Pictures of You (12 page)

“What are you doing in the dark?” his father said. He snapped on the light and then they both saw the smudges under her eyes,
the wobbly line of her mouth. His father bent to rub his mother’s shoulders, but she moved away. His hand floated in the air.

She rose slowly, and gave a half smile to Sam. “I’m just tired,” she said, bending down to kiss him. She cooked them breakfast, but she seemed as if she were in another world, sleepwalking from the stove to the table. She opened the refrigerator and stared inside, and then shut the door without taking anything. She burnt the edges of the French toast; she spilled the orange juice in a pool on the table and stared at it, biting down on her lip. “You look like you’re going to cry,” Sam said, worried, and she ruffled his hair. “Don’t be silly,” she said.

Nothing tasted right that morning, and the whole time they were eating, his mom didn’t take a bite herself. She just leaned against the counter and watched them. His father glanced at his watch. “How could it be this late?” he said, jumping up.

His mother trailed his dad when he put his plate in the sink. She followed him when he put the juice back in the refrigerator and when he left the room to go get dressed. Sam could hear them arguing, their voices dark and angry, though he couldn’t make out the words.

Sam’s appetite was gone, and he pushed away his plate. His father came back into the kitchen, dressed, rubbing his elbow, his mother at his heels. “Go get your schoolbooks, kiddo,” he told Sam. Sam fled to his bedroom, pulling his math book from under the bed, his science book from his desk. He hummed so he wouldn’t hear the angry voices, and then his father was suddenly in his room, kissing him good-bye and leaving so quickly, Sam didn’t have a chance to ask him if everything was okay.

By the time he came back into the kitchen, his mother was sitting at the table again, her head in her hands.

The teakettle whistled and his mother started, as if the whistle were directed at her. “Why are you taking so long with breakfast?” she asked, pointing her finger at his plate of French toast. “Eat. The doctor says you need protein.” He didn’t want to tell her he
couldn’t eat—that the toast tasted like rubber tires and the juice had too sharp a tang. She tapped fingers on the counter, then ran them through her hair. “It’s cold in here,” she said quietly, but she didn’t turn down the air conditioner, which was always set on high because it helped him breathe better. Instead, she shivered. She went and got a sweater and put it on over her nightgown. “Please, please finish,” she said, and he heard something new in her voice that scared him.

He got his lunch and his books and went to the front door. “I’m allowed to go by myself now, remember?” Sam said, but she threw on a long coat over her nightgown, sliding her feet into a stray pair of loafers by the door. “Let me walk you, today,” she said. Oak-rose Elementary was just three blocks away. The whole walk, she stayed silent, and Sam thought it was better for him to be quiet, too. When they got to the school, it was already crowded with parents and kids. The door was open and a teacher was greeting all the kids, smiling at them as they came inside. Sam was about to go in, when his mom tapped his shoulder. “Wait just a minute, buster,” she said, and he turned and she kneeled in front of him and looked deep into his face, almost as if she were searching for something. Her breath smelled dark like coffee. He patted his pocket and felt the lump of his inhaler. “I have my inhaler,” he told her, because she always asked. “And I know where the house key is.”

“Let me look at you,” she said, and then she studied his face.

“Mom,” he said. The other kids were rushing past him. “You’re staring at me.”

“Yes, I am.” She smoothed back his hair. “I’m sorry I’m not myself this morning,” she said quietly, “Sam, it’s not you. Or your dad. It’s me. It’s just me.” And then she hugged him so tightly, his ribs ached. “Mom—” he said, and she hugged harder and then finally let him go.

“Good-bye, Sam,” she said, and then she stood up and began walking back home. He waited for her to twist around, to give him
a final wave, and when she didn’t, he headed to the teacher and walked into the school.

He didn’t know why he decided to go home early from school that day. It was just before lunchtime, and he was on his way to the bathroom. It was the first week of school—fourth grade! You had to be responsible and not dillydally. You had to come right back to class. He wasn’t really a dillydallier, but that day, he took his time, taking the long way, exploring the bulletin board of Masks of the World, reading some of the essays about “What I would do if I were Robin Hood today.” Most of the kids said things like they would get a better costume instead of those stupid tights or they’d steal candy instead of money and they’d keep all the candy for themselves. He stopped reading and idly walked to the long glass doors to the outside, and he didn’t know why, but that day, he experimentally pushed the main door open, without even stopping at his locker first to get his things. You weren’t supposed to go outside by yourself, not ever, and he didn’t know why but he always thought if you did, a bell might go off, or Miss Patty, the principal, might run out and then you’d have to listen to one of her lectures about good behavior. He stepped out into the morning heat and then he was suddenly running, heading home, exhilarated.

He was very careful. He knew how to cross streets. He knew if anyone talked to him, he should keep on walking, and if anyone touched him, he should kick and yell “fire” because more people would respond than if you just yelled “help.” No one was going to kidnap him or hurt him, not if he could help it. He bet if he begged them, his parents might even let him skip After School from now on. There was only one thing that could hurt him and that was his asthma.

Right, then left, and then left again and there was Mayfield, his street, and that was when he started to feel anxious, worrying that he had done something wrong. He wasn’t sure, but would his mother still be working at the Blue Cupcake or would she be home? What would his mother say? She’d have to call the school,
or maybe she’d make him go back and apologize the way she had when he had taken some bubblegum at the market, not really thinking. “All thinking is thinking,” his mother told him. “That’s no excuse.” And his dad had said, “Give the kid a break, for God sakes.” They had argued furiously, the way they always did these days, and then he had started to wheeze. “Great, just great,” said his father.

“You think this is my fault?” she said, her voice breaking.

He knew the extra key was tucked in a fake rock, hidden in the hydrangeas, because his mother was always losing her keys, but when he got to his house, to his surprise, he saw his mother’s car in front, the blue of it shiny, as if it had just been washed, and the front door wide open, like a mouth talking to him. She was home. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, halfway between the front door and the car door. Down the street, he heard a motorcycle backfiring. He headed for the car, and when he got closer he saw there was a big suitcase in the back, which alarmed him. As far as he knew, no one was going anywhere. He jumped into the backseat and tried to open the suitcase, but it was locked. He glanced toward the house, waiting. Where was she going?

The car was getting warmer, the air felt heavy with rain, which usually meant he was going to wheeze. Experimentally, he took a breath. It felt all right, but you could never tell. He was at the mercy of the weather. A winter chill could send him to the hospital. The summer heat wasn’t good for him. His doctor gave him something called a peak-flow meter, blue plastic, with a red and green marking on the numbers. He’d breathe into the mouthpiece as hard as he could, and his breath would push a little arrow up toward the row of numbers, and if the numbers went to the green, he was fine, but if they moved to the red, then he’d have to see the doctor and no one was happy about that.

He scrunched down on the floor of the car. There was a light cotton blanket folded there and he drew it over him. He’d surprise her, jumping out and calling “
Boo!
”

It seemed like a long time. He turned around twice, he changed his position and wished for a drink of water or one of the biographies he loved to read, but that would spoil the game. He liked stories where people had something wrong with their bodies that they overcame, like Helen Keller, but when he said so in class, Bobby Lambros hooted, “Big deal, she got famous. But she’s still
blind
and
deaf
, dummy!” Then Bobby shut his eyes and waved his arms around and made grunting noises, saying “
wa, wa
” like in that movie they made about her, and Sam turned away, disgusted.

Yawning, he curled up in the corner of the car, the blanket tented over him, and then, despite himself, his eyelids began to droop, his muscles lightened, and there he was, on the floor of the car, rolling into his dreams.

T
HE CAR WAS MOVING
. Sam heard the rivery sound of the road under him, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes, pulling the blanket from him. Cars were zipping past in a blur of color. And there was his mother in front, singing along to some song on the radio. “You are my spec-i-al someone,” she sang, and because Sam thought she meant him, he grinned. Her voice sounded bright, like it was full of bells. The air seemed full of happiness. With one hand, she picked up the cell phone and dialed, listened, and then she put the phone away.

His neck hurt, his legs hurt, and he was now deeply thirsty, so sluggish with sleep that he didn’t feel like saying boo anymore or playing any game. “Mom?” he said, and he saw her start, felt her slamming on the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road. She jumped out of the car, tugged open his door, and made him get out, too. Her face was white.

She grabbed him by his shoulders, hard. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How did you get in the car? Do you know how dangerous this is? How stupid?”

Her eyes were as bright as mica, and she was wearing a red dress and the long hanging earrings he had given her for her last
birthday. She looked different to him, as if the old her had been scrubbed clean.

“Why aren’t you at school?”

“Where are we going?” he cried.

She was quiet for a moment. She took a step toward him and wobbled, and then he saw she was wearing heels instead of her usual sneakers. “Sam,” she said, “we have to get you back to school, right now.” Her voice sped up. She glanced at her watch and her face drooped. “It’s nearly three,” she said in amazement. “How did it get to be nearly three already? Maybe we can call a sitter,” she said hurriedly, reaching for the phone.

“Why do I need a sitter? Why can’t I stay with you?”

She dialed, cocked her head. “You can’t come with me,” she told him, and turned back to the phone. “Come on, come on, come on,” she said, and then she finally hung up. “What am I going to do?” she said, and he heard the panic in her voice.

“Why? Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because you can’t,” she said sharply. “Not just now.” She paced back and forth. She picked up her cell phone and put it down. Her lower lip quivered.

“Mom,” he said. “Are you crying?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. She pointed to her eyes. “Dry. See that? Dry. Nobody’s crying.” She stared down at her watch and then back at him, as if she were deciding something.

“Mom?”

“You’ll have to come with me now,” she said finally. “We’ll figure something out.”

He nodded doubtfully. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Never you mind. Just get in the car and buckle yourself up.” He started to get in the back but she stopped him. “Sit in the front where I can see you,” she said.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to. I thought I can’t sit in the front until I’m twelve—”

“Just do what I say and don’t argue,” she said. “Everything
doesn’t have to be by the book, does it? Sometimes the book is wrong.” She got in and snapped on her seat belt and took a deep breath. Sam got in and pulled on the seat belt, and the whole time she made this restless tap with her fingers on the steering wheel. Being in the front seat felt funny, wrong. The sky seemed too large, the road too close.

Usually his mother drove carefully, checking the lights, keeping under the speed limit, always waving another car forward. Now, though, she wound in and out of lanes, beeping her horn, checking her watch every few minutes. The radio was off and all he could hear was the highway and his mother’s breathing, and his own, which was beginning to feel a little jumpy. His mother passed a car that beeped at her and the man driving shouted something. “Oh,” his mother said. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe slowly. Doctors were always telling him he had to relax, that learning to breathe right helped kids with asthma.

It felt to him like they were driving forever. “Where are we going?”

“What?” She glanced at him and then, distracted, peered back at the road.

“Mom?” he said.

She was silent for a long while and he was about to ask again. “I don’t know who I am today,” she said quietly. He heard her swallow. “This will be a big adventure,” she said, her voice taking on sparkle. “Don’t you worry.”

His mother was great about inventing big adventures.

He saw the blue sign that said a fuel stop was ahead. “I have to pee,” he said, but instead of taking the exit, she pulled over along the side of the road. “Come on, you can go here,” she said.

“Why can’t we go to the rest stop?”

Her face furrowed in worry. “Because there’ll be way too many people. There will be lines. And we don’t have the time.”

“Why not? Where are we going and why do we have to rush?”

“Pee,” she ordered. “Please, please. Pee.” Distractedly, she got out and looked around her.

Cars were whizzing by. Reluctantly, he stepped out onto the grass. “Go there, behind those trees,” she said, tottering on her heels. “No one can see you. I won’t look.” She looked past him at the road, the blur of cars. “Quick before a cop comes,” she ordered. “It’s all I need, getting arrested for your indecent exposure.”