What She Left Behind

  “Right. Of course, Sara. What’s up?”

  “The thing is, I know someone who—there’s this horse that …” I sigh. “It’s kind of a long story, but there’s someone I know who has an old horse that they don’t really want anymore. I hoped you might know someone who would be interested in taking it in. Someone not in the glue-manufacturing business, that is. And it needs to be soon, really soon. Because he’s got this bad limp that his owner hasn’t done anything about.” I fill in the rest of the details I know about Chester.

  “Hmm. Let me see what I can do. How about I check around and give you a call back?”

  Just as I hang up, Keith Urban starts singing from my cell. I’ll have to get a new ringtone for my next phone, because I’ll never be able to hear that song again without thinking of Alex.

  “Hi, Alex,” I say softly.

  “I don’t care if you’re mad at me. I’m coming over to see you.” His voice is gentle, pleading. Dear, sweet, Alex. God, I love you.

  “Actually, now’s not a good time. I’m on my way out.” I try to sound businesslike. My voice cracks.

  “Where’re you headed?”

  I hesitate. This is it. I need to either tell Alex everything or let him go. “I’m going to the movies. With Zach.” I use my cold voice. My pseudo-Dad voice.

  “Zach. Him, again.” It’s hurt that I hear.

  “Yeah.” I don’t explain that Zach is like my replacement brother, how going to the movies is just part of the way we cope. Because in the end, I’m going to be leaving. And everyone knows that if you don’t want to be found by the wrong person, you can’t even tell the right one where you’re going. As soon as I find my mom, I’m going to have to disappear, and I can’t have Alex looking for me.

  “So you’re telling me that me and you, these past few days, it meant nothing?” His voice cracks too and my heart breaks.

  It’s meant everything. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, and I hang up before I can change my mind.

  Zach and I go to the movies in Brookton. I don’t really watch the film. The banker-turned FBI-agent is definitely hot, but I have no idea what actually happens. Images flicker in front of me, but I don’t really see them. Different images flash through my brain. Me, age six, a worm in one hand, a fishing pole in the other, next to my dad. Walking across the entire span of the Mackinac Bridge on Labor Day with Matt and my parents. Snowboarding with Matt at Boyne. Matt’s funeral. Mom crying. Dad already wandering around by himself, talking to nonexistent people in corners. Dad’s “logs.”

  The credits roll.

  “I, um—I need to stop by the hardware store,” I say, standing up. “If you can just drop me off, I’ll meet you back at Zelda’s Diner.”

  “Drop you off? I’ll just wait for you. But isn’t the store closed?”

  I look around to make sure none of my dad’s spies are lurking among the theatergoers. “Yeah, I need to look for something.” I clear my throat.

  Zach lifts his eyebrows but keeps quiet until we’re inside the car.

  “Look for what?”

  “My dad’s logs. I need to know if he’s written anything about Mom. Look, Zach, I don’t want you in the middle of this. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I want to help.”

  “But if my dad finds out we’ve been at his store … It’s better if I go alone.”

  “I’m coming with you. Let me do this, Sara. I wasn’t there for Matt, but I can be here for you.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for Matt. He made his own choices.”

  “But it’s okay for you to blame yourself?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “And I’m going with you.”

  The hardware store is also in Brookton, halfway between the mall and the first farm on the way out of town. It isn’t the best location (that would be the strip between the mall and Pizza Hut), but it isn’t bad. It’s perfect for what Zach and I are about to do—break in, that is.

  If you think about it, we aren’t exactly breaking in. I have the key on my keychain because Dad had them made for all of us when he first got the store. And I know the alarm code. Or, at least, I hope I do.

  There’s just one thing I have to do before we go inside. “Mind if I do a little Dumpster diving first?”

  Zach narrows his eyes and shrugs. “Sure, if you think it will help.”

  I lead him around the back of the building and peer into the Dumpster. “Great.” I groan. “Looks like this was recently emptied.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It means that the bag I need is all the way at the bottom. I’m going to have to climb in.”

  “I’ll do it,” says Zach.

  “I got it,” I insist. “Hold my purse?”

  Zach rolls his eyes and holds it as far away from his body as he can.

  I pull myself up until I can bend at my waist into the Dumpster. I try to imagine I’m on the monkey bars. The stench of rotting tuna reminds me that I’m not. I swing my legs over the side and jump in, landing on something squishy. The bags are all very efficiently double-knotted. Dad’s signature. I try to undo the first one. Then I just give up and rip. I get spaghetti sauce and a few noodles on my foot. That was supposed to be our last meal together. I try another bag. Sawdust and shards of wood. When I open the third bag, Sam’s ear flops out. He’s been sitting in a bed of cigarette ashes, but I brush him off and hug him anyway. “I’ll decide when I’m ready to get rid of you,” I whisper. Then I carry him over to the side of the bin. “Catch?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I wait for Zach to drop my purse and hold up his arms so I can see them over the edge of the Dumpster. Then I send Sam in an arc through the air. His long ears fly upward in the wind. Matt and I used to love to watch him fly for just that reason.

  As soon as I climb out of the Dumpster, Zach hands Sam back to me. I tuck him under my arm as we walk around to the front of the hardware store. I unlock the door with my key and we step inside.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm nags me for the code. Is it 2791 or 2971? I try 2791. RETRY. My palms start to sweat. I wipe them on my pants. 2971. The beeping stops.

  “You had me worried for a minute,” Zach says, looking pale.

  “You and me both.”

  “Should we lock the door?” asks Zach.

  “Nah. The closed sign is up. This shouldn’t take long, anyhow.”

  I walk down an aisle filled with bins of nails, screws, and bolts. I pick up a handful and let them fall through my fingers to hear the clinking sound. Then I remember I’ve just been Dumpster diving and go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

  I dry my hands on a paper towel. “Can you look behind the counter?” I ask. “I’m going to check out the office.”

  The microwave is the first thing you see as you enter the office. There’s a splatter of spaghetti sauce on the top of it. It’s small. Not everyone would have noticed. Except for Dad. Dad really should have noticed and wiped it off. I glance up. For a second I think I see a spot on the wall too, a red spot, like spaghetti sauce. Or blood. But I know it’s just a trick my mind is playing on me. Kind of like how if you stare at something for a long time and then look at a white wall, you can still see the image, if only for a few seconds.

  This time when I shake my head to make the spots go away, they disappear from the wall but not from my mind. In my mind, Dad has a paper towel in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other and he’s spraying the wall and wiping it, but there is still a little speck of blood on the wall. I know I need to get up and run out of here. Now.

  “What are you staring at?”

  I jump, but it’s only Zach standing behind me.

  “Nothing,” I say, going over to sit at the desk. “Can you check the filing cabinet?”

  A coffee mug sits on top of the desk alongside three neatly arranged stacks of unopened mail. Dad must have been really busy at the store lately. Too busy to open the mail? I feel weird openi
ng the desk drawers. Kind of like I’m walking in on someone naked. But there really isn’t much there except for a gallon-size freezer bag of rubber bands. I don’t think I could use that many rubber bands in my whole lifetime. The only other thing in the top drawer is a scrap of paper with the number 362947 and the name “Carter.” Is it a phone number? If so, it’s missing a digit. I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I don’t know when or why. I copy it down on a sticky note and stick it in my purse.

  “Find anything?” Zach asks.

  “Not yet. Does ‘Carter’ mean anything to you?”

  “No. I’m not doing much better over here, either. A bunch of brochures and files in the top. Looks like giveaways in this drawer—rulers, tape measures, mini-screwdriver sets.”

  He slams the drawer shut and opens the last one. “Uh, I think this might be it.”

  I cross the room and peer into the drawer. A pint of Jack Daniels. And next to it, a thick navy blue notebook. Dad’s log. It’s a bit like the notebook Dad used to carry around when he was a cop, only steno-size with the spiral on the left. Dad’s logs all look exactly the same except for the year, which he prints on the cover’s top right-hand corner.

  I reach for it, then jerk my hand back.

  Clean! Are your hands clean, Sara? Of course they are. Stop freaking out. I just washed them after rescuing Sam. I reach back into the drawer, and slowly pull out the log. My heart pounds. I’ve never looked in Dad’s log. No one has. I carry it carefully to the desk and sit. Taking a deep breath, I open it and turn the pages. Most seem to be rather mundane entries about lumber orders and meals. Then I get to Tuesday, the day Mom disappeared.

  There’s nothing. Just a blank page. The entries stop there. My dad, who never misses an entry, has not made one in nearly a week. My ears buzz and I get the same scared taste in my mouth that I get when I hear my dad’s truck door slam and I realize that there is something I’ve forgotten to do before he got home.

  I turn the page, and then the next and the next, just to make sure.

  Slow down, Sara! Don’t bend the pages! There must be a logical explanation, just slow down and think!

  “What? What’s the matter?” Zach comes over and puts his arm on my shoulder.

  “There are no—there are no more entries.” I keep turning, blank page after blank page.

  Slam! A car door! Or is it a truck? Please don’t let it be a truck!

  Zach and I both freeze like rabbits. “Oh my God, is that him? Is he here?”

  Shit! Move, Sara, move! I close the log and slide it back into the filing cabinet. Had it been touching the right side or the left? Right. No, left. My dad will expect it to shift a little when he opens and closes the drawer, won’t he? I try to close the cabinet quietly, but it still makes a reverberating clang. Hide, run, or confront? Hide, run, or confront? I want to crawl inside the filing cabinet, even though I know I won’t fit.

  “What do we do? What do we do? Do we go out the back door?” I look to Zach for answers. His eyes get big.

  Do we try to make it to the car? Or do we forget the car, go out the back door, and just run? God, why did the store have to be so far out of town? There’s too much open space! Either way we’re screwed. Dad knows the make, model, and license-plate number of all of our friends’ cars. He’ll know it’s Zach’s car in the parking lot before he even comes in the building.

  “Okay, what are we doing here? Why are we here? What possible reason can we have for being here?” I stammer, my heart thudding.

  “Birthday? Your Dad’s birthday? Decorating for his birthday?” Zach suggests frantically.

  “No, won’t work. July.”

  “You needed something for the yard. Something so you can fix up the yard?” Zach’s talking even faster now.

  “Shovel. Rake. Hoe. Sprinkler. Trimmer. Shit. Just look. Is it him?”

  Zach peeks around the doorframe. “It’s the cops.”

  “Oh God. Now what?”

  “Take a deep breath and act natural,” Zach says. “Remember, it’s your dad’s store. You have the keys.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself, too.

  Yes, my dad’s store. Just please don’t let them call him.

  We go into the main part of the store.

  The door opens. The officer doesn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand hovers over the holster. “Afternoon,” he says, looking us over. “This store’s supposed to be closed. Can you tell me what you kids are doing here, please?”

  “My dad—Ray Peters—owns the store. He sent us here to pick up a paper he forgot. This is my friend, Zach.”

  “Afternoon, Officer.”

  “You have any ID?” he asks, turning to me.

  “In my purse.”

  “Go ahead and get it out.”

  I fumble through my purse, hands shaking. I find my license and take it out.

  “So you’re Ray’s daughter,” he says. “Sorry to frighten you. I was driving by and saw a car I didn’t recognize here after hours.”

  “No problem. I’m sure my dad would appreciate your checking.” Is there any cop in the whole county that my dad isn’t friends with? I put my wallet back in my purse. “We were just leaving.” I take a step forward, then freeze in midstride. Sam! He’s still in the office!

  “I left—I just gotta get—something out of the office.”

  Too bad Sam isn’t going to fit in my purse. I take my time returning to the front of the store. The officer is still there.

  “It’s for—it belongs to my little cousin,” I say, gesturing to my stuffed dog. “Let me just set the alarm and we’ll be off.”

  The officer holds the door open for us.

  I flip off the lights and try to set the alarm while my hands are shaking. Beep. It’s set. I pull the door closed, insert my key, and turn. Then I make a big show of testing the knob to make sure it’s locked.

  Our feet crunch against the gravel as we walk to the car.

  “Thanks again, Officer,” I call out just before slamming the door. He doesn’t answer, but at least he doesn’t try to stop us. He just stands there and watches us pull away, his arms folded.

  “That was close,” Zach says, sounding relieved. He shakes his head and turns on the radio. “You think that guy’s going to call your dad?”

  I pull my seat belt tighter and squeeze Sam to my chest. “I’m doing my best not to think about that.”

  My dad completely flipped out over the glass of water on his dresser and the pack of cigarettes in my pocket.

  If he finds out I was at his store without his permission …

  That I was looking at his log …

  I’ll be in trouble.

  A-trip-to-the-hospital kind of trouble.

  Maybe even dead.

  CHAPTER 11

  Monday

  Monday morning I ask Zach to walk me to history. Alex is standing outside the door. When he sees us together his jaw tightens and he shakes his head. Then he takes off.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Zach asks, raising his eyebrows.

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

  I didn’t do as good of a job trimming the bushes yesterday as Matt would have done. A few stray branches poke out. I’m about to go out to the barn for the clippers when I remember that I never put them back. Good thing Dad didn’t notice. Where are they?

  Think.

  There they are, tucked behind a bush. I clip the problem areas, then trudge out to the barn to put them away.

  As I open the side door, a bird flaps its wings and crashes into a wall. I leave the door open, hoping it will fly out. Bam! The bird crashes into the superclean tractor (Dad washes it after every use). Poor thing.

  I scan the pegboards and the tools hanging on them, looking for the gap where my clippers should go.

  I find the spot. But there’s another empty spot near it. My dad’s very neat with his tools. Meticulous, even. For one to be missing is a bit odd. I try to figure out what it could be. Plasti
c rake. Metal rake. Hoe. Saw. Ax. Hatchet. Pitchfork. Post-hole digger. What’s missing? I stand in front of the empty spot. As if that will help me remember.

  Prickles spread across my arms. Shovel. The shovel is missing. Wooden handle, black scooping part that looks like a Teflon pan. It should be here.

  The gravel crunches and the truck door slams. I freeze. Maybe Dad won’t notice that the barn door is open.

  No such luck.

  “What are you staring at?”

  Oh God. “I—I’m, uh—I’m looking for the peg for the clippers.”

  “It’s right in front of your face.”

  “Oh,” I say. I hear my own voice shake.

  “Put it back and get out of here.” My dad doesn’t like people messing with his tools or his barn, for that matter.

  I stretch on my tiptoes and try to hang up the clippers. Instead I manage to knock the peg onto the floor.

  Dad stands with his arms folded as I replace the peg and the clippers. The bird flutters into a shelf. Nervous, just like me. As we walk out the side door, Dad slams it shut behind us. I want to tell him about the bird but figure I better not.

  Inside the house, I keep thinking about the missing shovel. Where is it? In my mind, I see images of my dad, the shovel in his hand, digging. Picking my mom up in his arms and lowering her into the ground, sprinkling dirt over her body. I shudder. I have to snap out of it and start making dinner.

  I turn on the oven and thaw some ground beef for tacos. Does beef always look this bloody? Stop it, Sara! There’s bound to be a logical explanation for the missing shovel, one that doesn’t involve my mother.

  As we sit down to dinner, Dad once again asks, “Where’s Matt? He’s not at that goddamned play rehearsal again, is he?”

  Let’s see. The last time I told my dad that Matt was at play rehearsal, I ended up making a long-distance call to heaven. I wasn’t going there again.

  “No,” I say. “He quit.”

  Dad smiles, which is weird. I should try changing the past more often.

  “So where is he?”

  Crap. Now what was I supposed to say? Matt loved being in plays. And basically Dad was okay with that. Except for Matt’s last play. Dad insisted that Matt quit a week before opening night.