The Big Picture (32 page)

“Leave my house. I’m tired. As soon as I lock you out, I’m going straight to bed.”

He stands up, and I follow him to the door. “You’ll call me as soon as your mom gets home?”

I rub a knot in my neck and nod. “Yep. See ya.”

“Okay. I know when I’m not wanted. I’m out.” With one hand on the door, Tate stops. His eyes lock onto mine, and he pulls me close. Then closer.

I hold my breath.

His hand reaches out and eases toward my face. I’m frozen to the spot.

“You have just a little bit of whipped cream there.” He flicks my nose. “Got it.” And he shuts the door. “Call me!” he yells.

Chapter thirty - four

BY TUESDAY NIGHT, BOBBIE ANN Parker has lost any chance of getting a Mother’s Day present out of me ever again.

She is still not home. It’s been over forty-eight hours since she left, taking my cell phone
and
, I discovered, the credit card the Scotts gave me.

I’m starving, I’m tired, and I’m furious. I’ve been eating stale graham crackers and rock-hard marshmallows. But at noon today, something good happened. The electricity came back on. I know Tate is responsible. But when he came earlier to check on me, he acted as if he knew nothing about it. I can just tell by the look in his eyes he hasn’t said anything to his dad (okay, I can tell by the fact that child services hasn’t swooped in to get me), so Tate must’ve paid for our electric bill himself.

But I would cut out my tongue before I admitted we have no food in the house, and of course, I have no way to get to the store even if I did have my credit card.

By the time dark falls, I’m settled into a good movie on TV. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t slept in days, and I need a good run for the border. As I watch the murder mystery, I keep one ear open for the door.

By the first commercial, someone pulls into the drive. Probably Tate again.

I don’t bother getting up. I’m just too tired. And it’s really hot in the house, even though the air has been blowing nonstop.

Then someone pounds on the door. “Katie?”

I frown and jerk to a seated position. I don’t recognize that voice. Maybe it’s someone with news of Mom. But what if it’s child services?

I shuffle to the kitchen window and look out.

Rolling my eyes, I go to open the door.

And there stands John. He looks almost as bad as I do. His hair is a mess, and he’s shaking.

“Where’s my mom?”

He charges past me. “Turn the TV on.”

“It is on.”
Einstein
.

“Turn it on a local channel. Try channel five.”

I fumble with the remote, the hair standing on the back of my neck. “What’s going on?”
Please don’t kill me
. I hope this isn’t his way of gaining entry into unsuspecting girls’ houses. I will be so ticked if they find my dead body tomorrow all because I fell for the line
turn the TV to channel five
.

A commercial for peanut butter blares to life, and a chubby kid smacks his lips and extols the virtues of a great PB&J sandwich.

“Turn it. Turn it!” John rips the remote out of my hands.

“Hey! Back off. What’s happened? Tell me
now
.”

“Just watch.” He flips the channels until a live news report catches his attention. “Watch.”

Dread swirls in my stomach as I see a young journalist standing in front of the downtown pharmacy. “The two broke into the Middleton Pharmacy at nine o’clock this evening. They took petty cash, and a variety of pharmaceuticals such as Sudafed and cough syrup. Police have just released this surveillance camera shot of the event. If you recognize the man and woman or have any information, please call . . .”

The rest is a roar in my head. I struggle to focus as panic consumes me.

“Police say the woman has on a tank top that reads
Born to Be Wild
and a pair of cutoff shorts. Her face was covered with a pair of pantyhose.”

I will never live this down. I know that’s my mom. I know it. Not only did she rob a pharmacy, but she didn’t even do it with class. She had hosiery on her head!

“The man, who looks to be in his forties, has long hair, tied back in a ponytail. He, too, had his face covered with a stocking.”

Jesus, take me now. Just call me on home
. My life has just been reduced to a bad episode of
Cops.

The woman’s rushed voice breaks through my tangled, swirling thoughts. “The man in question is considered armed and dangerous. As you can tell from the last frame of the security footage, he does have a weapon.”

John shuts the TV off. The silence is deafening.

“Turn it back on.”

“It’s her, Katie.” He paces the length of the living room. “Have you heard from her?”

“Have
I
heard from her?” No, I’m her daughter. Why would
I
hear from her?

“When’s the last time you talked to her?”

I explain my last conversation with my mother on Sunday afternoon. “She left with some guy. Some long-haired guy.” Like the freak on the news. I clutch my head in my hands. I cannot believe this.

“I know that guy. He came to our meeting two . . . maybe three times.”

I raise my head, my eyes wide. “Are you going to the police?” Because I’m going to need to pack a bag. The state will come for me. And I’ll spend the night, the week, the month with total strangers.

John runs his fingers through his hair. “No. I can’t.”

I feel a strange twist of relief, but at the same time, who
wouldn’t
call the police?

“I can’t go to the police. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t.” He seats
himself beside me on the couch. “I love your mother.”

Make me gag. Do I really have to listen to this crap on an empty stomach?

“I thought she would rebound.”

“Oh, she did,” I quip. “Right back into her old lifestyle.”

“I thought she could do it.”

“Well, excuse me for throwing around blame, because it is all Mom’s, but you didn’t exactly make it hard on her to go back.”

He shakes his head and stares at his hands. “I know.” John jumps to his feet. “But I’m done. I have to look out for me now.”

Yeah, I know the feeling. Stinks, doesn’t it? I reach for the remote, and with a click, the news fills the screen again.

“Again, they are considered armed and dangerous. If you have any information, please call the police or this station immediately.”

“Katie, you have to get out of here. They have to be so out of their heads. You can’t be here if they come back. It’s not safe.” His tired eyes meet mine. “Do you have somewhere to go — someone to stay with?”

AN HOUR LATER, I THROW MY last suitcase in the back seat of Mom’s old Cougar. The door creaks as I slam it shut, and I turn the key in the ignition.

God, help me. I have had just enough driving experience to pass my test, and we know that didn’t go so smoothly. Please help me get safely down the road. I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here anymore. Oh . . . and help my mom. I guess.

With Maxine’s hundred bucks stuffed in my bra (sadly, there’s still plenty of room), I crank up the air conditioner to max and crawl out of the driveway.

A half-mile down the road, I pull off to the side, open the door, and chuck my Aircast into a ditch. If Peter could walk on water, surely I can at least drive with this bum ankle. I cruise through a Mickie D’s drive-thru and get a large Diet Dr Pepper — no time to eat — and ease the Cougar back onto the open road.

And drive away from Middleton.

My eyes water, and I try to blink to ease the dryness. So tired. I am exhausted. I wonder if they’ve caught my mom. I left a note in the trailer so when the police do show, they won’t think Bobbie Ann and her long-haired hippie have taken me.

I squint as I read road signs and send up a prayer with each turn and exit ramp I take. Some of these signs are just unnecessarily difficult. Like it’s a big scam. They want you to get lost so you’ll pull into a convenience store and ask directions — and load up on drinks, candy bars, chips, and nachos drenched in plastic cheese sauce.

Occasionally I see a landmark that looks familiar. Or maybe I just think it does. I pray it does. But what if I’m just driving in one big circle? I’m an hour and a half into this trip. What if on hour two, I take a turn and I’m at Middleton again? I will die. Just throw myself in the center of the four-way stop and let traffic have its way with me.

Except I think the Middleton four-way only sees about one vehicle an hour.

Which would be a little anticlimactic.

I rest my elbow on the door. Then my head bobs.

No! Must stay awake. Not much further. Maybe two hours or so, as slow as I’m driving.

With shaky fingers, I turn a knob and the radio blasts at full volume. I skip through some Clay Aiken, pass on some twangy country song about beer and tractors, and stop at the sound of Fallout Boy.

The miles stretch out in front of me, and the dark of night — or morning — threatens to swallow up me and my car. My brain spins like a scratched CD, and the thoughts slam into one another. What if the car breaks down? What will I do? What if they don’t find my mom? What if the state comes looking for me? What if my mom comes looking for me? Will Tate worry about me tomorrow? What if he hears about my mom, and I’m gone? What if I lose this radio station and I have to listen to Frances’s favorite — KPOK, nonstop polka?

At two a.m., I find an open gas station and pull over to fill my tank.
I stare at the sign instructing me to prepay, and run inside as best as I can with one weak leg, and throw two twenties at the cashier. I sprint back out, my breathing hard and uneven. I don’t want to end up on the news too — as a missing person. Who knows what could happen to me out here. There are some weirdos on the road at this hour. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview as the car fills. Okay,
I
look like a total weirdo. Ugh, my hair. It looks like I’ve been driving with my head. And makeup — there isn’t a scrap left.

I rest my face on the steering wheel. Gonna close my eyes for a little bit. Just rest the peepers.

The pump shuts off, and my head springs up. Wake up, Katie. Come on, you can do this. I slap my cheeks and shake my head around. I just want to sleep. Maybe if I pulled around back and parked the car, I could take a little nap and then —

No! I have to keep driving. Must keep going.

And though I have four dollars change coming to me, I peel out of the parking lot and join the truckers on the highway, my whole body rebelling at the fatigue.

Ten songs later, tears are flowing unchecked down my dirty face. I don’t know where I am. Don’t know where I made a wrong turn. Why didn’t I buy a map? I can hardly keep my eyes open.
God, send me an angel. Send me some help. Send me a sign.

And then I see it. My headlights shine on the beautiful green surface.

In Between, five miles. Exit 86.

I let out a whoop of joy and follow the road until it leads me into In Between. I pass by cow fields, the old water tower, Gus’s Getcher Gas, Holly and Woody’s video store. Strength surges back into my body as I draw closer and closer to the Scotts’ house.

I’m crying again when I pull into their driveway, but tears of elation and relief.

With the key trembling in my hands, I open the front door and step into the darkness. I take a moment to adjust to the blackened interior,
my mind recalling exactly where everything is in this house. I inhale deeply, soaking up the smell that was my comfort for so many months.

And then wave after wave of exhaustion hits me.

My body is stiff, and my limbs cry out for rest.

On stumbling legs, I make it to the living room and tumble onto the leather couch. The jangle of a collar announces Rocky’s presence, and I feel the familiar wet welcome on my hand.

“It’s me, Rocky,” I mumble. I tuck my hands under my head and close my eyes, drawing the safety of this place around me like the softest blanket.

And I smile at my last thought before sinking into unconsciousness.

I’m home.

Chapter thirty - five

AT THE SOUND OF MUFFLED voices, I try to pry one eyelid open.

“Is she dead?”

“I don’t know, Mother. Go get James.”

“You go get him. I want to stay here with Sleeping Beauty. If she’s dying, first dibs on her T-shirt collection.”

Someone lets out an exasperated sigh over me.

“Fine. I’ll be right back.” Heavy feet stomp. “Jaaaaaames!”

I feel a hand on my face. “Katie?” A gentle voice calls from far away.

I can’t seem to bring anything into focus. Images swirl in front of me. So tired.
Where am I? Please let me go back to sleep
. I think it’s still dark. Must sleep more.

“Katie, wake up, sweetie.” That’s funny. Sounds like Millie. Obviously I’m dreaming.

“Jaaaaaames!”

“Mother, for crying out loud, go get him.”

“Maxine?” House shoes slap up the hall and into the living room.

“Millie?” I smile at this voice. Sounds like my foster dad.
Welcome to my dream, James. Now go fix me some pancakes
.

“James, look — ”

I try again to peel my eyelids open at James’s gasp. I’m so not dreaming.

“Katie? But — but how? Katie, wake up.”

“I’ve been trying to nudge her awake for five minutes.” I feel Millie’s hand on my face. “James, I’m worried. Something’s happened. We need to call Mrs. Smartly and find out what child services knows.”

“Maybe we should let her sleep,” my foster dad suggests.

“Should we let her sleep?” James asks.

Yes, yes, let her sleep. She needs more sleepy time. More
z
s for me please.

“Katie, wake up.” A soft nudge on my shoulder. “Mother, back up. You’re going to smother her.”

“Katie Parker, if you don’t wake up right this instant, I’m telling James and Millie about the time you and I toilet papered the house of — ”

My eyes pop open.

“Well . . .” Maxine pats my cheeks with a smirk. “Good morning, sunshine.” She throws herself on the small space left on the couch. “Now what in the green beans are you doing here?”