I studied her face to see if she was telling the truth. “How did you escape?”
“We stole their truck and got back to town. We were trying to get our truck out of their garage, but it was locked up in the back.” She was picking at the label on her beer, ripping off little pieces. “This biker dude helped us out—he owned the pub next door. His son drove us to the bus in the morning.”
My feelings were all tumbling around inside, angry someone had hurt them, confused and upset I’d never known anything about it, but mostly I felt scared. “It must be horrible knowing that they’re still out there somewhere.”
“It’s pretty fucked up.” Her eyes were shiny as she took another long drag of her cigarette. She’d almost smoked it down to the filter already.
“They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it,” I said. “I mean, I know you couldn’t go to the cops. But I’d want to kill them.”
Crystal was looking at me but her eyes were vacant, like her mind was somewhere else, the cigarette still burning down in her hands.
“Crystal?” I said. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I was just thinking about how easy you think things are going to be sometimes, how you’re on this path and then all of a sudden…” She made a motion with her hand. “Shit is going sideways. And you can’t go back in time, you can’t do it over again. No matter how much you wish you could.”
“You mean like you wish you hadn’t gone to Cash Creek?”
“I wish I hadn’t done a lot of stuff,” she said, staring at the far wall. A tear dripped down the side of her face. She brushed it off, took a ragged breath.
“Like what?”
“It’s my fault we had to run away. I screwed up. I’m the one who always screws up.”
“What do you mean?”
She put out her cigarette in the ashtray, smashing the filter down with one finger, grinding it in. She lit another.
“Did you know I was going to be a singer?”
“You never said anything.” I felt thrown off again, like I’d been walking a balance beam and kept getting pushed off. We talked about music all the time.
“I could play the guitar and everything.” She pantomimed plucking strings. “And your mom, she was going to be a photographer—she was so fucking smart. Smarter than Dallas and me in school. She could’ve been anything.”
I never thought about my mom having any hobbies or dreams, but she did like taking pictures—our walls were covered with her photos. I’d found an old camera one day hidden on the top shelf of her closet. I’d put it back, feeling guilty, and never asked her about it, but it was weird. Was that from when she was a kid? Crystal was right about Mom being smart, but she only had her GED. She read my homework and borrowed my books all the time.
Crystal looked at me again, tears making her eyelashes spike. “You’re a good kid, Skylar. A really good kid.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean that,” she said. “Don’t try to be like me.”
“You’re not so bad.”
“I haven’t done one good thing with my life.” She picked up her beer and swallowed it all, wiping her mouth when she was done.
“You’ve done lots of great stuff.”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “Dallas, she’s always helping people. And your mom … she’s braver than you’ll ever know. I haven’t done fuck-all.”
“What would you do if you could?”
She met my eyes, hers kind of vacant again.
“I wish we’d killed them,” she said. “I wish it all the time.” She was staring through me, smoke drifting up from her cigarette.
“Crystal?”
She focused in on me, noticed the bird in my hands. “What is that?”
“It’s a crane. The Japanese call it the bird of happiness. They believe cranes live a thousand years, so it’s supposed to represent good fortune and longevity or something like that. They make strings of them at funerals.”
“That must look really pretty,” she said, then smiled sadly. “Hey, Sky. I’m really glad you came to see me, but do you mind if I just go back to bed? I’ve got a brutal headache.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“No, you’re the best. We’ll go to the beach tomorrow, okay? Give me a call in the morning.”
*
That night when Mom came home from work she looked exhausted, her hair coming loose from its braid, the tendrils damp, her face flushed.
“God, the bus was just gross tonight. Like being trapped in a hot tin can.” She hung up her purse. “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”
I made her a fruit smoothie while she was changing and brought it out to her on the balcony, where we had a little plastic table, two chairs, and a hibachi grill that we used in the summer. Mom had found a flowered tablecloth for our table and some citronella candles in pretty pots to keep away the mosquitoes.