All the Little Lights
Page 17

I glanced over my shoulder. “Will you make sure Catherine knows? Will you tell her what happened?”
Aunt Leigh nodded. “I’ll try. I love you, Elliott.”
The screen door slammed, and with her hand on my back, Mom guided me to her Toyota Tacoma pickup and opened the passenger door.
I stopped, trying one last time to rationalize with her. “Mom. Please. I’ll leave with you. Just let me tell her goodbye. Let me explain.”
“No. I won’t let you rot in this place.”
“Then why let me come at all?” I yelled.
“Get in the truck!” she yelled back, throwing my bags in the back.
I sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door. Mom rushed around the front and slid behind the wheel, twisting the ignition and shoving the car into reverse. We drove away, in the opposite direction of the Calhouns’ home, just as the ambulance pulled away from the curb.
The ceiling of my bedroom, every crack, every water stain, every painted-over speck of dirt and spider, was ingrained in my mind. When I wasn’t staring up, worrying about how much more Catherine hated me with every passing day, I was writing her letters, trying to explain, begging for her forgiveness, making new promises that—just like Mom had warned—might be impossible to keep. One letter for every day, and I’d just finished my seventeenth.
The muffled, angry voices of my parents filtered down the hall, going on the second hour. They were fighting about fighting and arguing over who was the most wrong.
“But he yelled at you! You’re telling me it’s okay to let him yell at you?” Dad shouted.
“I wonder where he gets it!” Mom said back.
“Oh, you’re going to throw that in my face? This is my fault? You’re the one who sent him there in the first place. Why would you send him there, Kay? Why Oak Creek if you’ve said all these years you want to keep him away?”
“Where else was I supposed to take him? It’s better than watching you sit around getting drunk all day!”
“Oh, don’t start that shit again. I swear to God, Kay . . .”
“What? Are facts getting in the way of your argument? What exactly did you expect me to do? He couldn’t stay here and watch us . . . watch you . . . I had no choice! Now he’s in love with that damn girl and wants to move there!”
At first, Dad’s response was too quiet for me to hear, but not for long. “And you ripped him out of there without letting him say goodbye. No wonder he’s so angry. I’d be pissed, too, if someone had done that to me when we started dating. Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself, Kay? Couldn’t you consider his feelings for one damn minute?”
“I am thinking of him. You know how I was treated growing up there. You know how my brother was treated. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want him to get stuck there. And don’t act like you give two shits about what happens to him. All you care about is your stupid guitar and your next case of beer.”
“Something I love is stupid, all right, but it’s not my guitar!”
“Screw you!”
“Falling for a girl there isn’t a life sentence, Kay. They’ll probably break up or move.”
“Are you not listening?” Mom cried. “She’s a Calhoun! They don’t leave! They own that town! Leigh said Elliott’s been obsessed with that girl for years. And wouldn’t it be great for you if he moved? Then you wouldn’t have responsibilities staring you in the face every day. You could pretend you’re twenty-one and actually have a chance at becoming a country music star.”
“The Calhouns haven’t owned that town since we were in high school. God, you’re ignorant.”
“Go to hell!”
Glass broke, and my dad yelped. “Are you insane?”
It was better that I stayed in my room. It was the typical daily back-and-forth, maybe a remote control or a glass thrown across the room, but venturing into the rest of the house would incite a war. A few days after I unpacked my things in Yukon, it was clear fighting with Mom would bring unwanted attention from Dad, and when he got in my face, she’d defend me and go after him. As bad as things were before, it was much, much worse now.
My room was still the safe haven it had always been, but it felt different, and I couldn’t figure out why. My blue curtains still bordered the only window, the paint-chipped side of the neighbors’ house and their rusted AC unit still the only view. Mom had cleaned a little while I was gone, the Little League and Pee Wee Football trophies dusted and facing outward, all the same width apart and organized by year. Instead of providing comfort, my familiar surroundings just reminded me that I was in a depressing prison away from Catherine and the endless fields of Oak Creek. I missed the park, the creek, and walking miles of side roads just talking and making a game of finishing our ice cream cones before the sugar and milk dripped all over our fingers.
The front door slammed shut, and I stood, peering out the curtains. Mom’s truck backed out, and Dad was driving. She was in the passenger seat, and they were still yelling at each other. Once they were out of sight, I ran from my room and burst out the front door, sprinting across the street to Dawson Foster’s house. The screen door rattled as the side of my fist pounded against it. Within seconds, Dawson opened the door, his shaggy blond hair feathered over to one side and still somehow in his brown eyes.
He frowned, looking confused. “What?”
“Can I borrow your phone?” I asked, puffing.
“I guess,” he said, stepping to the side.
I yanked open the screen door and walked inside, the AC immediately cooling my skin. Empty bags of chips were lying on the worn couch, dust glinting on every surface, the sun reflecting off the dust motes in the air. The instinct to wave them away and the realization that I would breathe them in anyway made me feel choked.
“I know. It’s hot as hell,” Dawson said. “Mom says it’s an Indian summer. What does that mean?”
I glared at him, and he swiped his phone off the side table next to the couch, holding it out to me. I took it, trying to remember Aunt Leigh’s cell phone number. I tapped out the numbers and then held the phone to my ear, praying she’d answer.
“Hello?” Aunt Leigh said, already sounding suspicious.
“Aunt Leigh?”
“Elliott? Are you all settled in? How’s things?”
“Not good. I’ve been grounded pretty much since I got back.”
She sighed. “When does football practice start?”
“How’s Mr. Calhoun?” I asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Catherine’s dad. Is he okay?”
She got quiet. “I’m sorry, Elliott. The funeral was last week.”
“Funeral.” I closed my eyes, feeling a heaviness in my chest. Then the anger began to boil.
“Elliott?”
“I’m here,” I said through my teeth. “Can you . . . can you go to the Calhouns’? Explain to Catherine why I left?”
“They’re not seeing anyone, Elliott. I’ve tried. I brought a casserole and a batch of brownies. They’re not answering the door.”
“Is she okay? Is there any way you can check?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.
Dawson was watching me pace, equal concern and curiosity in his eyes.
“I haven’t seen her, Elliott. I don’t think anyone has seen either of them since the burial. The town sure is talking. Mavis was very strange at the funeral, and they’ve been cooped up in that house since.”