Don't Fail Me Now(30)

“You’re the boss,” he says. We drive in silence for a few minutes, and I stare at the back of the car in front of us, a powder blue Prius with the bumper sticker NOT A LIBERAL. I wish more people would be up-front about things that might not meet the eye.

“That was pretty cold, killing off your grandma,” I say finally. “It’s bad juju.”

“Juju?”

“It’s like a superstition,” I explain. “Bad luck, or a bad omen.” I’m not sure of the exact definition, but my mom says it all the time—which is ironic, considering where her own juju landed her.

“Well, she’s already dead,” Tim says. “So I don’t think it counts.”

“She’s rolling in her grave then.”

“She was cremated.”

I swallow back a smile. Tim is quicker and more resourceful than I gave him credit for, but I’m still a long way from trusting him.

“What about your schools?” he asks. “Want me to call them?”

“Nah, they won’t care,” I say, flipping on my signal to pass the dick in the Prius. “They’re used to us being gone for no reason. My mom’s not exactly on the PTA.”

“I can’t believe she’s okay with you guys driving to California by yourselves,” he says. “That’s so awesome.”

I blink into the harsh late-morning sunlight, trying on this new image of my mother like a dress a few sizes too big, this blithe free spirit who probably sells handmade dream-catchers at craft fairs and treats fevers with essential oils and who trusts her kids to live their own lives and explore the world, sending them off to find peace with the father who left them. It’s a prettier picture, but still all kinds of negligent.

“Yeah, she’s . . . hands-off,” I say. “What’s Karen like?” It’s an innocent enough segue that I hope Tim can’t tell that the answer to this question will unlock a Pandora’s box I’ve been dying to open for years. When I was younger I thought more about Leah, but recently, when I lie in bed at night imagining what might have been if Mom and Buck had worked it out, gotten clean, and turned into normal parents, I focus more on Karen. My mom has her issues, but back then she was young and bright and beautiful. What did this other woman have that Mom didn’t? What made him pick her over us?

“She’s great,” he says. I wait for more but instead hear the tapping of Tim on his iPhone again. I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a guy.

“Does she work?” I ask, trying to sound bored with my own question, like I’m just making conversation to keep from falling asleep at the wheel.

“Yeah, she’s a real estate agent.” Tap, tap, tap.

“Did she always? Or was she, like, a stay-at-home mom before?”

“I think always.” Tap, tap. That battery’s gotta die sooner or later.

“But she was young when she had Leah, right? Not even out of college?”

“I guess, yeah,” he says distractedly. “I don’t know what she did then.”

I decide to change my tack. What I really want to know is if Karen was wild when she was young—a junkie or a drunk or at least a rebel. I need to know if Buck was trading up or just hopping from one disaster to another.

“Does she have any tattoos?” I blurt. I don’t realize how random and strange it sounds until the words come out.

Tim laughs. “Um, yeah, actually. How did you know?”

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the road, both for safety and because I know they’d give me away. “Just a guess. I mean, I know she married Buck, so . . .”

“Right, he was covered in them.”

“You met him?” I also need to know when Buck left Karen. He wouldn’t have overlapped with Tim unless he was still around three years ago, and that—I can’t even think about that.

“No,” Tim says, sending my pulse back down to normal. “But I’ve seen pictures. Leah has a framed one in her room of the day he got hers.”

“He got Leah a tattoo?”

“No, the one of her name.”

The tidal wave I didn’t see coming hits me full-force, so hard that I have to make a conscious effort to keep control of the car. I stare at the white slashes on the black tar ahead of me as blood rushes to my head so fast that dots start flashing in front of my eyes.

“Woah, are you okay?” Tim asks, putting a hand on my arm.

“Don’t touch me,” I say. “I’ll be fine, just—” I take a gulp of air, which makes things a little better. “Just please don’t touch me.”

“Sorry. Do you need to pull over?”

I shake my head. What I need is to unhear that last sentence. I need to unlearn the fact that Buck spent money to tattoo Leah’s name on his body but could never seem to find the means to pay child support for us.

“You know,” Tim says, “my dad left my mom, too. And she wasn’t that different from—”

“Stop,” I say. If I wanted any more of Tim’s pity, I could have just told him the truth about Mom.

“I just want you to know that I understand—”

“No, you don’t,” I snap. “You do not understand.”

“Maybe not exactly, but—”