“No, from her home. From both of her homes,” Brecken says. “It’s gone on a long time.”
“Where’s the blond girl?” he asks. “Tall. Strung out.”
“She left,” I croak. “She was helping him. He gave her something to do it.”
“Pills,” he guesses. “He gave her a few at the bar.”
“She pushed me,” I say, sniffing. “She apologized in the bar because she knew she was going to help him take me. I can’t believe pills would be enough for that.”
“People do crazy things. For pills and less.”
“I don’t think we can ever understand why people do what they do,” Harper says. And maybe she’s thinking of her father. But her eyes linger on Brecken.
“People aren’t always what we think,” the man says, putting his hat back on.
I can’t ignore that, because I can’t convince myself that the smell lingering on his clothes and his ratty hat didn’t shift my perspective. I can’t deny all the ways my instinct failed me here, so I burn in shame and watch for the flashing lights of the police in silence.
This time they come right away.
* * *
My mother meets me at the hospital on Christmas morning. I expect her to be a tear-streaked wreck, but she is steady and calm, depositing her coat on the chair beside my bed and glancing at the monitor where my vitals are being recorded. She doesn’t look for long. I guess I’m doing okay.
Her gaze lands on me next, and then her hands are on my face, and I am crying. Great gulping sobs that shake my shoulders and make my mostly-numb arm ache. Mom slips off her snow boots and crawls right into my hospital bed.
The hospital sheets are scratchy, and her hands are soft. She tells me over and over, “Breathe with me. Just breathe.”
She said that to Phoebe, and it only makes me cry harder. I wrap my good arm around her shoulder, my hand bandaged but functional. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she’s strong when I pictured her rocking by the bathroom sink. Peeling potatoes for no reason at all. Staring into space and bursting into tears without warning.
Now, I am the one lost and weeping. And she is the steady presence at my side stroking my hair back from my face.
Tethering me to the here and now.
I guess my instincts were wrong about her, too.
I sleep. I don’t know for how long. When I wake, the room is dark, and my mother is not in bed. She’s in a chair pulled right up to my side. I can see an empty cup of coffee and an untouched tray of what looks like my hospital dinner on the table next to my bed.
Mom has notes on the back of a comment card. Surgeon names? I glance at my arm and test it out. Sore, but functional, so I don’t think I need surgery. I glance at the names again.
“They’re counselors,” she says. Her eyes are bright, and she’s looking right at me. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head and pick at the sleeve of my hospital gown. There’s a thick bandage underneath, so no hope of seeing the damage unless I want to start unwrapping all the gauze.
“Twenty-three stitches,” she says. “It’ll scar, but they say it’s fairly clean. No tendon damage, which is good.”
“Do you know what happened?” I ask, feeling teary.
“I know you’ve been through hell. The police are going to need an official statement later, but for now, you just sit.” She squeezes my good hand and looks at me. “You’re safe, Mira. This is over.”
She means he’s over. That Josh is dead and no threat to me. But she didn’t need to tell me that. I already knew. I expect the tears that come, but the shame is a surprise.
“I sat right next to him all those hours,” I say. “I thought he was a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he tried very hard to convince you he was,” Mom says. There’s the barest shade of fury behind her expression but she is holding it in. Controlling her face.
I shake my head. “My instincts were wrong. My instinct was to stay close to him. To trust him. I can’t trust myself.”
“Yes, you can,” she says. “You can absolutely trust yourself.”
“I just wanted to get home to you. With Phoebe and Daniel…I thought you would be…” I break off with a cry. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighs. “Maybe this is where my instincts were wrong.”
She peels the foil lid off my cherry Jell-O and slides it over to me with a plastic spoon. I don’t feel hungry but I take a bite all the same.
“Your father and I have been talking. You’ve been worried about his business. About me. About everyone else in the world, but not about you. And your paintings and even some of your emails.” She stops and takes a breath. “We could see you were in a dark place. We thought facing Christmas without Phoebe might be enough. The news with Daniel… I wanted to delay it.”
“Mom, I’m fine. Phoebe was your sister.”
“And she was your aunt,” Mom says. “You were close. And all the time that I was falling to pieces, you were so strong. I told everyone how strong you were and I was so proud. I still am proud, but I should have been worried.”
“Worried why?”
Mom touches my hair, just the barest graze near my forehead. “Because sometimes it is easier to force strength for others than to allow ourselves to feel weak and hurt.”
“You think I feel weak and hurt?”
“I think you need to,” Mom says, cupping my cheek. “I think that’s what grief does. It reminds us that we are small. That we are not in control.”
“When were you going to tell me about Daniel?”
“I was going to talk to you when you came,” Mom says. “Because I didn’t want it to be one more opportunity for you to be strong for me.”
“I didn’t…” I can’t finish because she’s right. I came home to be strong for her. And part of me hates that she’s so strong right now. It leaves me squirmy and uncomfortable and terrified.
“I hate this,” I whisper. “It’s too late to be sad about Phoebe. It was a year ago. And now there’s all of this.”
“Grief is big,” Mom says. “And this is big. These things turn your world inside out. They change us. But only for a while.”
“I was wrong about so much.”
“Tell me what you were right about.”
I turn my gaze to the window, and she rubs my arm lightly and stands up. “Find the things you were right about, Mira. Make me a list.”
She gives me pen and paper and a window overlooking the highway. She tells me she’s going for coffee, but she’s been my mother for a long time. And she knows when I need to think.
I watch sunlight glint over the snow. I think of the bumpy landing and my frantic phone call with Daniel. I think of my texts with Zari and Kayla’s bracelet and wonder if she made it out of the snow. Most of all I think of my desperate, breathless thoughts of getting home to my mother—getting through this trip.
That thought drove my every decision, because I thought my mother needed me.
Maybe that’s the piece I mixed up.
I take a breath and let it out slow. Because I know what I was right about now, even if I didn’t know why. My pen touches the page, and I scrawl a single line across the blank paper.
I knew I needed to come home.
Acknowledgments
There are probably four thousand people I can thank here. Coworkers who are kind on a hard day. People who let me in during rush hour. Baristas who make my coffee and make me laugh. My giant fur ball, Wookiee, who always uses all 112 pounds of himself to hug me when I’m sad. Friends who lift me up. Friends who make me think. In truth, if you’re in my life—if I’ve laughed with you or talked with you or shared a meal with you in this last year—you are part of why this is possible. Thank you all.
But there are a few people that this process is impossible without.
To Jody.
Always. Your voice on the other end of the line is my anchor. You steady me in the storms, my dear friend. I can’t thank you enough.
To my brilliant rock star agents, Devin Ross and Suzie Townsend, who make every bit of this process smoother and easier and more fun. I am so lucky to have you on my team.
To my unstoppable, unbeatable Sourcebooks Fire team: Eliza Swift, whose instincts and comments turn my poopy rough draft into something I’m proud to have written, Cassie Gutman, Sarah Kasman, the art team who designed this gorgeous cover, and the marketing geniuses who do things I truly don’t understand. My publishing house is the best because of you. Thank you.
To my wonderful OHYA sisters, but in particular Edith Patou and Margaret Peterson Haddix, who offer kindness, wisdom, and friendship. Thank you all so much.
For the wondrous librarians in my life who offer so much support, Christina and Liz and Ben with his endless Cold Car commentary. You are wonders to me. I am beyond grateful.
To so many fellow writers who help me keep my chin up when this gig is rough. Mindy McGinnis, Robin Gianna, Jasmine Warga, Jen Maschari, Carmella Van Vleet, Nancy Roe Pimm, Romily Bernard, and so many others. Thank you for getting it and for encouraging me time and again.
To David, for endless patience and understanding with the travel and the deadlines. Thank you so much for all the support. And always, always, always, to the loves and lights of my life: Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia. Every word. Every book. All of this is possible because of the joy and love and hope you bring into my world. You are the air in my lungs, guys. I love you.
About the Author
Lifelong Ohioan Natalie D. Richards writes books that will keep you up way past your bedtime. A champion of literacy and aspiring authors, Richards is a frequent speaker at schools, libraries, and writing groups. In addition to writing, she spends her days working at a local public library. Richards lives with her wonderful family in Columbus, Ohio. When she’s not writing or reading, you can probably find her wrangling Wookiee, her enormous dust mop of a dog.
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Five Total Strangers Page 23
