What could they do about her problems?
My boyfriend is an alien. Not exactly typical Oprah stuff, Liz thought. Things are complicated enough. The last thing I need is for my parents to get involved.
"Of course I know I have to do something," Nancy Parker said.
Liz listened to the hard edge in her mother's voice. The tone was one she'd seldom heard over the years, and generally only when talking about her mother, Liz's grandmother. The relationship between the two women had been strained, and Liz had only learned a little of the history during brief conversations between her mom and dad.
"I will do something," Nancy replied in a strained voice. "You've always accused me of putting things off, and you've been wrong. Mother, I don't want to talk about that anymore."
A cold chill filled Liz. Her maternal grandmother had passed away years ago.
"No, Mother," Nancy said, "I'm not avoiding the issue."
Liz drew back from the door. How could her mother possibly be talking to her grandmother?
"Of course I love Liz, Mother," Nancy Parker responded angrily.
The fear inside Liz intensified. Chill out, she told herself. There has to be a reasonable explanation.
"I'll tell you what I'm doing for her," Nancy Parker snapped. "I'm giving her the space she needs to sort things out, Mother. That's something you never quite understood about me when I was growing up. I respect the space Liz needs."
Pots clanged on the stove inside the kitchen.
"No!" Nancy Parker roared over the clatter of pots and pans. "Don't you dare say that, Mother! Don't you… "
Unable to stay on the other side of the door while her mother went through whatever she was going through, Liz pushed through the door. j
Her mother stood by the stove. She looked over at Liz, then blinked as if dazed.
No one else was in the room.
"Hi, Liz," Nancy Parker said. She glanced down at the frying pan and saucepan she held as though surprised to see them.
Other pots and pans cluttered the stovetop and counter space. Evidently the conversation had been going on longer than Liz had heard, because her mom had taken a number of dishes, pots and pans, and other cooking utensils from the cabinets and strewn them about.
"Hey, Mom," Liz said. She wanted to say more, but she couldn't. How's your sanity today? was a question that she just couldn't ask. Just dropped in for a reality check. That wasn't any better.
Nancy Parker checked the clock on the stove as she carefully put the two pans down. "You're late."
"I'm headed down now," Liz said. An unaccustomed chill filled the room, but she figured that the window had been left open. Roswell was always hot by noon, but sometimes the coolness from the desert night took a while to burn away. Her mother must have left the window open.
"Did you need something?"
Liz froze for a moment. "Nope," she answered. "I heard you talking in here… "
"I wasn't talking."
Liz stared at her mom. "Okay, maybe I left the radio on in my room and I thought it was you."
Nancy Parker smiled. "Maybe we should have your hearing checked."
My hearing is fine, Liz thought, but she said, "Is there anything you need? Before I go downstairs, I mean?"
"No. Thanks."
"Where's Dad?"
"I don't want to nag," Nancy Parker said, "but you're late. Maria and Michael are depending on you to get ready for the lunch crowd."
"I know. On my way." Liz walked to the door and glanced back at her mother.
Nancy Parker looked in perplexed confusion at the pile of pots and pans and dishware in front of her.
"Mom," Liz said.
"What?" Her mother seemed preoccupied.
"You'd talk to me if you needed to, wouldn't you?" Liz asked. "I mean, if anything was wrong."
Nancy Parker stared at her daughter quietly, then smiled. "Of course I would. Just like you'd talk to me if something was going on in your life that you needed help coping with."
Liz returned her mom's look for a moment and felt incredibly guilty. She had hardly told her mother anything about the last year and a half.
"Sure," Liz said, starting through the door. "If something comes up, just keep in mind that I'm around. Okay?"
"I will," her mother promised, then began putting the pots and pans away.
Uncertain and still feeling a little unsettled, Liz pushed through the door. One of us is losing it, she told herself. Part of her was afraid that person was her, not her mom.
As the door closed Liz thought she saw a silvery metallic flash in the kitchen. She stopped and opened the door again, looking around the room. Nothing silvery caught her eye, but she was certain she'd seen something.
"Liz!"
"I'm going," Liz replied. As she pulled her head back she noticed the cold chill that filled the kitchen. Only then did she realize that the window wasn't open as she'd thought. That's weird.
Without another word, knowing that her mother was on the verge of getting irritated, Liz turned and headed down the hallway. The wrongness of the morning tugged at the back of her mind, the place where she filed all the strange things she'd encountered since getting to know Max Evans.
The mounted warrior bore down on River Dog. Sunlight sparked from the cruel metal blade of the spears tip as the horse and rider cleared the swirling, dusty fog.
Max threw himself into motion. "River Dog!" he yelled, afraid he wouldn't arrive in time.
The Mesaliko shaman lifted his head, turning to glance at Max. He didn't move from the horse's path.
The horse's hooves thundered against the ground, digging up clumps of sandy loam, slicing through cacti. Drawing up smoothly on the horse's back, keeping himself in place with his knees, the warrior issued a feral cry. The war paint marking his features made his threatening expression even harsher. His arm whipped forward as he hurled the spear.
In a low, flat dive, Max covered the ground separating him from the Mesaliko shaman. As he thudded into the other man, sending both of them sprawling across the ground, he glimpsed the spear embedding in the ground only inches away.
The warrior rode by. The horse's hooves hammered against the ground only inches from Max's head.
"What are you doing?" River Dog demanded.
Max scrambled frantically, pushing himself to his feet and trying to aid the shaman. "Saving you."
"There is no need."
The warrior reined in his mount, bringing the big animal around in a tight turn that churned up a spray of dust and sand. His angry eyes focused on River Dog.
Max glanced at the spear jutting up from the ridge only a few feet away. "He would have killed you."
"He can't kill me." River Dog spoke confidently.
Max looked around desperately, searching for some way to get them to safety until help could come. Surely the warrior's yells hadn't gone unnoticed by the people in the village below.
The painted warrior leveled an accusing finger. "River Dog!" he said in a gruff voice. "Betrayer of our people!"
Max glanced at River Dog. "You know him?"
"Bear-Killer," the shaman answered, nodding and locking eyes with the warrior. "He is my ancestor. He died nearly two hundred years ago."
Not comprehending, Max stared at the warrior. The painted face looked maybe twenty years old.
The warrior kept pointing at River Dog, standing up in the saddle stirrups. "You brought the Visitors among us. You are the reason our tribe will finally wither and die after all these years of pain and sorrow."
"No," River Dog answered, his voice strong and rolling over the hill.
"You should have killed the first Visitor," the warrior said.
Max guessed that the warrior was speaking about Nacedo. All those years ago River Dog had found Nacedo after the spaceship that had brought them had crashed in Roswell. River Dog had nursed him back to life, and kept the secret about the man's extraterrestrial origins. He'd even been entrusted with the healing stones that Max and the others had later recovered.