“You’re not going home by yourself,” Avery tells me sternly as I shove my phone into my pocket.
“You could always come with me,” I suggest as I grab the broom from the pantry.
“I can’t do that.” She sets the fork she’s holding down on the counter. “I’m not ready to see her or that house again.”
“Neither am I,” I mutter as I sweep up the eggshells on the floor. “But I think I have to.”
“Why?” she gripes. “You don’t owe her anything, and I don’t know why you feel like you do.”
“I don’t feel like I do… it’s just…” I don’t know how to explain how I feel.
When I left my mother two years ago, it was for good reasons. But in the back of my mind, I knew she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself. It’s not like she could while I was living there, but I’d been old enough when I bailed out that I could stop her boyfriends and pimps from beating her. Help keep track of the bills. Help her keep her head above the water. Part of me knew, when I’d walked away, there was a possibility that she would wind up dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Look.” I prop the broom against the wall, round the kitchen island, and place my hands on Avery’s shoulders. “I know it might seem crazy, but I just need to go back and check on things. See for myself.”
Avery shakes her head, aggravated. “What about school and work?”
“My last class was Thursday and I’m sure I can take off work for a week. I haven’t used any of my sick days or vacation time yet.”
Her gaze flicks to the fork, like she’s contemplating jabbing me in the eye with it so I can’t make the thousand some odd miles drive back home. “Only a week? Then you’ll come back home?”
I nod. “One week is all I need to spend searching for her.”
She sticks out her pinkie. “Swear on it. Swear you’ll come home after a week even if you can’t find her.” I reach out to hook my pinkie with hers, but she pulls back. “And you won’t go alone.”
“I don’t want to make you come with me.”
“I’m not going to. I already told you I’m not ready to go back there.” She glances at the hallway. “Take Tristan with you. He’s from there.”
“As much as I like Tristan, I don’t know him well enough to do that.” I restlessly thrum my fingers on the sides of my legs.
Who could I take with me? Who knows about my mother enough that it wouldn’t be awkward? A thought strikes me straight in the skull. One I like, but have no clue how to make happen.
“I have an idea,” I say then hitch my pinkie with Avery’s.
Her brows furrow. “Who?”
“Clara.” I smile for the first time since I got the call. Going home is going to suck balls, but if Clara goes with me, it might not be so bad.
“The nurse?” Avery asks, confused.
“Technically she’s a CNA, but she’s going to school to become a nurse.”
With our pinkies still locked, she considers my solution. “You think she’d go with you? Are you guys that close?”
I waver at her question. Although I’ve told Clara a lot of stuff about me, there’s still things I don’t know about her. “Sort of. I mean, she knows about Mom and everything.”
I have zero confidence that Clara will easily agree to make a road trip across the country with me, but perhaps with a bit of persuading, I can convince her. I just need to make her an offer she can’t refuse.
Besides, even though I’m still not positive my mother is actually dead, it’ll be nice to have someone I care about with me in case that’s where this journey ends. Even if that person won’t admit she cares about me, too.
Chapter Three
Clara
I’m having that dream again, the one about the car accident.
My father is lying in the street, surrounded by bent pieces of metal and shards of glass. My mother is still stuck in the car, and the passenger side door so crunched in, I can’t get it open. The vehicle that side swiped us is several feet away, smashed into a streetlight post. People are gathering around, crying, calling nine-one-one, while I stand in the middle of the madness, unscathed except for a cut on my head and a stabbing pain in my arm.
“Daddy,” I whisper as I inch toward him. The glass crunches under my shoes and the air smells like burnt rubber. “Dad…” I trail off at the sight of him.
His eyes are open and his breathing is wheezy. There’s so much blood on the ground and around him. At first, I just stand there, staring helplessly at the scene. But then my father whispers my name and I snap out of my trance.
Kneeling beside him, I slip off my jacket to use to put pressure on the hole in his stomach, which seems to be the main cause of the bleeding. I take his hand and try not to cry. Try to be strong.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I lie. Deep down, I know the truth—this is bad and more than likely will end in tragedy.
“Where’s… your… mother…?” My father gasps, and his eyes are unfocused as if he’s drifting off to a place only he can see.
Hot tears bubble from my eyes and spill down my cheeks. “She’s fine,” I lie, knowing it might be the last thing I ever say to him.
“Good.” He almost smiles. “Take care of her, okay?” His head slumps to the side and silence surrounds us.