Miles from Ordinary Read online

  “I bet you your mom’s waiting for you at the house,” Aaron said. The hot breeze moved his hair like a ghost, lifting it, pushing it back with an invisible hand. “You want to call her again? See if she’s made it yet?”

  I looked away.

  “She won’t answer,” I said after a moment. “Even if she is at home, she won’t answer.” I’d known that in the store.

  “Why not?”

  A truck passed in front of us, kicking up a pile of dust and clanging as it drove over a bump.

  “She…” Still I didn’t look at him. Should I say, “She’s afraid. Afraid someone listens in on the line. Afraid someone is checking to see if she’s alone. Afraid Granddaddy will call”? “… she just won’t answer.”

  “Well, I bet she’s waiting for you,” Aaron said. “She’s probably all worried about you.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said. Oh and I did. I hoped that with all my heart. All my body parts. Everything that was me.

  Please God. Please dear God. Those are the words that ran through my head the whole time we waited for that bus. Every once in a while a wave of I’m-gonna-puke-my-guts-out filled me. Momma. Oh Momma. Please dear God. Please.

  Right when the bus pulled into view, Aaron dropped his skateboard and grabbed ahold of my hands. His fingers tangled together with mine. He pulled me toward him a little, till we were face to face, looking right at each other.

  “Lacey,” he said. “It’s all gonna be all right.”

  I stared into his eyes. Candy eyes. And I made myself believe his words. This boy that went to my school. This boy who lived not too far from me. This miracle boy, the way he showed up on the day I would need him. How could that be? Nothing ever worked out for me like that.

  So I made myself believe Aaron. Ignored the feeling in my stomach and heart and believed. Because that’s what you do with a miracle. You believe in it.

  Together we climbed on the Peace City bus and rode back toward my house. My almost-normal feeling was gone. I was miles from ordinary now. Miles. Every once in a while Aaron patted at my hand. And each time, when tears threatened, I believed instead, even this far from what was usual.

  I watched for Momma the whole way.

  Anytime I saw someone wearing red, I made ready to leap to my feet and pull the wire that would get me off the bus and to my mother.

  While I watched, Aaron and I talked about school. About how glad he was for the summer. About how his younger sisters, who were twins, had been a surprise to the family.

  “My dad sure was happy,” Aaron said. He let out a sigh that showed me he was happy, too.

  In case he was gonna ask about my own father, I glanced out the window. My momma and daddy split long before I was born. According to Momma, Granddaddy hadn’t wanted my daddy around.

  “And your granddaddy made quick business of that,” Momma told me once when Aunt Linda was still home.

  Aunt Linda had nodded.

  “He was jealous of the boys, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, Angela, he was,” Aunt Linda had said. She let out a laugh. “Remember how we met up with Daniel and that one guy—what was his name?”

  Momma gave me a knowing look. “Daniel is your daddy, Lacey,” she had said, matter-of-fact.

  “Matthew Riley,” Aunt Linda said. “We met up with Daniel and Matthew in St. Pete. Remember that?”

  Momma nodded all solemnlike. “We told Granddaddy we were off to a rival football game. And he let us go. Worked our butts off, he did, but he let us go.”

  Aunt Linda said nothing for a minute. “Then he followed us, straight over to that old King’s Pizza place.”

  “Uhm-hmm.”

  I listened back and forth. Not wanting to interrupt. Not even breathing, it seemed. Waiting to find out this something I had never known before. Never heard before. This something about my very own daddy.

  Momma laughed then. Threw back her head and laughed. “We hadn’t even taken a sip of Coke,” she said between gasps, “when Daddy walked into that restaurant.”

  Now Aunt Linda laughed, too. “Their faces,” she said. “Everyone’s faces.”

  “What?” I said, daring a word. “What happened?”

  Momma and Aunt Linda were laughing so hard that they fell onto to each other on the couch. Held each other up.

  “Daddy,” Momma said, and like that she was crying and laughing at the same time. And I saw that Aunt Linda was, too. “He came in with a shotgun. The whole room went quiet. Dead quiet.” Momma wiped at her eyes.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “Are you kidding?”

  “He made us both get into the truck,” Aunt Linda said. “Right that very second, he made us get up from the booth. He told those boys we were his and drove us right on out of there.” Aunt Linda’s laughter had settled some. “I didn’t ever see Matthew again,” she said. “You sure can’t blame him, though.” Then she and Momma were rolling all over themselves again.

  “I don’t think that’s funny,” I said. “Not at all.”

  When they quieted some, Aunt Linda said, “He ran off every one we brought here to the house.”

  Momma looked over my head.

  “Every one.”

  When I thought the story was done, my momma said, soft as a flower, “I sure did love my Daniel boy.”

  And that was that. Neither Momma nor Aunt Linda knew where he was now. His family packed up. Moved on away. But not before he got Momma pregnant.

  Being daddy-less was one more thing that made me see my life wasn’t a thing like anyone else’s.

  Especially at school.

  As we bounced along on the bus, I told Aaron I didn’t like school. That I didn’t know Jace Isom from class that well. But it was a lie. A bold-faced lie.

  “You sure? He has way long hair? And he hung out with me and my friends during lunch? He’s a bad ass.”

  I shook my head no. As we drove farther from town, the bus thinned of people. Not too many families live out in the boonies like we do. “I’ve seen Jace plenty,” I said. “Heard him in class. But I don’t know him.”

  “Hmm,” Aaron said. He nodded like he was thinking of how to convince me that I did, really, know Jace Isom.

  “He pointed you out to me. Talked about you.”

  My heart thumped. I could hardly stand to think of this. Hardly bear to remember. Class. Me looking. Like Vickie did. Like Alison. Not saying a word. Thinking I might, thinking I maybe—in another life—that I might have the courage.

  And Jace, walking right up to me. Right into my space. The wind blowing outside a bit. The summer almost here, May halfway over.

  The girls watching. One of them giggling behind her hand.

  And Jace stopping right there in front of me and saying, “You crazy or what? Why are you looking at me? Why?”

  “Umm.”

  “You’re ugly and stupid.” He leaned close. “And crazy.”

  Behind him Vickie and Alison laughed louder.

  “You hear me? Don’t look at me anymore. You’re giving me the creeps.”

  “I won’t,” I had said.

  That day I walked home. Tears coming down my face. Me not making a sound.

  But I kept my promise and didn’t look in Jace’s direction again.

  Now the sun splashed through the bus window. Beside me, Aaron said nothing.

  “What did he tell you?” The words seemed thin as butterfly wings. I took my eyes off the road long enough to give Aaron a glance. Now he stared out the window. “What did he say?”

  “Stuff.”

  And there it was again. The differences. I knew they were coming. Breathe easy. Take slow breaths. “Like what? Bad things?” Thump-thump my heart said. “What kind of stuff?”

  What was I doing? Why did I care what anyone thought? Why did I have to know?

  For a moment Aaron didn’t say anything. Then, “He said that you’re always alone. That you don’t have friends.” He shrugged. “That you made out with him and that he dumped you.”


  “What?” I shook my head. Made out? “Not true. Not true.”

  Part is. You were alone, no friends. None. Alone.

  Again Aaron was quiet. “Lacey, I’ve heard people talking where we live. I’ve seen a few things.”

  A few things?

  My face turned hot. I knew what he was talking about. What people whispered at school about me. I knew they said I was weird, how I sometimes napped during class. How everybody should stay away from me. But I hadn’t known the mean things had seeped out of my classroom to the other ninth grades.

  “You don’t have to look for Momma with me.” It was all I could say. It felt like embarrassment colored my whole body bright red. Colored my words. Even my thoughts felt hot. But when I stared down at my hands I saw they were their normal color, though white at the knuckles.

  What had he seen? What did he know?

  I didn’t want to imagine. But my mind ran ahead. Maybe, just maybe, Momma had been on Aaron’s lawn. Maybe he had seen her wandering in the neighborhood. Maybe he had even heard her cries in the night. Had he seen her in her nightgown? Seen me trying to help her up the steps when she cried so she couldn’t even stand?

  Those houses were down the road from us a bit.

  “Lacey.” Aaron shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I don’t give a crap about what people say.”

  Sure, I thought. “I had a friend before,” I said.

  He nodded. His eyes were so brown.

  Did he know how that ended? The memory of that sleepover brought tears to my own eyes all these years later. For a moment I was back in the middle of that night, shivering in the cold.

  I sure wasn’t going to say anything about that. How Laurel had come to my house to spend the night. How Momma had freaked out early in the morning before the sun came up. How she pulled us both out of bed and made us stand outside in February cold while she searched the house, carrying a crucifix and a flashlight, looking for evil spirits.

  Aunt Linda made things right that early morning. She fixed Laurel and me huge cups of homemade hot chocolate, thick with real cream. Tried to make a game of it. She calmed Momma down. Got us back in bed. Even took Laurel to her front door that next day after we slept in and explained things.

  But at school the following Monday, Laurel told everyone what had happened.

  I was horrified. It felt like the skin might bubble right off my bones.

  “Don’t,” I had said. I remember I had reached out to stop Laurel, but never laid a hand on her. Just waved in her direction. Then sat in my desk, my head on the desktop, and waited for the telling to be over.

  She wouldn’t stop. Laurel told it again and again. About her momma being so angry and yelling at my momma. Momma was wrapped in an old coat of Granddaddy’s, the winter wind pulling at her hair. She never said a word. Didn’t even nod. And Laurel’s momma kept on how she was gonna sue if Laurel came down with even a runny nose. All this in the front yard near the mailbox in voices so loud that neighbors’ lights had popped on.

  That was in fourth grade. I’d had a friend for almost one whole week.

  I glanced at Aaron. “I had a friend before.”

  Maybe he knew that, too.

  X

  As soon as I saw my house, windows curtained like blind eyes, I knew Momma had been here.

  I leapt off the bus.

  She had been here, but she was gone. She had to be gone now. The front door stood open a little, like maybe the wind had pushed it wide enough for a glance inside. The lights were on—I could see that from where I stood with Aaron on the blacktop road that would be good for skateboarding. Light peeked out around the edges of the living room curtains.

  My stomach sunk.

  None of this was like Momma. Not the lights on or the door open or the traveling alone. I mean, before I had found her when she wandered off. I had found her, most of the time, right away.

  And she was always close. She hardly ever left the neighborhood.

  You took her away.

  I did. I had. I took her away. Led her from the safety of our home.

  “That house,” she had said after I found her standing in a neighbor’s yard, pointing at their home, “that’s right where the old barn was. Where generations of Millses kept fishing boats and garden tools and tractors.”

  And once …

  “The place he had that car parked? There was an oak big as Florida right there. Me and our cousins and Linda, we’d climb to the top, look through the trees to the river.”

  And once …

  “It used to be wasn’t nothing out here but the old sand road. Nothing fancy. Nothing new. I walk that blacktop road and I don’t feel nothing of my old life. Just the eyes of the neighbors.”

  It was true. All the changes. Aunt Linda had sold off part of the land. One-acre parcels to ten people. And they’d put a real road here not that long ago. Maybe three, four years ago. And their houses followed.

  When the homes popped up I said, “Momma, you can’t go off like this now that we have people so close.” And she had stopped. She had. And she had always been so close. Not including after Aunt Linda. But most always before. And most always after. She was right under my nose. Really.

  Now looking at our house, I almost forgot how to exhale.

  Near a set of cinder blocks stacked at the corner to keep our home off the ground, I got down on my hands and knees. The wind pushed at me, blowing leaves across the yard. The air was hot, even next to the grass.

  I pretended for a minute that Aaron wasn’t here. Wasn’t watching me.

  “Momma?” I called.

  I could see some old cane poles lying close. Could see the funnel-shaped homes anteaters made. There was a stack of rusted tools, a shovel and two rakes, piled where a hand could reach them if needed. But it didn’t seem anyone had been under the house that shouldn’t have been.

  “Well,” I said, like this was something I did. I stood. Dusted the sand from my knees. Patted my hands together like I was shaking off flour.

  Aaron looked at me big-eyed.

  I stared back.

  “She hid there once,” I said. Just gave it to him, that bit of me.

  “I see,” he said. But I could tell he didn’t.

  I took small steps and Aaron followed, setting his skateboard on the gray wooden porch.

  “I think she’s home,” Aaron said. “Maybe inside. The door’s open. And see the lights?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  To tell the truth, right at that moment I did not want to go inside. To tell the truth, I’d rather crawl around under the house. Take my chances with the rattlers and coral snakes. Instead, I pushed at the front door and it squeaked open like maybe it felt the same as me: scared.

  In the living room I said, “Oh no.” Something like despair grew heavy in my stomach. “This isn’t good.”

  I had to steady myself on an ancient phone table. Thought I might fall.

  “What?”

  “All the lights are on. Even the night-lights.”

  “I noticed that,” Aaron said.

  The living room was wiped clean. There was no dust in here. No breeze from outside. The windows were latched shut. The lace at the glass, breaking the outside into small pieces, like a puzzle—the tatted doilies on the back of the sofa, all of it was in perfect order. It was almost like no one had ever come in this room, ever.

  “This,” I said, waving my hand around, “is where my grandfather met with visitors.”

  “Okay,” Aaron said, like he was as sure as I was about why I had given him that information.

  “I got to see…,” I said. Check and see if what I was feeling about things was the way they were.

  We walked down the hall, our feet making whisper sounds on the wooden floor. Aaron stood close behind me. I could hear him breathing. The kitchen door was open. The sink brimmed with water. I hurried past the half bath, where that sink too, was full—to the bottom of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms and the big bathroom that M
omma and Aunt Linda and I had shared over a year ago.

  Neither Aaron nor I moved. Stood there. Looking up.

  She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

  “Seems like all the lights are on up there, too,” Aaron said. His voice was near my ear. “Does your mom usually leave everything turned on?”

  Was he scared? He didn’t sound it.

  You are.

  Yes, I was afraid. Heart-thumping terrified.

  “No,” I said. “Just the opposite.” My hand rested on the oak banister that wiggled a little when you touched it. I could smell the storm coming, dark and damp. “Especially in bad weather. She thinks lightning will strike us if we’re using the electricity.”

  “Oh.” Aaron glanced behind himself, like maybe he measured the distance from where we stood to the front door and freedom.

  “You can go home now, if you want,” I said, giving him a chance to get away.

  “No,” he said. “I’m staying. Till you find her.”

  Relief surged through me. “I better check upstairs then.” I paused. And looked him right in the face. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Up we went then, his words the permission we needed. The landing was spotless, but had a musty, closed-up smell. Something it took me a minute to adjust to every time I came in from outside.

  At the top of the stairs, I started thinking awful stuff.

  Like what if Momma had killed herself? Or had fallen in the bathroom, where I knew we’d see the tub and sink full of water. Had banged her head? Had bled to death?

  Outside thunder sounded and, as if on cue, the rain started, pinging on our tin roof. I switched the landing lights off. A long square of light fell from the bathroom, stopping at our feet. Behind us, the stairs were dark, but the last bits of sunshine splashed up the steps from the living room.

  “My room first,” I said. I felt out of air.

  Aaron said nothing, just hung close to me. I pushed open my door. Everything on in here too, even my desk lamp and the bulb in the closet.

  But nothing else was changed. A deep breath of wind pushed into the room from the two open windows, blowing the curtains out till they almost touched the twin bed, still unmade, my jammies dropped on the floor where I’d stepped out of them. The closet door ajar.