Don't Fail Me Now (20 page)

Early Sunday Morning, Part 2

Flagstaff, AZ

“What in the
hell
is going on?”

I'm back in the hallway now, making a beeline for the exit to the stairs. Mom has been asking some variation on this question since I picked up, and her voice is steady and strong, not a trace of the junk-sick shakes of a few days ago. Cass and Denny call it her pastor voice, because it goes up and down like a preacher delivering a fiery sermon. She only uses it when she's angry, so I know there's going to be yelling. That's why I had to get out of the bathroom, to someplace with less reverb and fewer witnesses. I might have some yelling of my own to do.

“What do you mean?” I ask, lowering my voice as I push through the heavy metal door. The stairwell is empty and
gray, yellow moonlight filtering in through a gated window. Buck's rhyme whips through my head:
Look real quick, it will soon be gone
.

“You tell me,” Mom says, indignation seeping through the receiver. “I got dragged out of bed because some
hospital
in
Arizona
called the warden about my daughter.” My stomach drops. I remember the intake nurse asking for Mom's contact info, but I was so upset I didn't even think to lie. I didn't have a number, though. I never thought they'd call. “Is it true? Is she in the hospital?” Mom asks, less mad and more scared this time.

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

“Oh my God.” The receiver drops, and a sharp, metallic clang rings in my ear. Fumbling, then whimpers. “Oh my God, is she okay? What happened?”

“She was hypoglycemic,” I say. “She had a seizure.”

“Are you skipping meals?” The hyperventilating gives way to irritation again. Mom's temperature rises faster than mercury. “Tell me you're not letting my baby skip meals!”

“No!” I cry, more defensive than I have to be, probably because I know I'm guilty. “No. She . . . gave herself too much insulin.” I don't want to have to say what that means out loud, but I don't have to—Mom knows as well as I do that Cass would never slip up by accident. There's a long pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is husky and raw with anger and pain.

“How could you let this happen?”

It's a question I've been asking myself for the past nine hours, raking myself across the coals over and over until it burns, but for some reason now that Mom is asking it I'm filled with rage. How could
I
let this happen? None of it ever would
have happened if she hadn't let us all down. I'm not supposed to be in charge, I'm not supposed to have to make these kinds of decisions.

“Excuse me?” I say stonily.

“She's your little sister,” Mom says, her voice breaking. “You're supposed to take care of her.”

“No,
you're
supposed to take care of her,” I spit. “They're
your
kids. I'm your kid. You're supposed to be here for us.”

“You're almost eighteen years old, don't act like a child,” she says, and I bristle.

“You're almost thirty-four,” I shoot back. “Act like a mother.”

“You're lucky we're on the phone so I can't smack you. I didn't raise you to talk to me that way.”

You hardly raised me at all
, I think. Out loud I say, “Right.”

“And another thing,” she snaps. “We haven't even talked about the fact that you're in Arizona. Why the hell are you way out there? What about school?”

“It's Saturday,” I say.

“Don't be a smartass, you know what I mean.”

“What does it matter?” I lean my forehead on the bars of the window just as the moon emerges from behind a cluster of clouds. It's waning now. Like everything else.

“It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if I graduate, I'm not going anywhere. Oh, they're kicking Denny out of his school, too, by the way.”

“What?”

“And Cass,” I say, a lump forming in my throat. “Cass is getting called all kinds of ugly names. She hates it. She cried when I tried to take her to school last week.”

“This is all news to me,” Mom says.

“Well, it shouldn't be.”

“No.” She softens a little. “I guess it shouldn't. But what about your aunt? Didn't you go with her like I told you?”

“Yeah, that didn't work out so well.”

Mom sighs heavily. “Michelle, I know she can be hard to take, but she's family.”

“She doesn't act like it,” I say. “She basically extorted me and threatened to ship us off to CPS!” Mom mumbles some choice curses under her breath. “And guess what?” I cry, gathering steam. “We've been gone since
Wednesday
, and she hasn't even called me once to see what happened. She doesn't care. When are you gonna learn she doesn't care about us?”

A pause. “Why didn't you come to me then?”

“What could you do? From in there? Seriously, Mom.” I kick the wall, and paint chips off, scattering on the floor.

“You could've got me out,” she says. “We could have gone home, picked up where we left off.”

“With you still using?” I ask bitterly. “No thanks.”

“That's over,” she says. “I'm off it now, Michy. For good this time.”

Yeah, right.
It's on the tip of my tongue, but I clench my teeth to keep it from slipping out. I might not believe it, but she does. It's all she's got. And I can't take that away, no matter how much I want to hurt her right now.

“Hello?” She sounds annoyed.

“I'm still here.”

“So when are you coming back?”

“I don't know.”

“When does Cass get out?”

“Depends on when they release her,” I say. “They need your consent to give her psychological treatment. For, you know . . .” We mutually and silently acknowledge the ellipsis.

“Our insurance cover that?” she asks.

“I don't know. They haven't kicked us out yet.” I attempt a laugh.

“That's not funny. Those heartless sons of bitches will take me to the mat just to avoid paying for a prescription, let alone therapy.”

“It's okay, Mom,” I say.

“Oh, what, you got the money?” Now she's laughing, the quick
rat-a-tat-tat
giggle that makes her sound like Sweet Sixteen Maddie Means instead of inmate 2247 or whatever her number is this time.

“No,” I say, “but maybe I will soon.”

“Taco Bell start paying in gold bars?” she laughs, and I'm so pissed off by the mockery that I consider not even telling her. But she's going to find out eventually, so it might as well be now.

I take a deep breath. “The reason we're out here,” I say, “is Buck. He's sick, I guess—says he's dying—and he's leaving us some heirloom. That's why we left. We're going to see him, to collect it.”

I brace myself for screams and tears, but instead Mom gets quiet. “Well,” she finally says. “Something was bound to get him sooner or later.”

“It could be good for us, though,” I say. “If he saved something. You could finally get what he owes you.”

“Oh, honey,” she says. “He can't repay me what he owes me. There's no way to get life back.”

“But something, at least. We could pawn it, have some cash to get by for a while.”

“He's never going to deliver,” she says, her voice cooling. “Whatever he says he has for you, don't believe it for a second. It's probably an heirloom tomato. He'll probably end up shaking
you
down for cash. He's a liar, Michelle. Always has been, always will be.”

Resentment flares in my belly. “This coming from the person who let him live a neighborhood away for four years and never even told us.”

She clicks her tongue. “I was just doing what I thought was best for you girls.”

“By not letting us see our father?”

“Please,” she cries. “You think he tried to see you and I stopped him? Barred the door? I was trying
not
to let you see who your father really was. And
is
. A coward who runs away the second things get tough, who's too selfish and prideful to look back just in case it makes him feel something for one second of his miserable life.”

“Well,” I say, “he wants to see us now.”

“Of course he does! He's got nobody else. He knew you'd feel bad, that's why he called you. He plays people, that's what he does.”

“Why can't you accept that maybe he actually feels sorry?” I yell, my voice echoing off the increasingly claustrophobic-feeling walls. “You know, that's a thing people do sometimes when they screw up their children's lives, apologize?”

She's quiet for a minute. “That's what you want, huh, an apology?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” she says. “I've been sorry every day of my life since I had you. Not because I didn't want you but because I wanted
more
for you. I wanted more than I knew you would get from us.” She sniffs loudly. “Believe me, I did my best, but I've been sorry every day. For you and your sister, and Denny. Because no matter how hard I try, I'm never going to be good enough.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “But you
were
doing good. What happened?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I can't,” she sighs. “Sometimes one bad decision just starts a chain reaction.”

I nod, letting the tears spill down my cheeks. The truth is I've never understood how my mother can live the way she does, scrambling and desperate, trying but failing to steady herself again and again. It's maddening to watch someone you love mess up so much, and it's hard to keep loving them. The resentment just grows and grows until it covers up the love like ivy on a wall. But now, after this week, I can see how things can get out of control so fast, even with good intentions. I believe for the first time that my mother really might be trying, in her own way.

“We're gonna get you out, you know,” I say. “As soon as we get the money from Buck, we'll come back and get you out, maybe even get you into a good rehab.”

“That's sweet, baby,” she says. “But don't worry. I called Violetta yesterday, and she has the money to spring me this time. She's a dental assistant now, can you believe it? Clean for five years.” I wipe my eyes, trying to picture the rail-thin,
gap-toothed woman I remember in any kind of medical environment.

“Violetta is allowed to put sharp tools in people's mouths?” I ask incredulously.

“People change, Michelle,” she says.

“Okay then,” I counter, “what about that rehab?”

“We can talk about it.”

“That's not good enough.”

“Baby—”

“I'm not your baby anymore,” I say. “And your word's no good this time.”

“Okay then,” she says wearily. “You're the boss.”

I want to tell her that's not the point, that I don't want to be the boss anymore, not of her, not of anyone but myself. I just want my own life, where I can choose where I go and what I do and who I see. I want a life where I don't spend all my time worrying when the sky is going to fall again. She can be in that life, and so can Cass and Denny—maybe even Leah and Tim—but they can't be all of it anymore. She has to let me go.

But instead of saying all that, I decide to let her go. I hang up. And then I sit in the stairwell and cry.

• • •

When I get back to the waiting room, Denny and Leah are still sleeping, but Tim is gone.

“If you're looking for your boyfriend, he's looking for you, too,” the Mastino lookalike at the desk says with a knowing smile.

“Oh, he's not—” I start to say but then let it go. Explaining would only make things weird.

“He got in the elevator a few minutes ago,” she says. “I'd check the lobby.”

“Thanks.” I stand there, the phone still warm in my hand, sinuses screaming from all of the flooding they've suffered through today. I want to go back and hide in the bathroom till morning, not talk to anyone until I stop feeling so emotional. But maybe that's my problem. Maybe I inherited a little more from Buck than just his eye color and love of action movies. If I run from everything I'm scared of, I'm no better than him. And if I keep pushing Tim away just because the feelings I get when I'm around him make me uncomfortable, I'll never know what it's like to really let someone in—a someone I'm not related to, anyway. Before I can change my mind, I spin around and head back to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I find him sitting on a bench outside the automatic front doors, under a streetlamp. I thought the Southwest was supposed to be all dry heat and cacti, but it's freezing out, and he's in a flimsy Hanes undershirt. As I get close I can see goose bumps running up and down his arms, which are so tense that muscles I never noticed were there are thrown into relief. Not that I care about that kind of thing.

“Come inside,” I say from behind him. “You'll get sick.”

He doesn't turn around, but his shoulders visibly relax. “I thought you left,” he says.

“Where would I go?” Clutching my arms for warmth, I sit down next to him, and we share a few seconds of awkward silence. For the first time all week, he's starting to show the wear and tear of life off the grid—his hair's sticking up like permanent bedhead, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

“I don't know,” he says. “I just got worried. It's a strange city, the middle of the night . . .”

“Thanks,” I say. “I'll be okay.”

He gives me a look. “Really?”

I let my chin drop to my chest, the weight of everything centering at the top of my spinal cord, curling me in like a snail. “No.”

“Well, I have
some
good news,” he says. “My dad talked to the cops, and the search is officially off.”