Mrs. Emery walked toward Momma. “Oh, Mrs. Mills.” And her voice sounded normal. Just-like-always normal. “How are you?”
Momma didn’t look at Mrs. Emery. She just took a step into the classroom and someone let out a giggle.
“Lacey, I can’t find my medicine,” Momma said.
Mrs. Emery gave me a nod I bet no one in the class even saw.
I stumbled making my way to my mother. Through a lake of embarrassment, I made my way to Momma where she grabbed me close, held me tight. And I went home with her to find her pills that were sitting right there in the medicine cabinet.
No one forgot that.
Sometimes still someone will say something about that day. Vickie Anderson might. I hear them. Behind my back most of the time. Once in a while to my face.
Later, Momma got sicker. Later, she wandered the streets at night. Turning up on people’s front porches. Once walking in on another family’s dinner, sitting herself down at their dining room table.
How many times had I come in from the school bus crying? How many times had I said to Aunt Linda, “How do they even know?”
“Know what, Lacey-girl?” Aunt Linda smoothed back my hair. Set my math and history books aside on the antique bookcase we used as a catchall in the foyer.
“Momma,” I said, my voice a whisper. “They pester me about Momma all the time. They’ve seen her just that once in class. How do they know?”
And Aunt Linda, her face unhappy, had said, “It sounds like their parents have been talking.”
Lots of the people in the old part of Peace, lots of them went to school together themselves. They married each other, lots of them. They stayed here. These people knew Momma before. Before she was sick. Before Granddaddy died. Before I was born.
“Don’t they know her?”
Aunt Linda nodded. “The way she was? Yes. Maybe they remember her a little quirky. But seeing her wandering, seeing her so changed,” Aunt Linda let out a sigh that could have moved the leaves of an old oak, “it might scare them. Angela isn’t who she used to be.”
“She wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said to Aunt Linda. I knew my momma. Afraid, yes. Worried, yes. But at this time she still sat on my bed, holding my foot till I went to sleep. She still read to me, laughing at the funny parts of books Aunt Linda brought home. Crying when she read aloud something sad.
That day I asked Aunt Linda the question that sat perched in my brain, staring over all my thoughts.
“Was Momma always different?”
My aunt had looked away. Then she shook her head. “Not really,” she said, after a long moment. “Fun. Silly sometimes.” She drew in a big breath of air. “I remember once we were just like fifteen and seventeen? And she dared me to sneak away with her in the middle of the night.”
“You’re kidding?”
Aunt Linda nodded. “She dressed up fine, put on these high heels she’d bought from the five-and-dime and hidden from Daddy, then we snuck right out her window—you know from your room?—and walked to where this party was going on. Like a mile or two.” Aunt Linda let out a laugh at her memory. “She didn’t even take off those high heels. Just marched right over to Bobby Valentine’s house. I was so scared Daddy would know we were missing. That he’d get in his truck and follow us. But he didn’t even find out. And your momma…” Aunt Linda paused and grinned.
“What?” I said.
“Your momma got to that party and danced on a coffee table for all to see. She kept those shoes on and danced!”
My momma had done that? No way!
“I was so embarrassed,” Aunt Linda said. “But, also, I was so proud of her. There was no one like your mother, Lacey. No one. And man, did we ever have a good time.”
“Then why?” My hands were a tight ball in my lap.
“She’s always been a little sad,” Aunt Linda said. “Even then.” She shook her head. “Momma’s leaving and not taking us was tough on both of us. But harder on your momma. She became the mother, sort of. Doing what mothers do, cooking, cleaning.” Aunt Linda paused. “And your grandfather did strange things sometimes.”
I hadn’t asked Aunt Linda what. I already knew a bit of that.
Maybe Momma was right, I thought as the bus rocked and swayed toward the library. Maybe staying away from the world was good. If people acted like the Tattoo Guy all the time why be a part of that?
I rested my head on the seat back and wondered at Momma. I said a prayer in my heart for her. That she would be okay. That she would make it. That she would love her job. That she would be her quirky self once again, dancing on a coffee table in new high-heel shoes, at least for me to witness. That who she was would step from the past, like a ghost splitting the skin of a being, and she would be okay again.
Maybe, I thought, maybe she would like this job so much she’d ask for extra hours. Maybe this job would fix her up.
It was a nice thought. Comfortable.
It surprised me good when Aaron plopped down in the seat behind me.
I popped my head up, turned, and glared at him.
“We don’t live too far from each other,” he said, like he couldn’t see my squint-eyed angry look. He smiled full on, his face so bright I almost had to glance away. “We go to the same school, too. Do you remember me? We were in English together last year. With Mr. Humphrey. I talked to you then? Asked you about homework and stuff?” Aaron slung his hair to the side with a jerk of his head. It slid back into his eyes.
I needed to stay angry. Not let them hurt me. I peered over my shoulder at him. Why, I would hate him too,
