“I’m not judging him,” I said.
To the very best of my understanding, I think that was true. I wasn’t angry about what he’d done, and I didn’t blame him for it. The whole thing just made me incredibly sad.
“What will you do when you’re eighteen?” she asked me. “And it’s time to sign up for the draft?”
“Hope the war’ll be over by then.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Cross that bridge when I come to it.”
I walked home. I did not run.
I was still feeling pretty sad.
I think it was two days later when my mom flipped out about Roy. About his suddenly being gone.
I was up in my room, lying on the bed, because right in that moment there’d been nothing else I could find to do. And I guess without realizing it, I’d fallen asleep.
See what I mean? You never know you’re falling asleep. You only realize it later, when something wakes you up.
My mother came barging into my bedroom, pushing the door so hard it slammed back against the wall.
“All right, where is he?”
I sat up. Swung my legs over so my bare feet touched the rug. Sat on the side of the bed—but I swear I was still sleeping. The image of my mom in the doorway seemed to be an extension of whatever I’d been dreaming.
“Wait. What?”
“Where. Is. He. Don’t mess with me today, Lucas. I’m in no mood for it.”
“He who?”
“How many are there? How many people could I be talking about?”
I shook my head hard, as though that might help put things in order up there. It didn’t.
“Well. Dad. And Roy.”
“I know where your father is. He’s at work. Now where is Roy?”
In a weird, sleepy moment, I wondered if she really knew my dad was at work. He’d become quite the missing person around our house. I heard him come in sometimes at night, but later and later. Sometimes I didn’t know if I’d slept through his coming home, or if he’d never come home. I actually wondered, I think for the second time, if he still actually lived here. I didn’t say any of that.
“If he’s not in his room,” I said, “I have no idea.”
She stormed over to the bed and grabbed my chin in her claws. She had these long nails, and they tended to dig in when she grabbed me. I was alarmed, but not awake enough to react much. At least, not on the outside.
“You look me right in the eye,” she demanded.
I did.
I watched her face change. Soften.
I think I was finally waking up by then.
“Oh,” she said. “You really don’t know. Well, I’m going to get in the car and go look for him. You should get up and put on your running shoes and run all over town and see if you can find him.”
“But I already ran today.”
“Well do it again. You won’t die.”
She was halfway out my bedroom doorway before I could pull together an answer.
“Wait!” I said. And it came out loud. Too loud. Like I was yelling at her. I adjusted my tone and went on. “Why are we doing this? If he left the house on his own, won’t he come back on his own?”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“That’s a very naïve statement,” she said. “He’s injured, and taking pain medication. So he’s off somewhere not using his best judgment. And with the problems he’s been having with . . .”
But then she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it.
“I’m not too worried about that,” I said. “I think the meetings are actually going pretty well.”
“Glad to hear it.” The words sounded quite sincere. Especially for my mom, who was not the sincerity queen. To put it mildly. “Now put on your running shoes and go see if you can find him.”
I was running by the ice cream shop, the Place, when I saw her. I looked through the window of the store, but my view through the glass was partly obscured by reflections. But I saw the familiar face of Zoe Dinsmore, sitting at a table, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. Well. The coffee part was a guess. But it was definitely a mug of something.
I stopped running.
I looked in at her, and she looked out at me. And we locked eyes as best we could through all those reflections.
It seemed strange to see her downtown, like any other resident of the little town of Ashby. I knew she came into town now and then—she had to, for supplies if nothing else—but it felt strange to see her sitting at a table in a public shop, enjoying a hot cup of something, like any other townsperson. Like she belonged anywhere she cared to go.
It also felt nice, though.
Then I shifted back a step, and that was when I recognized Roy’s crutches. He was sitting with his back to me, mostly obscured by the reflection of a light-colored brick building across the street.
I turned back toward the door and walked inside.
Roy looked around and watched me coming. Zoe must’ve told him. Or maybe he saw on her face that someone was there.
I sat down at the table with them.
My brother was drinking some kind of ice cream float, stabbing at it with the paper straw in between sips, as though breaking up ice floes.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
“Mom’s flipping out.”
“What is it this time?”
“You.”
“Right, I figured, but what did I do?”
“You left.”
“Don’t I get to leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“Right. I know. I tried to tell her that. Well. Something like that. But she worries about you now. I think she figures you’re somewhere . . . you know.”
“I don’t know.”
“Up to no good.”
“Right,” he said. “Got it.” He frowned into his glass for a few beats. “But I plan to go out a lot more, so she’s going to have to get used to it.”
“Maybe leave a note?”
“Yeah. I could do that, I guess. I guess I didn’t know it
