When I knocked on Juliet’s car window, I thought she would figure it out immediately. I expected her to explode with fury, kind of the way I felt when I discovered she was Cemetery Girl.
I didn’t expect to find her crying into her hands.
Even now, it pulls at something inside me, and my brain is struggling to reconcile the girl from my letters and emails with the girl who sneered at me about smoking and accused me of spiking the punch.
Better get back on the dance floor, princess. Wouldn’t want anyone to catch you slumming with the losers.
Remembering my words makes me wince. Going to this dance meant something to her.
And then I had to crap all over it.
My phone pings, and I jump, expecting a message from Cemetery Girl.
Juliet, I think. I need to remember she’s not some anonymous girl anymore. She’s Juliet.
Either way, it’s not her. It’s a text from Rev.
RF: Did you go back and help her?
DM: Yes
RF: I knew it.
I turn off the phone and shove it in my pocket. He’ll send more messages until he drags the whole story out of me, but I need some time to analyze it myself.
The house looks so quiet I wonder if Alan is waiting inside to drop the hammer. Anxiety chains me to the steering wheel. If he wanted to get into it, if he wanted to fight, I wouldn’t hesitate. But Alan doesn’t fight with fists and anger. He fights with court appointments and police officers.
The nights I spent in jail last May were terrifying enough. I don’t want to go through it again—especially when there might not be an end point.
Finally, my unease about confrontation is eclipsed by my fear of doing nothing, of being found in the driveway, paralyzed with indecision. I get out of the car and walk up to the front door.
My key whispers in the lock, and the front foyer is dark. I wonder if fate has offered me the first stroke of luck I’ve seen in years. Only a small light at the base of the stairwell is lit, along with the night-light in the upstairs hallway. I stand in complete silence for a full minute. The house is hushed. They must be sleeping.
Tension drains out of me, leaving me a bit giddy. I smile in the dark. This is awesome.
Then I hear the cough. Two coughs. Then the clear sound of someone vomiting. I don’t know what about the noise is feminine, but it’s not Alan.
I follow the sound to the back bathroom, the one in the mudroom behind the kitchen. The door isn’t even closed, but my mother is there, kneeling on the floor, heaving her dinner into the toilet. She’s wearing one of Alan’s T-shirts and a pair of stretch pants. A tissue is clenched in her hand.
“Mom?” I sound afraid. I can’t help it. In a flash, I’m ten years old again, watching my father doing the same thing. This is different, though. She’s not sliding off the toilet. The air isn’t thick with booze. “Mom, are you okay?”
She nods with her eyes closed, then wipes at her mouth. She kneels there and breathes against the toilet for a long moment.
She’s as pale as the porcelain beside her face. I go stand next to her, but I’m not sure what to do. “Do you want me to get Alan?”
“No.” Her voice is raw. “No, it’s fine. I don’t think dinner agreed with me.”
“Do you want more tissues?”
At first she shakes her head, but then she nods. I retrieve the box by the kitchen sink and set it beside her. Then I fill a glass with water and bring it back.
She flushes the toilet, then rises to sit on the lid.
“Water?” I hold it out.
She cringes like I’m offering her poison.
“To rinse your mouth out?” I suggest.
“Okay.” She does, then spits in the sink. After another long breath, she washes her face and hands.
I hang in the doorway, feeling completely useless. “Do you want me to help you upstairs?”
She shakes her head. “I think I’ll sit on the couch for a while until this passes.”
“Okay.” That sounds like a dismissal, but I’m not sure I should leave her.
She straightens and looks at me more fully. Her eyes widen. “You look so nice, Declan. I didn’t realize this was a dress-up dance.” She smooths the shirt over my shoulder, straightening my tie as if it matters.
I freeze under her touch.
She looks up at me. “Did you get caught in the rain?”
“I helped a friend change a tire.” I hesitate. “That’s why I was a little late.”
“Is it late? I dozed off while I was waiting, and then . . .” She makes a face, then glances at the toilet. “Let’s go sit on the couch. I need to sit down.”
We go sit on the couch. She doesn’t want the lights on, so we sit in the dark, barely more than shadows.
“Is Alan in bed already?” I ask.
“Yes. He’s going into the office in the morning, and you know I don’t mind burning the midnight oil.”
I’m glad she was the one up, though finding her puking in the back of the house still has me unsettled. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yes.” She puts a hand on my arm and squeezes. “We picked up some steamed shrimp at the market, and you know what that does to you if it’s even a little sour.”
I can’t remember the last time she’s touched me, and now it’s been twice in three minutes. I feel like I’ve walked into the twilight zone. “Kristin said you were sick last week, too.”
“Oh!” Mom looks surprised. “That was a summer cold.”
“It’s October.”
She gives me an exasperated look. “Declan.”
“What?” I sound petulant. “I’m just asking.”
“Tell me about the dance. Did you have a nice time?”
“No.”
She sighs.
Way too much history exists between us for Mom and me to have a postmortem about Homecoming. “I didn’t.”
She puts her hands on my face, pushing my hair back from my forehead. I expect her to make some kind of dig about my haircut, but instead her hand stops there, her thumb stroking my temple. Her eyes are locked on mine.
I don’t move.
“You’re kind of freaking me out,” I whisper.
She doesn’t smile. “I feel like you’re growing up and I’m not a part of it.”