Contaminated (19 page)

I work until it’s time for me to leave. My mom stares at
nothing for a long time before she gets up and stands in one place for a while. I keep an eye on her, but all she does is shuffle from one spot to another.

For lunch I pull out the bologna sandwiches I packed from the last remnants in the fridge in the apartment and some canned soup from the pantry. We’ll have the same for dinner, unless I can pick up something else from the convenience store on the way home from getting Opal. Real groceries will have to wait for the assistance check—and somehow, a ride.

Then I remember.

“My bike!”

Mom is picking up and putting down pillows from the love seat we shoved back into its place in the corner. I’m not sure what, exactly, she means to do with them. Pick up, put down. Then again. She’s not rearranging them or anything, just picking them up and putting them down. She looks up at my shout, though.

“Oh, man, that would be excellent.” I jump up, more excited by this than I’ve been about anything else. “Stay here, Mom. I’ll be right back.”

My dad kept all our bikes in the shed, which he also kept locked. The key is still in the kitchen, hanging from the wooden plaque shaped like an owl. I grab it, head out through the front door, since the sliding glass door in the back is unusable. I don’t even peek through the windows first. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle the disappointment if they’re gone.

Nobody’s done anything to the shed. And there they
are. Four bikes, and—oh, wow, this is great! Opal’s old baby cart that attaches to the back of a bike. She’ll be too big to sit in it, but it’s big enough for groceries.

For a second I want to fall down on my knees right there. Pass right out from relief. This will make a huge difference to us.

What I find next is even better.

Because we live in the woods, and the wires are all aboveground, we always had a lot of power outages. It got so bad one winter that my dad went out and bought a generator. He even had an electrician hook it up to the house so when the power went out, all we had to do was fire it up and flip a switch. We could run a few lights, the fridge, the stove. We’d have heat from the fireplace. No washer, dryer, computer, hot water, but it was better than being stuck in the dark until the power company came.

I don’t know how to use it, but I can learn. All I need is gas, and I can get that from the station, put it right there in the can beside the generator. Suddenly, everything looks a whole lot brighter. This was the right choice, coming back here. I know it.

Before I can even get back to the house, I hear the sound of footsteps in the crunchy, frosted grass. I round the corner, heading for the front door, and find my mom, arms flung out, mouth open, eyes darting wildly. She’s stepping forward, then back, then turning. Panicked.

“Mom?”

She whirls at the sound of my voice, and her expression goes blank. I study her for a moment before taking her arm and leading her back inside. She’s shivering, and it could be from the cold or maybe from something I can’t begin to understand. I sit her in front of the fire to warm up, and I sit with her to make sure she doesn’t burn herself.

I tell her the good news about the bikes and the generator. I search her face for a smile, for anything, but maybe the crying or the cleaning took too much out of her, because she’s passive and blank. No longer silent, though. She’s humming something tuneless, low and under her breath. I don’t recognize it as a song, but at least it’s not a scary noise. It’s a happy sound.

“Mom?” I take her hands. “Mama? Are you happy?”

She doesn’t say yes, but I think she is.

I am, too.

IT TAKES ME LONGER TO LEAVE THE HOUSE than I expected. I can’t leave my mom alone without restraints, but I can’t keep her tied up, either. There’s no safe place to put her except the guest bedroom, which has a bed and a desk but not much else in it.

“Mom. Stay in here, okay? I’ll be back.”

I wish I could lock the door or find a way to keep it shut, but closing it will have to be good enough. As it is, I’m already late picking up Opal, even with how much faster the trip is on the bike. The buses have all left when I get there, out of breath and panting. Steam’s practically rising off me from the heat I generated pedaling.

Opal’s looking scared and sad, sitting in the office with her feet dangling and her book bag next to her. The principal, Mr. Benedict, is waiting with her. I can see them through the window, and my stomach sinks as I push the intercom button so they know to let me inside.

“Velvet,” he says sternly. “You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It … I had to ride my bike. It took longer than I thought.” To Opal, I say, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I did my homework while I waited.”

I’m pretty sure this was Mr. Benedict’s idea, not hers. “Good.”

He smiles at me then. “Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”

“No. I won’t,” I promise, then figure I might as well tell him. “Actually, we’ve moved. Can Opal get off at a different stop from now on?”

“Moved?” He frowns. “Where did you move to? I thought you were living in the assisted housing over by the mall.”

“We were. We … uh … well, we decided it was time to move back home. To our house.”

His frown deepens. “Which is where?”

“Spring Lake Commons.” I really need a drink and think longingly of the fountain I can see just outside the office. “Can she get the bus out there? We used to always ride the bus.”

“Yes, well … unfortunately, Velvet, the buses don’t run out that far anymore. We don’t have any students out there, or if we do, their parents drive them.” He pauses, looking grim. “I thought that neighborhood was … closed.”

“It’s open now. She’ll need a ride to school. I don’t have a car. And it’s not safe for her to ride her bike all that way.” I throw this in as a trigger. Teachers are always crazy for safety.

“No. No, it’s not.” Mr. Benedict’s frown looks like it
hurts, that’s how deep it creases his cheeks. “But I just don’t know about the bus situation, Velvet. I’m sorry. How is it that you moved all the way out there …?”

“My mom’s come home to live with us.” I say this firmly, no hesitation to give him reason to resist the news. “But of course she can’t drive.”

“Of course,” he says too quickly, his gaze shooting to Opal, who’s busy coloring the back of her notebook. “But you’re certainly right about the bike ride. It’s too long.”

“And along the highway.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, where his glasses have left a red dent. “The problem, Velvet, is that the bus can’t get back into that neighborhood safely. There are trees down, and if it snows …”

He trails off.

Nobody plows, right. We’re far enough out of town that nobody cares. They opened the neighborhood gate but will do nothing for anyone who lives behind it. Still, I’m not going to give up.

“What if the bus picked her up at the highway? I could get her to the front of the development. She could get the bus there.”

“A bus stopping on the highway? I just don’t know.…”

“Mr. Benedict. Please. It’s the only way to get her to and from school.” I put desperation into my tone, amazed at how the art of manipulation is something I’m learning.

“I don’t mind,” Opal puts in. “I’ll stay home.”

Mr. Benedict laughs at that. “Now, we don’t want that.”

“I do,” she grumbles. “I don’t,” I say.

I didn’t love school or anything like that, and I have no hopes for college now. But I’m sorry I had to quit. I don’t want Opal to miss out on an education, too. The future might change. Might be different for her.

“I guess we’ll have to see what we can do.” Mr. Benedict smiles down at her, but his smile for me is tinged with pity. “No guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“She has to go to school,” I tell him. “It’s the law, isn’t it?”

“But the law doesn’t say we have to get her here, unfortunately. We have to think of the needs of the rest of the students, Velvet. I’m sorry.”

I’m talking about the law that says I can keep guardianship of Opal so long as we follow the rules. I don’t know what law he’s talking about. Mr. Benedict might not care if I lose my sister, but I do.

“When can you let me know?”

He shrugs. “I’ll have to talk to the bus driver. Maybe the school board. Things like this can’t change just like that.” He snaps his fingers to demonstrate. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you.”

Lots of things can change like that. Frustrated, I try to keep my cool. Then I realize. No more phone.

“Can you call me at work?” I scribble the number on a piece of scrap paper with a dull pencil they use for parents to sign out their kids.

He tucks the paper into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I don’t think I’m an ungrateful person, but my day of thanking people is wearing thin. “Thanks. C’mon, Opal, let’s go.”

She grabs my hand as we leave, already excited. “You got your bike? Where’s Mama? How’s the house?”

“I did. Put your stuff in the back there.” I show her the baby cart, and she giggles, trying to fit inside it. She actually does. Her knees hit her chin, but she does.

“Look, Velvet!”

“Yeah, I see that. I’m not sure I can pedal with you in there like that.” But it will be better than balancing her on the crossbar. I’m using my dad’s bike, which is almost too big, anyway. It’ll be safer if she’s in the carrier. “Hold on.”

I can’t make it go uphill, but I push it to the top of the school’s driveway and get on. I had adjusted the seat, but even so, my toes barely touch. Once I get going, I’ll be okay, so long as I don’t have to stop.

The good thing is, there’s not much traffic, and I can safely ride more to the center of the lane than on the edge, where the road drops off into a drainage ditch. I pick up speed. The wind swats at my face, and it’s cold but feels good. Pushing the pedals harder, I stand, coasting down the hill. Gravel crunches under my tires. From the back, Opal screams, but in excitement, not fear. We’re really picking up speed, and it feels …

Free.

For the first time since I can’t remember, I feel free and
easy. I could almost be riding my bike just for fun, not because it’s the only way I have to get around. I could be taking my little sis on a spin around the block just because I’m a good big sister that way. For a few minutes, I feel like I can be a kid again, not some excuse for an adult.

It doesn’t last long, just until we get to the gas station and I pull in. There’s not very much room with Opal in the carrier, but I fill the gas can halfway and shove it in there under her feet. I add a couple of flashlights and batteries, some matches, a few rolls of toilet paper. I also pick up a few subs—and it’s been a long time since we did that. Ordered subs. I spend the money Mr. Behney gave me, add a couple bags of chips and a carton of milk. I try not to feel bad about it. It’s food, right? I know I should hold out, spend less money for more food from the grocery store. I can’t help it. I’m hungry, and it feels like after everything, we need something as frivolous as buying subs instead of making cheap mac and cheese.

“You’re the best sister ever!” Opal crows when I pass her the bag.

“Don’t get gas on it,” I warn.

I was overheated before, but night in February falls early, and it’s getting cold. I want to make it home before it’s completely black—the highway doesn’t have streetlamps and neither does the neighborhood. My dad’s bike has reflectors and a light on the front that goes on only when you pedal. It’s two miles from the gas station to the entrance to
Spring Lake Commons. By the end of it, my legs are trembling, my butt is aching, and my lungs are on fire from the cold air. I manage to get us through the gate and down the first hill, but faced with an uphill ride, I have to stop. “Opal, we need to walk for a while.”

“What? Why?”

I look in on her, snug as a bug in a rug, as my mom would’ve said back in the old days. I can feel the heat built up in the carrier, which has flaps to protect it from the wind. She’s cradling the subs, and her feet are on top of the gas canister, so she can’t be comfortable.

“I can’t go up the hill, that’s why. C’mon, Opal, don’t argue. We’re almost home.”

She gets out slowly, reluctantly. The subs spill onto the ground. We both stare at them.

“They’re okay,” Opal says nervously.

I’m too tired to holler at her. They’re all a little squished, but fine. We put them back in the carrier and start pushing the bike. I don’t have the energy for a lot of chatter, but Opal’s strangely silent. We get to the top of the hill, and the street we have to turn on to get to our house.

“How much longer?” she asks.

“It’s about a mile from here.”

“How long’s a mile?”

“Not as long as it was from the gas station to here,” I tell her.

Opal doesn’t have a clue. “Can’t we ride again?”

“There’s another hill just up ahead. When we get past that.”

She grumbles but helps me push. It’s getting darker and colder. The trees seem to be pushing in on us from all sides. Some of them have long, bare branches like witch fingers. Some have heavy, needled branches that are scratchy but smell good. Like Christmas. We didn’t have Christmas this year. Or last year.

“How much farther?” Opal’s getting dangerously close to a whine.

“We can ride when we get to Spring Lake Lane, okay? Please, Opal. Just hold on a little bit longer.”

She can’t, though. I know why she can’t—she’s only ten. She’s hungry, tired, cold. Stressed out. It’s getting dark and she’s probably scared, because there are deer in the woods making all kinds of shuffling sounds.

Oh. And the dogs. I’d almost forgotten them.

I don’t think our neighbor’s pets will attack us, but then I’d never have thought our neighbor would, either. “C’mon, Opal. Hurry up.”

Her legs are shorter. She can’t go as fast. The pedal keeps hitting her in the back of her leg, until finally she bursts into tears and throws herself down at the bottom of someone’s driveway. Gravel crunches. There’s ice and snow. She has to be cold, sitting there, but she sits and wails.

The sound sets my teeth on edge. “Opal! Get up! We’re almost home! Let’s go!”