Wrong Way Summer

by Heidi Lang

  Maybe her dad’s marriage to her mom was like that, full of magic at first, all fun, until the blisters started forming, and the fantasy wore off. Until all they had left was a dug-up sewer with no spaceship in sight.

  “Anyhow, he was head over heels; there was no talking him out of it. He had some romantic little nickname for her and everything. And then, of course, your mom got pregnant with you, and that was the end of that.”

  Claire flinched.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. It’s just . . . it’s late. I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  Her aunt waved that away. “I’m glad you came. Truly.” She took Claire’s hands and squeezed them gently. “I’ve missed you. I’ve even missed Scottie. He’s the most irritating person I’ve ever met, but he does make things more interesting.”

  Claire thought about that later as she brushed her teeth and took a long, long shower. And then she let the hot water push all her thoughts out of her head. As she got dressed in freshly washed pajamas and crawled under the covers of a real bed, she felt her whole body relaxing, and she fell asleep immediately.

  Something woke her a few hours later. Maybe it was the emptiness of her room, or the quiet; she’d gotten used to road noises, the sound of her dad snoring, the creaking of the van in the wind. The house sounded a lot different, and her bed felt too flat, and she kind of missed the smell of diesel and wood.

  Or maybe she was lonely.

  Claire looked across the room at the other guest bed. It was empty. Patrick must have slept outside in the van with their dad. Claire pictured them both out there. I’m comfortable. I’m warm. I can easily get up and use the bathroom in the middle of the night. But these thoughts didn’t help. Sighing, Claire kicked off her blankets and padded outside.

  Her dad blinked at her when she opened the side door of the van. “Claire-bear?”

  “Figured I’d join you and Patrick out here. Don’t make fun of me.” She looked above him. The hammocks weren’t set up.

  It felt like time slowed way down, until Claire was very aware of the space between each heartbeat. “Dad,” she said carefully.

  “Hrm?” he asked, still half asleep.

  “Where’s Patrick?”

  He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “In the house, I’d guess.”

  “Didn’t he come out here?”

  “No.” He sat up, his hand searching along the side of the van for the pocket where he kept his glasses. “I haven’t seen him since I left the house. Why?”

  Claire had a flash of insight. It was like the moment when she’d started telling Justin her story about the frogs, that second when the world had slammed into focus, everything brilliantly, blindingly clear. This felt the same, and she knew, in every fiber of her being, that Patrick wasn’t in the house.

  She sprinted inside and tore through all the rooms anyway, calling his name, but a few minutes later, she’d confirmed it.

  Patrick was gone.

  CHAPTER 30

  Claire’s dad kept his gaze focused on the road ahead as he drove, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard he was shaking. Or maybe that had nothing to do with his grip. “What if he’s not on the train?” he asked.

  “He’s on the train,” Claire said. “The California Zephyr. I’m sure of it.” Her aunt had been making phone calls to the local authorities and beginning a search in the area, but when Claire told her dad where she thought Patrick had gone, he’d believed her. He’d believed her enough to hop in the van and start driving. Even if he was questioning it now.

  “And you’re sure he’s going to your mom’s place?”

  “For the last time, Dad, yes. I’m sure. He thought we were going there on this trip, to rescue her. And when Aunt Jan told him we weren’t . . .” Claire thought of her brother’s face again, the slow nod. She should have known. She should have realized. It was a Tuesday, after all.

  “Why on earth would he think that?”

  Claire’s stomach clenched, all the fear roiling inside her turning to hot, bubbling fury. “Why do you think he’d think that?” she practically spat. “Your stupid story!”

  “My . . . story?” He gaped, as if he’d never heard anything like this before. As if he had no idea. No idea!

  Claire’s anger wasn’t boiling anymore; it was steaming, filling her vision with red and her ears with the pounding of her own too-fast heartbeat. “Wrong Way rescues Evangeline Rose, just like Patrick thought you were going to rescue Mom,” she said bitterly. “Like you rescued her before, from the troll king. You always rescue her in your stories.”

  “Not true,” her dad said quietly. “She rescues herself. I only ever thought she needed me to save her.” He looked about a hundred years old, his shoulders slumped, face creased with worry.

  Claire bit back her furious reply and actually considered his words, remembering how her mom had supposedly escaped the troll kingdom again when Claire was nine. How she’d gone on to become a pilot, a scientist, and a spy, before mimes trapped her. Before Claire stopped asking. And the last thing her dad had said about Evangeline Rose was that she could have left Dirk herself, if she’d wanted to. That she was strong enough to do anything, go anywhere.

  Claire looked out the window. She didn’t want to look at her dad anymore, at his sad, tired face. Instead, she focused on the mountains looming outside, their silhouettes cutting through the slowly lightening sky. Her mom didn’t need to be rescued. She didn’t want to be rescued. Her aunt’s casual declaration swirled suddenly through Claire’s mind: And then, of course, your mom got pregnant with you, and that was the end of that.

  Her fault. She’d always known it, deep down. The real reason her mom had left. It wasn’t because of her dad.

  “Why couldn’t you have just told us the truth?” she whispered, tears falling down her face faster than she could wipe them away. “If you’d just told us why Mom left, that she didn’t w-want us . . . If Patrick knew there was n-no hope . . .”

  “No hope?” her dad whispered. “I never wanted either of you to believe that.”

  Claire still couldn’t look at him. “But if I . . . if I hadn’t been b-born,” she managed, the words half a sob.

  The van slowed, moved over to the shoulder of the road, and parked. “Claire, honey.” Her dad unclipped his seatbelt and wrapped his arms around her, and just like she used to when she was a little kid, she cried all over the front of his ugly plaid shirt.

  “Having you, and your brother, was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not for all the gold in California.” He stroked her hair. “And I never told you about your mother, because I could never think of a good way to explain what she did. I don’t understand what she did. But know that when she left, she was leaving me. It had nothing to do with you or Patrick.”

  Claire thought of the frog again, the one that swallowed a rock. The one that might be dead now . . . or might be living in the pond, fully restored to health. If she chose to believe it.

  She sniffed and pushed away from him. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to get to Sacramento before Patrick.” They’d peeled out of Aunt Jan’s driveway around four that morning, and according to the train schedule, Patrick should be arriving a little after two in the afternoon. They should beat him there, but only just.

  As long as he really was on that train.

  Claire didn’t let herself think about that. Her brother had to be on that train.

  Her dad pulled back onto the highway, the only sound the tires rumbling over the road.

  “Have you called Mom yet?” she asked.

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  “I probably should, huh?” He tapped the wheel. Tap, tap, tap. “Next rest area, I’ll . . . I’ll give her a call.”

  Claire was quiet for a long time after that, and so was her dad. But as the silence thickened, she had to ask. “Hey, Dad?”

  “Hmm?” />
  “What did Evangeline Rose want? More than the chance at a new life?”

  He shrugged. “Who can say?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t think even she knew, honey. I think that was the whole problem.”

  Claire curled up in her seat and watched the sky lighten into morning, and somewhere along the way, she fell asleep.

  “He’s not here. Dad, he’s not here!” Claire had watched every single person getting off the train, and her brother had not been among them. What now? She’d been so sure.

  “Scottie Jacobus?” A man stepped forward. His face was shadowed by a large hat, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his jaw was square and he walked like a man used to giving orders.

  “Yes?” Claire’s dad eyed him.

  “I’m Derek Stone.” He took off his sunglasses, his eyes hard and flat. “I have your son.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Claire held her mug of tea in both hands but didn’t drink any of it. Even if she liked tea, which she didn’t, she wouldn’t have been able to swallow anything around the lump in her throat.

  She was sitting on a couch in the living room of her mother’s condo, the one she’d glimpsed in that picture, watching the sky outside the window fade into the deep blue of a perfect California evening.

  It smelled funny inside, the air full of dry heat. Her mom had a fireplace, one of those electric ones, and above it she’d hung an oil painting of a horse running through the surf. Claire didn’t know her mother liked horses, but then, she didn’t really know anything about what her mother liked. All she really knew, now that she was sitting here across from her, was that she’d rather be anywhere else.

  Claire squeezed her mug, wishing it would shatter.

  Patrick sat outside with their dad, getting the lecture of his life. Apparently Derek had caught up with the train one stop before, in Roseville, and being a cop, he’d been able to board and find Patrick skulking in one of the seats.

  Also, apparently, Derek was engaged to their mother. Claire’s dad hadn’t seemed surprised when Derek told them that news, just like he hadn’t been surprised when Derek admitted they still hadn’t set an official date yet.

  Claire hadn’t said a word.

  When they’d gotten to the condo, Patrick had bounded out to meet them, and even though Claire wanted to punch him, somehow she’d found herself hugging him so tight she could feel the air leave his lungs, hugging him as he gasped and squirmed until she let him go. But she still hadn’t said a word.

  All the words she hadn’t said were now choking her, as she watched the woman who had been her mother, sitting on the loveseat across from her. She was still dyeing her hair a darker brown, like in the picture Claire and Ronnie had found, although it was longer now, curling down past her chin. She was skinnier, too, her arms more muscular. She probably did CrossFit or yoga or something like that. Maybe she and Derek did triathlons together on the weekend.

  Claire’s lips curled.

  Her mom—Catherine—took a sip of her tea, then lowered her mug. Lipstick stained the rim. “So,” she said. Like it was a complete sentence.

  Claire said nothing.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me? You must have questions.”

  Claire shrugged.

  Catherine set her tea on the glass coffee table between them and leaned forward. “Claire, honey . . . I missed you.”

  “Don’t.” The word scraped from Claire’s throat, raw and painful.

  The woman in front of her flinched. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “No. You don’t get to say that, either.”

  “Then what am I supposed to say? I am sorry, and I did miss you. Do you want me to lie to you?”

  “I just want you to be quiet.” Even Claire was surprised at how calm her words sounded. She realized, now, that she didn’t need any answers from her mother. Her dad’s stories might not have been real, but they had filled the hole inside where her mother used to be, and now she could look at her, and feel nothing. Her mother had made her choice, to walk away and not look back. And Claire had made her own choice years ago, to walk forward.

  Catherine picked up her tea again, but didn’t drink it. Instead, she stared down into the steam like it contained the winning lottery numbers. “I was so young when I met your father.”

  “You weren’t that young.”

  “Nineteen might seem ancient to you, but trust me, it’s really not. And twenty is very young to suddenly find yourself a mom. And your dad . . . we weren’t a good match. It took me a long time to see the truth of it, because he’d paint this lovely story, and I’d fall into it and forget, and then the next thing I knew years had flown by and I was nowhere near where I wanted to be, and getting farther every day.”

  “So you left.”

  “I wasn’t planning on leaving for good, just a short break. But the more time slipped past, the more I . . . I didn’t think I’d be allowed to come back.” Her face crumpled, but she took a slow, shaky breath, and kept it together. And Claire wondered if this was like her dad’s tales, only this time it was a story her mom told herself. I wanted to come back. I didn’t think I could, but I wanted to. “I wanted to call,” her mom continued. “So many times. But I was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  She clutched her mug closer. “Of the silence, I guess,” she whispered.

  “I saw the divorce papers.” And even though Claire felt nothing—nothing—she wanted to feel nothing, it was still hard to say, “And I saw that you didn’t want any child custody.”

  Catherine looked away. “Having a baby seemed like such a Grand Adventure, and it was, but it took over everything. Some people . . .” She twisted her cup. “Some people just aren’t cut out to be mothers. I thought it would be better for you, and Patrick, if I wasn’t around.” She looked up at the painting of the horse tearing wild and free through the surf, and a single tear trickled down from the corner of her eye. Claire silently watched its lonely progress until Catherine dashed it away. “Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

  “I . . .” Claire’s mind went blank. Forgive her? No. Never. But . . . “I don’t know.”

  Catherine let out another shaky breath. “I guess that’s still more than I deserve.”

  Neither of them spoke for several long moments. Catherine sipped her tea, the sound too loud in the stillness. Claire couldn’t take it. “I do have another question,” she said finally.

  “Oh?”

  “Dad’s been telling us a story. A new one, not one he’s told before. About one of our ancestors, and a woman named Evangeline Rose.”

  Her mom started so suddenly, she almost dropped her mug.

  “So you know her,” Claire said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I know her.” Catherine’s lips curved in a wry smile. “I am her. That’s what my mom wanted to name me, but my dad convinced her to name me Catherine instead. Much more practical. When I told that to your father . . . I think it was even before we started dating? He was so taken with that name, he called me Evangeline Rose for the next month.” She laughed. “I haven’t heard that name in years . . .” The laughter faded. “Years,” she repeated.

  “What about Edgar? Wrong Way Jacobus?”

  Catherine shook her head. “Your dad probably made him up.”

  “But if Evangeline is—”

  “You know your dad, he was never very good at separating fact from fiction.”

  Fact and fiction. Her mom had made up an entirely new life, a life where she pretended she didn’t have kids at all. So maybe she wasn’t very good at it, either. Claire looked at that horse painting again over the fireplace, and this time she noticed the signature at the bottom, the large looping “C” written in the same style Claire used.

  Maybe the line between fact and fiction was more of a blurry squiggle, and no one was good at separating them.

  Claire’s head spun, and she knew she had to leave. She couldn’t stay here a seco
nd longer.

  The front door opened, and Patrick stuck his head in. “Mom?”

  “Come here, sweetie.” She opened her arms wide.

  Claire’s heart twisted as her brother picked his way across the spotless condo and hesitated. He didn’t hug Catherine but instead perched next to her on the loveseat, still moving in that weird, self-conscious way. Claire knew he was hoping for a fairy tale, just as she knew he’d never find it here.

  Stories don’t always end the way we’d hope.

  “Hey, Patrick?” Claire said.

  Her brother looked up, eyes wide.

  “I’m going out to the van.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Catherine said. “I have a guest bedroom, and—”

  “I’m going out to the van,” Claire repeated. “Come on out when you want to, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “You okay here now?”

  He nodded again.

  Claire let her eyes shift to the side, to Catherine. She stood without saying anything, but then, just before she slipped outside, she whispered, “Good night, Mom,” because maybe she wanted to pretend a little, too.

  “Claire?”

  Claire opened her eyes. The inside of the van was dark, but she could make out a Patrick-sized silhouette in front of her. “Hmm?” she said.

  “Just checking to see if you’re still awake.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “I know. But now you’re not.” He climbed up into his hammock.

  “Dad go inside?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah. He’s . . . talking.”

  Talking. To his ex-wife and her soon-to-be second husband. That would be more uncomfortable than watching her dad thumb dance in public, and Claire was glad she was missing it.

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah?”