“Mom’s not in her bed,” he said, moving toward the table, pulling up a chair. More pictures everywhere, on the walls, on surfaces. At his house, all their pictures were on the television screens, the computers, iPads, phones. There were hardly any paper photographs in frames. One from Mom and Dad’s wedding, where Mom looked like a princess and Dad was a lot thinner.
Grandma turned to face him; she always smiled when she looked at him and Stephen, Lily and Jasper. Her eyes got all crinkly. But tonight, she looked a little worried.
“I heard her leave,” she said with a nod. “It woke me.”
“Where did she go?”
“Sometimes when she was younger, she’d go running at night. When she was stressed, or upset about something, she’d just get out of bed and go jogging.”
“You let her?” Oliver wondered what it would be like to just leave a place without permission, alone. It didn’t even seem possible, even for his mom, who was always home, or with them, or with Dad. Dad could go out alone; he could be gone for days and it didn’t matter that much. Like now. But Mom? That was different. Take care of your mom, Dad had said on the phone earlier. How was Oliver supposed to do that? He hadn’t asked; it was one of those things you were already supposed to know. Like the “bro code.”
Grandma shrugged, turned back to stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. “Your mom’s an adult. And I’m a firm believer in letting people be who they are. Right or wrong.”
He looked out the window; all he saw was black. “Is it safe?”
“Selena—your mom—is smart and strong, as able to take care of herself as anyone I’ve known. Even when she was your age, she used to go out back by herself without asking.”
“I’ve never been outside by myself.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, gave him a smile. “Things are different now. Parents—do things differently. Maybe better.”
She came over with two mugs, sat across from him. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
“Are Mom and Dad getting a divorce?”
She reached for him, put her hand on his hair. His grandma always smelled like flowers, her skin soft. He waited for her to lie. Of course not! she might say. Or: Don’t say things like that. “Look,” she said instead. “There are some grown-up things going on right now. But we’re all going to get through it together.”
Not a lie. But—
“That’s not an answer, Grandma.”
She nodded. “I know it. But it’s the only one I have for you. Not even grown-ups have all the answers. Unfortunately.”
He already knew that.
He took a sip of the milk. It was spicy and sweet, but it burned his tongue a little. Not too bad. He didn’t say anything—she’d just told him it was hot. Stephen would be jealous if he knew about Oliver’s special time with Grandma. Their special drink. Oliver loved having something that Stephen didn’t have, and he would never complain about it.
“Is it because of Geneva?” he asked. “Because she didn’t come to work?”
Grandma sighed, rubbed at her temples. She was quiet a minute, and he thought maybe she wasn’t going to answer him. That was another thing they did. Just change the subject.
She took a sip from her milk. Then, “Look, honey. When your mom comes back, we’ll all sit down and talk about it. But all you need to know right now is that you and Stephen are safe. And your parents love you as much as ever. Can that be enough for right now?”
He nodded, because he knew that’s what she wanted him to do, to understand more than he did.
He pushed his iPad across the table.
“The night she left,” he said. “I recorded her.”
“Who?”
“Geneva.”
Grandma looked at him, frowning, then down at the iPad. “On this?”
“Yeah.” He turned it to her and pressed Play.
“Did you tell anyone about this?” she asked.
He shook his head, and her frown deepened. She leaned in and watched. He watched, too. Geneva crossed the street, stood at her car digging through her purse. Then she turned around.
Oliver had gotten distracted here, ran off after Stephen who was being a jerk about the remote. But he’d left the iPad in the window, recording.
Geneva walked into the street. Another person approached. He wore a jacket with a hood. It looked like a “he.” Or did it? Maybe a kid? An older kid.
Geneva looked angry, brow wrinkled, body stiff. She was saying something—Oliver wished he could read lips. Geneva pointed toward their house, and the other person, taller than Geneva, turned quickly, then back to Geneva.
For just a second, they’d seen a face.
“Oh,” said his grandmother.
“Who is that?” Oliver asked aloud, even though of course his grandma didn’t know. But when he looked at her, Grandma had her hand over her mouth. She looked—scared. Which scared Oliver a little. He got a funny feeling in his stomach.
Then, Geneva and the other person walked out of view, leaves blowing around them. A ginger cat walked up the sidewalk on the other side. Oliver had seen it before but he wasn’t sure where it belonged. There was just the empty street, cars passing by intermittently—for a while. Mom stopped the recording finally. There was a flash of her annoyed face as she turned it off before taking it away as punishment for fighting with his brother.
“Oh, my goodness,” said his grandma, still staring at the screen even though there was nothing else to see.
“Mom?” The voice startled them both.
Oliver looked up to see his mother standing in the door. She was wearing her running clothes, cheeks flushed, her shirt damp with sweat.
“What are you guys looking at?” she asked. But Grandma just shook her head. A tear fell from her eye and Oliver felt awful, looked at his mom. He’d made his grandma cry. He felt the heat of his own tears coming. He fought it back, because he already knew that boys weren’t supposed to cry. Man up, Oliver, his dad would say if Mom couldn’t hear.
“You guys,” said his mom, moving in, sounding scared herself now. “What is it?”
THIRTY-TWO
Pearl
The girl Pop brought home was mousy and pale. She had a strange, glassy look to her, as if she might shatter into a million glittering pieces. As Pearl drew tentatively closer, she could see that the girl was shaking a little. Quaking really, a kind of full body vibration. There had never been anyone in their house before. And Pearl didn’t love it. In fact, she hated it. It felt like a terrible invasion, a broken promise.
“Gracie here,” said Pop, as Pearl put down her things. “She’s in a dark place. We’re going to take care of her for a while.”
“Oh?” said Pearl.
The girl looked at her, then quickly looked away. A single tear trailed down her face from an eye as vague as a morning sky—a kind of palest blue. Barely a color at all. She wasn’t beautiful, not in the way Pearl knew herself to be. But then again, she was just a girl, doughy, small-breasted. Unformed. Maybe Pearl herself had been so, before Pop taught her how to be what she’d become.
“She’s a diamond in the rough,” said Pop, as if reading Pearl’s mind. He glanced worriedly over at the girl. There was an untouched cup of tea steaming in front of her.