Neither of them says anything about the scratches all over Marla’s hands and feet and arms, but Marla throws on Mom’s old gray sweatshirt, which was folded over one of the stools. It’s strange on her—too big in most places and smelling all wrong for a girl our age. I almost ask her to take it off. We all have to work hard to be less like Mom, not more like her.
“I didn’t say you could have those berries,” Eleanor says. “I was going to make muffins for—for my friend.” She still won’t say his name. Which is probably safest. And fine by me. I don’t need to know it. Astrid used to make handmade cards and woven leather bracelets for Henry. When Mom found out about them, she took away all of Astrid’s leather strings and the rubber stamps she used to make the cards.
“You can’t do that,” I say. I don’t want to know what Mom would do if she found out about this secret boyfriend. We don’t need any more Big Events, that’s for sure. We need to keep things calm and have all our adventures in the safety of my and Eleanor’s closets.
“We thought Mom could use a nice breakfast,” Marla says. I roll my eyes. I am really becoming awful.
“I didn’t pick those for Mom,” Eleanor says. She has that pre-crying look—pink, watery eyes, but not actually letting the tears out.
“Mom’s not here,” Dad says. We hadn’t heard him come down.
“Did she go for a run?” I say. I sound too excited. When Mom’s going on morning runs, it means she’s on the road to recovery.
“No. She’s Away,” Dad says. We hear the capital A of the word, even if we can’t see it when he speaks.
It’s quiet, aside from the popping sound of bacon frying and the creaking house.
“Where?” Eleanor asks. Her forehead shines. She looks like she can’t decide whether she’s happy or sad.
“Arizona,” Dad says. “For one month at least.”
“But why?” Marla says. Astrid starts humming a song that’s been on the radio a lot.
“The police said she has to,” Dad says. He doesn’t say that he thinks she needs to, also. “I don’t want you worrying about this, though. Everything’s fine.” He coughs, like that will erase what he said.
“We made pancakes,” I say, when no one speaks.
“I can see that,” Dad says. He doesn’t make a move to serve himself or us. I pile more pancakes off the pan and onto a plate and think how sad it will be if they go to waste.
I don’t think about Mom or what Dad’s saying about police and stuff. I want to take the blueberries into the closet and watch them glow or grow or turn into a lake of blueberry juice.
Astrid slips out to the porch, and Marla stomps up to her room.
“She didn’t say good-bye!” Marla yells on her way up the stairs.
I get the syrup and a few pancakes and dig in.
Eleanor and Dad do too.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says, but I don’t know for what. There are so many things.
Twenty-One
I hear from Mom first. A postcard comes in the mail four days later. The image is of brown land and a green cactus and a bunny with ears that stand up straight instead of flopping. It says ARIZONA! in big red block letters. The exclamation point seems especially cruel.
So many bunnies here! Mom writes. I know you love postcards. And I love you. I’ll be home soon.
Mom hasn’t said I love you to anyone in months.
Instead of writing Mom back, I write a postcard to LilyLee. I tell her my mom is Away again, and that I wish I could come over to her house. I know LilyLee will think it’s cool that I’ll get more postcards from Arizona. But I’ve never been very interested in Arizona.
“You get a postcard from Mom and don’t even write her back,” Marla says. “It’s not fair.”
Twenty-Two
Dad gets a letter a few days later. He reads it in his room and doesn’t come out for the rest of the night, so we get to order pizza and watch an R-rated movie on TV.
“When’s Mom going to write me?” Marla asks when the movie’s over and the pizza’s gone. She seems extra-aggravated, so I know she hasn’t been in any closets. We’ve all been staying out of them. I don’t know why, except it’s hard to do much of anything the first few days Mom’s gone. It’s too strange. We mostly sleep and watch TV that we’re not really even watching.
But I’ve been holding my star for a few minutes a few times a day. The warmth from it travels through my whole body, and I love the almost unhearable buzz it makes all night long.
Twenty-Three
Next Mom sends a package for Astrid and Eleanor.
“No,” Marla says when she sees it on the counter.
We’re lake-wet and frizzy-haired from a morning spent splashing in the water, and we’re tracking footprints into the kitchen because Dad’s too out of it to tell us what to do.
“A package came for the twins!” Dad says, oblivious.
“We’re not one person,” Eleanor says, when she sees the address written out in Mom’s messy handwriting. Eleanor’s in her new bikini, with nothing but a pair of tiny jean shorts over it. The bikini is red and ridiculous and obviously for her secret boyfriend. “You open it,” she says to Astrid.