The Waiting Sky (13 page)

22

T
hank God I have my camera with me, I think, as I walk down Jersey Street. Nothing sounds as good as putting my lens between me and the world for a while. I’m sick of seeing things without a filter.

I’m headed south, toward where we found Danny. There’s no sidewalk, so I walk against the traffic, not that there’s much of it. A baby-blue pickup truck grinds by, and the driver lifts his hand off the steering wheel as he passes. I wave back.

Once I cross the tracks, the cars are practically nonexistent, save for the rusted ones on blocks behind the pole barns and outbuildings. I hear a dog bark and the high-pitched whirr of a cicada, but other than that, it’s quiet.

About a half block up, I spot an ancient chain-link fence and, just beyond it, cracked blacktop and a leaning basketball hoop. As I get closer, I see that what was once a paved and painted court has been damaged from years of neglect—not from the recent storm. I snap a few photos of the threadbare basketball net and the shattered backboard before I note two peeling park benches in the distance. There’s someone sitting on one of them.

I’m about to turn and leave when the person stands and, to my surprise, calls my name. I squint into the sun and try to make out who it is. It’s not until he’s much closer that I realize—it’s Victor.

His black hair is tucked under a Nebraska Huskers baseball cap, and he’s wearing aviator sunglasses. He’s pale like Hallie, and I’m going to guess more than a little hungover like her, too.

“I figured it was you taking pictures,” he says by way of greeting.

“I’m a little bit tired of cleanup patrol in town,” I lie, “so I thought I’d take a break and come down here.”

Victor nods and watches the sky for a second. I wrestle with what to say, since I’m not exactly sure how much of last night he remembers. “I guess they’re predicting more big storms tomorrow,” he offers after a bit. “South of here, though. Oklahoma.”

“How do you feel about that?” I ask, realizing too late I sound like a lame therapist. He turns to me and I can see my reflection in his sunglasses.

“I think you know how I feel.”

Obviously he remembers a
lot
about last night.

“If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone what you said—”

His mouth quirks, making his scar jump. “Shit. What I slurred to you is the worst-kept secret in the chasing world.
Everybody
knows I lost it last year. Everybody knows I’m holding my dick in my hand. They just don’t talk about it to my face.”

Unsure of how to respond, I watch heat waves shimmer above the blacktop.

“What you did last night was nice,” Victor says after a second. “Helping me. Listening to me. In case I forget to say it later, I’ll say it now: thanks.”

The heat waves look like water. A mirage. “Except what will you do?” I ask. “The way you painted it, if you chase, you’re screwed. If you don’t chase, the team is screwed.”

“Hell of a dilemma, isn’t it?” Victor’s gaze is back on me. “Sorry if you told me last night what
you’d
do. I don’t remember.”

The mirage is widening, glimmering like a lake. I watch it, thinking the answer is so obvious in Victor’s case.
Leave. Live your life. The Torbros will be fine.

The same thing I’d do in my own life if it didn’t mean everything would come crashing down on my mom. I can’t set myself free if it means she might die. I flash back to the Bible pages I cleaned up, of how they all said the opposite through the story of Jesus. He died so you might live. I live so my mom might not die. Amen and amen.

“I keep going over the options,” Victor says, when I don’t speak. “And maybe it’s not as bad as I think.”

“How?”

“Let’s say, for example, that I leave the team and we lose the bet. The terms of the bet are that Alex gets Polly’s schematics. Even with blueprints, it’s going to take him at least a month to build a prototype of her. The Blisters will be lucky if they get her out in the field this season. Even if they do, there’s no guarantee she’ll actually get data. In that time, I could build something else. I’m not a one-trick pony.”

“But the funding—it’s all based off Polly,” I say.

“And we’re still pulling numbers from her.
We
have the working machine, not the Blisters. If I had to, I could get Mason up to speed on her for the rest of this season. It wouldn’t be a picnic, but it’d be doable. So, to me, Polly’s the easy part.”

“Then what’s the hard part?” I ask.

“Stephen. The fact that the side of the van says
Tornado Brothers
. The fact that Stephen thinks I should just . . . get over this.”

I try to stop my brain from connecting more dots between me and Victor, but I can’t. The way I bend and twist and adjust so my mom can have an easier time of it—it’s the same way Victor’s putting Stephen’s life ahead of his own.

“Truth is,” Victor says, “I got into this thinking I could protect Stephen. But if I don’t get out of the field, I’m afraid I’m going to really hurt someone. Really fuck up in a way I can’t take back. Or run from.”

“So, Stephen should understand that, right?”

“Maybe. Probably. But the big question is, will I still walk away if he doesn’t?”

My throat is suddenly on fire. I swallow a few times to cool it down.

“You okay?” Victor asks.

I stare at him. It’s the same. His situation and mine.

“Look,” Victor says, pulling off his sunglasses and gazing at me with his dark eyes, “I didn’t mean to get all heavy with this stuff. Ethan’s mentioned some shit about your mom, drinking and whatnot, and I’m sorry if I put you on the spot last night. You acted like a real pro, though, and I appreciate it.”

“Forget about that,” I say. “What about you? What will you
do
?”

Victor smiles. “Leave. Stephen might never understand it. I’m his big brother, after all. The one who’s supposed to be looking out for him, the one who’s supposed to know what’s best. Except that’s not true anymore. He’s making too many excuses for me, and he just doesn’t need me. He’s got a whole chase team behind him now. If I let him down, I guess I feel like I could live with his disappointment a lot easier than I could live with physically hurting someone. Or even killing someone.”

Above us, a cluster of starlings darts across the sky. “When?” I ask after the birds have fluttered into the distance. “When will you take off?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably like a Band-Aid—better to rip it off and be done with it. I just have to talk to Stephen first. So, if you would, don’t go telling anyone about this until I have a chance to talk with him.”

“Sure. Of course.”

My cell buzzes, and I pull it out. It’s a text from Max.
Where r u? Can I c u later?

“Pressing business?” Victor asks.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Victor smirks. “Is it the Backstreet Boy I saw you dancing with last night? The one that helped Danny?”

I look at him. “Maybe?”

Victor actually laughs. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, taking a few steps toward the road. “But, in case you’re wondering, I guess everyone’s meeting for dinner tonight at Applebee’s. Something about needing salads and Cokes after last night.” He glances at my phone. “If you don’t make it for . . . whatever reason, I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well. Deal?”

I smile. “Deal. And thanks.”

Victor gives me one last nod, then starts up the street.

23

M
y motel room is shadowy in the late afternoon, but I haven’t turned on any lights. I’m sitting in the semidarkness on the edge of my bed, which is the same position I’ve been in since I opened my door and saw the FedEx had been slid under the crack. Waiting for me.

I glance down at my phone when a text from Max lights up the screen.
Alex is finally off my bak. How bout I come pick u up? We can go 2 barn agn.

My eyes flick from the phone to the FedEx, and my stomach knots all over again. Do I even want to know what it says?

I need to be like Victor, I think. Just rip it open and get it over with. And then, no matter what it says, stop living my life for my mom.

Easier said than done, of course. And there’s always Ethan to consider. He says he wants me to come live with him, but he could always change his mind. Leave me again when I inevitably can’t be the perfect sister he wants me to be. Run off and live his new, perfect life with Hallie. And then I’d really be screwed.

Another of my mom’s expressions jumps into my head.
Piss or get off the pot, Janey.

I either need to face this FedEx or just toss it in the trash.

I tell myself I’ll have an easier time reading it if I reward myself with seeing Max after it’s over.
I’m in rm 119,
I text Max.
Say 15 min?

His reply is immediate.
Cool c u then.

I glance at the clock: 7:46. I have until 8:01 to read this. The rest of the Torbros are all still at Applebee’s, so there’s no way I’m going to get interrupted.

I just need to do it already.

I turn the envelope over and over in my hands. Down the hall a door slams. The air conditioner’s hum fills the room.

“Come on,” I say out loud. “You can do this.”

I rip open the envelope and pull out a single sheet of paper. It’s a handwritten note from my mom, scrawled on letterhead from work.

Dear Janey,

I’ve started this note a thousand times and each time is worse than the last. So I’m just going to cut to the chase. I am going to rehab. Starting right away. I’ll be gone for a while at the White Pine Recovery Center up near Duluth. Would you believe the girls at the clinic raised the $500 it cost to send me there? I was too scared to tell you myself on the phone, so that’s why I sent you this letter. I figured hearing your voice would make me think I didn’t need to stop drinking. Because then I’d talk myself into believing you’d take care of me. But you’re not here. So I’m taking off for a while. Okay? I’ll be out in a few weeks. I love you,

Mom

I look up from the note, but I don’t see the motel room. My mind is a thousand miles away in Duluth, where my mom is getting help.

I can practically smell the hallways—a blend of bleach and antiseptic. I can feel the lumpy, hard bed she’ll sleep in, and my hands tremble just slightly, like my mom’s do when I know she’s aching for a drink. She won’t have one, though, because she’ll be getting help instead.

I clutch the note to my chest. Ethan was wrong! What was in the FedEx matters more than he could know. It changes everything!

If I could dance, I’d shake what I’ve got. Instead, when Max comes to the door, I throw my arms around him and press my lips against his. We kiss in the open doorway until Max shuts the door with his foot. Then I push him against the closed door and kiss him harder. The touch of his warm lips feels like the perfect way to express the happiness in my heart.
My mom is getting better.

“Wow,” says Max when we finally pull apart. “What was that for?”

“I got some good news,” I say, knowing I’m grinning like an idiot.

“Care to share?”

“Come here,” I say, pulling him over to the bed. The springs squeak as we sit on the end. I take a breath. “My mom has a problem,” I start.

“Only one?”

“One bad one. She has a drinking problem.”

Max takes my hand. “I’m sorry. That’s no small thing.”

“I know. And, it’s hard to talk about usually. It’s not like I go around telling everyone that. But today I got some good news. She wrote me a note to say she’s going into rehab.”

Max flashes his trillion-watt smile. “Dude, really? That’s huge. Seriously. I’m so glad.”

A bubbly laugh erupts from my throat. “I know, right? I’m so happy!”

“I bet it means you’ll worry a lot less about her.”

I nod. “There’s that for sure. I thought I was going to have to leave her. My brother, he of course knows how my mom can be, and he invited me to come live with him after the chase season wraps. But now I don’t have to. I can go back to Minnesota.”

I can’t believe how much I’m telling Max. But I don’t even care. I let the words come, unbidden, because it’s okay. Things are going to turn out just fine.

Max’s smile falters. “Your mom ever do rehab before?”

“Once, yeah. But it was a while ago, and my brother practically blackmailed her into doing it. This time is way different. My best friend, Cat? She almost died because of my mom. So my mom knows it has to stick.”

“Okay,” Max says, but his expression is clouded.

“What? Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe what I’m telling you,” I say. I walk to the dresser where the note’s lying, facedown. “You want to read what she said?”

“No,” Max says, “no, I totally believe your mom’s giving this an honest go. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Me? Why?”

Max pats the flowered bedspread, and I sit down beside him again. “Look. My dad’s brother, my uncle Frank? He’s an alcoholic too. And what he went through to get sober was no picnic. But his wife, my aunt Betty—some days we were more worried about her than Frank.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, there’d be these times Uncle Frank would get clean but then just fall into his old habits again because she made it so easy. Not on purpose, but she didn’t know what else to do. She’d call in to work for him, make sure everything around the house was taken care of, make excuses when he got loaded at family functions.

“So this last time my uncle Frank comes out of rehab and—
bam
. Betty’s not there. She left. She went to her sister’s and stayed there for six months. And she got help too, you know? She got counseling and all sorts of stuff so she wouldn’t be Frank’s crutch if—or when—he started going off the wagon. Turns out Betty needed just as much help as he did.”

I sit up straighter. “So, what? You’re telling me I need to go to a facility too?”

“Hey, easy,” Max says. “I’m not trying to shit on your parade. I’m just telling you this stuff is hard. And lots of times the people closest to alcoholics, they need help as well. It’s not a bad thing.”

There’s a pinprick of pain at the base of my neck that I think might flower into a migraine at any second. Why is Max telling me about his aunt Betty like my situation is the same? I get that life with an alcoholic is no picnic. Lord knows I understand that. But the situation with his aunt and uncle isn’t
my
situation—not by a long shot.

“Hey,” Max says, putting his hand on my cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make this harder on you. It’s good news about your mom going to rehab. For sure. Let’s just focus on that for now.”

He kisses me gently. I let his soft breath and strong arms erase all the tension between us. “You still want to go to the barn?” he asks after a moment. “It’s a perfect night for sitting in the hayloft. Which, I know, is quite a date proposal. There’s a girl out there eating lobster at a sit-down restaurant who’s green with envy.”

I smile. “I do, I really do, but it’s probably too far. I should stick closer and try to find Ethan tonight before it gets too late. He needs to know about my mom’s note too.”

Max takes a breath. “Cool. So we’ll do something nearby. My motel has an outdoor pool. Most of the Blisters are down the road at a bar, so it’s not like they’ll see us if we go stick our toes in the shallow end.”

I hesitate. Now that I’ve told Max about my mom, I feel closer to him than ever—not farther away, like I thought I would. But still, there’s a sharp uneasiness inside me. Should I really spend any more time with him? Maybe it’ll be tomorrow, maybe it’ll be the day after, but one day the Blisters will pack their vans and leave. Max will be gone. The barn, dancing at the Pig & Spit, the way his lips taste—it will vanish. All of it.

Because that’s what happens. Eventually, someone has to leave.

So add tonight to the pile of memories,
I tell myself,
then sweep it away like dust. Ashes to ashes, Max to Max.

“All right,” I say. I take his hand and squeeze it. “Let’s do this.”

We step outside into the rustling summer night. The surprised face of the man in the moon reflects on every car in the parking lot. “Is the moon this big everywhere, or is it just the plains?” I ask, tilting my head back.

“I think it’s even bigger in Texas. Supposedly everything’s enormous there. Their twisters get to be EF-11s.”

I giggle as we reach the end of the parking lot and walk past Happy’s, making our way along the road. A few cars and trucks rumble past underneath the glare of the orange streetlights, but for the most part, everything is quiet. We get to Max’s motel—the C’mon Inn—and walk around the side to the pool. The filter hums as Max pulls up two lounge chairs.

We lie side by side, both of us staring at the stars, which are sparse and pale in the moon’s white light.

“So how do you think your team liked Patchy Falls?” Max asks, reaching out and taking my hand, connecting us over the plastic armrests. “You think they got themselves in front of the Weather Network enough?”

“It’s been good,” I reply, trying to ignore the way Max’s thumb is stroking my palm. “I mean, who knows what the network will air when it comes down to it, but they definitely have footage of us helping clean up the town. And that’s awesome.”

“That douche Victor sure didn’t make it easy on you guys, did he?”

I sit up, disconnecting us. “No, it’s not like that. There was an accident last year, and Victor got kind of messed up over it. You didn’t hear?”

Max shakes his head.

“The Torbros got caught in a storm,” I explain. “Victor almost died, and that’s how he got that scar on his face. Probably now he has something like post-traumatic stress syndrome, but some of the chasers just think he’s a coward.”

“Still, the way he ran away from Danny like that . . .”

“I know,” I agree. “It was bad. And Victor knows it too. He doesn’t want to put anyone else in danger, which is why he’s leaving the team really soo—” I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified. Did I really just blab Victor’s exodus to Max?

Max pulls my hand gently away from my mouth. His fingers are warm. “It’s okay,” he says. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone, I’m not.”

“
No one
can find out before Stephen. Victor still has to talk to him.”

“It’s cool. Really.” Max pulls me closer to him. He runs a finger along my eyebrow, down my cheek, all the way to my neck. Sparklers ignite everywhere he touches me. “I won’t say anything,” he whispers. His lips are close to mine, then
on
mine, and he’s pulling me on top of him so we’re both in the same lounge chair.

Thigh on thigh, chest on chest, we’re so close, there’s not even night between us. My heart’s thumping so hard, I wonder if he can feel it through our T-shirts. His hands are on my back, in my hair, on my hips. His fingers move like I’m Braille, like he’s trying to read me just by touching me.

He kisses me and our breath tangles so it’s impossible to tell whose air is whose. I let my lungs fill with the taste and smell of him. Behind my closed eyes I can picture his cells going deep into my lungs where they mix with my blood—with my tissue.

That’s when I roll off him and stand. I told myself this was nothing, but here I am, fantasizing about being
filled
with him, for crying out loud. Like he’s this fount of intoxication and I’m just . . . drinking from it. How can you leave someone if you let them this deep inside you?

It’s so much harder that way. Messy. Complicated. No Band-Aids.

So this ends.
Now
.

“I have to go,” I say, backing away from the lounge chairs. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Max says, sitting up. His dark eyebrows are knotted together. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I stammer. I pull open the pool gate. “Just forget it. I’ll see you later.”

Before he can scheme or plan or try to fix this or try to change my mind, I sprint away. It’s better like this, I tell myself. I ignore the ache in my heart and the face of the man in the moon who’s looking at me like
wtf
?

It was never going to work out. Someone had to go. I just did it before he could, because I know how it feels to be the one left behind. You pick up the pieces while the other person starts a brand-new happy life without you. No way was I going to let that happen to me again. Not if I could help it.

My chest is heaving as I slide the key into my door. I focus on the burning in my lungs, trying to block out the still-lingering feeling of Max on my skin and lips. I force myself to think about the FedEx instead.

I’m ready to find Ethan. To show him Mom’s note. To forget Maximilian Adam Whittaker Vaughn altogether.