by Lara Zielin
“And?”
“She’s here. In Oklahoma City. She wants to see us.”
Ethan’s eyes darken and narrow. “She’s what?”
“She’s here. At a Super 8. She just called me and wants us to come over.”
Ethan throws his head back and laughs. The rest of the Torbros stop what they’re doing to stare.
“This isn’t funny,” I say.
“The hell it’s not,” Ethan replies, running a hand through his hair. “Come on. Mom is here? Out of ‘rehab’ already?” He makes air quotes around the word rehab. “And she wants us to drop whatever we’re doing to come see her? That’s freaking hilarious.”
“Well, help me figure it out,” I snap. “We can go after the chase, I suppose. I mean, it’ll probably be late, but I guess we could go after the storm loses steam.”
Ethan laughs again, only this time it’s clear he’s less amused. “You’re actually thinking about going to see her?”
“Of course,” I reply. “If she lied about rehab, she did it for a reason. She could really be in trouble. We need to check on her.”
Ethan’s expression hardens. “We are not going to go see her. Under zero circumstances will we be driving anywhere near that Super 8. Do you understand?”
“What? Why?”
“Because, Jane, this is what she does. Don’t you see? This is what I’m talking about. Mom creates messes and then brings you in to clean them up.”
“Look, I know I have a role in all this. Fine. But we can’t just leave her there in a Super 8. We don’t even know how she’s getting home.”
Ethan throws up his hands. “And that’s your problem?”
“Well, yes. I mean, at least a little bit.”
“Why?” Ethan demands. “Did you invite her?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did she arrange this with you?”
“No.”
“Did you work out the details of her stay in advance?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what obligation do you have to turn everything upside down and go to her? Don’t you see? This is the same shit. The same. Every time.”
“But we—we have to.” My voice is getting tighter. Ethan’s face softens a little.
“Jane, come on. Listen to me. This is the part where you need to break out of the cycle she’s put you in. You have to stop focusing on helping her with her problems, so you can focus on you. Like what we talked about.”
Except that was hypothetical. And this feels all too real.
“Don’t go see Mom,” Ethan says. “Let her be alone in that motel room. Okay?”
Like you left us alone in Minnesota, I think. I know I need to, but I can’t let that one fact go—not even after Ethan’s apologized, after he’s invited me to live with him in Oklahoma. Because he’s still got his checklist out, ticking off what we all need to do in order to fit into his perfect life. No way is a check ever going to go next to my name. My fuckup with Max yesterday certainly made that much obvious.
He’s abandoning me again, I can hear my mom saying. The same way he’ll eventually abandon you.
“Okay,” I say, pretending I’ve made up my mind, that Ethan’s gotten through to me. “I won’t go.”
“Good,” Ethan says, clapping me on the back. “Now let’s go get this storm.”
He walks back to the Torbros, and I follow behind him, but move toward the left, closer to Hallie and the free coffee. Her eyes flicker across my face. I know she’s wondering what the heck is up. I also know that what I’m about to do is going to totally and completely suck for her.
Filling two cups to the brim with hot coffee, I walk toward the group with a plastic smile plastered to my face. “Anyone want coffee?” I ask, then lose my footing like I’ve tripped over a cable. “Oh!” I cry as hot coffee goes everywhere—but mostly all over Hallie.
“Ooooww!” she cries, bolting up from her seat. Her atlas slides off her lap and onto the floor. She drops the van keys and shakes off the burning liquid. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, bending down like I’m trying to get at the discarded cups. I scramble on the floor until I locate the van keys. I grab them, along with the atlas, and stand. “I’m such a total klutz,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
Hallie’s cheeks are pink. She’s gorgeous, even when she’s furious. “You want to borrow some clean clothes?” I ask. She just shakes her head, then heads off to her room. The other Torbros are watching me. “I’m really sorry,” I say. I glance down and notice I’m covered with coffee as well. “Erm, I should probably go change.” The group is silent as I walk away.
The minute I’m out of sight, I bolt for the nearest exit and hop into the Torbros van in the parking lot. I throw the atlas on the seat next to me, opened to a street-by-street grid of Oklahoma City. I start the engine and pray none of the Torbros are watching as I pull away.
28
I am in trouble. I am in the hugest, majorest trouble ever. This is all I can think as I speed down the interstate toward my mom.
“Oh, God,” I groan. What am I doing?
I glance at my cell phone. It’s quiet, which is a good thing. I figure it’ll start blowing up the minute the Torbros decide to chase and find out they have no van.
I peer through the windshield and can’t help but notice the clouds building. There really is going to be one heck of a storm soon. I just hope it’s not too good, otherwise it’ll be more salt in the Torbros’ missing-van wound.
If my mom and this van were sucked up into a twister and only one could survive, I think suddenly, which would it be?
I must be losing it if I’m playing the vortex game now, I realize. But I think about the answer anyway.
This one’s easy. I’d pick my mom.
The questions don’t stop there. If my mom or the president of the United States were sucked up into the twister, which would you pick?
I shake my head. Why are my thoughts swirling like this? “That’s an insane question,” I say out loud. Now I’m really losing it, talking to myself. “You can’t choose between your family and the leader of the free world.” There’s no response in the van. Did I expect there to be? “But I’d still pick my mom.”
If you or your mom were sucked into a twister, and only one of you could survive, which would you pick?
The question sticks in my brain before I can take it back. My mom or me?
Both of you are in the twister. Who gets to live?
“That’s a trick question!” I yell. You can’t choose between yourself and family.
Can you?
Something like a sob is working its way up my throat. My lungs don’t feel like they’re working right. I’m going to go see my mom. So why am I blinking back tears?
I force myself to focus. The exit to my mom’s motel is coming up. This is it. I’ll be able to see her. The minute I lay eyes on her I’ll know I’ve done the right thing.
Both of you are in the twister. Who gets to live?
I take my right palm and swipe it quickly over both my eyes. “Get a grip, Jane McAllister.” I can see the Super 8 sign in the distance. I head through a few lights, then turn into the parking lot.
The minute I hop out onto the blacktop, the charge in the air sets my hairs on end. A storm is definitely rolling in. To the west, white clouds billow. The supercell is enormous. If it keeps building like this, it’ll be one of the biggest storms we’ve seen all season.
I step inside the Super 8, vaguely aware it has the same smell as every other motel we’ve stayed at. It’s a mixture of worn carpet, coffee, and stale air.
For a moment, I pause, half expecting someone to point at me and yell, “Stop that girl! She stole a van!” But nothing happens. The hallways are quiet as I pass by the front desk toward the elevators.
Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I punch floor two. As the elevator lifts, I tell myself there’s a solid chance Mom’s not actually here. That I’l
l pound on her door and nothing will happen. That I’ll call her cell, but she won’t answer. Later tonight, she’ll text me and say she can’t believe I fell for it.
The elevator doors open, and I step out, wondering if this is all a joke, will I be disappointed . . . or relieved?
I stand in front of room 211.
Both of you are in the twister. Who gets to live?
I raise my hand and knock.
My mom flings open the door with so much force, she actually staggers backward. She might also stagger because she’s drunk.
“Jayyyneeeeey!” she squeals. Her arms cinch around me, and I feel her bones through her cheap tracksuit. After a yearlong hug, she finally holds me out at arm’s length and beams. “Aren’t you a sight,” she says. “Look at you.”
“Look at you,” I reply, taking in her hollowed cheeks, her dry hair, the deep circles under her eyes. I was right to come. She’s in a bad way. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, like you have to ask? This is your room now too. I figure we’ll stay together for a while, right?”
I don’t answer as I enter. Clothes are strewn on the bed, on the desk chair, on the floor. The bathroom light is on, and the water is running. There’s an empty wine bottle on the nightstand. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“About an hour now,” she answers.
I pick up a few of the clothes on the floor and lay them on the bed. Only an hour, and already she’s made it look like she’s been living here for days. I wonder what shape our apartment is in back in Minnesota.
My mom leans against the dresser, loses her balance, then finds it again. “So I take it Ethan couldn’t be bothered to come see me,” she says. She grabs a nearby cup and drains the last few drops out of the bottom.
“He’s busy with a chase.”
“It’s okay,” my mom says in a tone that indicates it’s not. “I know what he thinks about me. I know he can’t be bothered with his family.”
I open the blinds and let in the fading afternoon light. “It’s not like that,” I say.
“What, so you’ve spent a few weeks with him, and now you hate me too?” She gives me a pointed look, then walks unsteadily to her suitcase, where she pulls out another bottle of wine. She twists off the top, then goes back to her empty cup on the dresser and fills it.
“No one hates you,” I say, watching her drink. “We hate your problem. For which I thought you were going to rehab. You wrote me a letter. Remember?”
My mom sets down the plastic cup. “I did go to rehab. I was there for a little while and realized I don’t need a clinic to make me better. I’m actually getting better on my own.”
My heart slams inside my chest. “Mom, why are you lying? We both know you didn’t go to rehab. So why’d you make it up? Did something happen?”
My mom lifts her chin. “Not all of it was a lie. I did get fivehundred dollars from work, you know.”
“For what?”
“For being an exemplary employee. For being someone the other girls look up to.”
“Mom, tell me. What was the money for?”
Mom swirls the liquid in her cup. We watch it roll around and around, a tiny tempest.
“Mom?”
“Severance,” she says finally, like it’s a fancy term she’s letting roll over her tongue at a garden party.
I suddenly need to sit. I make it to the edge of the bed before my legs collapse. “You were fired?”
“Not fired. They called it a reduction in force.”
“You don’t have—a job?”
“Not yet.” She straightens her sweatshirt, picks some imaginary lint off her fuzzy track pants. “But I’m looking. I think I might want to switch careers. Maybe become a pilot.”
“Mom. Stop. You can’t be a pilot.”
“Says who?”
“Says me!” I cry, standing up.
My mom’s head jerks back a little. I almost never yell at her. “Janey,” she says, “I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t want to upset you.”
“You should have thought about that before you lost your job!” I reply. “What are we supposed to do now? How are we going to pay the rent?”
My mom swallows more wine. “I can get another one. Easy. I’ll work at the grocery store. I know Diana up at the SaveMore. She can get me something. We’ll move to a smaller apartment. We’ll make it work. We always do.”
“But you’ll keep drinking,” I say. “Or worse. Other drugs maybe? Right?”
Her head jerks, like something’s landed on her but she can’t be bothered to raise a hand and swat it away. She takes a wobbly step toward me. Then another. Right then I think how strange it is that she’s wobbling, loose like a noodle, when the rest of her is so brittle. Her hair, her nails. Even her skin looks like it might crack away from her bones in flat, hard pieces.
“Honey, I’m getting better. Can’t you see that? And now that you’re back, I’ll be fine. We’re a team, right? You and me.”
“This is what you look like when you’re getting better?” I ask.
“Well, you wouldn’t know how much worse it’s been lately,” Mom says, setting down her drink. “You haven’t been around.”
“I left because of what you did to Cat. To me. You could have killed us.”
Mom scowls. “That bullshit? I’ve been in worse accidents than that.”
“Well, I haven’t. And neither has Cat.”
“So that gives you the right to bolt? Every time something bad happens you get to take off?”
I look at the door. Right then, I want to leave so badly, the muscles in my legs ache. They’re screaming at me to just sprint away. Run and run and run and never look back.
But this is what I wanted, I tell myself. I knocked on that door and signed up to help my mom, who clearly needs me now more than ever. Except Ethan’s words are worming their way through my brain, and the gnawing feeling in my marrow tells me he’s right: Mom’s never going to get help if I don’t change. If I don’t stop waiting on her, I’m going to empty myself, bit by bit, until I’m nothing but a dried-out husk. And it’s never going to change. Unless I make it change.
“How did you plan on getting home, Mom?” I ask.
My mom closes her eyes. “Let me think. Let me seeeeee . . .” She opens her eyes. “I guess I was thinking we could stay here for awhile, take in the sights, then ride the Amtrak back or something. A mommy-daughter road trip!”
Behind my mom, outside the window, I can see the supercell looming. As if on cue, my cell phone buzzes.
When I hit Talk, Ethan’s voice erupts in my ear. “Jane, goddamn it, what the hell are you doing?”
I stare at my mom, my eyes filling up with tears. “I stole your van.”
“I can goddamn well see that! Are you out of your mind? You’re not authorized to drive it. What’s more, we need it! And, for crying out loud, you stole it to be with Mom, which is—”
My mom grabs the phone out of my hands. “Ethan, this is your mother. You stop yelling at Janey right now. I can hear you from across the room.”
I hear Ethan hollering at her now, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I can only imagine.
“Whatever she did,” my mom retorts, “it’s because she loves me, which is more than I can say for you . . . Well, she’s here in this motel room, and you’re not . . . All you care about is . . . I’m tired of your godda—” My mom stops talking and hands the phone to me. “He hung up.”
“What’d he say?”
“Same crap about how I’m a horrible mother. How I’m ruining you. How he needs his stupid van back.”
I look out the window. The storm is gorgeous—the bottom of the sharp-edged clouds is golden in the setting sunlight, billowing to pink, then white as they rise up, up, up. In that moment, everything is in clear relief.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. I grab all the money I have—$274—and shove it at my mom. “Here.”
She glances at it with bleary ey
es. “Keep that,” she says, waving me away clumsily. “We’re going to need it for the road. I figure we can probably get to the train station before they find us.”
I stare at her, grief filling my every pore. “No, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m not going to drive us to the train station. I’m not going to take you anywhere. You’re going to have to get home on your own.”
She puts a hand on her bony hip. Her thin fingers drum out a beat, her nails flashing bright red. “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’re leaving together. I can’t leave without you. I can’t leave without my Janey.”
I shake my head, the tears pouring down my face. “I can’t do it,” I say. “I can’t go home with you. I can’t—I can’t take care of you.”
My mom grunts. “Of course you can. You always have. We take care of each other. It’s you and me, baby.”
Words feel sticky in my mouth, like they don’t want to come out. “No, Mom. I’m done.”
“So, what? You’re going to stay here with Ethan? Like he’s so much better than me?”
“No,” I say. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Both of you are in the twister. Who gets to live?
My body is so heavy, I want to lie down. My grief is lead. My thoughts are iron. If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall out of the tornado and crash to the ground.
And then I wonder if that’s such a bad thing. How else do you get out of the tornado in the vortex game? How else do you survive except by falling?
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Tell me what you’re into besides alcohol. Which drug?”
Mom blinks so much, her eyelids remind me of window shades going up and down, again and again. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything else. Don’t be stupid.”
I let one second pass. Then another. My heart slows. I can feel each beat, feel every breath filling my lungs. She is lying. I know it like I know I am alive, standing in this room, on this brown carpet.
This is how it has to be, I realize. The horrible heaviness of the truth is on me, and I can’t fight it anymore. I have to weld myself to it. Either I do that and the tornado drops me, or I die spinning in its insanity.
It’s time to make myself so substantial, the tornado can no longer hold me. It’s time to fall back to Earth.
