sight.
I didn’t bother to take down the license plate. I already had it.
Tyrell’s father, Mr. Waters, caught up. He looked at me with concern. “You okay, Mickey?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He wasn’t buying it. “Do you want to tell me what that was about, son?”
Tyrell was there too now, standing next to his father. The two of them looked at me, together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and I hated myself for feeling such envy. I was grateful to this man for worrying about me, but I couldn’t help but wish it were my own father standing here, concerned about my welfare.
“I just thought I recognized him, that’s all,” I said.
Tyrell’s father still wasn’t buying.
Tyrell said, “We still got one more game to play.”
I thought about my mother heading back home after therapy, making the spaghetti and meatballs. I could almost smell the garlic bread. “It’s getting late,” I said. “I have to catch the bus back.”
“I can drive you,” Tyrell’s father said.
“Thank you, Mr. Waters, but I can’t ask you to go out of your way like that.”
“It’s no trouble. I got a case in Kasselton anyway. It’ll be nice to have the company.”
We lost the last game, in part because I was so distracted. When it was over, we all high-fived or fist-bumped good game. Mr. Waters waited for us. I took the backseat, Tyrell sat up front. He dropped Tyrell off at the two- family house they shared with Mr. Waters’s sister and her two sons on Pomona Avenue, a tree-lined street in Newark’s Weequahic section.
“You going to come down tomorrow?” Tyrell asked me.
I had been blocking on it, but now I remembered that Mom, Myron, and I were flying out in the morning to visit my father’s grave in Los Angeles. It was a trip I didn’t want to make; it was a trip I really needed to make.
“Not tomorrow, no,” I said.
“Too bad,” Tyrell said. “Fun games today.”
“Yeah. Thanks for picking me.”
“I just pick to win,” he said with a smile.
Before he got out, Tyrell leaned over and kissed his father good-bye on the cheek. I felt another pang. Mr. Waters told his son to make sure he did his homework. Tyrell said, “Yes, Dad,” in an exasperated tone I remember using myself in better days. I moved up to the front passenger seat.
“So,” Mr. Waters said to me as we hit Interstate 80, “what was with that bald guy in the black car?”
I didn’t even know where to start. I didn’t want to lie, but didn’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t tell him I’d broken into a house or any of that.
Finally I said, “He may be following me.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“No idea at all?”
“None,” I said.
Mr. Waters mulled that over. “You know that I’m a county investigator, right, Mickey?”
“Yes, sir. Is that like a cop?”
“That’s exactly what it’s like,” he said. “And I was standing next to that guy the whole time you were playing. I’d never seen him down here before. He barely moved, you know? The whole time, he just stood there in that suit. Didn’t cheer. Didn’t call out. He never said a word. And he never took his eyes off you.”
I wondered how he could tell that, what with the sunglasses and all, but I knew what he meant. We fell into silence for a moment or two. Then he said something that surprised me. “So while you guys played that last game, I took the liberty of running the guy’s license plate.”
“You mean on that black car?”
“Yes.”
I sat perfectly still.
“It didn’t come up in the system,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s classified.”
“You mean like it’s diplomatic or something?”
“Or something,” he said.
I tried to put it together but nothing was coming to me. “So what does that mean exactly?”
We pulled up to Myron’s house. He coasted to a stop and then turned to me. “The truth? I don’t know, Mickey. But it doesn’t sound good. Just please be careful, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
Mr. Waters reached into his wallet. “If you see that bald guy again, don’t go chasing him. You call me, understand?”
He handed me his card. It read JOSHUA WATERS, ESSEX COUNTY INVESTIGATOR. There was a phone number on the bottom. I thanked him and got out of the car. He pulled out and I waved good-bye. As I trudged up the walk, I thought maybe I smelled garlic but that could have been my imagination.
I used my key to get inside. “Mom?”
There was no reply.
“I’m home,” I called out, louder this time. “Mom?”
Still no reply.
I headed into the kitchen. There was nothing on the stove. There was no smell of garlic. I checked the time. Six P.M. Mom probably wasn’t home from therapy yet. That was it. I opened up the refrigerator to grab a drink, but when I did, I saw immediately that there was no new food in it.
Hadn’t Mom said she went food shopping?
My breathing got a little funny. I called her cell phone. No answer. I hung up after the fifth ring.
Okay, Mickey, stay calm.
But I couldn’t. My hand started shaking. When my phone buzzed, I felt a sense of relief. It had to be Mom. I looked at the caller ID. It was Spoon. I started freaking out. I hit Ignore and dialed the Coddington Rehab Center. I asked for Christine Shippee. When she got on the line, I asked, “Is my mother still there?”
“What are you talking about? Why would your mother be here?”
My heart sank. “She didn’t have outpatient therapy today?”
“No.” Then: “Oh no. What happened, Mickey? Where is she?”
Here is how stupid I am: I actually went outside and expected to see my mother pull up. So many emotions ricocheted through my brain. I just wanted them to stop. I just wanted to be numb. I longed for that, for feeling absolutely nothing, and then I realized that was what my mom craved too. Look where that led her.
I called Mom’s cell phone again. This time, I waited until the voice mail picked up.
“Hi, it’s Kitty. Leave me a message at the beep.”
I swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to keep the pleading from my voice. “Mom? Please call me, okay? Please?”
I didn’t cry. But I came close. When I hung up, I wondered what to do. For a little while I just stared at the phone, willing it to ring. But I was done willing and hoping. I had to start getting real.
I thought about how my mom’s face had beamed this morning. I thought about how the poison had been out of her system for the past six weeks and how much hope we both had. I didn’t want to do this, but I had no choice.
The phone was in my hand. I dialed the number for the first time.
Uncle Myron answered immediately. “Mickey?”
“I can’t find Mom.”
“Okay,” he said. It was almost as though he’d been expecting my call. “I’ll handle it.”
“What do you mean, you’ll handle it? Do you know where she is?”
“I can find out in a few minutes.”
