The Chance You Won't Return (6 page)

But I didn’t want to remember that part. I feel asleep, making myself think about wave after wave after wave.

I slept through my alarm the next morning, so by the time I got up, Dad had already left for work. I wouldn’t be able to talk to him until after school, and the meeting with Mr. Kane. That would be fine; Dad would talk to Mr. Kane and then he’d figure out what was wrong with Mom.

For breakfast, Mom made a pile of toast slathered with butter and jam, not asking if that was what we wanted. Usually we made our own breakfasts. At least the maps were gone. For a moment, I hoped the previous twenty-four hours had been a fluke, just an off day for my mom. But when I reminded her about the meeting with Mr. Kane, she tilted her head at me. “Today?”

“Yes.” Geez, how could she have forgotten? “You know, you don’t have to —”

“No, no.” She seemed out of breath as she grabbed a notepad and pen. “These things are important. Here, I’ll write it down. What did you say? Kane?”

I repeated the information to her twice to make sure she’d gotten it down. As much as I wished this meeting didn’t exist, it would be worse if Mom didn’t show up at all and had to reschedule. She promised she wouldn’t forget. “I’ve done so many of these things I can practically sleep through them.”

“No, you haven’t. I haven’t failed a class before. I’m not a total idiot.” I wanted to believe this was the kind of exchange we had every day.

She looked at me, bewildered. “I didn’t say that you were.”

I picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. “You know, you don’t have to see Mr. Kane today,” I said, hoping to make the meeting sound insignificant. “If you’re too tired or something.”

Mom shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?” She reached for the notepad again and moved too quickly, knocking a glass of juice onto the floor. It shattered and juice pooled on the tiles. “Dammit,” Mom said. For a second, she looked as if she were going to cry.

Mom pulled out the dustpan while I reached for larger shards of glass. From the living room, Katy shouted, “Alex, the bus!”

“Go ahead,” Mom said. “I’ll be fine.”

I frowned but there wasn’t enough time to argue. If Dad had talked to Mom earlier, he must have thought she was feeling all right; and as long as he would be there, too, the meeting couldn’t get too bad.

Mom followed us to the door and waved as we ran across the yard. On the bus, I looked to our front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her expression. But I was too far away, and all I could see was the vague outline of her face.

During homeroom, Theresa complained about her parents’ recent announcement that they were going to spend Hanukkah at her uncle’s house in Colorado this year. Sitting in the back row, she ranted to me as she scratched stars into the cover of her French notebook.

“It’s like, do we even know these people? They could be totally obnoxious. My mom barely talks to them, and anyway, it’s
her
brother, not mine. Why do I have to spend so much time with them? And my own
parents,
for God’s sake. Usually we only get together to light the damn candles.”

At the front of the classroom, Mr. Pianci was reading the announcements — football game on Saturday, pep rally on Friday, lunch today was pizza. “Colorado’s supposed to be pretty,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe I can make myself an igloo and hide out in it.”

“Colorado’s a little south for that.”

Theresa shivered. “It’s close enough. All of Hanukkah,” she said. “That is such a long time. Do you know how long Hanukkah is?”

“Eight nights,” I said. “I live in the world.”

Theresa half smiled, then rubbed her pen deeper into the cardboard so that a star filled with dark ink. “That’s practically all of winter break. It’s like a bad movie. They think we’re going to end up overcoming wacky obstacles and act like one of
those
families.”

I didn’t know Theresa’s family very well. Whenever we went to her house, her parents were at work or a conference or a vineyard. At first I expected to see signs of a neglected child in her — confessions that she wished she saw more of her parents, acting out to get their attention — but she seemed fine with the setup.

“So now I’m kind of trapped,” she said. “Can you just kidnap me or something?”

She was joking, but I thought about Theresa coming over to my house now. How would I explain my mother poring over maps in the kitchen, planning a trip to nowhere? “Sure,” I said, trying to smile. “In fact, how about we just run away together?”

Mr. Kane had agreed to meet with Mom and Dad during the third lunch period, when my parents could get away from work. While Theresa and everyone disappeared into the cafeteria, I waited at the front door for my parents’ cars to pull into the parking lot. Part of me hoped that Mr. Kane and my parents would come to the conclusion that I didn’t have to learn how to drive. Logically, I knew there was no reason to be afraid, that in such a small town it wasn’t likely I’d hit a lot of traffic, much less get into a major accident. But just the thought of sitting behind the wheel made me sick. I knew I couldn’t control something so big. I imagined the car veering off the road of its own accord; the air bag would detonate; the alarm would blare. The car would start to flip, and all I would see would be the ground, the sky, the ground, as the car turned over and over, until the windows cracked and the metal frame crumpled as easily as a tin can.

I had to turn away from the parking lot.

The halls were empty by the time Mom rushed in. She held the folded note from this morning as if she would have forgotten without the details in front of her. She wore a button-down shirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants held up by a leather belt. My mother was a tall woman, but the pants seemed odd somehow. After a second, I realized they were cut wrong — they were men’s trousers. The linen scarf from yesterday was tossed over her shoulder, and she readjusted it when she saw me.

“All set?” she said cheerfully.

I was glad the halls were empty. “What are you wearing?”

She glanced down at her outfit. “What’s the matter with it?”

“Those aren’t your pants,” I hissed, in case anyone was within earshot. “And where is Dad?”

She held out a note for me. “Your father . . . David . . . called earlier. He can’t get out of work.”

I took the piece of paper from her and saw her choppy handwriting, first the time and location of the meeting I’d dictated that morning, and then an addition below:
David at work, not able to get away, talk to Alex later.
I read the note three times before crumpling it in my palm. Mom watched me, smiling benignly. I wanted to shove her away. I couldn’t believe Dad. He had talked to me about driving, sounded sympathetic, been willing to work out a plan, and now he disappeared at the last minute. Was the town suddenly mad for stamps? Did a package need to be delivered immediately or someone wouldn’t get a heart transplant? How could he have left me like this? Looking at my mother in my father’s pants, I wanted to push her out the front door and lie to Mr. Kane about why neither of my parents was present.

“Alex? Mrs. Winchester?” Mr. Kane was striding toward us.

Shit. “Hey, Mr. Kane.”

He stuck out his hand at my mother. “Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” he said.

“My pleasure,” Mom said.

“Are we still waiting for Mr. Winchester?”

“He’s not coming,” I said. “Mom, are you feeling okay?” It was one chance to avoid all of this, at least until Dad could be there, too. I hoped it would be enough of a hint for her.

But she chuckled. “Never better.”

Mr. Kane glanced at me, straining to smile. “I hope we can get all this worked out. My office is just down this way.”

Mr. Kane shared an office with the Latin teacher and one of the English teachers. Three desks were crammed into a room not much bigger than a supply closet, with one frosted window at the far end. A few posters encouraging kids to read were tacked up on the wall. The office smelled like Wite-Out and generic soap. Mr. Kane’s desk was the most cluttered of the three, covered with papers not yet graded and books of audition monologues. On the edge of his desk was a half-eaten sandwich on crusty Italian bread — brought from home, obviously. He even had a plant, although it looked like the soil was dry and the plant was resigning itself to a short life.

“Please, sit down,” he said, dragging over the other teachers’ chairs. Mom sat with her elbow propped on one arm of her chair. In a stiff wooden chair, I felt trapped. My heart thudded as I watched Mr. Kane shuffle a few papers around before he found the clipboard from driver’s ed.

“So, Mrs. Winchester,” he said, “as you know, Alex has a bit of a problem when it comes to driving.”

His voice was so solemn and sympathetic that I knew he must have rehearsed this. There was none of the edge that he had when I drove onto the football field.

“That’s unfortunate,” Mom said. “But certainly there are lessons.”

Mr. Kane eyed me as if I’d lied to my mother. “Ah, that’s the thing. She’s not doing well in driver’s ed.”

My mother sat a little straighter in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re thinking of failing her. I think the idea that a female cannot learn how to drive is ridiculous. How will she ever learn how to pilot a plane if she isn’t taught proper automobile skills?”

Mr. Kane snorted. “Pilot a plane?”

“Do you think that’s so unreasonable?”

I thought of my mother’s maps. Was she planning on taking me with her?

“Well, it’s just that Alex isn’t exactly talented at driving, so I think piloting a plane might be out of the question for now.” He coughed into his fist, glancing between my mother and me as though he could see where I got my issues. “Now, as for driver’s ed, there’s no way Alex can pass the semester as it is.”

“It’s barely October,” I said.

Mr. Kane sighed heavily. “Yes, but you’ve already gotten into two accidents. I’m not even supposed to pass people who’ve had one.” He looked at my mother. “Now, what I propose is that Alex take private driving lessons outside the school during her free time. Also, you and Mr. Winchester will have to take her out as often as possible — go to the Kroger parking lot early in the morning, or a quiet neighborhood. If she’s making enough progress there, she can keep driving in school. Plus, she’ll have to take an extra written exam to demonstrate she has some command of the road.”

“You don’t have to be so condescending,” Mom said. For a second, I was relieved; she wouldn’t let Mr. Kane be such a dick. Then she kept going. “Do any of the males in your class have to get outside instruction?”

“No, but —”

Mom stood. “Mr. Kane, was it? I know just how important technical skills can be when it comes to operating any kind of vehicle. But it’s insulting to suggest that this young woman is incapable of learning. I don’t know what kind of interview you think this is, but I’m afraid it’s over.”

“Mrs. Winchester —”

Halfway to the door, Mom stopped. She whirled around, face crumpling in frustration. “Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice rose and cracked as if he were attacking her.

“I thought . . . It’s your name, isn’t it?” Mr. Kane looked at his clipboard for a clue. “If I’ve made a mistake —”

“Mom,” I snapped, “stop it already.” Mr. Kane looked at both of us like we were crazy. I was afraid of how he would talk about this later in the teachers’ lounge, telling everyone about how Alex Winchester’s mom freaked out at him when he tried to present her with a fair solution to her daughter’s driving problem. And outside this office, classrooms full of students weren’t too far away. I didn’t know how I would restrain her if she became hysterical.

“Stop calling me Mrs. Winchester,” she insisted, almost shouting.

Mr. Kane, on his feet to stop my mother before she left his office, froze. He opened his mouth to apologize but closed it again, then repeated the process, like a dying fish.

“I have to go,” Mom said, rushing into the hall. Without a glance back to Mr. Kane, I followed my mother. Her strides were long but not fluid, like they had been yesterday. She might have been walking on stilts under those baggy pants. I called for her to wait for me, but she hurried toward the front door. A sharp ring echoed — the period was over. In a second, the halls would be flooded with students.

“Mom,” I said, “slow down.”

Doors opened and students rushed in. Mom tried to dodge them, occasionally bumping into a cluster and apologizing as she moved forward. She burst through the front doors, escaping into the sunlight. When I followed, a teacher tried to detain me but I ran into the parking lot. I heard the teacher call my name. Other people must have heard, too, and stopped to listen as they shoved books into their lockers. Maybe a few even came closer to watch.

Mom rushed to the car, which was parked in the middle of two spaces. She fumbled for her keys and slid into the front seat. On the passenger side, I let myself in.

“Where are you going?” I said. Tears clogged my throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

She shoved her keys into the ignition. Her face was puffy, and she was breathing heavily. Her hands hovered over the steering wheel, then the gearshift, and then the dashboard. Eyes wild, she muttered to herself about wind speeds and dials. Finally she smacked the steering wheel, inadvertently hitting the horn. We both jumped.

“Dammit,” she gasped. “It’s all different.”

For a second, I thought she might have the same problem I had. Cars were too complicated. If she could accept this, it would be fine. But as she clutched the steering wheel, I saw this was something different. She wanted to drive off, go somewhere, but for some reason, she couldn’t remember how.

I felt a sudden pity for Mr. Kane as I slid the keys from the ignition. Although I expected a fight, she didn’t seem to notice me.

Some people did notice, though. Seniors allowed off campus for lunch walked by, trying to peek into Mom’s car. They must have seen her running through the hall, and me chasing after her. If I had been able to maintain control of the car, I would have run them over. My face burned.