Julia's Daughters (4 page)

“Mom, my phone's about to die. Just come. I—” Haley's voice breaks. “I'll be okay until you get here.”

Then I hear that dead sound on the other end of the phone. She's gone. “Haley? Haley?” I whisper into the phone. She hung up. Or the call failed. I consider calling back, but if the battery in her phone is about to die, I don't want to risk it. What if I can't find her? What if I have to call her back? I run through the kitchen to the laundry room, grab my keys from the key hook, and go out the back door.

For some reason, Ben's parked directly behind me. Maybe because I never go anywhere anymore? I race back inside, grab his keys, and drop mine on top of the clothes dryer.

My phone dings as I get into Ben's pickup. A text message. I start the engine with one hand and hold up my phone with the other. My heart is pounding now.

Haley's sent me the address. A not-so-nice part of town.

Ben's truck smells of fast food; it makes me slightly nauseated.

I back down the driveway onto the road and pull away too fast. The tires grab and the pickup leaps. I'm not used to driving something with a big engine. The trash on the floor of the passenger side shifts and I hear the rustle of heavier objects colliding with paper wrappers and bags. It's no wonder Ben's getting chubby. I seemed to have lost my appetite since Caitlin died. From the look of the trash in his truck, he's found his.

I barely come to a stop at the end of our street. Speeding, it takes me thirteen minutes to reach the address Haley texted me. I only make one wrong turn and have to go around the block. It's an area I've warned my teenage girls not to drive in. I pull to the curb. I'm not used to driving such a big vehicle so my parking isn't so great. I shift into park and text Haley:

I wait for her to text back. I study the dilapidated stucco bungalow I'm parked in front of. There are lights on and music coming from inside. There's a chain-link fence. It looks like someone hit it with a car. Or possibly a bulldozer. I hear a dog bark behind the house. A big dog.

I check the time on the dash. 2:57 a.m.

I wait another three minutes and text again.

Three more minutes pass.

Haley?
I text.

Still nothing. A police car rolls by slowly in the opposite direction. I wonder if I should flag him down. Tell him my underage daughter's inside. Then I think about the drugs found in her locker. About what's probably going on inside the house. I can't let Haley get arrested. We've got to figure out how she's going to graduate now. And I know she's not keen on college, but she's young. I think she'll go to college one day. She'll find her way. She really does have a future, even if she can't see it right now. It's my job as her mother to protect that future.

I look at the house and the clock on the dashboard again. I've been here nine minutes. It took me thirteen minutes to drive over. Haley has to know I'm out here by now, even if her phone has died.

I see the silhouette of two guys, hoods up on their sweatshirts, walking on the opposite side of the road from me. Two young guys who scare me. What could they possibly be doing on the street at this time of night? They have to be up to no good. Who am I kidding? What could my daughter be doing here this time of night except something she shouldn't be?

I grab the door handle, clutching my phone in the other hand. I open the door, then remember the car keys. I pull them from the ignition and get out. The light from the interior of the trunk blinds me temporarily. I close the door quickly and look around. The two guys I saw keep walking, but one is watching me over his shoulder.

I'm scared. I wonder if I should get back in the trunk and call Ben.

But Haley's inside. She wouldn't call me if she didn't need me.
Really
need me. I walk slowly to the gate, hanging off its hinges, and follow old cement stepping-stones to the door. I take a breath and knock. My heart's thumping again. I feel a little dizzy. I wish now that I'd had another breadstick.

No one answers. The music, pounding, angry music, is too loud. No one inside could possibly hear me. I knock again, this time with my fist. I check my phone, hoping, praying Haley's texted me back.

The door swings open and the light from inside is bright in my eyes. The music offends my ears. It's more screaming than music. It's a man who answers the door. It's hard to tell how old he is. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. His hair's long and dirty. Dirtier than mine or Izzy's. He's got a sleeve of bad tattoos.

“I . . . I'm looking for my daughter,” I say. “Haley.” My voice quivers.

He leans closer to hear me. The house is smoky behind him. I smell stale cigarette smoke and fresh marijuana.

“Haley Maxton,” I say louder. I dial her number on my phone with my thumb.

He stares at me for a minute through heavy-framed black glasses. I hear my phone in my hand ringing. I can't tell if his black hair is natural or dyed like my daughter's.

“Who?”

“Haley. Five-five. Black hair.”

The guy starts to close the door as Haley's voice message comes on: “Leave a message, don't leave a message, whatever,” she says in a bored-sounding voice.

I hang up. “She's seventeen years old,” I shout above a blast of music as a new song begins. It's rap music. The kind I hate, the kind that talks about shooting cops and abusing women. The kind I've told my girls I don't want them listening to. When I move to the left to keep him in my view, I see two guys and a girl sitting on a couch passing a little pipe back and forth, lighting it with a lighter. Whatever they're smoking, it's not marijuana. I put my hand on the door. The phrase
crack house
comes to mind. Is this what they're talking about in the papers when they say crack house?

“Please,” I say. “I just want my daughter.” I look up at him. Make eye contact.

“I said, she ain't here.” His tone is more forceful this time. He's scaring me. But I'm not leaving without Haley. I'm not leaving without my daughter. I know she's here. I can
feel
her.

“You hear me, lady? Take a hike,” he tells me with a hatred that can't possibly be directed just at me. It's a hatred meant for the whole world.

I don't know what makes me do it. I'm not naturally a bold person, but I put both hands on his chest and push him out of my way. I push right into the house. “Haley!” I shout. “Haley!” I'm almost screaming now. The house is full of people. Scary people. Most of them dressed in black like Haley, but with more piercings. Tattoos. “Haley, where are you?”

Chapter 6

Haley

 

I'm sitting on the lid of the toilet, bouncing my ball, when I hear my mom call me. Her voice is so out of place that it startles me; like hearing a bear in my calculus class. I stand up. “Mom?” I say coming off the toilet, which is stupid because obviously she's not in the bathroom. No one's here but me. I wouldn't let Dodge in. He's being a complete asswipe. He hit me because I told him I wasn't going with him to go get his stupid money some junkie owes him. Then I ran in the bathroom and locked the door. That was when I called Mom. I caught a ride here with a girl I know, but she left with some guy hours ago. It was probably stupid to call Mom. She'll blow this all out of proportion. I just didn't know who else to call. I got scared when Dodge wouldn't stop pounding on the bathroom door. If he got in, I knew he'd pound on me with those fists.

“Haley!” I hear my mom holler.

I didn't figure she could get here this quick. She drives like an old lady.

I start to pace in the confines of the little bathroom as I push the ball into my pocket. This is bad. Mom in Dodge's house. Really bad. I stop and unlock the bathroom door. “Mom?”

“Haley!”

First I see her at the end of the hallway, then I see Dodge, sitting on the floor next to the bathroom door. He jumps up as I hurry toward my mother. “Mom, what are you doing?” I ask. I'm mortified. Obviously I don't want her in here. She's liable to call the cops or something. I can't believe she'd come inside.

“Are you okay?” she asks me. Her face changes and she reaches out to try to touch my face. “Oh my God. Haley, what happened?”

I pull back because I don't want her touching me. The side of my face hurts. Dodge's ring caught on my cheekbone and it bled a little. But it's not a big deal. He didn't mean to hurt me.

Dodge grabs my arm from behind me. “You called your mom, you little c—”

“Let's go,” I tell my mom, giving her a push. Not a hard one, just enough to make her understand she can't be here. As I try to follow her, Dodge tries to stop me.

“Let her go!” my mother hollers. I think she's hollering because “Get Bread” is blasting from the speakers in the living room. It's Trick-Trick. I like Trick-Trick. Sort of. Caitlin hated rap music. She liked hippie stuff like Ben Harper. We used to talk about going to the music festival Bonnaroo. We were going to camp out and wear homemade tie-dye shirts and stuff.

I spin around and shove Dodge. He's a big guy, a lot bigger than me, but he's not expecting me to fight back, I guess. He lets go of me, but he's pissed.
Really
pissed.

I turn back to Mom and say, “Let's go,” in her ear as I push her into the living room. She's wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair's all messed up. She looks so bad she almost looks like one of Dodge's junkies who come to his door.

Everybody in the living room is looking at us. My friends. Well, they're sort of my friends. Not really. They looked pissed now too. We're almost out the door when this dude I don't know grabs my arm. His fingers sink into me until it hurts.

“You goin' somewhere?” he asks me. “Hey, Dodge! She goin' somewhere?”

My mom's almost out the door, but she turns around. “You better take your hands off her,” she tells the dude, like she's going to do something about it if he doesn't let go of me.

I can't believe this is my mom. I've never seen her act like this before. Pretty badass.

I jerk my arm from the guy's and start for the door again.

“Want me to stop her?” he asks Dodge.

“Nah. Let her go,” Dodge says. “Bitch,” he calls after me.

I flip him the bird with one hand while I push my mom out the door with the other. Dodge's pit bull is mad barking in his kennel in the back. “Come on. Hurry,” I say under my breath. I wouldn't put it past Dodge to sic his dog on us. I've seen him do it before to deadbeats who owe him money and people he just doesn't like.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” my mom asks. Now she's started to sound like herself again. Criticizing me. “I told you you were grounded.”

“Let's get in the car,” I tell her.

“Haley, do I have to tell you how dangerous a place like this is? These people? How did you get here? Did that man pick you up from our house?” She throws a look over her shoulder that's straight out of one of Caitlin's made-for-TV movies. The face moms always make when they're disappointed in their children's “choices.” “How old is that man? He's got to be thirty. Please tell me that's not your boyfriend.”

I hurry to the passenger side of Dad's truck. I have no idea why she brought the truck. Some people follow us out. I hear Dodge yelling inside and breaking shit. I don't care. I'm so done with him. But the dude from the house is coming our way and he scares me. “Get in the effing, car, Mom!”

She gives me another one of her looks, but she unlocks the door with the remote thingy. I jump inside.

She gets in.

I lock all the doors with the button on my door. I realize that my heart's pounding. I don't like how it feels. I don't like being scared like this. But the weird thing is, it doesn't feel much worse than I normally feel. I'm always scared since Caitlin left me. “Let's go, let's go.” I sit back and yank my hoodie up. I left my leather jacket inside somewhere, which pisses me off because one of Dodge's crack hoes will get it, but I'm sure not going back for it.

Mom starts the engine, but she's taking too long. She's messing with her seat belt. The joker who tried to stop me from leaving is almost to the truck.

“Today, Mom,” I say, slumping down in the seat.

The guy hits the tailgate with his fist or something.

Mom throws the truck into gear, hits the gas, and surprises me again. She pulls away so fast that she burns rubber.

Chapter 7

Izzy

 

“Are you there?”

I wait and then I whisper, “I can't sleep. I don't know where Mom went.” I roll onto my side in my bed, hugging the stuffed bunny that was mine when I was a baby. It's kind of ratty looking; he's missing part of his left ear and he's got nail polish on his back. I've been told he stinks, but I don't think so. He just smells like . . . an old stuffed bunny.

“She's been gone almost an hour,” I say, glancing at the digital clock next to my bed. I wait for her to answer.

When Caitlin talks to me, it feels like her voice is coming out of the dark, but from no one place in particular. I only hear her when it's dark. I know she's probably not in the room, or if she is, she's invisible. Maybe she just talks in my head. I don't really care how she talks to me. What matters is that she does.

“I don't know if I should do something. Should I wake up Dad?” I ask. It occurs to me that it's pretty crappy that the only person I have to talk to is my dead sister, but I've already got enough things to be upset about right now. “Should I tell him that She Who Shall Not Be Named went out her D window, then Mom's phone rang and now she's gone too?” I wait. There's always a long second of silence between when I speak and Caitlin answers, like we're talking over short-wave radios or something. I learned about short-wave radios on the Discovery Channel.

She finally speaks and I smile, even though I sure don't have anything to smile about.

“I don't know. Maybe the police. They called Mom when you flatlined. Maybe She Who Shall Not Be Named got in another car accident and she bit the bullet too.” The minute I say it, I realize it wasn't very nice. I mean . . . I know Caitlin knows she's as dead as a doornail, but it's not exactly a nice thing to bring up. “Sorry,” I say in a little voice. “I didn't mean to remind you that . . . you know, that we cremated you and stuff.”

Caitlin laughs.

There's no time delay this time. She just laughs. I love it when I make her laugh because I hear her laughter not just in my ears, but in my chest. As crazy as it sounds (and I know crazy is already a possibility because a dead person talks to me like in that old Bruce Willis movie), I feel like I hear her in my heart.

“It's okay, Sizzy Izzy,”
she tells me.
“No worries.”

She used to call me that all the time. Sizzy Izzy. It's a play on Sissy Izzy. I know I'm too old for silly baby names (and stuffed animals), but I like it. I miss it. I miss Caitlin calling me Sizzy Izzy, even though when she was alive, I didn't like it. It's one of the things I wish I could take back now that she's dead. I think about telling her that, but I don't. I think she knows.

“What if Mom got in an accident?” I whisper, afraid again.

“It's not,” I say kind of loud and mean. “It's
not
going to be okay. Not ever again. That's just something adults say because they think they're supposed to. Like kids are stupid and are going to buy it. Things aren't going to be
okay,
Caitlin. If anyone knows that, you of all people should.” I don't want to cry. I don't want to be a crybaby like Mom, but I can't help it. My eyes fill up with tears and I squeeze my bunny tighter. I rub his front paw against my cheek like I used to when I was little. I sniff so snot doesn't run out of my nose. Bunny's too old to get snotted on.

I wipe my face on my pillow. “How'd things work out for you?” I ask Caitlin. “Things work out
okay
for you?”

She doesn't answer and I feel bad that I said that. I sound like She Who Shall Not Be Named when I say mean things like that. And I don't want to be her. Not ever. I want to be like Caitlin. I want to be smart and funny. I want to be pretty like her, too, but I'm smart enough to know that's never going to happen.

“Caitlin? Are you still there?” I whisper. I'm afraid she's gone. Please
don't be gone,
I think. Every time she leaves, I'm afraid she won't come back. Or I'm afraid I'll convince myself she can't really be here. Because she's de facto deceased. And then I'll never talk to her again.

“Caitlin?” I say again.

My room is quiet except for the sound of the air coming through the vent. I can hear my dad snoring in the living room. That's how loud he snores. He's supposed to put a mask on his face, connected to a machine, to help him breathe at night and make him stop snoring. He says it doesn't work and he keeps it in the closet. It's called a pap something. Not a pap smear. I know what that is and that's not for guys.

“Shhhhh,”
Caitlin soothes. Her voice is right in my ear and it's so soft and so pretty that I close my eyes. She seems so close that I think if I reached up, I could touch her. Like she's leaning right over my bed. I'm pretty sure I can smell the perfume that she gets from Victoria's Secret. But I don't reach up because what if she's not there?

“I'm worried about Mom,” I tell her. I'm starting to feel sleepy, which is another hint that I might be crazy. How could a person fall asleep under these circumstances? How could I have slept at all since February 17th? “What if she bit it too?” I ask Caitlin. “What if She Who Shall Not Be Named killed her, too?”

Again, silence. The whistle of the cool air in the vents, my dad's snoring.

“It wasn't Haley's fault, Izzy,”
my pretty, smart, dead sister tells me.

“It
was
her fault,” I answer stubbornly. “
She
didn't stop her car at the stop sign.
She
went through the intersection and
she
let that truck hit you.
She
made you go through the windshield and
she
splattered your brains all over the road!”

I'm crying again. Not loud crying like the way Mom cried the first week after Caitlin died. Quiet crying, like the way you cry when you don't really want to bother anyone. Like the way Mom cries most of the time, now.

“It was an accident,”
Caitlin murmurs. I can almost feel her touch my hair, smoothing it with her fingers.
“She didn't mean for it to happen.”

“If she didn't mean for it to happen, she should have stopped at the stop sign. I'm ten, I don't have a driver's license, and I know you have to stop at stop signs or cars will hit you and kill people.”

“It was an accident. And if it was anyone's fault,”
she whispers,
“it was mine.”

I rub Bunny's paw against my cheek. I don't want to fall asleep. I want to stay awake and see if the police call to tell us someone else is dead, but I can't help it. I can't stay awake. “That's ridiculous,” I tell Caitlin. “It can't be your fault.”