Far From You (6 page)
Authors: Lisa Schroeder
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Family, #Stepfamilies, #Action & Adventure, #Survival Stories, #General
I was in the kitchen
getting cereal
when Victoria came in.
She held
a little frilly
yellow dress.
“Isn’t this the cutest, Ali?
We’re going to dress her up and go to the store.”
I listened to them
giggle and squeal
as they got Ivy ready
for her first trip
to the grocery store.
You’d have thought
they were flying to
Ireland
to meet Bono.
After they left,
I felt so alone,
and all I wanted
was to talk
to my best friend
about everything
that had happened.
I got up the nerve to call,
but her cell phone
went right to voice mail.
When I called her house,
her mom said
she wasn’t there.
The way she said it,
I knew
it wasn’t
the truth.
The anger
and the sadness
and the hurt
came out
like a bullet
as I flung
my cell
across the room,
where it hit the wall
with a
loud
BANG.
Pieces
on
the
floor.
How
appropriate.
But what if her mom
wasn’t lying?
Maybe Claire was
coming to see
me
.
Maybe I would
skip outside
to greet her.
Maybe we’d
go out
for coffee and doughnuts.
Best friends,
like before,
making music,
not war.
And then I remembered,
she’d rather make
bowling shirts
than make music
with me.
The driveway
stayed as empty
as my heart
felt.
I had a sudden urge
to see pictures
of my family
together.
The happy family
I knew we were
years ago.
I searched
everywhere
for the photo albums.
In closets,
in cupboards,
in drawers.
The longer I looked,
the more frantic I got.
When I didn’t think
there was anywhere else
to look,
I thought of
the attic.
I went up
and pulled on the string,
lighting up the rafters
and the cobwebs.
Way back in the corner,
partly covered with an old,
paint-spattered sheet,
was her stuff.
How sad that her
most-beloved possessions
were stuck in the corner
with the spiders,
like they were
creepy and unwanted.
Well, I love spiders,
thank you very much.
I threw the sheet back,
ran my hand across the desk,
and pulled on the top drawer handle.
Locked.
Drawer
after drawer
pulled open.
The photo albums
were in the bottom drawer.
After I took the albums out,
something shiny
caught my eye.
A tiny silver key for the top drawer,
carefully taped for safekeeping.
Carefully put there
for me.
I felt
like a pirate
discovering
secret
buried treasure.
Better than diamonds
or gold coins
or silver trinkets,
I found
sketches.
Mom’s sketches.
My sketches.
Mine.
In my room
I carefully
unrolled them.
My hand
oh-so-gently
caressed
each one as I
imagined
her hand there,
creating the images
she held
in her head
and her heart.
And in fact,
the first sketch
was a huge heart,
with a woman
holding a baby
drawn inside
of the heart.
The second sketch
was of a young girl
sitting in a chair
reading a book.
The third sketch
was the one
that brought tears to my eyes.
A sketch
of my face
and her face
side by side.
Together.
I wasn’t sure
what they all meant
exactly,
but what I felt
and knew with my
whole being
was that she
loved being my mother.
And even if
she’s gone,
that knowledge
can stay with me
forever.
I didn’t notice
how quickly time
passed.
Suddenly
Victoria was there,
standing beside my bed,
looking at the sketches
I didn’t want anyone
to see.
“Don’t you knock?” I asked.
“Sorry.
Wow.
Are those—”
In one quick swoop,
I rolled them up
so they were
safe in my arms.
Safe from her.
“They’re nothing.
Just a project I’m working on.
For school.”
“Ah. Okay.”
Dad came in.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I was just coming in to tell Ali the news.”
I don’t like
news.
I’m not a news
person.
News
is rarely good.
When do you
watch the news?
When something
horrible is happening,
like a tornado
or a blizzard
or a terrorist attack.
It’s usually something bad
that makes you turn on
the news.
She told me, “We’ve decided we’re going on a trip.
To visit my parents, in Chico.
Over Thanksgiving break.”
“‘We’ as in ‘you three,’ right?”
Dad said, “No, Ali. All of us.
We’re a family.”
Yep.
I knew it.
Something bad.
Very, very bad.
I started an e-mail to Claire
ten different ways
and nothing seemed
right.
If I said,
“I’m sorry,”
it felt like I was saying
I needed to change
who I am
as a person
and
as a songwriter,
and I didn’t believe that.
If I said,
“Let’s go to the church
and tell them
we want to keep playing,”
I was setting myself up
for a big fight
all over again.
It was like
I’d turned the page
in a book I’d loved
since the beginning,
and suddenly
it had turned into
a horror novel.
I wanted to slam the book closed
and run away.
Except
I’d grown to love
the main character’s
best friend
so much,
of course I couldn’t really
do that.
I had to keep reading
and find out what happened.
I just had to.
I skipped church
Sunday morning
because I didn’t want to see her there
without fixing things first.
I stayed home,
writing a song,
wishing her to appear
with every
other
note.
The happy family below
carried on like it was only them,
just as it
should
be.
I skipped meals,
and they didn’t
even
notice.
Sunday night
I looked out the window,
but the rain
drowned out
the stars.
My angel
was nowhere
in sight.
I curled up
with my oxygen tank
and tried
to
keep
on
b r e a t h i n g.
The days passed
slowly
and
painfully.
With each day
the distance
between me
and Claire
grew
by miles.
It was like…
Monday in
San Diego
Tuesday in
Phoenix
Wednesday in
Baton Rouge
Thursday in
Atlanta
Friday in
Orlando
Man, it was lonely
at Disney World
all
by
myself.
On Friday, while I was in Orlando,
sitting alone at lunch,
reading a book,
Claire sat with the popular kids.
But that’s not the worst of it.
She sat with the popular kids,
wearing
a bowling shirt.
Saturday morning
Dad took a drink
from a glass
in the fridge.
“This milk tastes funny,” he said.
I turned and looked,
to see which glass
he was holding.
“That’s breast milk, Dad.”
“Why isn’t it in a bottle?” he asked.
Because
obviously,
her breasts
are much larger
than her brain.
I missed Blaze
like a bee
trapped indoors
misses flowers.
He was swamped
at work because
two people
were out sick.
Saturday afternoon
I drove across town
to bring him
lunch.
A brown bag
filled with
a turkey sandwich,
an apple,
and chocolate chip cookies
made with a pinch of love
and a dash of tenderness
thrown in
especially by me.
Victoria
tried to convince me
to make oatmeal and raisin
because they’re
my dad’s favorite.
I wanted to say,
Make some yourself,
you slacker.
Instead I said,
“Chocolate beats raisins all the way.”
When I got to the shop,
I saw him there,
behind the window,
behind the counter,
behind his beautiful smile,
talking with two girls.
I walked in and said,
“Blaze?”
with fire in my voice
from the flames
in my heart.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said.
The girls stared
as I walked over,
leaned in,
and gave him a
nice, long
kiss
right in front of them.
“I brought you lunch.
You hungry?”
He nodded
and licked
his kissable
lips.
The girls
got the hint
and tiptoed past me,
as if any loud,
sudden
movement
would send me
reeling.
Another guy
came to take over the register,
then Blaze waved at me
to follow him.
As we walked,
I felt them around me.
Elvis, Fleetwood Mac,
Van Morrison,
AC/DC, the Eagles,
the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
If music is
the story
of our lives,
what song
did they
sing
for me?
The two songs
that popped into
my head first were
“Burning Love” and
“Love Will Keep Us Alive.”
Then I remembered
that soon
we’d be leaving
for California.
“Highway to Hell”
started playing
loud and clear
inside
my
brain.
He devoured the lunch,
then he devoured
my neck,
my ears,
my lips,
licking,
nibbling,
kissing
behind the closed
office
door.
“Those cookies were so good,” he whispered.
And the way he looked at me
with love
and lust
and longing…
I told him with a smile,
“I don’t think I’m making cookies for you anymore.”