Shelter

  "Some shot," Tyrell said.

  "Some pass," I countered, heading off the court.

  "Hey," Tyrell said, "where you going?"

  "I got to sit this one out," I said.

  "You kidding? It's last game. We got a chance of sweeping."

  He knew something had to be wrong. I never sat out.

  The man from Bat Lady's house stood with the crowd behind the fence. When he saw me coming, he started to slide back and away. I didn't want to call out, not yet anyway, so I picked up my pace. Because of the fence, I had to circle around to get to him.

  Tyrell came running up behind me. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I'll be right back."

  I didn't want to break into a sprint. That would look too weird, so instead I did one of those fast-walk things. When I got around the fence, the homeless guys surrounded me, offering me high fives, encouragement, and of course, advice:

  "You need to work on your left, man . . ."

  "The drop step. Use that, see, and go baseline . . ."

  "You gotta stick your butt out more on the box out. Like this . . ."

  It was hard to rush through without being overtly rude, but now the man from Bat Lady's house was almost to the street corner, moving unhurriedly but somehow fast.

  I didn't want to lose him.

  "Wait!" I shouted.

  He kept walking. I called out to him again. He stopped, turned, and for a second, I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his face. The heck with it. I pulled away from my wino fan base and dashed toward him. Heads turned from the suddenness of my movement. In the corner of my eye, I saw Tyrell's father notice what was going on and follow me.

  The man from Bat Lady's house was across the street now, but I was closing the gap pretty quickly. I was maybe thirty, forty yards away from him when the black car with the tinted windows pulled up next to him.

  "Stop!"

  But I wasn't going to make it. The man paused and gave me half a nod, as if to say, Nice try. Then he slid into the passenger seat and before I could do anything, the car sped out of sight.

  I didn't bother to take down the license plate. I already had it.

  Tyrell's father, Mr. Waters, caught up. He looked at me with concern. "You okay, Mickey?"

  "I'm fine," I said.

  He wasn't buying it. "Do you want to tell me what that was about, son?"

  Tyrell was there too now, standing next to his father. The two of them looked at me, together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and I hated myself for feeling such envy. I was grateful to this man for worrying about me, but I couldn't help but wish it were my own father standing here, concerned about my welfare.

  "I just thought I recognized him, that's all," I said.

  Tyrell's father still wasn't buying.

  Tyrell said, "We still got one more game to play."

  I thought about my mother heading back home after therapy, making the spaghetti and meatballs. I could almost smell the garlic bread. "It's getting late," I said. "I have to catch the bus back."

  "I can drive you," Tyrell's father said.

  "Thank you, Mr. Waters, but I can't ask you to go out of your way like that."

  "It's no trouble. I got a case in Kasselton anyway. It'll be nice to have the company."

  We lost the last game, in part because I was so distracted. When it was over, we all high-fived or fist-bumped good game. Mr. Waters waited for us. I took the backseat, Tyrell sat up front. He dropped Tyrell off at the two-family house they shared with Mr. Waters's sister and her two sons on Pomona Avenue, a tree-lined street in Newark's Weequahic section.

  "You going to come down tomorrow?" Tyrell asked me.

  I had been blocking on it, but now I remembered that Mom, Myron, and I were flying out in the morning to visit my father's grave in Los Angeles. It was a trip I didn't want to make; it was a trip I really needed to make.

  "Not tomorrow, no," I said.

  "Too bad," Tyrell said. "Fun games today."

  "Yeah. Thanks for picking me."

  "I just pick to win," he said with a smile.

  Before he got out, Tyrell leaned over and kissed his father good-bye on the cheek. I felt another pang. Mr. Waters told his son to make sure he did his homework. Tyrell said, "Yes, Dad," in an exasperated tone I remember using myself in better days. I moved up to the front passenger seat.

  "So," Mr. Waters said to me as we hit Interstate 80, "what was with that bald guy in the black car?"

  I didn't even know where to start. I didn't want to lie, but didn't know how to explain it. I couldn't tell him I'd broken into a house or any of that.

  Finally I said, "He may be following me."

  "Who is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "No idea at all?"

  "None," I said.

  Mr. Waters mulled that over. "You know that I'm a county investigator, right, Mickey?"

  "Yes, sir. Is that like a cop?"

  "That's exactly what it's like," he said. "And I was standing next to that guy the whole time you were playing. I'd never seen him down here before. He barely moved, you know? The whole time, he just stood there in that suit. Didn't cheer. Didn't call out. He never said a word. And he never took his eyes off you."

  I wondered how he could tell that, what with the sunglasses and all, but I knew what he meant. We fell into silence for a moment or two. Then he said something that surprised me. "So while you guys played that last game, I took the liberty of running the guy's license plate."

  "You mean on that black car?"

  "Yes."

  I sat perfectly still.

  "It didn't come up in the system," he said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It's classified."

  "You mean like it's diplomatic or something?"

  "Or something," he said.

  I tried to put it together but nothing was coming to me. "So what does that mean exactly?"

  We pulled up to Myron's house. He coasted to a stop and then turned to me. "The truth? I don't know, Mickey. But it doesn't sound good. Just please be careful, okay?"

  "Okay," I said.

  Mr. Waters reached into his wallet. "If you see that bald guy again, don't go chasing him. You call me, understand?"

  He handed me his card. It read JOSHUA WATERS, ESSEX COUNTY INVESTIGATOR. There was a phone number on the bottom. I thanked him and got out of the car. He pulled out and I waved good-bye. As I trudged up the walk, I thought maybe I smelled garlic but that could have been my imagination.

  I used my key to get inside. "Mom?"

  There was no reply.

  "I'm home," I called out, louder this time. "Mom?"

  Still no reply.

  I headed into the kitchen. There was nothing on the stove. There was no smell of garlic. I checked the time. Six P.M. Mom probably wasn't home from therapy yet. That was it. I opened up the refrigerator to grab a drink, but when I did, I saw immediately that there was no new food in it.

  Hadn't Mom said she went food shopping?

  My breathing got a little funny. I called her cell phone. No answer. I hung up after the fifth ring.

  Okay, Mickey, stay calm.

  But I couldn't. My hand started shaking. When my phone buzzed, I felt a sense of relief. It had to be Mom. I looked at the caller ID. It was Spoon. I started freaking out. I hit Ignore and dialed the Coddington Rehab Center. I asked for Christine Shippee. When she got on the line, I asked, "Is my mother still there?"

  "What are you talking about? Why would your mother be here?"

  My heart sank. "She didn't have outpatient therapy today?"

  "No." Then: "Oh no. What happened, Mickey? Where is she?"

  Here is how stupid I am: I actually went outside and expected to see my mother pull up. So many emotions ricocheted through my brain. I just wanted them to stop. I just wanted to be numb. I longed for that, for feeling absolutely nothing, and then I realized that was what my mom craved too. Look where that led her.

  I called Mom's cell
phone again. This time, I waited until the voice mail picked up.

  "Hi, it's Kitty. Leave me a message at the beep."

  I swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to keep the pleading from my voice. "Mom? Please call me, okay? Please?"

  I didn't cry. But I came close. When I hung up, I wondered what to do. For a little while I just stared at the phone, willing it to ring. But I was done willing and hoping. I had to start getting real.

  I thought about how my mom's face had beamed this morning. I thought about how the poison had been out of her system for the past six weeks and how much hope we both had. I didn't want to do this, but I had no choice.

  The phone was in my hand. I dialed the number for the first time.

  Uncle Myron answered immediately. "Mickey?"

  "I can't find Mom."

  "Okay," he said. It was almost as though he'd been expecting my call. "I'll handle it."

  "What do you mean, you'll handle it? Do you know where she is?"

  "I can find out in a few minutes."

  I was going to ask how, but there was no time to waste. "I want to go with you," I said.

  "I don't think that's a good idea. Let me handle--"

  "Myron?" I cut him off. "Please don't play those patronizing games with me. Not now. Not with my mother."

  There was a brief silence. Then he said, "I'll pick you up on the way."

  chapter 9

  THE SATURN RINGS ROUNDABOUT MOTEL was located beneath an overpass on Route 22. The neon sign advertised hourly rates, free Wi-Fi, and color television, as if some rivals might only be using black-and-white ones. The motel was, as the name suggested, round, but that wasn't the first thing you noticed. The first thing you noticed was the filth. The Saturn Rings was the kind of seedy and dirty place that made you want to dunk your whole body in a giant bottle of hand sanitizer.

  Myron's Ford Taurus--the one Mom had used to drop me off at school just ten hours earlier, the one she sang along with the radio in and wrote me a tardy excuse--was parked in the motel lot. Myron had put a GPS in his car. I don't know why. Maybe he suspected something like this would happen.

  For a moment we just stared at the Taurus in silence. Provocatively dressed women tottered around in too-high heels. They had hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, as if death had already halfway claimed them.

  I could hear my breath coming in shallow gasps.

  "Any chance I can persuade you to stay in the car?" Myron asked.

  I didn't bother answering. We both got out. I wondered how Myron would figure out what room she'd be in, but it didn't take much. We headed into a lobby with barely enough room for the sole vending machine. The man behind the desk wore an undershirt that covered about half his enormous belly. Myron slipped him a hundred-dollar bill. He made it disappear, burped, and said, "Room two-twelve in the C Ring."

  We walked to the room in silence. I want to say that I still had hope, but if some was there, I pushed it away. Why? I wondered. Less than a year ago we were a happy, healthy family taking that simple bliss for granted. I pushed that thought away too. Enough with the self-pity.

  When we reached her door, Myron and I exchanged a glance. He hesitated, so now I took the lead. I pounded on the door. We waited for someone to open it. No one did. I pounded again. I put my ear against it. Still no answer.

  Myron found the floor maid. It cost him twenty dollars this time. She swiped the lock and the door opened. The light was off when we entered. Myron pulled back the curtain. My mom was sprawled out alone on the bed. I wanted so very much to run out of the room or squeeze my eyes shut.

  Nothing about a junkie is pretty.

  I moved over to the bed and gently shook her shoulder. "Mom?"

  "I'm so sorry, Mickey." She started to cry. "I'm so sorry."

  "It's going to be okay."

  "Please don't hate me."

  "Never," I said. "I could never hate you."

  We drove her back to rehab. Christine Shippee met us in the lobby, took my mother by the hand, and led her past the security door. I heard Mom's pathetic sniffles cease as the door slammed closed behind her. I glanced at Myron. There may have been pity in his eyes, but what I mostly saw was disgust.

  A few minutes later Christine Shippee came back out. Her stroll had her customary no-nonsense bearing. That used to give me confidence. Not anymore.

  "Kitty can't have any visitors for at least the next three weeks," she announced.

  I didn't like that. "Not even me?"

  "No visitors, Mickey." She turned her gaze on me. "Not even you."

  "Three weeks?"

  "At the very least."

  "That's crazy."

  "We know what we're doing," Christine Shippee said.

  I made a scoffing sound. "Right, sure. I can see that."

  Myron said, "Mickey . . ."

  But I wasn't done. "I mean, you did such a great job last time."

  "It's not uncommon for an addict to have a relapse," she said. "I warned you about this, remember?"

  I thought about how my mom had smiled at me, how she told me that she was home preparing spaghetti and meatballs, how she even supplemented her original bogus meal with garlic bread. Lies. All lies.

  I stormed out. The sky was a black canvas, not a star in it. I searched for the moon but couldn't find that either. I wanted to scream or hit something. Myron came out a few minutes later and unlocked the car.

  "I'm really sorry," Uncle Myron said.

  I said nothing. He hated my mother and knew this would happen. He must enjoy being right. We drove a few minutes in silence before Myron broke it.

  "We can cancel the trip to Los Angeles, if you want."

  I thought about it. There was nothing I could do here. Christine had made it clear that she wouldn't let me see my mother tomorrow. Plus my grandparents were already on their way out there. They wanted to see their son's burial place. I understood that. I wanted to see it again too.

  "Don't cancel," I said.

  Myron nodded. There was no more conversation. When we got home, I hurried down to the basement, closing the door behind me. I did my homework. Mrs. Friedman had assigned us a term paper on the French Revolution. I started working on it, trying to focus hard so I could get rid of other thoughts. I lift weights four days a week but missed today, so I dropped to the floor and did three sets of sixty push-ups. It felt great. I grabbed a shower. At midnight, I climbed into bed and tried to read a book but the words just swam by in a muddy haze. I flicked off the light and sat in the darkness.

  No way I was going to fall asleep.

  Myron hadn't hooked up a television down here yet. I considered going up to the den and watching SportsCenter or something, but I didn't want to run into my uncle. I picked up my phone and texted Ashley for the umpteenth time. I watched for an answer. None came, of course. I considered telling Mr. Waters about her--but what exactly would I say? I thought about it for a few more minutes. I flipped on my laptop and started doing searches on Ashley's "parents," but that got me very little. Mr. Kent was indeed Dr. Kent, a cardiologist at Valley Hospital. Mrs. Kent was, per Ashley, an attorney working at a big firm in Roseland. So what?

  At one A.M., my phone buzzed. I jumped for it, hoping against hope it was Ashley. It wasn't. It was Ema: u awake?

  I texted back that I was.

  Ema: should we try to break into Bat Lady's again tomorrow?

  Me: Can't. Going to L.A.

  Ema: why?

  And then I surprised myself and did something truly out of character. I typed the truth: Visiting my dad's grave.

  For nearly five minutes there was no answer. I started to scold myself. Who just blurts something like that? Okay, maybe it was a weak moment. It had been a horrendous, confusing, emotional day. I tried to think of what to type, how to backtrack, when another text came in.

  Ema: look in your backyard

  I slid out of bed and made my way to the window in the laundry room--one that faced out back. In the distance, I saw someone--I ass
umed it was Ema--flashing the light on her cell phone.

  Me: Gimme five.

  It took less. I slipped on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed into the yard. Not surprisingly, Ema was in black, fully "gothed" up in vampire mode. Her earrings had skulls and crossbones on them. The silver stud she normally wore in her eyebrow had been replaced with a silver hoop.

  She jammed her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drifted toward the basketball hoop. "Must help," she said.

  "What?"

  "Basketball," Ema said. "Having a passion like that."

  "It does." Then I asked, "Do you have one?"

  "A passion?"

  "Yes."

  Her eyes flicked to the right. "Not really."

  "But?"

  She shook her head. "This whole thing is weird."

  "What is?"

  "You being nice to me."

  I sighed. "You're not going to start that again."

  "I'm the fat outcast. You're the new hot boy being eyed by Rachel Caldwell."

  "Rachel Caldwell? You think?"

  Ema rolled her eyes. "Men."

  I almost smiled and then I remembered. It's funny how you can let yourself forget for seconds, how even in the heat of the horrible you can have moments when you fool yourself into thinking it might all be okay.

  "Listen, I'm the real outcast here," I said. "I'm the new boy with the dead dad and junkie mom."

  "Your mom's a junkie?"

  More blurting. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Ema had moved a little closer. She stared into my eyes with the softest look.

  "You better not be looking at me with pity," I said.

  She ignored my outburst. "Tell me about your mom."

  And again--don't ask me why--I did. I'd never had a friend like her, I guess. That would be the easiest explanation. She had known that I was in trouble, and now, at one in the morning, she had made it her business to be here for me. But I think that there was something deeper at work. Ema had that way about her. She just got it. It was as though she already knew the answers and just wanted to make it better.

  So I told her. I told her everything. When I finished, Ema shook her head and said, "Garlic bread. Wow."

  That was what I meant--about her getting it.

  "You must be so angry," Ema said.

  I shook my head. "It's not her fault."

  "Bull. Do you know what an enabler is?"

  I did. An enabler is someone who helps a loved one act in a destructive matter. In a way, she was right. I was making excuses. But how do you make someone understand . . . ?