“I told her she looks like Mom,” I say, getting closer. “But Mom was prettier. And she had the good sense to leave you.”
I see his hand coming like it’s slow. Tobacco stains on the tips of his fingers and every line in his palm. All I can see is that hand—it eclipses the sun—but I can’t make myself move out of the way. I’m a corpse again. Corpses can’t move.
— Chapter 6 —
I pack everything. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know how I’m getting there, but anything that could be useful gets thrown in a garbage bag—three cans of baked beans, two and a half boxes of Pop-Tarts, the last Coke, toothpaste, flashlights, fuel cans for a camping cookstove that came with the motorhome and doesn’t even work. I need supplies. Reinforcements. Survival tools. I wish the damn motorhome had a freaking motor and I could just drive it away.
When one bag is full, I tie the end on itself and throw it up front. Before I even get to the bedroom, I can barely see out the windshield. I didn’t know we had this much stuff.
The world is ending, or at least I’m done with it. I keep thinking I need a plan, but so far, this is it: shove everything in bags.
In the bedroom, I take the lumpy pillows; all the clothes in the closet, even the ones that aren’t mine; and the pilled pink blanket with fraying satin trim.
Do I need sheets? I do need sheets. You can use them for things like escaping from windows or pulling a person out of a ditch. I picture myself hanging by my hands off a bent sapling, bare feet dangling over a ravine with a river raging below.
I wish I had someone to come with me, pull me out if I get stuck. Tie the sheet around your waist, April, before you get too close to the edge, I tell myself. Tie the other end to a tree. There’s the plan. No falling in ditches without a lifeline. You can’t afford to. I wad up the sheets and the mattress pad and jam them in the bag.
I take my mom’s ring out from under the mattress and shove it in my pocket. The box digs into my thigh, but that’s good. I know it’s there.
I get down on my knees and reach my arm under the mattress until it’s all the way under, the side of my face pressed against the edge. I feel for the photo and pull it out. It’s rippled and crumpled and there’s a stain across my mother’s face where I had to pick off a soup noodle after I saved it from the trash. It’s her wedding day and her dress is simple.
I tuck the picture in the corner of the bathroom mirror and study our faces, doing my best to ignore the swollen red marks on my cheek. I look like her, and I wonder what it is that’s different between the way Irene looks like her and the way I do. What makes it okay in Irene but not me? Maybe it’s the nose or something about the way my mother and I have the same dark eyelashes and a dimple in our chins when we smile.
This picture lady, in her white veil and bright blue eye shadow, plays my mother in every memory. When I think of her now, where she could be, what she might be doing, she’s still wearing her wedding dress and her face always has that perfect grin.
I slip her photo between the pages of my favorite book—the one she liked to read me about Max and all those wild things—and shove it in with the blankets. It’s the last bag. I tie it closed and throw it on top of the pile. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I pace until I do. A plan works its way into my head a step at a time and then it’s all there.
I open the last bag again, tear a page from the book, and sit down to write.
* * *
I walk past the elementary school on my way. My dad’s truck is on the grass even though there are still empty parking spaces. Mrs. Varnick’s car is in a handicapped spot but doesn’t have a sticker. Her grandson plays the violin and he sucks. Matty’s sister plays the recorder. I don’t know what Gary’s son plays, but I see his Harley. I wonder if Margo rode on the back. Those concerts take forever. Long and painful. Squeaking reeds and kids chewing on drumsticks when they aren’t hitting cymbals off beat.
It’s a five-minute trek from the school to Irene’s apartment. The front of the building is lit up nice like it’s an architectural gem, even though the paint is peeling and someone spray-painted WWJD in yellow on the front step. I sneak around the back of the building to stay in the shadows, and get a splinter climbing the rickety wood fire escape. The sliver is thick and grey, stuck right in my palm. When I yank it out, the blood forms a tiny red pearl. I wipe it on my jeans.
It’s easy to get in. Irene leaves the window in the boy’s room open just a crack. He’s got croup or asthma or something like that and always needs fresh air. Waste of heat, if you ask me.