Stolen Secrets Page 10

  “Did you see the stop sign at the street back there?”

  “Oh, gosh, officer, I’m sorry. My daughter dropped her cell phone and it startled me.”

  I dug my nails into my hand.

  “Is that your daughter?” he asked, peering around her. Why was he looking at me that way? Oh. My stomach contracted like a fist. He wasn’t looking at me; he was sniffing Mom’s breath.

  The officer excused himself and returned to his patrol car. An eternity passed before he came back to her window. Meanwhile a second police car pulled up. The other officer looked like a recruit, only a few years older than me. He stopped a few feet back and observed as the first officer fired questions at Mom: Was she diabetic? (Nope.) Was she sick or injured? (Nope.) Finally he came to the one I’d been dreading. “Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

  “No, sir,” Mom answered. “Not with my daughter in the car.”

  My mouth dropped open at that one, but I snapped it shut before anyone saw.

  When he described field-sobriety tests, I thought I might throw up all over Oma’s vintage car. “I’ll need your consent, ma’am, or you can take a blood test at the station,” he said.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Absolutely,” Mom said. “But could you stop with all that ma’aming business and call me Shirley?”

  I winced, knowing where this was going.

  “Would you please step out of the car?” he asked. “Shirley you’re not serious, officer!”

  When he didn’t return her grin, Mom flicked her fingernails at him. “Just trying to inject some humor into the sit-chew-ation.” She swung the door open and almost knocked him into a patch of ice plants.

  I climbed out of the car, watching in disbelief as Mom tried to follow the horizontal movement of his pen with her eyes. Next he asked her to take nine steps along the crack in the sidewalk and nine steps back. She did okay, but I think she turned around on the seventh step. Then she stood on one leg while flexing her other about six inches off the ground. That lasted three seconds before she had to grab his uniform for balance.

  “Would you recite the alphabet, ma’am—straight through, without singing?”

  Mom took an exasperated breath, the letters coming out in groups of four. A-B-C-D. Pause. E-F-G-H. Pause. I-J-K-L … She launched into song, skipping over the N. I couldn’t watch anymore, so I turned my back. The lights went on in the house across the street. A family watched us from their living room window. When I looked back, Mom’s hands were behind her back, and the policeman was walking her to the patrol car. I glanced at the backup cop. He shifted in place like there were sharp pebbles in his black shoes.

  “Do you drive?” he asked me.

  My head felt like a balloon with too much air. “No, I can’t.” Realizing I might be misunderstood, I added, “I don’t mean I’ve been drinking. I just got my learner’s permit, and I can’t drive by myself.”

  Officer McDougall, according to the name tag on his uniform, told me to wait right there. Not that I was going anywhere. He went to Mom, took her keys, and climbed into the Mustang. He parked Oma’s car in a legal spot that had miraculously opened up at the end of the block. When he came back, he offered me a ride home. I couldn’t deal with our empty apartment, so I gave him Oma’s address. I climbed into the passenger seat of the patrol car. No way was I riding in the back.

  “Your mother can pick up the car tomorrow,” he said.

  “Tomorrow?” I repeated.

  “She’s going to county jail. Most likely, they’ll release her when she sobers up.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Well we took away her license, but she’ll get a temporary one that lets her drive for the next thirty days.”

  “No, I meant what happens to her.”

  “It’s almost the weekend. Nothing will get done until early next week. The D.A. will file charges, and she’ll have to make a plea, guilty or not guilty.”

  He didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t have the guts to ask more. We drove to Oma’s house in silence. When he pulled up in front, he said, “Is there anyone I should talk to about this?”

  “No, it’s fine. We live with my grandma,” I lied. “Trust me, you don’t want to wake her up. Besides she’ll find out soon enough.”

  He looked relieved. “All right then. Good night.”

  I got out of the car and walked up the steps to the porch. He waited for me to unlock the door. I turned around and gave him a lame wave.

  Officer McDougall nodded once, backed out of the driveway, and drove away.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  I WOKE UP ON OMA’S SITTING ROOM FUTON, NUMB from the previous night. I didn’t know if Mom had been released yet. She wasn’t answering her texts. That was fine with me. She was better off in jail, nursing a whopper of a headache.

  I couldn’t believe I had to be in class in an hour. I thought about calling in sick. It wasn’t a lie. I felt like throwing up. But then I remembered the test in chemistry and the quiz in math. Crap. And Vickie was still missing, having never shown up for her night shift.

  Mom was supposed to go on duty soon, and I couldn’t leave Oma by herself. I had no idea what to do, so I padded down the hallway to check on her. She was still asleep.

  In the bathroom, I studied the clothes I’d worn to bed. I considered Oma’s closet for about a second and a half, then decided I could deal with wrinkles for one day. I rinsed my mouth out and pulled my fingers through my hair. Oma didn’t have a flat iron or a blow-dryer. I studied my reflection in the mirror. My hair lifted in soft waves that rippled across my shoulders. It really wasn’t bad this way. I couldn’t even remember why I’d made such a big deal about straightening it in Vermont.

  “You’ll survive,” I told the girl in the mirror. She didn’t look like she believed me.

  Outside, the fog slapped me in the face like a wet washcloth. I zipped up my hoodie and raised my fist to Vickie’s glass door. She slid the curtain open, tightened her robe around her bony body, and opened the door.

  “Livvy, what are you doing here?”

  “I stayed overnight.”

  Vickie rearranged her features into something resembling concern. Instead of asking me what was wrong, she launched into an excuse for missing her shift. “I came home last night because I had to get something. The next thing I knew, it was morning. Must’ve passed out cold. Well it’s a good thing Adelle sleeps like a log at night. Probably didn’t even know I wasn’t there. Anyway, it worked out well with you staying over, huh?”

  Vickie’s eyes stayed on me as she spoke.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Listen, last night, my mom had too much to drink, and a cop pulled her over. He took her to the station. She gets out this morning, he said, but I have to go to school now, because I have this test and a quiz and—”

  Vickie brought her hand to her mouth. Through her fingers, she said, “I can take care of Adelle. Go on, get to school. When your mom comes back, we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t say a word, but I can’t promise your mother’s behavior won’t speak for itself,” she said.

  I mumbled good-bye and darted down the porch steps.

  “Earth to Livvy. Hello? Come on, partner, we only have three minutes left to pick our subject. What, you daydreaming about me again?”

  Franklin D.’s voice snapped me back to where I was—in debate class. It was like any other Friday, except for the fact that my mother had spent the night in jail.

  “Because, you know, it’s pretty much useless to fantasize about me, Liv. I’ve made the decision to join the priesthood.”

  I hoped Mom was home where she belonged. “No worries,” I said, only half-listening. “I’m not interested.”

  Franklin D.’s lower lip poked out. He blinked and looked away. I didn’t have the energy to banter. What was going to happen to Mom and me? Did she still have a job, or had Vickie complained to Oma
’s lawyer the minute I’d left? She probably knew her overnight absence would pale next to my mother’s offense.

  Franklin D. glanced at the sheet in his hand. “Choice number one: Lowering the minimum legal drinking age to eighteen.”

  I’d fact-surfed at lunch, pretending to do homework so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. What I’d found had been depressing. At .08 blood alcohol level, even experienced drivers may show serious impairment. Mom had definitely drunk more than that, which meant that I had the cops to thank for our lives.

  Franklin D. looked at me with concern. “I know I can be a flippant bastard at times, but did I say something inexcusably rude to you?”

  “Huh?” I focused back on him.

  He reached into his backpack for a tattered package of Kleenex. I took one, not bothering to make up an excuse for my watery eyes.

  “Two minutes left, people,” Ms. Thurmond announced.

  “You can pick our topic,” I told Franklin D. “I don’t care.”

  “Don’t you have an opinion?”

  I didn’t answer. He glanced at the list. “Could these subjects be any less stimulating? Number seven: ‘Teenagers should be allowed to have televisions in their bedrooms.’ How old is this thing, anyway, from the eighties?”

  “Franklin D., do you have something to share with the rest of us?” Ms. Thurmond’s voice sounded kind, but it was a front. She’d emphasized the D in his name.

  “Sure. Livvy and I were contemplating the relevance of some of these questions. For example, who needs a TV anymore? The other day I watched a documentary on the history of lobotomy on my phone while getting my teeth cleaned.”

  “Your geek is showing,” I said under my breath.

  I looked behind me, expecting whispers and laughter—at Franklin D.’s expense. What I found were smiling faces. Franklin D. slid a fist behind his chair. The boy one seat back bumped it.

  Once again, my rule book from home didn’t hold up in the City by the Bay.

  Franklin D. spun his one-piece chair and table unit my way. “Well it’s a good thing I met someone as cool as you, Livvy, to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or sarcastic.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that last part?” Thurmond said.

  Franklin D. folded his hands on top of his desk. “With all due respect, Ms. Thurmond, some of these topics are as overdone as slutty on prom night.”

  I grabbed the paper from his hand, brought a finger down, and read number twenty-one out loud. “‘Euthanasia should be legalized on a national level.’” I slid my foot across the aisle, nudging Franklin D.’s leg.

  “That could be decent, I suppose,” he said, sounding unsure.

  Problem solved. A hundred more to go.

  “Remember, everyone, partners need to pick sides,” Mrs. Thurmond said.

  Franklin D. began to talk, growing more animated with each word. “You know, maybe I could wrap my brain around that subject. As a society, we put pets to sleep, no problem. And what does the vet say? ‘It’s humane.’ So the pooch gets to take a nap, drifting off to doggie heaven. Meanwhile it’s a completely different story for people.”

  My thoughts landed in dangerous territory. Oma could be in the final stages of Alzheimer’s. I couldn’t believe I’d ever wished for that. It wasn’t the kind of disease where a person went to sleep one night and died peacefully. Pneumonia was usually the cause of death—air sacs that filled up with fluid, forcing the lungs to shut down. I prayed it wouldn’t be the case for my grandma. She’d suffered enough for one lifetime.

  “Humans are expected to lie in a hospital bed, wasting away in agony,” Franklin D. continued, “while we dwindle to nothing, comatose, only to die a horrible, drawn-out death. But wait, if we’re lucky, the medical establishment might follow a living will and withhold food and water until we shrivel up like a dried sponge because God knows that’s an easy way to die. Well give me that shot they gave my retriever anytime. If I’m in a wheelchair, using Depends, drool running out of my mouth, being spooned applesauce by some resentful employee at a smelly nursing home, kill me off already, okay?”

  Ms. Thurmond’s mouth fell open.

  “I guess I’ll take con,” I said.

  On the weekend, Mom stuck to me like Velcro, apologizing in all the wrong ways.

  “Adelle’s brought out my bad side,” she said over takeout pad Thai.

  I stabbed a fork into a crispy spring roll. “So you’re blaming her for your adventure behind the wheel?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Liv.”

  I scraped my chair back and carried my dish to the sink. She could bring her own.

  “It’s not easy taking care of her, that’s all,” Mom went on. “She’s always screaming about stuff she’s misplaced. Yesterday, it was a silver ring with three rubies in it. Probably fell down the sink. Nothing’s ever lost, it’s always ‘stolen.’ And half the time, she doesn’t even remember who I am. There’s never a thank-you, never.”

  “Did you ever thank her for raising you?”

  She half-laughed, half-snorted. What I pictured was her face through Oma’s windshield, eyes red and bulging, cheeks inflamed from booze.

  “Kids don’t thank their parents very often,” she said, giving me a pointed look.

  Yeah, well, I wasn’t about to start now. I turned my back to load the dishwasher. Ten minutes later, I strode to my closet and shut the door.

  Monday was a teacher workday. I woke at six but stayed in bed an extra hour, waiting for Mom to leave for Oma’s. When the house was quiet, I ventured out. But she was still there, gazing out the window, her coffee on the ledge beside her. I drew in a sharp breath. Tom was next to her, sitting on a box with his sneakers resting on his army-green duffel bag.

  “I really screwed up this time,” Mom was saying. She hadn’t noticed me yet. “Do you think they’ll make me give my sobriety pin back?”

  This was my mother’s lame attempt at humor. I kicked the closet door shut behind me. Their heads whipped around in unison. Tom smiled, big and warm. “I flew in an hour ago,” he began. “I thought I’d—”

  I leaped over a box and threw myself into his arms. He folded them around me, where I stayed. When we pulled apart, I didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Mom’s eyes. Did she really think I was going to hug her?

  “How are you doing, Liv?” Tom asked.

  I couldn’t answer, not without collapsing like a tower of cards.

  Mom couldn’t take the silence. “Vickie’s helping me out with Oma today. She’s been so helpful! I’m meeting with a DUI attorney at ten, and in the afternoon I have an appointment at Adelle’s with her personal lawyer.” She was looking at Tom, but I knew her words were directed at me.

  “Since when do lawyers make house calls?” I asked. I turned to Tom. “Why are you here?” That didn’t come out right, so I tried again. “I mean, I’m excited to see you. It’s just … well, how long are you staying?” Forever, I hoped. I was doing a lousy job of holding my mother together.

  “A few days. Your mom needs my help right now. I’m sure she’s not the only one,” he said.

  “We’re a family. We’ll pull through this,” Mom said. “Whatever.” I shrugged away her hollow sentiment. “I’m late for school. Gotta run.”

  I doubted Mom knew I had the day off, since I kept track of school holidays on my calendar app. I walked out the door, leaving my backpack on the dining room table to make a statement, though I didn’t have a clue what I was trying to say.

  When I showed up later that day at Oma’s, Mom was meeting with her lawyer in the living room. His gravelly voice boomed through the house. I stood near the door, trying to hear her, but her voice was too soft.

  Tom peered at me from the kitchen door, wearing rubber gloves that reached his elbows.

  “I hope those pans didn’t attack you,” I said, meeting him halfway down the hall. “Maybe you should wear a hazmat suit.”

  “Your
mom’s been in meetings all day. Thought I’d get something done. How was school?”

  “What school? It was a staff workday. I took Grapes of Wrath to a café and downed four mochas.” I lowered my voice. “So what did the DUI attorney say?”

  “His name’s Mr. Bortel. He’s the best in the Bay Area, Liv. Your mom’s in good hands.”

  The best of anything couldn’t come cheap.

  Tom guessed at what I was thinking. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “You know she can’t afford to pay you back.”

  “I’m not worried about it. I want to do this. Not just for her—for you, too.”

  I blinked the tears back. “Is she going back to jail?”

  “Mr. Bortel thinks he can get her sentence waived if she completes a rehab program. There’ll be fines, though. Big ones. Years of probation, too. But he says since it’s only her second offense in ten years and no one got hurt, it’s classified as a misdemeanor.”

  Only her second offense? I guess these people had seen worse.

  “Why is she like this?” I asked.

  “She keeps a lot bottled up inside.”

  “So to speak.” I rolled my eyes, which made Tom laugh, but then his face grew serious.

  “Livvy, I came here for a reason. I want to take her back to Evergreen. They have an excellent twenty-eight-day program … Well maybe I should let your mom tell you about it.”

  “What? No, you tell me. I have to know. She and I aren’t talking much.”

  He studied me for a moment. “We have to go in three days. Our flight leaves Thursday night at seven.”

  “Thursday?” I repeated dumbly. That was so soon.

  “I don’t work at Evergreen anymore, but I’m still her sponsor. I’ll be able to check in on her and make sure everything’s okay.”

  “What am I supposed to do while she’s gone?” I said, panicking as his words sank in.

  In all the time I’d known Tom, he’d never once raised his voice. He was the world’s most patient person, prepared to sit out any storm. This time was no different. “There’s a ticket for you, too, Liv. You can come stay with me while your mom’s in the program.”