Mrs. Wentling’s face goes bright pink. “You won’t do anything like that!”
“Not if you shut up,” I say.
Oh, it feels so good to be so rude. It feels strong and powerful and mighty. I like watching her mouth open and close like a fish. Beside me, my mom makes a small noise, but she’s not looking at Mrs. Wentling. She’s concentrating on not falling down the stairs.
“I’m glad you’re out of here,” Mrs. Wentling says.
I don’t pay her any more attention. The fact is, even though I’m nervous about what we’ll find when we get back to our old house, I’m glad to be out of here, too. This place was never home.
At the parking lot, I take my mom’s hand. “Just stay with me, and keep quiet, okay?”
She doesn’t acknowledge me, but I think she knows. She doesn’t walk fast, and I try to be patient, not pulling her. I don’t want to miss the bus. It runs only once every forty-five minutes, and we’re already cutting the time close to me being able to get Mom home and secure, then get to Opal’s school, which luckily for me is halfway between our neighborhood and here, so the trip won’t be as long.
At the bus stop, an older woman I don’t recognize is waiting. She takes up most of the bench. I want to ask her to move over so we can at least put down our bags, but I don’t want to draw attention to us.
She sees us, though. “Here, I’ll scootch over.”
“It’s okay.…”
She’s already moving. She pats the bench. My mom moves, tries to sit, but has forgotten she’s wearing the huge backpack. It hits the back of the bench before her butt hits the seat, and she starts to fall forward.
“Whoops!” the lady cries, grabbing at my mom. She’s laughing. “Watch yourself!”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I say this over and over as we both struggle to get my mom upright.
We do, as the bus turns down the street, heading our way. The lady gets up, her purse slung over her shoulder. She looks at my mom.
She knows, I think. She’s going to say something. Her eyes fix on the lump at my mom’s throat, the bulge under the turtleneck. Her gaze lifts to mine.
“She’s a little wobbly, ain’t she? She’ll get better in time.” Her smile is kind.
A breath of relief whooshes out of me, but I’m not sure what to say. Besides, the bus has come to a stop with a squealing, hissing grunt, the sound like the exhale of a dragon. The doors open. It’s not Deke, this isn’t his route. I tense, anyway, when I push my mom to board before me, but the driver says nothing, just watches as I swipe my card twice.
We find empty seats at the back of the bus. My mom’s more careful this time when she sits. We perch on the edge of our seats with the backpacks taking up a lot of the room. People don’t even really give us a second glance.
The ride to Foodland’s only about five minutes, but it would’ve taken much longer than that to walk. We get off and watch the bus drive away. The temperature’s colder out here on the edge of town, I guess because the wind can whip through across the empty fields that once grew corn and now harbor monuments to corpses. I shiver, glad for the layers.
“C’mon. Let’s start walking.”
Mom follows me easily enough. We climb the grassy hill where there used to be houses but now is empty land, and pass a half-finished bank that’s been under construction for the past couple of years. I don’t think they’re ever going to finish it. Down the other side of the hill, we hit the parking lot of a Sheetz gas station, and a warm waft of coffee-and-egg-sandwich-scented air reminds me I didn’t eat much today. Also that soon it will be lunchtime, and though that would be more than enough time if we were driving, we’re walking and the clock’s ticking. We cross the parking lot, through the gas pumps. Only one set is working anymore, but I guess it doesn’t matter because there are so many fewer drivers these days. We get to the edge of the highway, where there’s no sidewalk.
There’s still traffic, even though most people who used to commute regularly to work have either moved closer to their jobs to use public transportation or aren’t around to work anymore. Most of it’s trucks, construction vehicles, cleanup crews. Still a lot of military. Our world’s been put back on its feet, but like my mom, it’s still a little too unsteady to walk on its own.
There is a good chance, though, that we can hitch a ride. People aren’t as afraid of hitchhikers now, since sometimes it’s the only way to get anywhere. You wouldn’t think that’s the case, that people would be afraid of picking up Connies… except I guess that Connies don’t stand on the side of the road with their thumbs out—they just rush at the cars and run them off the road.
I’m not even hitching, but only a few cars pass us before one pulls over. The driver rolls down the passenger-side window. “You need a ride?”
He looks okay, but while I might’ve taken him up on it if I were alone, I have to think about my mom. I shake my head.
“No, we’re good.”
He frowns. “You sure? You look like you could use a lift. Those bags look heavy.”
When I hitch rides, I always try to get them with moms in minivans and baby seats in the back. This guy looks like someone’s grandpa. Nice face, but… still.
“No, really, we don’t have far to go.”
He shrugs. “Okay, you sure?”
Through all this, my mom’s standing quiet and still. The wind’s blowing up, making me shiver. I can feel heat drifting out to us from his open window. I calculate the odds that this guy, out of everyone else passing, is a serial killer, and decide to take the chance.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I open the back door and help my mom slide in, then put my bag back there and get in the passenger seat. I want my hands free, just in case.
“Where’re you ladies headed?” He glances in the rearview mirror, but if my mom’s silence is strange, he doesn’t act like it.
“Spring Lake Commons.” I hold my hands out to the heat blowing from the vents.
He gives me a curious glance. “What’s out that way?”
“I… we live there.” I turn to give my mom a look, but she’s staring out the window.
“All the way out there? I didn’t think anyone lived out there anymore. Wasn’t it closed off?”
I look out the window, too. We’re passing by a nice neighborhood with big houses set very close together. “Yes. But not anymore.”
I don’t really know if that’s true or not.
“Huh.” He drives in silence for a minute or so, then looks into the rearview again. “You okay back there? Not too hot? Too cold?”
“She’s… shy,” I blurt.
The driver gives me another of those curious glances but nods. The drive is so much faster than walking would be, I’m counting my blessings. We pass the last of the houses, and the road moves along through one of the fields.
The memorials aren’t big and grand, the way they made the ones for other places. Supposedly those are coming, big marble walls engraved with the names of the fallen, like for the Vietnam War. Or maybe just a stone obelisk like the Washington Monument. But for now all that’s there are low metal fences. They’re curving and long, surrounding the entire ditch where they’d buried the Connies and covered them with concrete. They planted flowers there but nothing’s growing on top of the ditches now, and the rest of the fields have gone to weeds.
My mom makes a long, low noise that sounds like a plea. She has both hands pressed to the glass. Her face, too. Her breath fogs it.
“Mom…” I want to hush her, but how without making it too obvious?
She slaps the window with the flats of both hands. The driver jumps. He doesn’t just look in the mirror this time, he twists to stare behind him.
“What’s the matter with her?”