Miles from Ordinary

by Carol Lynch Williams

  Anyone at all. That’s what I wanted on my days out at the library. A friend. My cheeks turned pink at the thought of someone waiting for me at the library. A best friend for sleepovers and jogging on the beach, maybe, and even shopping for school clothes.

  “I can tell what you’re thinking,” Momma said. Then she sang out, “Boys, boys, boys.” She looked me in the eye. “I remember the boys.” Her voice went soft and she stared out the window. “All those boys. Aunt Linda and me sneaking out at night. Stealing Grandaddy’s car. Driving a carload of boys to the beach.”

  I knew the story. How Momma drove. How Aunt Linda ran and tapped on windows, calling all the boys they were friends with to come on with them. Drive to the shore. Listen to the waves crash. Till the car was full of bodies and Momma was kissing her boyfriend while she drove. Swerving on the street. Almost running into a ditch from kissing and laughter, not from crying until she couldn’t see.

  Momma laughed now. Then her face grew tight. “You know Granddaddy wouldn’t approve, Lacey. They will cause you grief. Men will cause you grief.”

  There was no use in explaining. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I thought of Granddaddy, so tall and lean, like in his picture, his eyes mad as a stormy sky. The way Momma and Aunt Linda had told me he was so quick to anger. And how he would mourn about their behavior for days. Keep them inside, watch so they couldn’t sneak away, though Momma could sneak away, did sneak away.

  “‘Oh, Daddy,’ I would say. ‘Angela and I are old enough to go to the dance. You don’t need to worry.’” Aunt Linda’s voice filled my head. This was just before she had left. Momma had been asleep and I had snuck into Aunt Linda’s room to hear about her first crush.

  I glanced away from Momma so I could keep my thoughts to myself. She wouldn’t want me thinking of Aunt Linda. Aunt Linda was dead to her. That’s what Momma said. Dead and gone. Dead and gone.

  Gone!

  I drew in a deep breath. This summer, I was sure, things would be different for me. If Momma and Aunt Linda could sneak away to be with friends, why, I could, too. The thought was like a fast-growing seed. Not sneak away. Just find someone to talk to. I’d start the journey to womanhood with a girl who was experiencing growing up, too. Not so far as Momma’s gone. Neither of us would be like that. Not so unhappy. No, I prefer to stay this side of her unhappiness, which she says comes from her monthly periods.

  “I been blue, Lacey, since the first day I started on the rag. I was thirteen and a half,” she’s told me time and again. I have the words memorized, say them right along with her. “It’s hormones that does this to me,” she says, spreading her hands out like a shelf holding sad information.

  For a long time I thought hormones were snakelike things that somehow got into your gut and made you cry. Now I know they’re more like parasites, sucking out people’s happy feelings. They mess up Momma’s days good when they’re riding around in her body. I keep waiting for hormones to mess me up. But so far, I’ve been fine.

  I glanced again at the girls at the back of the bus. One caught me looking and gave me the finger. I turned forward in my seat, my face burning.

  Just past the cemetery the bus stopped again. And that’s when I saw him. Climbing up the steps. Showing his bus pass. Aaron Ririe from school. I looked away from him fast, then looked again. My face flamed.

  “Boys, boys, boys,” Momma sang under her breath.

  I stared at my hands that were clasped so tight the knuckles had gone white. Aaron Ririe. I’d seen him in the halls. Even had an English class with him. And he’s my neighbor. Lives just a couple of houses down the road from us. I looked up just as he passed Momma and me. Aaron raised his eyebrows to me as he clomped down the aisle toward a free seat in the back.

  I wanted to melt away. He had seen me see him.

  “He’s so cute,” I remembered Vickie Anderson saying about Aaron. It was one day toward the end of school. It had been hot outside and I had been waiting for the bus, standing alone, watching everyone.

  “He sorta is,” Alison Leavitt said. “A little. I guess.”

  “No, he so is.” They had laughed.

  I had looked at Aaron then and imagined myself coming up to everyone. Their circle would have opened for me. Vickie would have thrown an arm around my shoulder.

  Then I would have said, without one bit of fear, I would have said to all those girls, “He is so cute. Such a hottie.” I would have laughed right along with them.

  But no one asked me how I felt. And I couldn’t just walk up and talk to them. So I stood on the outside, looking in, seeing them all collapse with laughter over Aaron. Finally, I had turned away.

  The bus slowed down for the railroad tracks and I took a peek back at Aaron. He was talking with those girls.

  “Who are you looking at?” Momma said.

  I shook my head. “No one.”

  Aaron is a skateboarder. I’ve seen him on the road in front of our house, skating with his buddies sometimes, sometimes alone. Now I could see his board tucked right up underneath his arm. He looked straight at me, even with one girl leaning toward him, and nodded a hello. I tried to smile but my face wouldn’t move and I had to look away again.

  It took thirty-five minutes for us to get to the Winn-Dixie, and any time I wasn’t talking to Momma, I glanced to the back of the bus. The girls got off at the mall, pulling at Aaron to make him follow. He grinned and shook his head. One threw a look at me and fake gagged. I gathered my courage and narrowed my eyes at her.

  There! And ha! He’s not going with you.

  I looked at Aaron again as the bus doors closed. It was weird. And embarrassing. It was like I had to see him and I wasn’t sure why. He was cute and all. But I never stare at guys. Not like the girls at school do. Even if I was in their group, I’m not sure I could stare at guys the way they do, laughing and giggling and talking behind their hands like it’s a secret when really their voices are way loud.

  But today, as we bounced toward the beach, the bus roaring along, I did look at Aaron. Maybe it was my library job that gave me courage to watch what he did.

  And the thing is, every time I looked back, Aaron was staring at me. Twice he raised a hand in something like a wave. I swear my heart skipped a beat. Just like it says in books. I felt it miss, felt it thud.

  “He is such a hottie,” I said, my voice low.

  “What?” Momma said. And then, “Boys, boys, boys. Oh Lacey, you know how Granddaddy feels about the boys. He’s always watching, you know.”

  “Yes, I know Granddaddy’s rules,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “We’re Fertile Myrtles,” Momma said. “A boy can just take a peek at you, and you’ll get pregnant. That’s how fertile we are.” She smiled like what she said was full of fact and like it wasn’t the most horrifying thing a mother could say to her daughter.

  “I’m not fertile, Momma,” I said, my face flaming at the thought.

  “You are! We are!” Momma let out a soft laugh. “Don’t make eye contact with that boy.” She nodded.

  “What boy? I won’t.”

  “You know what one,” Momma said. She gestured with her chin. “The one back there.”

  I refused to see if Momma was talking about Aaron.

  She whispered into the side of my face. “Granddaddy told me already you needed to watch out for that one.” Momma gave me a smile that seemed so intense I was sure Granddaddy had warned her.

  It was then that the grocery store came into view. I wanted to say, “What a relief. Take Granddaddy with you when you go,” but I didn’t. Instead, I leaned close to Momma, putting my arm around her shoulder. Touching her cheek with a finger.

  “You ready?” I threw one last look at Aaron, who had changed seats, moving forward on the bus some. My face was bright red, tomato red, crayon red, red velvet, red like a fire, no that’s orange, burning-hot red, I knew it. But I couldn’t help the feeling I had. Aaron was cute. And on the bus. Right on this bus.

  “Fertile,” Mo
mma whispered. Then she lifted her head. “Already here?” A look of panic swept over her face. “I’ve changed my mind.” She gasped for air. Her arms tightened around me, squeezing out my breath.

  “You can do it,” I said, my heart picking up the pace a bit. I kept my voice low. “I know you can.”

  “I’m scared, Lacey.” Her words were full of air. She looked me right in the eye and I saw that she was. For sure scared.

  A good daughter would have done something different. Would have ridden all the way back home with her momma. A good daughter would have said, “Let’s get on back to the house.” But desperation grabbed at the back of my neck. For a moment I could only think of me. And getting out. Being free.

  Then my heart went soft and I tried to talk Momma through her sadness.

  “They’re waiting for you, Momma.” I spoke into the side of her face, my lips touching her skin. “And you can do this.” I made myself say the words I didn’t want to. I had to inhale big to do it. “Look, if you don’t like your job, you don’t ever have to go back.”

  “I don’t?” Momma said. Her eyes searched my face, like she looked for lies.

  “You don’t,” I said.

  “And they’re waiting,” Momma said.

  I nodded.

  The bus pulled to a halt, one stop away from the Winn-Dixie. Momma took in a cleansing breath and let it out slow. “Well, I can’t let them down. I’ve let plenty of people down in the past. Can’t do that again.” She touched her neck. “And if I don’t like it, I can quit. You said so. And I bet Granddaddy would agree.”

  “Now Momma,” I said. “Don’t you think of any of that. This is about money. Remember how worried you are about money? That’s why you’re here.”

  Momma’s arms loosened a little. Then she pressed her dry lips to my cheek. Up close like this I could see tiny wrinkles near her eyes, near her lips. Her breath was shaky on my face.

  “I remember,” she said. She squeezed her eyes closed. “I can do this.” Her fingers shook so that when she reached for her necklace I didn’t think she’d catch hold of it. But she did. And as soon as she touched the small heart she said, “I can do this,” again. Under her breath, “Daddy, you help me. I know you can. Daddy?” Her words were a prayer. A prayer to her dead father.

  I glanced around the bus to see if maybe Granddaddy had materialized. I made eye contact with Aaron. He stared at Momma and me.

  I ached seeing Momma like this. Guilt piled up inside. You know, for wanting her to go. For me wanting to be alone for a few hours. I almost took her arm and said, “Stay right here, Momma, we can figure something else out.”

  But what if Aunt Linda waited at the library?

  What if she was there?

  She might be.

  Better to not miss that chance.

  “You remember we’re gonna meet at four-thirty? I’ll pick you up just like we practiced. And if this isn’t a good thing, why, we’ll never do it again.” Tears stung.

  Momma kissed my forehead hard. “I remember, Lacey,” she said. “I’ll try to do good.” She sounded like she was five years old. Again I felt guilt crawl through me. It knocked any embarrassment at seeing Aaron right out. But I didn’t let that guilt stop my mother from going. I didn’t say to her, “What do you say to us just going on out to the beach? Walking along the shore.”

  I needed her to go. Who needs their momma to go?

  Bad girls do.

  Don’t think that!

  Someone else pulled the bell, and a bunch of people stood to leave, including Momma.

  “You look real nice,” I said, touching her back. “Red’s a good color for you.”

  Momma bent over and hugged me. I could smell lilac powder and shampoo.

  “Four and a half hours,” I said. “That’s not so long.”

  “Right.” She gave me a worn-out smile and wrung her hands, rocking with the bus movement. “Four and a half hours. That’s not so long. I can do that. And I won’t let anyone down, either. I won’t. I won’t.”

  “You are going to be the best they’ve ever had,” I said. “People will remember you in the Winn-Dixie. They won’t ever forget you.”

  Momma smiled, showing her small teeth.

  The bus stopped with a loud gasp.

  She made her way down the aisle, and every once in a while, turned back and waved. It was weird how I felt. Kinda teary, you know, like I might start bawling. When she got to the stairs Momma said in her thin voice, “I love you, Lacey Marie.”

  Somebody behind us let out a yelp of a laugh. A look of surprise crossed her face.

  Who in the heck? Who would laugh at us?

  “I love you too, Momma,” I said, loud, making sure the whole bus heard me. I stood up so she could see me. “I love you, too.”

  At first I thought she might not move. But then she turned and headed down the stairs, the bus doors closing with a heavy air sound behind her. I watched as she walked across the black parking lot toward the strip mall where the Winn-Dixie was tucked in tight. She seemed so small. Like a good wind might take her away. Twice she looked back and waved. Then she was out of my sight.

  IV

  It was the tattooed guy. I know ’cause when I turned around to give the yelper a wicked look, he grinned at me. Aaron had moved into the seat behind him.

  “I love you,” Tattoo Guy said, his voice heavy with meanness.

  “Mind your own business,” I said, giving him the worst glare I could by stretching my face all out of shape. I stared him down hard, then looked away.

  It made my heart pound, him laughing at Momma and me. Why, if Granddaddy could influence anyone outside our house the way he ran things in our house, I would have summoned him right then. But Granddaddy has a mind of his own—even dead. That’s what Momma always says.

  I looked at Tattoo Guy again. Who did he think he was anyway? And what had we done wrong? What was so bad about telling someone you loved them, if you did care? Even as I thought the words I knew there didn’t need to be a reason.

  “You lookit here, Lacey,” Momma used to say as things were getting worse and worse. As Granddaddy was running things more and more. “The world is full of hate and meanness. It’s full of lies and deceit. But we Millses, we treat people good, no matter what. You hear?”

  How many times had someone at school said something ugly to me? Even before Momma was bad off. Before Aunt Linda drove away. Before I was alone watching out for Momma with Granddaddy peering close over her shoulder.

  One thing goes wrong at school and they remember it forever.

  Like Momma stopping by. That dirty housedress on. The lipstick. Her hair unbrushed.

  Coming to my classroom door. Standing there, silencing even the teacher.

  And me, looking up, seeing her. That her shoes don’t match. All us fourth graders, quiet like we’re waiting for a surprise from the woman who looked scared even then. And me seeing it for the first time.

  “Lacey?” Momma had said.

  I didn’t move. My pencil had become a tree trunk in my hand.

  Mrs. Emery walked toward Momma. “Oh, Mrs. Mills.” And her voice sounded normal. Just-like-always normal. “How are you?”

  Momma didn’t look at Mrs. Emery. She just took a step into the classroom and someone let out a giggle.

  “Lacey, I can’t find my medicine,” Momma said.

  Mrs. Emery gave me a nod I bet no one in the class even saw.

  I stumbled making my way to my mother. Through a lake of embarrassment, I made my way to Momma where she grabbed me close, held me tight. And I went home with her to find her pills that were sitting right there in the medicine cabinet.

  No one forgot that.

  Sometimes still someone will say something about that day. Vickie Anderson might. I hear them. Behind my back most of the time. Once in a while to my face.

  Later, Momma got sicker. Later, she wandered the streets at night. Turning up on people’s front porches. Once walking in on another family’s
dinner, sitting herself down at their dining room table.

  How many times had I come in from the school bus crying? How many times had I said to Aunt Linda, “How do they even know?”

  “Know what, Lacey-girl?” Aunt Linda smoothed back my hair. Set my math and history books aside on the antique bookcase we used as a catchall in the foyer.

  “Momma,” I said, my voice a whisper. “They pester me about Momma all the time. They’ve seen her just that once in class. How do they know?”

  And Aunt Linda, her face unhappy, had said, “It sounds like their parents have been talking.”

  Lots of the people in the old part of Peace, lots of them went to school together themselves. They married each other, lots of them. They stayed here. These people knew Momma before. Before she was sick. Before Granddaddy died. Before I was born.

  “Don’t they know her?”

  Aunt Linda nodded. “The way she was? Yes. Maybe they remember her a little quirky. But seeing her wandering, seeing her so changed,” Aunt Linda let out a sigh that could have moved the leaves of an old oak, “it might scare them. Angela isn’t who she used to be.”

  “She wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said to Aunt Linda. I knew my momma. Afraid, yes. Worried, yes. But at this time she still sat on my bed, holding my foot till I went to sleep. She still read to me, laughing at the funny parts of books Aunt Linda brought home. Crying when she read aloud something sad.

  That day I asked Aunt Linda the question that sat perched in my brain, staring over all my thoughts.

  “Was Momma always different?”

  My aunt had looked away. Then she shook her head. “Not really,” she said, after a long moment. “Fun. Silly sometimes.” She drew in a big breath of air. “I remember once we were just like fifteen and seventeen? And she dared me to sneak away with her in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Aunt Linda nodded. “She dressed up fine, put on these high heels she’d bought from the five-and-dime and hidden from Daddy, then we snuck right out her window—you know from your room?—and walked to where this party was going on. Like a mile or two.” Aunt Linda let out a laugh at her memory. “She didn’t even take off those high heels. Just marched right over to Bobby Valentine’s house. I was so scared Daddy would know we were missing. That he’d get in his truck and follow us. But he didn’t even find out. And your momma…” Aunt Linda paused and grinned.