wonders after how she made it out of the store. Did she walk, run? What the manager thinks when he finds her abandoned cart by the magazine aisle, piled high with beef and pork roasts, chicken, potatoes, toilet paper, fruits, and vegetables.
It takes twenty-eight miles before Evie realizes she is driving and another sixty-two before she runs out of gas. She eases the blue station wagon along the berm of the road and starts walking. She doesn’t bother to lock the doors.
The sun is high and hot as she trudges along the gravel in her scuffed loafers, mindless of everything but the need to stay in motion. Her white cotton shirt clings to her chest, spots of sweat soaking her underarms and neck. She doesn’t hear the truck behind her, its huge tires spewing gravel and dirt as it pulls off the road. The driver blasts the horn and Evie jumps, spins around, faces the shiny grill of a red semi. When the driver rolls down the passenger window, Evie is surprised to see a woman sitting behind the wheel. Her upper body is thick and stocky, her arms strong beneath the rolled up T-shirt.
“Need a ride?”
“Yes, yes I do.” Evie scrambles up onto the black vinyl seat, fumbles with the seatbelt, finally latches it and turns to the
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