What She Left Behind

by Tracy Bilen

  “Um, Alex? I gotta go.”

  I hang up. I’m not really sure I actually say good-bye. Then I call the credit card company. The airline tickets were paid for with the card.

  And there have been no charges since Monday.

  Alex arrives at seven thirty like he promised. He doesn’t say anything about how I hung up on him. Fresh from the shower, he radiates musk. I’m completely drained and exhausted. Since I spent the afternoon imagining what might have happened to my mom, I’m pretty sure I also have a look of sheer terror on my face.

  “These are for you.” He hands me a bouquet of red roses. An even dozen. This guy is serious.

  I almost tell him to forget it, to go ahead without me because I’m in no mood for a party. But I don’t want to be here when my dad gets home either. Where is my dad? Has he figured out where my mom is and gone after her?

  Alex looks so happy to see me. So instead I say, “Thanks, they’re beautiful. Let me put them in a vase. Come on in.”

  I get a vase from the hutch and stash the flowers in my room, where I hope Dad won’t notice them right away. Then I leave him a note on the kitchen table, saying I’m out with Lauren.

  “So how come your parents aren’t home?” Alex asks as he drives.

  “My dad is probably out with a friend and my mom is—” A silver car passes us and I scan for her inside. “She’s out of town.”

  “On business?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  I twirl my ponytail. “Nice touchdown at the game.”

  “You noticed! I’m impressed. I thought you hated football.” He grins and his whole face lights up. My heart starts thumping.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

  We pull into Nick’s driveway. At least twenty-five cars are already parked there haphazardly. Alex pops out of the car and holds the door open for me.

  “Quite the gentleman, aren’t you?”

  “Just wait until the Homecoming dance,” he says mysteriously. He winks.

  The Homecoming dance? I envision Alex all dressed up and feel my knees go weak. Of course, you’ll be living somewhere else by then, Sara. “I’ll hold you to it,” I say, blinking back tears.

  Pinkies linked, we walk up to the front door.

  The Russells’ property isn’t as large as ours—it is only about ten acres—but it’s large enough that the music booming from the house probably won’t bother the neighbors.

  We let ourselves in. The rooms are crowded with bodies. I’m guessing there are about four people inside for every car parked outside. None of this seems to faze Alex, however. There’s a keg in the middle of the living room. “Bring you a beer?” he asks.

  I’ve never had a beer before. I’ve always played by the rules. Done the right thing.

  “Or not,” he says. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m sure I can rustle up some pop if you’d rather.”

  If I drink, maybe I can forget how screwed up my life is. At least for a little while.

  “Beer sounds good,” I say.

  While he’s gone, I pull out my cell phone, make sure it’s on, and check to see if I have any messages. But I know that good things usually happen only when you’re not thinking about them, after you’ve managed to forget wanting them for a while. As long as I keep obsessing about my mom calling, she probably won’t. If I can just forget about it for an hour, maybe she’ll call.

  Alex comes back with two clear plastic cups. Beer sloshes over the rims and onto the carpet. Alex doesn’t seem to notice. As he hands me my cup, the liquid runs down my hand. I’m really thirsty, so I drink deeply. Then I put the cool cup against my cheek. The beer doesn’t taste bad—just sort of bitter.

  Rachel chooses that moment to come up to me. Even before the whole funeral-parlor issue, we never had much in common, except for the clarinet/flute duet Mr. Sommers made us do together in eighth grade. I can’t imagine why she wants to talk to me now.

  “It sure is hot in here, isn’t it?” she says. I still have the beer cup against one cheek. She faces me but keeps darting her eyes toward Alex. Right, she’s just broken up with her boyfriend and is obviously on the prowl for someone new. That’s why she’s talking to me.

  I’m not sure what comes over me—I’ve only had that one long swallow, so I can’t blame it on the beer—but I decide to mess with her. “Sure is,” I say. Then I put my arm around Alex’s waist just to piss her off. I half expect him to find some reason to shift position and let it fall, because making out on a piano bench is one thing, but making our relationship public is another. Alex wraps his arm around my waist as well.

  Rachel blinks, shakes her head, and looks warily at her beer. I’m sure she thinks she’s hallucinating. She’s used to being the center of male attention. Not that you can blame the guys. She has chestnut hair like women in shampoo commercials—shiny and bouncy. Her eyes bug out and she does a clean marching band about-face, not even bothering to make up an excuse to walk away. And I’m left with my arm around Alex.

  “Wanna dance?” Alex pulls me around to face him.

  I shrug. Then I put one hand on his shoulder and hold my beer with the other. I’m still getting used to Alex choosing me over Ms. Perfect. I take another big gulp.

  “Whoa—careful with that stuff,” says Alex. Then he leans down and kisses my lips ever so slightly. They feel a little numb.

  “If I take another drink are you going to do that again?” I ask. I take a drink without waiting for his answer.

  He kisses me again, this time a little longer. Then I put my cheek on Alex’s chest and close my eyes. I’m tired. Very tired.

  “More beer?” Alex asks.

  I look down at my cup. It’s almost empty. I hand it to him. “Thanks.”

  The music switches to something fast. I dance and down my new beer. Alex takes my hand and spins me in a circle. The room tilts a bit, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here with Alex. We’re having a blast. After a few more minutes of bouncing around, I’m really thirsty. I know that I should get a drink of water, but instead I hand him my empty cup. “Refill?” I say, smiling sweetly.

  Alex laughs and takes my cup.

  “Is there something to eat around here?” I ask when he gets back. Whoops. I’m usually more refined than that.

  “There’re some Fritos on the end table.”

  I head to where he’s pointing, knocking over a fern on my way. Some of the leaves scatter to the floor. I hate ferns. They always make such a mess. I pick up the plant and plop it back on the table. It looks kind of sickly, but then again, ferns usually do.

  At the Fritos bowl, I take a big handful of them and start stuffing them into my mouth. I miss about half of the time, but it doesn’t make much difference to the floor, which already has popcorn and Skittles scattered across it.

  “Want to check out the basement?” Alex asks, just as I’m deciding whether or not to eat a Skittle off the floor.

  I can’t for the life of me figure out why I would want to check out the Russells’ basement. But what the heck. “Sure thing.”

  Getting down the stairs is a bit of a challenge since the floor keeps spinning, but we finally arrive in a land of orange and brown shag carpeting. I didn’t know anyone still had shag carpeting. I sit down on an orange couch and prop my feet on a polka-dotted mushroom footstool. Next to the couch is one of those fiberoptic lamps that looks like a wig and changes colors. I brush my hand across it. I like how it feels.

  “So what’s so special about the basement?” I ask. “Besides this lamp, that is.” There aren’t a lot of people down here. They’re all couples. And no one is talking except for me.

  That’s when Alex puts his hand in my hair and whispers, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” Then he leans closer and kisses me softly, sweetly, on the lips. His kiss is both tender and electric. I feel myself rip backward through time. Me. Ian. Kissing. Ditching Matt. Matt dying.

  I push him away. “No!” I say it more sharpl
y, more loudly than I mean. The other couples look at us. One of the guys gets up, poised to come to my defense.

  Alex blushes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I had to ask anymore.”

  My eyes tear up. My jaw trembles. I wanted that kiss. I still do. But I have to get out of here. I’m supposed to be finding my mom. “No, it’s just … I have to get home.”

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”

  “You can’t drive me. You’re drunk.”

  Alex rolls his eyes. Somebody giggles.

  “I’ll just call someone,” I say.

  “Who? Who are you going to call? Your parents?”

  If only I could. My stomach feels like a pile of rocks. Alex and I stare at each other. There’s more giggling.

  Then he smiles tightly and nods. “Zach.” He says. “This is all about Zach. That’s who you’re going to call, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.” I turn around and climb the stairs, relying heavily on the handrail. When I get to the top, it’s even warmer than I remembered. I put my hands over my ears to block out the thumping music, then I push my way through the crowd to the front door. The night air feels like a cool washcloth on my forehead. I stumble down the stairs to the driveway and weave past the parked cars.

  I think about a card I have in my purse. It’s this thing the SADD club handed out at some PTA meeting. The one where your parents pledge to pick you up if you’re ever at a party and there isn’t anyone sober enough to drive you home. Yeah, right.

  I take out my cell and call Mom. Voice mail. “Mom. You’ve got to come get me right now. I’m at this party and Alex, this guy who brought me here, is drunk so he can’t drive me home. I need you to come get me. You signed the stupid SADD card, Mom. You signed the damn card. You have to come get me. Right now. Please.” Then my stomach is shaking and I can’t figure out why except that I’m sobbing.

  She won’t get the message, Sara. If she isn’t dead, she’s either lost her cell phone or thrown it away. Because otherwise she would have called me back after one of the twenty-six other messages I’ve left. I need to believe she’s getting my messages. It’s that or go insane.

  There’s no way I’m calling my dad. He’s probably had more to drink than both Alex and me combined, only on him it’s less obvious. He won’t drive any better, though, that’s for sure. He’ll probably tell me to figure it out myself.

  I stagger down to the end of the driveway before I call Zach.

  “You’re where?” he asks.

  “Standing next to the roadkill at the end of Nick Russell’s driveway. It stinks.” I divert breathing from my nose to my mouth, which helps a little.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Uh-huh. I think it’s a ’possum.”

  “What’s a ’possum?”

  “The roadkill.”

  “Yeah, right. Listen, stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll start walking. Get away from the stink.”

  “No, don’t start walking. Stay where you are. The last thing we need is someone mowing you over.”

  “Okay. Hurry then. Please.”

  I disconnect, sit down on the grass, and pick a stone off the driveway. I throw it as far as I can into the field. There are some empty beer cans and other debris too, but I stick with the rocks, tossing one every few seconds. I wonder what I’ll say if someone besides Zach sees me sitting here at the end of the driveway and stops, but I needn’t have bothered because not a single car passes.

  When I see the headlights of what I figure is Zach’s car, I stand, wobbling a little, and back up so Zach won’t have to worry about hitting me. He pulls into the driveway and I get in.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually go to the party. You must really like Alex.” Zach knows that I’m just as much of a nerd as he is. People like us don’t go to parties at Nick Russell’s house. Parties with no parents and no rules. People like us go to places like the bowling alley and drink pop.

  “He’s a lot more intellectual than you’d think. He likes geometry. Um, Zach, can you pull over?”

  He keeps driving.

  “I’m thinking I might throw up.”

  The brakes screech. I roll down the window and lean out.

  “Sorry. There might be some splash back on the door.”

  Zach rolls his eyes. “So what happened to Prince Charming?”

  “A little misunderstanding,” I say. “Got any gum?”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  When Zach pulls up our driveway, the house is dark.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “No, thanks. Dad’s probably over at Jack’s. It’s still pretty early.” As long as he isn’t sitting in the dark again.

  I go inside, turn on the kitchen lights, and check the garage. No truck. But just to be sure, I peek in all the rooms. Nothing. He’s gone. I’m both relieved and scared to death.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunday

  The first thing I see when I wake up Sunday morning is the bouquet of flowers from Alex. God, what have I done? Why did I push Alex away and let him think I’m in love with Zach? Why didn’t I tell him the truth? Am I really trying to protect him, or just my own heart?

  Whatever the reason, it’s probably for the best. Every second I spend with Alex is a second I’m not trying to figure out where my mom is.

  My head is pounding. Think. The flowers. You have to do something with the flowers. Dad can’t find out about Alex. He’ll never believe that I was strong enough not to tell Alex where Mom and I are going. Dad would end up trying to kick an answer out of him.

  I stare at the roses, using them to transport me to last night’s happy moments. To the dancing, the laughter, the kisses.

  Our house used to be filled with flowers. Mom has dozens of vases, and sometimes before Matt died she filled every last one of them, then scattered them throughout the house. I try to remember where the vase with Alex’s roses is from. Niagara Falls? Or is it Colorado? The only way to know for sure is to check the log.

  The log! I sit up straight in my bed.

  My dad keeps what he calls a “log”—basically a date-oriented record of events. It’s a journal minus any emotional component, or at least any that he shares with the rest of us. He refers to it whenever anyone has questions like, “Who remembers what we did on that vacation to Colorado?” Then he pulls out the old log and reads it to us: “Camped in woods by river. Went horseback riding in the a.m. Lunch cooked by guide. Purchased tickets for scenic railway for following day.”

  The logs are in spiral notebooks, a new one for each year. They’re all locked in a trunk in the basement in my dad’s train room. All except for the current year, that is. Dad keeps that one in his office at the hardware store for making his daily entries. If my Dad truly believes that my mom is on a business trip, he would have recorded it in his log. If he knows she isn’t, well, he wouldn’t exactly lie to himself in his own log, would he?

  “Matt! Sara! Wake up!” My dad’s voice thunders down the hallway.

  I grab the vase and shove it under the bed. It makes a slight thunk. As long as the water doesn’t come spilling out where Dad can see it.

  “What was that?” My dad bangs open my door. He’s already dressed.

  I think fast. “I knocked a book I was reading off the nightstand.” Can he smell the roses?

  “Which one?”

  “This one.” I hold up The Catcher in the Rye.

  “Haven’t you been reading that all week?”

  I swallow. “Rereading. We have a test Monday.”

  “What the hell are you still doing with this?” He picks Sam up from the bottom of my bed.

  I reach to take him back.

  “It looks pathetic.” He squishes Sam under his arm. “Tell Matt to trim the bushes. I’m leaving for work.”

  “I—I still like him.” And you gave him to me.

  “You’re sixteen years old. Grow up.” He stalks out of my room. “Don’t
forget to put another trash bag in the garbage can.” And just like that, Sam is on his way to the Dumpster at the hardware store, where Dad takes all our garbage. My stomach feels hollow.

  Outside, Dad has set the electric trimmer and clippers on the front porch. I don’t exactly mind trimming the bushes—except for the whole Mom, where are you, Mom, where are you, Mom, where are you recording that is playing in my brain. Now I won’t even have Sam to hold on to at night. Why did I need a stuffed dog at age sixteen? I got Sam for Christmas when I was five. There was one last present under the tree.

  “It’s for you, Sara,” my mom said. She handed me a plain white box with a blue bow. I flung the cover off, stuck my hands inside and pulled out an adorable stuffed dog. I squeezed it tight and planted a kiss on the tip of his nose.

  “I love him! Thank you so much, Mom!” She smiled and shook her head.

  “Don’t thank me, thank your dad. He picked it out.”

  Even at that age I knew that Mom did most of the shopping, so knowing Dad had chosen him made the stuffed dog extra special. I ran over to Dad and jumped into his lap. “Wow,” I said.

  He laughed and tousled my hair. “It was a long and difficult search, but when I saw him, I knew he was for you, angel. Whatcha gonna name him?” asked Dad.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Sam,” he said. “I think he looks like a Sam.”

  “You’re right! Hi, Sam!” I petted Sam’s head and snuggled next to Dad.

  Lately, when Dad did something that hurt one of us, I would think about that day and I would remember him the way he used to be. The way I believed he could be again someday.

  Somewhere between last Tuesday and today, I stopped believing.

  Chester grazes near the fence while I’m trimming. Every once in a while I look up and watch him. He hardly moves, and when he does, he’s limping badly.

  I go in and call Mrs. Harper, the lady with the horse stable.

  “Hi. This is Sara Peters. My brother and I used to ride horses over at your place sometimes. We just ran into each other again at the library the other day?”