You'd Be Home Now (87)

He’s smiling at me in a way that makes me feel warm. A different way than with Gage. It feels nice inside me, a little piece of light inside all the darkness that is me missing Joey.

“Emory,” my dad calls from the car.

“I have to go,” I say.

“If you need anything, let me know, okay? I’m here,” Daniel says. He lets go of my hand, turns.

“Daniel,” I say. “Wait.”

He turns back around, his eyes bright and wide.

    “I…” I take a breath. “I like you. But things are also weird right now and I’m…”

“Emmy, I know,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been here all along.”

I watch him jog back to the school before I turn to get into the car.

“Who was that?” my dad asks when I get in.

“A friend,” I say, my heart in my throat, but in a good way. “He does not live next door, so I promise no window pictures.”

He and my mother look at each other in the front seat.

“Well, he has wonderful taste in scarves,” my mother murmurs.



* * *



—

We’re almost home when my dad makes a sharp U-turn. My mom braces her hands on the dashboard and cries out, “Neil, what are you doing?”

I’m thrown against the passenger door and have to right myself. “Dad, please. I’ve had enough accidents for one lifetime.”

“I’m not ready to go home yet,” he says. “I’m not ready to just go back and sit in the house and wait and wait. I want to do something.”

“Dad,” I say. “What?”

“If I can’t save my son tonight, I’m damn well going to save somebody, even it’s just a small thing.”



* * *



—

In the convenience store, my dad is shoving rolls of toilet paper, cans of beans, hand sanitizer, soap, and Gatorade into his basket. My mom and I can see him from the car through the big glass windows of the bright store as he moves around. At the counter, the clerk hands him a carton of cigarettes and some pints of alcohol.

    “What’s he doing?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, but actually, I do. I just don’t want to say, because it will scare her.

We sit, waiting, not talking about the fact that a have you seen me? flyer with Joey’s face is taped to the inside of the convenience store door.

My dad comes out of the store laden with plastic bags. He opens the trunk and tosses them in.

When he gets in the car, he says, “We’re going to Frost Bridge.”

My mother sighs heavily. “Neil.”

“Abigail.”

“Don’t fight,” I say. “Please, not now.”



* * *



—

At the lot to Frost Bridge, my mother says, “No, Neil, absolutely not. It’s cold outside and I have on good shoes.” She’s huddled in the front seat.

“You have hundreds of shoes, Abigail. I’m doing what Emmy said in her poem. I’m trying to live with my whole heart here. And if I can’t help Joey right now, I can help some people and so can you. Fuck your shoes and get out of the car.”

I can’t believe my dad just said that to my mom, so I get out of the car quickly and help with the bags from the trunk.

“Go, Dad,” I say softly. “That was a lot.”

“Some things just have to be said aloud, Emmy. Maybe none of us have been saying what we need to say.”

My mother gets out of the car, drawing her coat up to her chin.

    “I can’t go down there,” she says hesitantly. “It’s steep. I’ll fall.”

My dad angles out his elbow. “Then I’ll help you.”

“They’ll rob us,” she whispers.

“No, they won’t, Mom,” I say quietly. “They’re just people. They live here.”

“Hush,” my father says kindly.

I’m behind them, watching as my mother’s heels sink into the dirt path. She’s holding on to my dad for dear life. There’s something very tender about the way he’s supporting her so she doesn’t stumble. He’s walking with her, not in front, just like Nana said you should do.

There aren’t as many people at Frost Bridge as last time and I wonder where some of them went. I don’t see the same lady who was here before, who said she’d keep an eye out for Joey. I put the bags on the ground and look carefully around for a charcoal-gray hoodie, an orange Hank’s Hoagies shirt, but I don’t see them.

“Neil,” my mother says in a low voice. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t care if you don’t like it, Abigail. But you should see it. Don’t you understand? Any one of these people could be Joey and I sure as hell hope wherever he is, somebody is bringing him food. Or water.”

One by one, people are getting up, walking over to my father slowly. I help him hand out the cans of beans, the rolls of toilet paper. Everyone says thank you. Some say God bless. My dad lines up the hand sanitizer and water bottles, the pints of alcohol and cigarettes. He brings out a new handkerchief, lays his money down.