Lies You Never Told Me(69)

Slowly I crack open the door and peek out. The room is empty and silent, lit by a single lamp on his side of the bed. There’s an ancient rotary phone next to it. I pick up the receiver and dial Mom’s number.

It rings, and rings, and rings. I wonder if I misdialed. Mom made me memorize her cell number when I was little, and she’s never changed it. I hang up and dial again. Even if she’s at work or asleep or away from her phone, I should get her voice mail by now. A fresh panic washes over me.

I hang up again and sit on the edge of the bed. My stomach swims with nausea. Did she get her service turned off? Did she forget to pay her bill?

I bite the corner of my lip. Then I dial Brynn, hooking the numbers with shaking fingers.

“Hello?”

She picks up on the third ring. The sound of her voice is so familiar my eyes flood with tears. My tongue is clumsy in my mouth; I can’t make it move.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Brynn.”

I hear the quick intake of her breath. “Elyse?”

“Yeah,” I croak. I swallow hard. “Hi.”

“Where the hell are you?” Her voice has shot up an octave. “Do you know how scared I’ve been? Oh my God, Elyse . . .”

“I, uh . . . I’m in Nevada,” I say, then give a strangled little laugh. It’s such a relief to hear her.

“Are you okay? Are you safe?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I guess so. I just . . . I miss you so much.” I twirl the spiraling cord tightly around my finger. “I tried calling my mom and she’s not picking up. And I didn’t know who else to call.”

The line goes silent for so long that I wonder if we’ve been disconnected.

“Brynn?” I whisper.

“I’m still here.” She’s crying. I’ve never heard her cry for real before—only on stage. “Elyse, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. I wish I could go back and . . .”

“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “But your mom. She . . . she’s dead.”

My lungs clench tight, the breath going motionless.

“No.” I almost don’t recognize it as my own voice. It seems too small, too weak.

“She relapsed. And I guess when people relapse sometimes they don’t know their limits anymore, and she took too much. The doctor wouldn’t tell me much because I’m not family, but her friend Norma—I guess that was her sponsor at NA?—she called to tell me.” She sniffles. “It was last week. I’m so sorry.”

I sink off the bed onto the floor, onto the stained and threadbare carpet. I push my face into the bedspread and scream. Somewhere near my ear I can hear Brynn talking, but I’m not listening.

My mom.

Alone in the apartment. Walking from room to room. Tense, a bundle of tics, her legs shaking, her toes tapping. Pain shooting along her spine. Pain gripping her nerves like a vise. Trying her hardest not to pick up her phone to call that doctor again—any of those doctors again. Going through the roster of useful-not-useful Narcotics Anonymous slogans. One day at a time. This too shall pass. Keep coming back. God grant me the serenity . . .

But she called for the refill. She poured a pill into her hand. She took one with water but it didn’t seem to help. So she took another. She took a handful. She washed them down and went to bed.

My mom.

Somewhere far away I hear Brynn’s voice. “Elyse? Elyse, just tell me where you are and I can be there in . . .”

Someone takes the receiver out of my hand. I look up into Aiden’s face, deep-shadowed, eyes burning. He hangs up the phone with a deliberate calm more terrifying than any rage would be. His teeth are bared beneath his moustache.

“There’s no going back,” he says, and his voice is edged in steel.

And then he rips the phone out of the wall.





THIRTY-NINE


    Gabe




“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Sasha asks, hanging on my arm. She picks a piece of sausage off my paper plate and pops it in her mouth. “Aren’t you hungry?”

The question makes me want to laugh. But I just shake my head. “Not especially.”

Tonight’s the annual Mustang Sallys fund-raiser. Savannah Johnston’s dad lets the girls take over his downtown barbecue restaurant. He spends all day cooking, and they show up in their sequined uniforms to serve. For twenty bucks you get a groaning plate of meat, macaroni and cheese, and corn bread, with peach cobbler for dessert.

Usually I can be counted on to eat my weight in barbecue. But I haven’t had much of an appetite in the month since I’ve gotten back together with Sasha.

The restaurant is packed to the gills with kids from school and their families. Most of the Sallys are working. Sasha’s taking a “break” that’s now spanned forty minutes. I’ve seen a few people shoot her exasperated looks, but no one’s tried to call her out.

She’s back to doing whatever she wants.

“Poor baby,” she coos. “Are you feeling okay?” She toys with a piece of my hair. My skin crawls every time she touches me, but I keep my expression steady.

“I’m fine,” I say. My tone must be too brusque, because her eyes narrow. I take a deep breath and force a smile.