I waited until after noon before walking to the gas station because I wanted to give Mom time to call.
She didn't.
The twenty-dollar bill was folded into the smallest square I could manage and tucked into the front pocket of my shorts. I checked the doors three times before leaving and took my house key even though I normally didn't carry it.
The neighborhood looked ordinary.
A sprinkler clicked across somebody's lawn. A delivery van idled near the corner. Two boys rode bicycles past me without looking twice.
I wondered whether they could tell I was alone.
That thought stayed with me all six blocks.
At the gas station, cold air hit my face when the automatic doors opened. I took a plastic basket and walked the aisles slowly, reading every price.
I had gone grocery shopping with Mom hundreds of times.
I had never understood how expensive food was.
A frozen dinner could cost almost a quarter of everything I owned.
A box of cereal seemed impossible.
Even juice felt irresponsible.
I started doing arithmetic on my phone.
Bread was useful because it could become breakfast or lunch. Peanut butter didn't need refrigeration. Bananas were cheap. Canned soup could last. Bottled water seemed unnecessary because the tap worked, but I bought some anyway because I suddenly imagined the water shutting off while Mom was gone.
The cashier watched me unload my basket.
"Big shopping trip?"
I shrugged.
"Mom waiting outside?"
My heart kicked.
"She's home."
The lie came so quickly that it frightened me.
The cashier didn't care. He scanned the groceries and told me the total.
I paid.
When he handed back my change, I counted it twice.
Then I took the receipt.
Normally I would have thrown it away.
Instead I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.
Walking home was harder because the bags pulled against my fingers. I changed hands every half block.
A car slowed near me once.
My entire body went stiff.
It was only an elderly man turning into his driveway.
When I reached our house, I went inside quickly and locked the door behind me.
I spread everything across the kitchen counter.
The groceries looked smaller there.
Much smaller.
I had imagined the bags becoming security once I got them home. Instead they looked like proof of how little twenty dollars could do.
I wrote down exactly what I had bought and exactly how much money remained.
Then I made rules.
One banana at a time.
Soup could be divided.
Bread should never be eaten just because I was bored.
Peanut butter had to last.
No buying candy.
No ordering food.
No wasting anything.
I taped the rules inside a cabinet where nobody could see them from the windows.
At 3:26, Mom finally called.
Behind her face on the screen was bright airport glass.
"See?" she said. "Everything is fine."
"No, it isn't."
She looked away from the camera. "Keep your voice down."
"Did you find somebody?"
"I'm working on it."
"Who?"
"Maya."
"Who are you calling?"
"I said I'm handling it."
Derek's voice came faintly from somewhere nearby.
"Val? Boarding soon."
Mom turned her head.
"Coming."
Then she looked back at me.
"Listen carefully. Don't start messaging Derek."
"I'm alone."
"Temporarily."
"Does he still think I'm with Chloe?"
Her expression sharpened.
"This is an adult situation."
"I'm the one in the house."
"You are making it harder by arguing."
I wanted to tell her about the groceries.
I wanted to show her the receipt and ask how long she thought one loaf of bread lasted.
Instead I said, "I'm scared."
For a moment she was quiet.
That silence gave me hope.
Then she said, "There's nothing to be scared of."
Something inside me dropped.
Not because she had failed to fix the problem.
Because she had decided the problem wasn't real.
"Lock the doors," she continued. "Don't answer for strangers. You know all of this."
"Can I call Chloe's mom?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because her husband is in the hospital and they have enough to deal with."
"Can I call a neighbor?"
"I don't want the entire neighborhood gossiping about our business."
"Then who?"
"I'll call you later."
"Mom—"
The screen went dark.
That evening I ate soup and two crackers.
I could have eaten more.
I was still hungry when I washed the bowl.
But hunger had become arithmetic.
Every extra thing I ate tonight was something I couldn't eat later.
At 7:40, Derek texted me.
Hope you're having fun at the lake!
There was a photograph attached. He and Mom were sitting on an airplane. Derek was grinning. Mom's face was turned slightly toward the window.
I stared at the message.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
The truth would have required only five words.
I'm not at the lake.
I typed them.
Then deleted them.
Mom's warning came back exactly as she'd said it.
Don't call my fiancé and ruin this trip.
I put the phone face down.
Darkness arrived slowly.
During the day, the house had seemed empty.
At night, it seemed occupied by things I couldn't see.
Every sound became specific.
A branch brushing the siding.
The ice maker dropping cubes.
A truck changing gears somewhere beyond the neighborhood.
Footsteps that turned out to be the house settling.
At 10:13, something struck the trash cans outside.
I froze on the couch.
A second crash followed.
I reached for my phone.
911 was three numbers.
But what would I say?
My trash cans made a noise?
I imagined police arriving and asking where my mother was.
I imagined Mom finding out.
I imagined Derek finding out.
I imagined being the person who had ruined everything.
So I stayed still.
After several minutes, I crept to the window and looked through the edge of the curtain.
A raccoon climbed out of the overturned bin.
I almost laughed.
Instead I cried.
Quietly.
That embarrassed me even though nobody was there to hear it.
I went upstairs but couldn't sleep in my bedroom. It was too far from the front door. If somebody entered, I wanted to hear it immediately.
So I carried my pillow and blanket downstairs.
I placed a dining chair beneath the doorknob because I had seen someone do that in a movie.
Then I lay on the couch.
After ten minutes, I moved to the floor where I could see the door.
I put a kitchen knife on the table beside me.
I knew knives were dangerous.
That was why I wanted it there.
At 12:08 a.m., Mom sent a photograph.
Palm trees.
Hotel lights.
A strip of black ocean beyond a balcony.
Made it! she wrote.
I replied:
Did you find someone?
She didn't answer.
I opened my notebook.
Under the grocery list, I began another entry.
Day 1.
I wrote what I had eaten.
I wrote when Mom had called.
I wrote what she had said.
I wrote about the trash cans.
I wrote that I was sleeping downstairs.
Before closing the notebook, I added one last sentence.
Mom is in Hawaii now.
Seeing it on paper made the distance real.
Thousands of miles separated us.
But what frightened me more was the phone lying beside my hand.
She could have answered from anywhere.
She simply wasn't.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Every Unanswered Call Made the House Feel Larger, Until Someone Tried the Door After Midnight
The Suitcases Were Already by the Door When Mom Told Me the Lake Trip Had Been Canceled
Part 2 of 35
