Life and Other Inconveniences(76)

Our house looked nicer that day, for some reason. Maybe it was just because I was happy to be in the pink-tinged world under my umbrella. I jumped in a puddle, and the water splashed onto my pants, and it felt warm and icky, like pee. It looked like I had wet myself, too, but I was almost home; I would take an early bath and get into my jammies, and maybe Mommy would make pancakes for supper, which she often did when Daddy was away.

I was glad, because it was more fun without him. When he was home, Mommy was sadder. Even though I felt bad about that thought, I knew it was true. Daddy worked, but not like other fathers. He wrote books and flew around the country a lot, doing research, he said. I had never seen one of his books, because they weren’t finished.

In order to make my special rainy walk a tiny bit longer, I passed our mudroom entrance and went in the front door. Plus, that’s where the closet was where we put the umbrellas. It was quiet inside, with a faint sound I couldn’t quite identify. A sound like the dryer, but not the dryer. I took off my red boots and carefully closed my umbrella, wrapping the strap around it tightly, making sure the snap was secure before I put it in the closet. I hung my slicker up, even though it was hard to reach the hangers, and went to see what was for snack.

The kitchen was empty. I called for my mom, but she didn’t answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen, or in the dining room folding laundry, or watching TV. I went upstairs, because Mommy took naps, though she was always awake when I came home. Maybe she was taking a bath? Sometimes she did that at odd hours, which always struck me as strange, as if grown-ups should have more important, grown-uppy things to do.

She wasn’t anywhere in the house. I called down to the cellar, a little afraid to go there by myself, but she didn’t answer. Then I looked for a note, because I was eight years old and I could read, of course, and maybe she had left me a note. Even though she had never not been home before. She was always home.

She didn’t have a job like some of the other moms, and that was fine with me, because even though she hardly ever dressed up and sometimes was a little stinky, she was always home. BO. That was a new term I’d learned on the bus. Body odor. But my mom’s BO wasn’t that bad, and when she took a shower, she smelled so nice.

Besides, my mom didn’t have to work. I knew from hearing my parents fight that we were a little bit rich from my grandmother who lived far away and came to visit every once in a while, which made my parents’ voices tight and hissing. So my mom got to stay home, and even if it meant she was sloppier than other moms and had BO some days, I didn’t mind. I liked taking care of her, making her a cup of tea, climbing into bed with her to watch TV sometimes. I could always cheer her up, she said. She cried sometimes but she was sad about Grammy being in a wheelchair, which Grammy didn’t seem to mind. She was always so nice, Grammy, and Pop pushed me really high on the swing in their backyard, so I didn’t know why my mother was so sad.

So my father traveled and was important, and my mom was always here, and I liked it that way. The only times Mommy wasn’t home was when she had her appendixes out, and then Daddy was here. Drake from the bus had told me that you only had one appendix, but my mother’s had grown back. When I asked about it, Mommy told me it wasn’t common, but it could happen. Drake didn’t know everything, even if he was in fourth grade.

I couldn’t find a note. Maybe she was taking a walk. Which was a little rude, since she should have been home when I got there, especially because she had all day to take a walk, and I wanted a bath and pancakes. And her. I wanted her.

She wouldn’t have gone out, because her car was broken in some way. Last week we’d taken a taxi to the movies, and it was really fun. I liked taxis.

Maybe she took a taxi to the grocery store.

I waited on the couch for a little while. The house was very neat and clean today, which was nice. I had stopped biting my nails for third grade, but I wanted to bite one now. I chose my pinkie finger and nibbled the nail down to the quick.

My happy umbrella feeling felt like a long time ago.

I had a bad feeling in my stomach, and I knew I should do something. Mrs. Fitzgerald was nice, both Mommy’s sort-of friend and also Drake’s mom. Their number was by the phone for emergencies. It was strange to call a grown-up, and when she answered, my heart started thumping. “Hello?” I said. “Mrs. Fitzgerald? Is my mommy there? It’s Emma London.”

I hadn’t meant to say mommy. I meant to say mother, but mommy slipped out, and my voice sounded small and weak.

“No, sweetie, she’s not. Are you home alone?”

“Yes. My daddy’s away for work and I don’t know where she is.” I felt like crying suddenly.

“I’ll pop over. I bet she had to run out.”

Thank goodness. Mrs. Fitzgerald was so nice. She was always dressed in regular clothes, too, and smelled good. I hoped she wouldn’t tell Drake I was a baby who needed a grown-up, but I wanted a grown-up with a sudden, all-consuming wave.

I turned on the kitchen light. For some reason, it made the quiet of the house more noticeable.

The noise—that thrumming, not-dryer noise—was still there. Louder here in the kitchen. Now that I thought of it, it hadn’t stopped since I’d gotten home.

It was coming from the garage.

The dread welled up in me, even though I wasn’t sure why.

Suddenly, I realized why I’d thought our house had looked prettier. The garage door was down, and it was usually up. The opener was broken, and Daddy hadn’t fixed it because, the truth was, he wasn’t good at that kind of thing. It had been stuck open for a while now. The house looked nicer when you couldn’t see the trash cans and boxes and Mommy’s broken car.