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Authors: Laura Wiess

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BOOK: Ordinary Beauty
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Today is New Year’s Eve morning, and it’s Tuesday.

I stare down at the truck’s blood-streaked window, searching for movement.

Nothing.

Look up at the mountain, searching for even the tiniest pinpoint of light.

Nothing.

So that’s it. I really am alone.

The old pain sweeps back, stronger than a memory should be, and behind the image that haunts me is the guilt, the knowledge that I did nothing, only stood paralyzed with terror instead of moving faster, reaching farther, trying harder . . .

But I hadn’t.

If Harlow is right and there
is
something missing inside me, it’s because that was the moment grief sank its jaws into my heart and tore loose more than it left. That was the moment the wailing began inside me, a sound that should have echoed out over the mountain until it was naturally spent and all grief was exhausted, and it should have been
all
of us, howling out our misery like coyotes in a mourning chorus, but it never was. Instead, the high road fell silent and we sat and waited and never quite looked at each other, and when the final word came we crawled away and hemorrhaged separately, each huddled in our own bottomless pool of unspoken pain.

Or at least I assume we did.

I did.

I wipe my eyes and look back down the bank at the truck.

I didn’t know what to do six years ago, so I did nothing.

I still don’t know what to do, but it’s not going to be nothing anymore.

I’ve already seen what that gets me.

I push myself back to my feet and stand there, swaying. Look out at the piles of rotted stumps and broken branches and my footprints, hundreds of them, weaving in and out all around the roadblock, creating a silent scream for help.

Help.

I wipe my eyes.

I wonder what my mother wants to tell me.

It won’t be
I’m sorry I gave you such a shit life, Sayre. I’m sorry about Beale and your baby sister. I’m sorry I never loved you. I’m sorry I love my painkillers more than you, my meth more than you, my drinking and guys and Candy more than you. I’m sorry for all those times I said you were just like your father and your father was an asshole. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .

If she would say any of that, just once, then maybe we could clear up a few other things, too.

Like why, since she’s been peeing orange for ages, the whites of her eyes are tinged yellow, and she’s weak and shaky and riddled with spider-vein bursts all over, and her muscles have wasted away, her temples are sunken, and her skin is stretched tight across her skull, since she
knows
she has liver problems, why then,
why
had she deliberately blown the transplant team’s interview to get her evaluated and onto the organ donor list?

Or maybe she would tell me why, when living with Beale and Aunt Loretta and sweet little Ellie had been so wonderful, so much like a beautiful dream come true, with her clean and sober and Beale loving us and us loving him, with laughter and affection, warm beds and clean clothes and as much food as we wanted to eat, had she started drinking again and destroyed everything?

Or even more important, maybe I would find out if she’d ever, even for just one spontaneous, surprising second, loved me.

I look up the blind curve in the direction of the hospital, eleven snowy and treacherous miles away.

What if she
is
dying? What if I’m wrong about why she’s in the hospital this time, and Candy is right? What if she dies before I can get there, and the last thing I ever said to her, no, flung at her, was,
You’re sick, Mom, you really are, and I can’t even stand to look at you anymore. You deserve what you get, so go ahead, hate me some more, do whatever you want, because I don’t care. Merry Christmas. You’re finally getting your wish. I’m out of here for good.

And I was.

I did it, I left her to the things she loves most. I did the thing I never thought I could do because she’d betrayed me in the worst possible way, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.

And what did I think would happen? Did I think she’d sit up and finally realize what she’d lost, and try to get clean again so we could start over?

Maybe.

Yes, hopefully.

I thought maybe it would shock her, my finally saying how I felt out loud.

I thought maybe it would matter.

I thought if I stayed within reach at Harlow’s, maybe she’d come looking for me. Maybe she’d say
All right, let’s try this liver transplant thing again, Sayre, because you know what? I’m only thirty-three and that’s too young to die, especially without ever really knowing you.

I thought maybe she would say that.

Instead, she went into the hospital, and if Candy’s not lying, this time she won’t ever come out again.

Chapter 9

I GO BACK DOWN THE HILL
and shimmy into the truck.

Evan stirs, and opens his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just freezing,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself and huddling in the seat. “I blocked the whole road, so if anyone ever shows up, they’re gonna
have
to stop.”

“She didn’t call, did she,” he says and it’s an acknowledgment rather than a question.

“No, I’m pretty sure,” I say, sighing and glancing at him. His head wound has stopped bleeding and it looks like he tried to clean some of it up because the dried, clotted blood is smeared from his hairline to his chin. Grisly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Just wait, I guess,” he says. “What else can we do?”

“But you’re . . .” I make a sweeping motion because I can’t say
gross looking.
“You’re hurt and there has to be something I can do.”

“Talk to me,” he says, closing his eyes. “Maybe it’ll take my mind off my knee.”

Talk to him. “About what?” I ask, pulling off my gloves and examining my throbbing fingers. Two of the nails are bent back below the skin, one is torn low, and a ripped cuticle is bleeding. I grit my teeth and quick flip the bent nails back the right way, my eyes tearing at the pulsing pain, then ease my gloves back on and gently tuck my hands up into my armpits. I sniffle, and say, “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a faint shrug. “You’re a girl. What do girls talk about?”

“Guys,” I say, and then, “Themselves.”

“Well, I don’t really care about guys, so . . .” His mouth curves into a slight smile. “Come on, I’m a captive audience. Let’s hear your life story.”

“Ha.” The snort comes out before I can stop it. “No, that’s okay. The last thing you need right now is a horror story. Why don’t you tell me
your
life story instead?”

He cracks an eye. “I already know my life story and it’s boring.”

“Boring isn’t necessarily bad,” I say, and mean it. “Were you, uh, on your way to work when you, uh . . . ?”

“Yeah, when school’s on break I come home and work part-time down at the factory for extra cash,” he says and points at a half-full bottle of Gatorade on the console. “Would you open that for me, please? And have some if you want.” He waits until I unscrew the top and hand it to him. Drinks and hands it back. Watches as I take a cautious sip. “Have more.”

“No, I want to make it last, just in case,” I say, closing the top and putting it back.

“Just in case what, we’re here for a week?” he says.

I glance at him, stung, and realize he’s teasing. “Hey, you never know, right?” I gesture out the window at the fat, fluffy snowflakes. “If this turns into a real blizzard . . .” And then I sit up straight, struck with a thought. “The plow truck! They’ll send the plow out to do the road before everybody leaves for work in the morning!”

“That’s right,” he says, nodding. “So then all we have to do is wait.”

And then I’m struck with another thought, one not so bright and way more panicky. “What if the plow comes and doesn’t stop, just plows right through the blockade? I mean, that’s what plows do, you know? Plow stuff. What if they don’t even hesitate? What if—”

“Hey, whoa, it’s all right,” he says, reaching his good hand over and touching mine. “They’ll stop, and if they don’t, when we see the headlights coming I’ll just lay on the horn and you can get back out the window and start waving your arms and yelling and all. They’ll see us, Sayre. Don’t worry. We’ll
make
’em see us.”

We’ll make ’em see us.

His words bring tears to my eyes. “Okay,” I say hoarsely, staring out the window at the long plunge down the bank beside me. He’d touched my hand, not in a bad way but like he’d wanted to reassure me, and I can’t remember the last time someone did that. I clear my throat and look back at him. “Okay, so listen, you tell me the boring story of your life, and then I’ll tell you the horror story of mine. How’s that?”

“Hmm,” he says. “I thought the whole point of this was to entertain
me.

“So did you go to Sullivan High?” I ask, giving him a look and settling in.

He smiles again and gingerly tilts his head back against the seat. “Yeah, and now I’m in my last year up at SUNY-ESF. Uh, Environmental Science and Forestry, Syracuse,” he adds at my puzzled look. “You?”

“We’ll get to me later,” I say because really, what am I going to tell him? That I’m a Sullivan high school senior with good grades and a crappy attendance record, thanks to never knowing where I’ll be waking up in the morning or where the closest bus stops are? Uh,
no.
“Forestry, huh? Cool. So, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The minute I say it a memory of Mrs. Grinnell, my fifth-grade teacher, flashes through my mind, of her asking us all that exact same question and me, eleven years old and fresh out of the tragedy at Beale’s, looking right at her and saying with complete sincerity,
An orphan.

“I’m getting my degree in Fisheries Science. I want to do something with the rivers, hopefully somewhere along the Susquehanna,” he says, perking right up. “Did you know that the Susquehanna’s over four hundred miles long, goes through three states, and provides about half of the fresh water to the Chesapeake Bay? You’d think that’d be a good thing, right, but back in 2005 it was named America’s most endangered river because of the pollution.”

I open my mouth to say
really?
but he barrels on.

“I mean, c’mon, what the hell are we doing here? The river dates back to what, the Paleozoic Era? It’s managed to stay alive for sixty million years and now we’re gonna kill it for cash?” He catches my puzzled look. “Manure? Chemicals? Hazardous waste spills? Factories spewing pollutants? Contamination? Gas-well drilling? Fish not safe to eat? Water tests taken upstream of the waste pipes instead of downstream where the discharge is so the toxin readings are inaccurate?”

“Ohhh,” I say, nodding and stifling a grin. “You’re going to be one of
them.

“Them?” he echoes indignantly, and catches my smile. “Wiseass. But yeah, I am. I mean, I grew up on this river, we camped on the islands, caught trophy bass and watched the bald eagles and it shouldn’t be—” He tries to sit up higher in his seat, and groans. “Oh shit, I shouldn’t have done that. My knee.” A sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead. “
Damn.
Uh . . . it shouldn’t have to be jobs
or
clean water, you know?
Jesus.

“Can I do anything? Do you want to put snow on it yet?” I ask anxiously, leaning across the seat toward him. “I can go get some. It’s right—”

“No,” he says, voice strained and good hand white-knuckled around the steering wheel. “You talk. Just talk, Sayre.”

Talk. Okay. I hunt frantically through my life, trying to find something that doesn’t spell
Loser
and can’t believe I can’t think of one thing that—

“What were you doing out there so late?” he mumbles, eyes closed and face pale. “I swear to God the worst minute of my life was coming around that bend and seeing you standing there. I really thought I was gonna hit you.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry.” And then, because he wants me to talk and I can see how hard he’s trying not to scream with pain, I go ahead and say it. “I was trying to get down to the hospital because my mother’s in there and supposedly she’s . . . dying.”

He opens his eyes and stares at me. “For real?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a helpless gesture. “I didn’t think so before, but now I think . . . maybe, yeah.”

“That’s what that lady was all pissed off about? Because you didn’t go with her?” he says.

I nod.

“And you didn’t go because I made you promise to stay with me.” He rubs his forehead with his good hand, and the look he gives me is an unhappy one. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. I never would have asked you to stay if—”

“No, really, it’s all right, or at least it was then.” I know I’m not making sense, so I take a deep breath and say, “My mother’s been in the hospital before, like six times, and she’s always come out again. I thought that’s what was happening this time, too, only now I don’t know. She’s had liver problems for so long and she doesn’t take care of herself at all, and she won’t talk about anything with me . . .” My fingers are aching and absently, I rub them. “A week before Christmas she
had
to go to the doctor’s because she was really sick and the doctor did these tests and said her liver was failing and that’s why she was so vague and lethargic, because the ammonia was built up in her brain. So he quick set up an appointment for an interview with the organ transplant evaluation team to see if she was physically strong and emotionally stable and . . . and if she had a family support system to help her and I don’t know, all the other stuff you have to go through just to be evaluated for getting on the transplant list . . .” My voice is wobbling and I can’t stop it.

“Oh, man,” he says softly. “I’m really sorry.”

“They gave us all this paperwork before the appointment, and she didn’t even read it, but I did and I knew she was in trouble . . .” I falter, not wanting to say this, God, I don’t want to say this but it just keeps coming, “because to even
pass
the interview you have to be clean and sober for six months and committed to staying that way forever, and she wasn’t, she hasn’t been sober since we lived with Beale and that was almost seven years ago. The night before the appointment she drank what, I don’t know, maybe a quart of vodka and took a whole ton of her stupid Vicodin and when we went there the next morning she just blew them all off, like she knew she wasn’t going to make it anyway so why even try. When they explained that there aren’t anywhere near enough donated livers for everyone who needs one, and so they don’t usually give them to addicts who are just going to go out and wreck the next one, too, she just shrugged and said,
Well, that’d be me, guys, so let’s just call it a day
and grabbed her cane and walked out.” I look at him, miserable. “She just walked out and left me sitting there, and one of the doctors came over and said,
You have a rough road ahead of you. Is there anyone in the family you can turn to for help?
and I was so freaked that I couldn’t even answer her.”

Evan is very still, listening.

“And then after we got home she went and stole all the money I’d made busing down at the Candlelight and bought a mess more Vicodin.” Oh God, my head hurts. “So I waited till she passed out and grabbed every pill that was left and took them back to her dealer and got my money back.” My breath hitches. “When she found out they were gone we had a really brutal fight, and she told me some stuff I never knew, really bad stuff, and I got so upset that I left. And now she’s in the hospital and is probably really dying this time, and I’m not there and it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault and that, Evan, is my shit life and aren’t you glad you asked?” I meet his gaze with what must be a ghastly smile. “Now, not to change the subject or anything, but do the windshield wipers work?”

He blinks. “Uh, let me see,” he says gruffly, turning the wiper knob.

They swish across the windshield slowly, clearing it.

“Now we can see headlights coming either way again,” I say when he shuts them off. I can’t look at him anymore because I know what I’m going to see, and I don’t want to see it. Not from him. I’m sorry I said anything and I wish I’d never even opened my mouth.

“Good thinking,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, staring out the passenger window.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he says after a long moment. “So you were heading down to the hospital when I . . . ?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“In this snow? Couldn’t you have called somebody for a ride?”

“I don’t have a cell and there’s no phone where I was staying, so . . .” I shrug. “I didn’t really have a choice. It was either walk or don’t go, you know?” There’s no reason to explain how I was pretty much forced out of the trailer, and bringing Harlow, the infamous derelict town murderer, into this will only make it worse, so I don’t.

I have to go back there, though, and soon. The thought fills me with dread, but my coffee can of money, all seventy-three dollars and forty-eight cents, is still under his trailer, along with little Misty—if he hasn’t shot her yet—and I want them both.

“So what are you going to do?” Evan says hesitantly.

“About what?” I say.

“Well, I mean if your mom . . .” He shakes his head slightly, as if to erase the thought. “Do you have any relatives you can go live with?”

“No, but I’ll be eighteen in May, so I guess I’ll be on my own,” I say, trying to sound as if it’s no big deal and failing miserably because that’s just one more mountain I’m going to have to find a way to climb.

“You’re still in school?” Evan asks, sounding surprised.

“Good old Sullivan,” I say with a crooked smile. “I graduate in June.”
If I make it,
I add silently, because right now my attendance record is not looking so good.

“You know what you’re going to do after that?” he says.

I snort. “Are you kidding? I’d be happy just to—”

And then a sudden sharp, wrenching groan rumbles outside my window as one of the pine tree trunks rips loose from the sparse, frozen soil on the incline and the truck tips toward me, sending me sliding into the passenger door and Evan, yelling and swearing as his knee collides with the console, across the truck seat and crashing into me.

BOOK: Ordinary Beauty
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