NINETEEN

When I awakened, I wondered why light was coming in from the wrong direction and the wall had moved. That’s what I hate about sleeping in a strange room. My stomach remembered before my head that something bad had happened. We weren’t at home anymore and we were hardly a family. Separation. Estrangement.

Mom’s side of the bed was empty, the comforter turned back, exposing the white sheets, which were cold to my touch. I shivered in the morning air.

After school that day, I wanted to head home to see what Matt was doing. What did he think about us? I assumed Matt would stay with Dad. Each parent would have a kid, but would Matt miss me? Did he care?

What about Dad? Did he miss us? Should I talk to Dad about it? Could I ask Dad about what Mom did, or should I go home and act like everything was normal when it was so awkward and strange?

“Hey,” I said, coming in the back door.

“Hey, Abby,” Matt said, running his fingers through his hair. “You doing okay?”

“I guess,” I answered. “Did Dad say anything?”

“No. He just went downstairs and worked late. I fell asleep before he went to bed.”

“So you didn’t even talk?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Mom.

“Why would we?” Matt asked. “We never do anymore.”

I shrugged. Matt made it sound so hopeless.

“Well, maybe she’ll come home tonight.”

“I don’t think so, Abby.”

“You don’t know that!” I snapped.

Matt shrugged, picked up his backpack, and headed up the stairs.

“Don’t go,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry about, Bee. It’s just the way it is.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel bad? Don’t you ever get sad?” I asked, trying to remember a time he had really cried about Joel. What was wrong with him, anyway? “Don’t you ever feel like crying?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I can’t stop it when it happens,” I confessed.

“You just have to be angry,” Matt said, as if divulging a secret. “I just think of something that makes me really, really mad and then I don’t cry.”

But what do you do when the thing that makes you mad is also the thing that makes you want to cry? Who knows, maybe he’s mad at me and that keeps him from crying.

Maybe Dad is mad now, too. I almost didn’t want to go down to the basement to find out, but it might be better than imagining the worst.

“Hey, Dad, I’m home,” I called down the stairs.

“That’s great, honey. You want to stay for dinner?” he called back. Was Mom expecting me? What would Dad make for himself? Not that it mattered. I just wondered and I worried. The pause must have signaled my answer.

“It’s okay, Abby.”

No, it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay that two plus two no longer equaled four. Nothing was okay and everybody was pretending it was. I headed down the steps to find Dad putting aside his project, as if waiting for me.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

“I don’t either.”

And then I felt sort of sad for him and sad for me, and my nose started to sting. I scrunched my face to stop from crying and then remembered what Matt said and tried the angry trick. I got mad that Matt didn’t seem to care and that maybe Mom did this to us. But then I felt guilty and quickly discovered that guilt also stops tears.

“I’d better go,” I said.

“Okay, Bee,” he said as I headed up the stairs.

Miss Patti’s table was set for four.

“Today is Dr. Seuss’s birthday,” Miss Patti explained. “He’s sixty-seven years old. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate in Mrs. Clevenger’s class.” Miss Patti hefted a stack of Dr. Seuss books into a cloth bag. “I have a lot of cooking to do tonight, so y’all need to do your homework upstairs.”

By 8:15 the next morning, Miss Patti had her buffet breakfast set out on two long tables under the window in Mrs. Clevenger’s room. Everything was labeled: Green Eggs and Ham, Sneetch Frankfurters, Oobleck, Blue Goo, Pink Ink, Moose Juice, Goose Juice, and Green Grape Cakes. Though skeptical, I filled my plate with a rainbow of foods. Most kids wouldn’t eat anything that looked weird, but I tried everything so I wouldn’t hurt Miss Patti’s feelings.

“Don’t miss the Wumbus milk; it’s my personal favorite,” Miss Patti said with a wink as she spread out a pile of books and let us choose what we wanted her to read.

I had heard the stories before, but I loved to be read to, especially by Miss Patti whose voice made everything sound warm and safe. She began with Green Eggs and Ham and went through If I Ran the Circus, The Cat in the Hat, The Sneetches and Other Stories, Happy Birthday to You, in honor of Dr. Seuss, and ended up with Horton.

Rita looked shyly proud, and I felt happy for her and proud she was my friend. Miss Patti’s house wasn’t home, but Pink Ink and a good friend helped.

My best excuse for going home was to practice my piano, and so I began practicing. A lot. I felt like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing between two houses that didn’t feel like home. But after two and a half weeks, it was obviously not a sleepover and I needed a plan.

“Maybe we should do something about Mom and Dad,” I said to Matt, after I had finished practicing and started my homework.

“Do you have any ideas?” I asked Matt, opening the oven to check on Dad’s brownies. The smell of rich chocolate filled the kitchen and I was really glad I hadn’t given up chocolate for Lent. Matt sat at the table poring over a book. This was one of the first times I had seen him study in the last few months.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Maybe they could have a date or something.”

“Valentine’s Day is over,” Matt said unromantically.

“Then what do you think’s gonna happen?” I asked. Matt seemed unusually gloomy. Maybe it was his calculus, but he didn’t look hopeful.

“I don’t know, Abby. It’s really messed up.”

“I don’t want to live over there forever. I miss you and Dad.” I was tired of straddling my afternoons and my parents, and I didn’t want us to become the Hanleys. “I just want it over,” I said, opening my notebook and taking out pencil and paper.

“What do you want me to do about it? How do you think I can fix it?”

“Can’t you say something to Dad?” I asked. I knew they were spending a lot of time in the basement, where Dad was teaching Matt the trade.

“Can’t you say something to Mom?”

He had me there. Matt slammed his book shut. “I hate this class.” He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “What good does it do to be over there?” he asked, as if I had any choice.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to be over there. But for some reason, she can’t be here,” I reminded him.

“Maybe it’s me,” Matt said with a laugh, before he frowned.

“That’s silly, Matt.”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“It’s not you. It’s more about Dad and stuff.”

“I suppose,” he said with a shrug.

“Really, Matt, you gotta think of something.” I tapped my pencil on the table.

“Abby, it’s bigger than you and me. It’s not like that Parent Trap movie with those sisters getting their parents back together.”

I knew he was right. But I had to admit I had spent a lot of time trying to remember what the Hayley Mills twins had done to get their parents reunited. We sat looking at each other, saying nothing until we both smiled. It made me realize how much I missed him and how much I missed us being a family.

“Are you coming to my recital?” I asked. “Saturday night?” I hoped he didn’t have any plans, as I really wanted him there. He needed to sit between Mom and Dad.

“If you want me to,” he said. Which was not what I wanted him to say. I wanted him to say, “I want to be there.”

“I mean, you don’t have to go. I just sort of hoped you wanted to.”

“Remember when Uncle Troy fell asleep and started snoring?” Matt said and laughed.

“I felt embarrassed for him.”

“What about Miss Mary Frances? I wonder what she said to him at halftime.”

“Intermission,” I corrected.

“Maybe something funny like that will happen again.”

“You never know,” I encouraged. Then the back door opened and Mom came inside. Mom only came home when she needed to talk with Matt and she knew Dad was busy, or when she had something to tell Dad, something better said in person than on the phone.

“Hey, what’re you two up to?” she asked.

“Just finishing our homework,” I said, pointing out how Matt was doing the right thing. Perfect timing for a discussion. I kicked Matt under the table and he frowned in confusion.

“Something smells good in here,” Mom said, and then opened the oven door, releasing the chocolaty aroma of Dad’s brownies. “Since when did your dad start baking, anyway?” I hated it when she called him your dad instead of just Dad. It felt like what divorced parents said about each other.

“I guess we’re missing out.” I nudged Matt’s foot.

Matt nodded and asked, “Yeah, what’s so great about living over there anyway?”

Mom tested the top of the brownies and then licked the brown batter off her finger.

“It’s not better. It’s just different over there,” she said as she closed the oven door.

“I can imagine,” Matt said in his mocking voice.

“Don’t make fun of her,” Mom corrected. I assumed they were talking about Miss Patti.

“I’m not,” Matt defended. “But why, Mom? Why over there?”

“Dad needs time, I need space,” Mom answered.

“That sounds pretty philosophical. When do time and space meet?” he asked. “Ever? I mean, what’s it gonna take, Mom?”

“I don’t know.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t know anymore,” she said very slowly as she sat at the table. Her resignation gave Matt momentum.

“Whenever Abby and I fought and I said I hated her, you said love was a choice. You made us make up. You said I had to love Abby because she was my sister. Doesn’t that work for you and Dad?”

I didn’t need to chime in. Matt was doing a great job. I just nodded my two cents.

“I suppose it should. But it’s not exactly like we’re mad at each other or that we aren’t making up. We just don’t know how to go on together. It’s so much work. I don’t have it in me.” Mom looked worried. She had said too much, and I could tell she knew it.

“Look, I didn’t really come over for such a serious talk,” she admitted. “Changing the subject,” she said very deliberately. “Baseball. Matt, did you decide to try out?”

Matt stared ahead as if deciding whether to drop the subject so easily.

“I don’t know if I’ll do a spring sport.”

“That’s probably a good choice. You could use the time to get your grades up.”

“And I have driver’s ed. Somebody has to take me out driving.” Mom winced. “I’m not that bad, Mom.”

“I’d take you out with me, but …”

“I know, Mom, you’re not really ready for that yet.”

“Are my brownies done?” Dad asked as he came up the steps, then stopped when he saw Mom at the kitchen table with the two of us. Almost like normal.

“Abby’s piano recital is Saturday night, but they’re having a dress rehearsal this Friday,” Mom said, and then added softly, “At the church.” She looked at me and then Dad and then back to me. “Miss Mary Frances wants Abby there at six thirty. Patti and I need to meet with a client after he gets off work. Can you just stay there with Abby? Or at least drop her off and pick her up?”

I’m not sure why, but I felt like the dry cleaning.

“I could do that.”

“I mean, I know it’s the church and everything … but thanks.”

“I miss you, Renee,” Dad said suddenly. I think I gasped, but nobody noticed. Mom did not answer but took a long, slow breath from her nose and then bit her lip. It felt like someone had said, I love you, but no one heard it—so no one answered back. Be nice, I thought to Mom. I willed her to just be nice.

“I’m going to the recital,” Mom added, and I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

“I’ll be there, too,” Dad said.

Sit together, I thought loudly. Sit together. I could picture it now. Matt would be between them. Nobody would have to know about us. If Mom and Dad and Matt all came and I played my best and we were a family again, well, that would be nice. Maybe that was a good plan.

On Friday afternoon, Dad took me to the dress rehearsal but didn’t stay. I wasn’t surprised, knowing he’d feel strange sitting around the church, waiting through “Country Gardens” or a Bach prelude. But he was there to pick me up promptly at eight o’clock, and since it wasn’t a school night, he asked if I wanted to come home and spend the night. It felt strange calling Mom and asking her if I could spend the night at home, but she didn’t seem to notice. After I got in my jammies, Dad made some hot chocolate and we sat in the kitchen with only the little light on over the stove.

“What’s it like without me?” I said, almost whispering.

“Lonely,” Dad said soberly, teasing me with his dramatics. “Terribly lonely.”

“Seriously, Dad, don’t you miss us?” I snuck us in very softly. There was a difference between me and us.

“I miss you. I miss Mom and I miss us. Our family,” Dad said, carefully explaining everything so I wouldn’t be sneaky anymore.

“Then why don’t you do something about it?” I asked.

“It’s not that simple, Abby.”

“But you always tell us to say ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I forgive you.’ Can’t you do something like that?”

“Sometimes things happen that aren’t anybody’s fault,” Dad answered and then took another sip of his chocolate.

I wanted to ask if he was worried about what was going to happen. I wanted to ask whether he cared if we got back together. I wanted to ask so much more, but what if he didn’t have any answers?

The next night was Saturday, March twentieth, the first recital of the year for all twenty-seven of Miss Mary Frances’s students. I helped set up one hundred folding metal chairs in the social hall and imagined what it would look like when they were filled. I would play the first movement from the “Moonlight Sonata.” I liked it, because I got to use a lot of pedal to connect the notes. Miss Mary Frances said it was sort of a lamentation. That fit my mood. Miss Mary Frances said it got its name because it sounded like moonlight on Lake Lucerne. That was a picture I could hold in my head.

Miss Mary Frances always began with the younger students and ended with her best pianists. Each year of piano lessons, my name dropped farther down the program, which increased the time I had to be nervous, and didn’t allow my family a side-door escape at intermission.

This year, I was more than halfway down the program, just after intermission. I counted the people in front of me. It seemed to take forever to get to my turn, but then suddenly I was up. As I sat down on the black piano bench, I looked out the corner of my eye and found Dad, then Matt, then Mom, in a nice row of three. They smiled, but I pretended I didn’t see them. Miss Mary Frances had taught us stage etiquette.

I placed my hands on the keys and began very softly. Pianissimo. Connected triplets, rolling arpeggios. For a few minutes, I actually forgot about everything except the music that was somewhere inside me; I just had to pull it out and let everybody else hear it. Miss Mary Frances called it memorizing, but I called it playing by heart.

Pretty soon it was just me and the piano and the pedal and sitting tall on the bench and legato and the ostinato pattern and more pedal. I could delay a note and a resolution until the perfect moment and hold the audience in suspense, connecting everything with my pedal. This was my favorite Beethoven piece, even if Beethoven didn’t think it was his best. Miss Mary Frances had told me Beethoven was deaf at the end of his life and still writing music. I couldn’t imagine not hearing the pitches ascend and descend. And then my piece was done, and there was a hesitation to clap until I looked out and stood to take a bow. Dad was smiling proudly and Matt nodded at me like I had done something really special. Mom was even leaning over Matt to tell Dad something.

Maybe all my practicing could change something. Maybe if my music was beautiful enough, it could draw them back together. Maybe the word legato, which Miss Mary Frances defined as “smooth, connected,” was perfect for the evening.

But that legato lasted for one magic night. On Sunday after church, Mom was whispering on the phone. That was never a good thing. If I had thought that beautiful music could change everything, I was wrong.

“There’s not enough in there for the electric bill.” Pause. “Nothing,” she answered. “Well, there was Matt’s school yearbook and he needed new shoes.” I waited and tried to imagine how Dad was filling in the gaps.

“I’m not,” she said quickly. “She’s not taking anything for food or rent. What are you spending?” The pauses shortened and Mom’s words grew louder and angrier.

“I can’t pay for something with nothing, and I don’t want to bounce a check.” She waited a few seconds. I had no idea what Dad could be saying. “Then tell them to pay now. Then let me know when the check clears.” Mom hung up without saying good-bye. She never let me do that.

“Abby, can you take this over to your dad?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go over there right then. “What is it?”

“Don’t worry about what’s inside; just take it over,” she said, shoving it toward me. “And tell him it’s due on the twenty-second. Monday.”

“No,” I said. “You take it over.” I didn’t move. I’m not sure who was more surprised by my disobedience. It took her so off guard she didn’t make me head next door.

The next day Rita and I watched television all afternoon. From Brady Bunch to Speed Racer, Gilligan’s Island, Green Acres, and Petticoat Junction and then finally Leave It to Beaver, who had the perfect family. Beaver Cleaver’s parents would never separate; why did mine? Then we just sat around in the living room watching Mom and Miss Patti writing and adding, writing and adding.

“Do you have a key for that clock?” I said at last.

“I don’t think so,” Miss Patti answered.

“My dad could probably fix it,” I suggested. “Or maybe even Matt.” Mom raised her head and took note. She must not have known Dad had an apprentice. For as long as I could remember, Miss Patti’s Regulator clock hung silent on the wall. I had stared at it long enough, waiting for her to wind it.

“Some things don’t want to be fixed,” Miss Patti answered.

“How do you know it doesn’t want to be fixed?” I asked, almost irritated.

“Sometimes people don’t want things fixed,” Miss Patti clarified.

“But it’s a clock. It’s not telling time.”

“Well maybe I don’t want it to tell time.”

“That’s weird,” I said. She wasn’t making any sense and I didn’t feel like losing the fight. “That’s just weird.”

“Not really. Just to you.” Miss Patti seemed uncharacteristically grouchy.

“You don’t really even need it then,” I pointed out.

“It was my father’s. It’s still special.”

“Then why don’t you want it to tell time?” I asked, and then I noticed Mom’s stern face and her finger pointing at me with that look that said, Don’t pick a fight, young lady. Let it go.

“I’m not worried about the time, Abby,” Miss Patti continued. “And besides, I can’t stand the noise. I had to listen to that thing tick TOCK, tick TOCK. Then I’d straighten it and try to find the perfect level, but it would TICK tock TICK tock. Drove me nuts. A room should be quiet when you want it quiet and noisy when you want it noisy. I want it QUIET,” she said, as if maybe that’s what she wanted right then. “So, NO, I do not want your dad touching that clock.” Was it my imagination, or did “your dad” sound like she was angry?

“Let’s go to my house,” I whispered to Rita, but she shook her head. Fine. They could all stay with that clock that didn’t tick or tock, but I was leaving. Finding our back door locked, I checked the birdhouse for the hidden key and let myself in.

“Dad? Matt?” No answer. I opened the door down to the basement, but since it was dark, I closed it quickly, almost certain something would come up the stairs after me.

The house felt hollow, empty. Now Dad and Matt were usually together since Dad was teaching him how to fix clocks and drive the car, and in charge of getting the responsibility and freedom thing worked out. Mom had taxes and me.

I sat in the living room and let myself feel good and lonely. Where were they? Had they gone out for dinner? Why didn’t they invite me? I wandered upstairs, where my bed looked strangely inviting. Feeling a bit like Goldilocks, I lay down on my bedspread and rubbed my fingers along its soft chenille tracks. Maybe tonight I’d spend the night at my real house even if it didn’t feel like home anymore. I needed something to be mine. My blanket, my pillow, my room.

I was awakened by activity in the kitchen and my heart raced until I realized it was Dad and Matt. How long had I slept? My room was dark and I couldn’t see the clock. They didn’t even know I was there. I listened to the pleasant rise and fall of their voices without understanding what they were saying. Their words came into focus as I wandered back downstairs.

“I forgot my history book,” I overheard Matt say as I stopped at the bottom of the staircase and played with the finial that would never be fixed.

“Do you need it for tonight?” Dad asked.

“I have a test tomorrow,” Matt answered.

“Matt, this is one of those times you need to be more responsible.” Dad took a deep breath. “But, son, I am glad you’re studying.” His voice was gentler now. “So let’s go back.” I hurried down to the kitchen so they wouldn’t leave without me.

“Hey!” I said, bursting in on the scene.

“Hey!” Dad imitated with a smile. “We didn’t know you were here,” he added, giving me a hug. “How’re you doing, Bee?”

“Fine. Can I go, too?”

“All right.”

“Maybe we can go to Ruby’s for dinner,” I suggested.

But after Matt retrieved his textbook, Dad didn’t go to Ruby’s; instead, he headed down a rural road and into a cornfield, where he stopped the car.

“This isn’t the way to Ruby’s,” I pointed out, hanging over the seat between Dad and Matt. My stomach growled.

“Here’s the key,” Dad said to Matt.

“Key?” Matt asked.

“It starts the car,” Dad said. “I thought we could take a drive. Especially since your mother gets nervous even thinking of practicing with you.”

Mom? What about me? I wasn’t excited about this field trip.

“I haven’t had much practice.” Matt scratched the back of his neck and looked away.

“You don’t really need it here,” Dad said. “Here’s a little responsibility. Let’s see how it goes.”

“You’ve got a lot of confidence in me. A cornfield?”

“We have to start somewhere. It’ll take time.”

“Time.” Matt laughed. “Good one, Clock Doc.” Be nice, I willed. Why couldn’t they just talk to each other nicely?

Dad tossed Matt the keys and I wondered whether I’d be safer sitting in the middle of the field out in the cold. At first Matt didn’t move. I couldn’t figure out why he was so reluctant. At last he opened his door.

“I thought you’d want this, Matt,” Dad said. “What’s gotten into you?” Dad got out and they switched sides. I scrunched deep in the back. “Feels like you’re always mad about something.” Dad slammed his door shut. Matt’s door slam confirmed his point.

“What’s gotten into me?” Matt asked. “You’re asking about me? That’s kind of like that Bible verse about the speck and the log.”

“Okay, so I was right that you’re mad. And you’re mad at me. Just get it out.”

Matt started the car. I held my breath. “Three on the tree,” Dad said gently.

More silence.

“Left foot is for the clutch. Right foot for the brake. You can’t use the stick unless your left foot is on the clutch.” The car made a terrible grinding sound. “Your left foot has to be down.” The car hopped or jumped over what remained of the corn stubble. I buried my head.

“Okay, so now you need to shift down.” Then there was a repeat of metal scraping against metal. Sitting on frozen cornstalks was starting to sound safer and quieter. “Use your left foot when you shift.”

“DAD!” I yelled from the back.

“Does she have to be here?” Matt yelled. “I mean really. It’s bad enough.”

“Abby’s fine,” Dad said without looking back. “Just try following the rows.”

Matt was fine when he drove at one speed. It was when he reached for the stick with the knob that I winced and plugged my ears. Now he drove the outer mowed circumference.

“Okay, shift down,” Dad instructed. I plugged my ears again, but there was no scraping sound and the car did not jolt, so I cautiously released my hands.

“Now, Matt, tell me, what’s with the act?” Dad asked, as if trying to make Matt angry or give him a driving lesson to help with concentration and focus. “You can’t exactly claim you’re upset I’m not preaching when you don’t even want to go. You’ve got a lot of anger and I’m not sure why you direct it at me.”

“Don’t start on me now!”

I cringed. Dad’s face was stoic. “So, it’s something else?” Dad continued. “Try stopping here.”

Matt put his foot on the brake and the car hiccuped to a stop and died.

“You have to put your foot on the clutch both to shift and to stop,” Dad said. “Start the car again, but don’t forget the clutch.” Matt turned the ignition but the car didn’t screech. “Maybe you don’t really know why you’re mad at me,” Dad said as Matt concentrated on the circumference and kept a steady speed. Matt’s shoulders were tense and hunched. I leaned forward, growing more comfortable with the circular path. “Well?” Dad asked, awaiting his answer.

“I don’t know, Dad,” Matt said, and then sighed.

“Then how about if I give you a big long list and you can take your pick?” Dad asked. “I can think of lots of reasons you might be angry.”

“You can think of lots of reasons that I might be angry?” Matt repeated. In a few years would I talk to Dad with that tone of voice?

“You’re fifteen. That’s a pretty good reason to be angry.” Dad began counting on his fingers, and Matt began to press down on the accelerator. “You’re mad that life isn’t like it was when you were fourteen.” Dad added his forefinger to the reason on his thumb.

I could relate to that. Some birthdays brought privilege, some regret. There were lots of times this year I just wanted to go back to being a kid again. PJ, pre-Joel.

“I don’t need a sermon, Dad,” Matt said as the car bumped over stubble. Now we were going faster than I thought we should.

“You said you didn’t care if I was in the pulpit or not,” Dad reminded him. “So I’m in the pulpit right now.”

“Just shut up,” Matt muttered.

“Slow down, please!” I said from the back.

“You’re mad that Joel is dead.” Dad looked straight ahead, never checking Matt’s reaction. “You’re mad that it takes so long to get over the fact that Joel is dead. You’re mad at yourself at how badly you want to get over that Joel is dead.” With each new point Dad’s voice got louder and Matt’s driving became more erratic. I didn’t think Matt was as mad as Dad was by this point. Dad had never been one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers, but he could have fooled me right then.

I hoped Matt didn’t feel me over his shoulder as I tried to catch his reaction in the rearview mirror. Matt’s mouth was a tight line.

“You’re mad that your dad couldn’t hold on to Joel tight enough to keep him from being dead. And you’re mad that God didn’t stop the whole thing from happening.”

Matt slammed his foot on the accelerator and the car screamed across the stalks as he clutched the steering wheel.

The anger of Matt’s silence was far worse than any of the swear words I’d ever heard him speak. I gripped the seat to keep me steady as Matt mowed down the iced stubble.

“Stop it!” I screamed. My heartbeat raced faster and faster with the pitch of my moans until I was screaming. “Let me out! Let me out!” I reached for the door handle. “I can’t breathe!” I will throw myself out of the car. I will get away. I can do this.

The stalks scraped the bottom of the car, and on muddy, half-frozen patches we slipped around unsteadily. “Stop, stop, stop!” I screamed as my door flew open and the corn stubble scratched my arms. Then Matt slammed on the brakes and turned to see me hanging out of the car, my fingers gripping the handle.

My breath came in short pants, and I couldn’t say anything and neither could they. Though I wanted to run, I couldn’t. A moan escaped me and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see anything.

“Get back in, Abby,” Matt ordered from the front, and I pulled the door shut and slid to the middle of the seat. Matt cranked the wheel and headed out of the pasture and onto the road. I never sat up; I just hoped there were no other cars on the road.

Slowly, carefully, Matt made his way along the country roads back to our house. I made no noise. All the life had been sucked out of me.

“You forgot one point, Dad,” Matt said at last, but his voice wasn’t angry. It was low and steady—rehearsed. “How about that I’m mad that everybody probably wishes it had been me instead of Joel,” he said. His voice was sad. I wanted to give him a hug around the neck. We were now a block from home. “How about I’m mad at myself that I felt glad it was Joel and not me.” And then Matt slowed and methodically pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “But now I’m mad that it wasn’t me.”

His words hung in the air, but no one knew what to do with them. We didn’t talk as Matt turned into the alley behind our house. We were home.

“Well, now you know,” he said, handing Dad the keys. Matt closed his door and walked in the house. I wasn’t surprised Dad didn’t stop him, because I knew Matt had spoken a truth and there just wasn’t any answer.

With Dad immobilized in the front, I felt like a prisoner, forgotten in the backseat. At last he got out and shut his door, leaving me alone and wondering what to do.