Mom rubbed her eyes. “I feel like shit. Phoebe and I partied pretty hard last night.” She grinned sleepily. “No surprise there.”
Lauren leaned forward. “I’m the homecoming queen,” she said quietly, still not quite believing it. She couldn’t contain her smile.
“Huh?” Mom’s eyes slid shut again.
“The dance? It was last night,” Lauren said, but already she knew she’d lost her mother’s attention. “Never mind.”
“I think I’ll call in sick today. I feel like shit.” Mom rolled over again. Within seconds, she was snoring.
Lauren refused to be disappointed. It had been stupid to expect anything else. Some lessons should have been learned a long time ago.
With a sigh, she got to her feet.
An hour later Lauren was on the bus, heading through town. The sun had disappeared again, tucked itself behind a rapidly darkening bank of clouds. By the time they reached the last stoplight, it had begun to rain.
It was still early on this Sunday morning. Few cars were parked in the angled slots, but the church lots were full.
It reminded her of a time, not so long ago, really, when she used to open her bedroom window on the Sabbath, rain or snow. The weather didn’t matter. She used to lean out the window and listen to those pealing bells. She’d close her eyes and imagine how it must feel to get dressed up on Sunday and go to church. Her daydream was always the same: She saw a little girl with red hair, wearing a bright green dress, hurrying along behind a beautiful blond woman. Up ahead, a family waited for them.
Come along, Lauren, her imaginary mother always said, smiling gently as she reached out to hold her hand. We don’t want to be late.
Lauren hadn’t opened that window of hers in a long time. Now when she looked out, all she saw was the broken down building next door and Mrs. Sanchez’s dented blue El Camino. Now she had that dream only at night.
The bus slowed, began to ease toward the stop. Lauren looked down at the shopping bag in her lap. She should have called first—that was how it was done in polite homes. You didn’t just stop by, even to return something. Unfortunately, she didn’t know Angie’s phone number. And—if she were honest with herself at least—she needed not to be alone.
“Miracle Mile Road,” the bus driver called out.
Lauren lurched to her feet and hurried down the aisle, trying not to knock into anyone, then went down the narrow steps and exited the bus.
The doors wheezed shut behind her, clanged. The bus drove on.
She stood there, clutching the bag to her chest, trying to protect it from the rain that fell like bits of icy glass.
The road stretched out in front of her, bordered on either side by towering cedar trees whose tips reached toward the gray underbelly of clouds. Here and there, mailboxes dotted the roadside, but other than that there were no signs of life. This was the time of year that belonged to the forest itself, a dank dark few weeks in which the hikers who dared to venture into this green-and-black wilderness could be lost until spring.
By the time she reached the driveway, it was raining in earnest—fast, cold, razor cuts hit her cheeks.
The house looked empty. No light came through the windows. Rain played a thumping beat on the roof, splashed in the puddles. Fortunately, Angie’s car was in the carport.
She went to the door and knocked.
There was noise coming from inside. Music.
She knocked again. With every minute that passed, she lost a little more feeling in her hands. It was freezing out here.
After one last knock, she reached for the doorknob. To her surprise, the knob turned easily. She opened the door.
“Hello?” She stepped inside, closed the door behind her.
There were no lights on. Without sunshine, the room looked a little gloomy.
She noticed a purse on the kitchen counter; a pile of car keys lay beside it on the white Formica.
“Angie?” Lauren took off her shoes and socks and set the bag on the counter beside the purse.
She walked toward the living room, calling out Angie’s name as she went.
The house was empty.
“Damn it,” Lauren muttered. Now she’d have to walk all the way back to the bus stop and stand there in the freezing rain. She had no idea how often the number nine bus stopped at that corner.
Oh, well.
As long as she was here, she might as well return the dress to its proper place. She went upstairs.
The steps creaked beneath her weight. She looked back and saw the wet footprints trailing behind her.
Great. Now she’d have to clean the floor on her way out.
She stopped at the closed bedroom door and knocked just in case, although there was no way Angie was still asleep at ten-thirty in the morning.
She opened the door.
The room was dark. Heavy floral-print drapery blocked the windows.
Lauren felt around for a light switch, found it, and flicked it up. Light burst from the overhead fixture.
She hurried toward the closet and put the dress away, then stepped back into the bedroom.