IAN, AGE ELEVEN
“Did you have a nice sleep?” Ian’s mom asked when he entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, sipping tea.
“Yes.” Ian yawned, scratching his head through sleep-tousled hair, and fixed himself a bowl of Wheaties. He joined his mom at the table and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. With an empty expression, she watched him chew. She might be looking at him, but she wasn’t seeing him.
Ian hated when she stared at him like that. His chest twinged and his chewing slowed as he watched her, waiting. Who knew who his mom would come back as when she retreated into her head? He noticed her uncombed hair and the shadows under her eyes, the misaligned buttons on her robe. She picked at her ragged nails.
Ian pushed the cereal flakes around in his bowl. “I heard the phone ringing. Was it Dad?”
She nodded and sipped her tea. “Yes.”
Ian exhaled with relief when it was his mom who answered. “What time will he be home?”
“He wants to stay for the press conference. He’ll be home late tomorrow morning.”
Ian slumped in his chair. He’d been hoping they could go fishing at the lake this afternoon like they used to. They’d wait for the fish to bite and his dad would teach him new tricks with his camera. Ian had read an article about time-lapse photography and wanted to give it a try. He didn’t have the skill or the equipment. His dad did, though. But now with the trip extension, they wouldn’t have time together before his dad left for his next assignment.
He missed his dad.
He missed spending time with him.
For almost a year after Jackie had abandoned Ian on the roadside, his dad had stayed home and worked for the local paper. Ian’s mom agreed to be admitted to the hospital, where they kept her under observation, as his dad referred to it, then released her with an order to see a psychiatrist. A woman had also shown up at Ian’s house soon after he arrived home from the hospital himself. She asked Ian all sorts of questions about living with his parents. That’s when his dad decided he needed to be home more. He didn’t want to be the negligent father and risk Ian being placed into foster care.
When Ian had listened to the woman with the beige wool suit and thick file tell his father he could end up in foster care, he swore to himself he’d watch his mother more closely. He’d make sure no one outside the house knew how often his parents used to leave him alone. He didn’t want to be taken from home. And for a year, life in the Collins house was almost normal. He and his dad went on adventures together almost every weekend. They’d go exploring after school, quick photo expeditions around their property.
But his mom started resisting her therapy and wouldn’t take her medication. His dad grew weary of arguing with her. They’d always argue until his mom started crying and his dad pulled her into his arms and just held her. A couple of times Ian swore his dad cried, too.
Then there were the overdue medical bills. Ian once overheard his dad explain to his mom that there was much their insurance wouldn’t cover and his job at the paper barely paid to put food on their table. He needed to start taking on more assignments or they could lose their home. Soon Ian and his mom saw less of his dad. And eventually, their routine reverted to the way it was before Ian had been lost.
Appetite gone, Ian took his bowl to the sink, overflowing with dishes. His mom often let the dishes collect throughout the day and washed them after dinner. Ian hadn’t seen them pile to this extent before. Pots and plates cluttered the sink and counter. The meat loaf from two nights ago and last night’s spaghetti had been left out to spoil.
His lip lifted at the milk curdling in yesterday’s cereal bowl and glanced over at his mom. She sat unmoving, staring beyond the kitchen window. A layer of dust from the plowed fields clouded the glass. Dried cornstalks had been cleared for the next planting cycle. The sloping landscape stretched toward the mountainous rise on the horizon.
“Do you want me to do the dishes?”
She didn’t answer, which worried Ian. She’d been detached since his dad had left earlier this week. She napped each day and had stopped reading. Ian came home with an A on his science test yesterday. She’d taken the test from him and uttered a simple “That’s nice, honey” before setting it aside without a further glance.
“I’ll wash them,” he muttered to himself. He doubted she was listening.
He cleared out the basin and turned on the faucet. Twenty minutes later, counters cleared and dishwasher loaded, Ian skimmed through his mom’s planner.
“Did you finish the shirts for Mr. Hester’s Boy Scout troop?” He glanced at her and she nodded once. Ian flipped the page. “Have you started Mrs. Layton’s costumes for the”—he squinted at the note—“Oklahoma! musical?”
The teacup clattered on the table. “Yes, Ian.” His mom’s voice took on a perturbed tone.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” She buried her face in her hands, took a couple of deep breaths, and folded her hands under her chin. Her mouth pulled into a little smile. “What are you doing today?”
Ian looked out the window. Cotton-white clouds mottled the blue sky. “I’m going on a photo expedition.”
“You are?” she replied with exaggerated interest.
“Wanna come with me?” She could use a day in the sun. She’d been hiding in the house all week, burrowed under blankets like a rabbit in the brush.
His mom stood and took her teacup to the sink. “Invite Marshall. He’ll go with you.”
“Nah.” Ian didn’t want to invite his neighbor. He didn’t want any friends over.
“Why not? You haven’t had him over in a long time.”
Ian didn’t want to risk the chance his mom went Wacky-Jackie in front of his friends.
He could go to Marshall’s house instead, but then he’d worry about his mom. His dad wanted him to stay at Marshall’s when he was out of town. He even asked Mrs. Killion to keep an eye on him. But if Ian left home, there wouldn’t be anyone to watch his mom until his dad returned.
“Marshall’s busy today.”
His mom frowned. “Are you two getting along?”
“Yeah, we’re fine. I don’t want him to come over here, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She studied her hands, then crossed her arms, hiding her unkempt nails.
“I didn’t mean . . . What I meant was . . .” Ian rubbed his hand through his mop of hair, looking at his bare feet. “I want you to come with me,” he said in a small voice.
Ian could feel his mom watching him so he lifted his head.
She smiled. “All right. I’ll come.”
Fifteen minutes later they were dressed and walking in the direction of the duck pond near the western property line. The air smelled of fertilized dirt and dry grass. A field mouse scurried past.
Ian stopped and motioned for his mom to be quiet. “He’ll be back.” He lay in the dirt, leaning on his elbows with the camera poised near his face, and waited.
His mom eased to the ground beside him. Within moments, the brownish-gray mouse peered from under a bush and raced by, disappearing into the tall grass. Blades shimmied in the sunlight, tracking his path. They watched the mouse circle around until he shot past them, grass blades and needle-size twigs in his mouth. He scurried under the bush.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered.
“Fixing his nest, I think.”
The mouse returned, pausing in his trek to scrub his nose. The camera shutter snapped. His mom flinched and the mouse ran off.
“Got him.” Ian jumped to his feet and dusted off the dirt on his shirt and shorts.
They continued walking, past the white ash tree. His mom snapped off a twig. She twirled it in her fingers. “Do you still want to be a photographer when you grow up?”
Ian had wanted to be a photographer since the day his dad bought him his first real camera on his fifth birthday and showed him how to use it. He also taught him how to develop film. Ian treasured those hours they stood side by side in the darkroom.
“Yes, but I don’t want to do football games like Dad. I want to travel the world and take pictures of everyone I meet.” Aside from accompanying his dad on a few trips, Ian hadn’t journeyed outside Idaho. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” he asked his mom.
Ian grinned. “Me, too.”
“I’m sure you will one day.”
“What about you? Won’t you go?”
“I love being here.” She glanced back at the house. “It’s safe and peaceful. Besides”—she turned back to him—“I travel every day.”
“No, you don’t.”
“It’s a special kind of travel.”
Ian gave her a sidelong glance. “Really?”
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Armchair travel.”
“Pfft,” Ian scoffed. “That’s not traveling.”
“It is for me. I go where my characters go in the books I read.”
“But that’s not real traveling.”
She just smiled. “Promise me something, Ian.”
“What?” He snapped a photo of a red leaf.
“Promise that when you fall in love you’re as good to your wife as you are to me.”
Ian’s face screwed up at the mention of a wife. He liked a girl at school. Lisa was quiet and cute, but he hadn’t had the nerve to say anything other than “Hi.” He was eleven. He hadn’t yet kissed a girl so why was his mom talking about marriage? Yuck.
Unless . . .
“Is Dad good to you?”
His mom broke the twig in two. “I remember the first time I saw your dad. I was working in the concession stands at the Padres ballpark. The line for drinks was huge, and we were filling sodas as fast as we could during the seventh-inning stretch. The Padres were losing and some of the fans were getting unruly. They were loud and rude and impatient.
“There was this guy and he was big, much bigger than your father. He ordered two sodas and started barking at me to hurry before I could grab the cups to fill them. It was pandemonium behind the counter. We constantly ran into one another, which is exactly what happened. I carried the sodas back to the order counter and someone bumped my arm. The drinks flew out of my hands and drenched the man who ordered them. He got so mad at me.” She whistled at the memory. “Then there was your dad. He appeared from nowhere. He calmed the man down by sweet-talking him or something. Your dad even paid for his drinks.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I froze. I couldn’t move. Your dad had to ask for the drinks several times before I realized he was talking to me. He must have noticed how shaken up I was because he came back after the game to check on me. He walked me to my car and asked for my phone number.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I sure did. Your dad was the first man who was nice to me. He assured me he’d always love me and would take care of me. He wanted to keep me safe.”
Just as Ian wanted to do for his mom. He liked how he and his dad were the same in that way. “Did Dad—” He stopped abruptly and looked at his hands. He rolled the lens cap between his fingers.
His mom crooked her finger and lifted his chin. She smiled gently. “Did Dad what?”
“Did Dad know about you . . . I mean . . . did he know about Jackie before you got married?”
A crow cawed loudly as it flew over them. His mom glanced up and looked around. They’d arrived at the pond. “We’re here.”
Ian’s mom sat on a tree stump and Ian cased the edge of the pond, seeking his next Kodak moment. Spotting a toad, he sank on his heels and positioned the camera.
His mom crashed through the brush and landed on her knees beside him. “Whoa! Look at the toad. He’s huge.”
The toad splashed into the water before Ian could take a picture.
“Oops.” She laughed. “I think I scared him off.”
No kidding. Ian groaned in irritation. “Be quiet. He might come back.”
“OK,” she whispered loudly. She sat cross-legged and pulled a reed. She chewed on the end, then twirled it in her fingers. She stuck the reed in her hair and repeatedly poked her head. She tossed the reed in the pond and sighed dramatically. “This is boring. Let’s go to the creek.”
Ian lowered the camera to his lap and looked at his mom, who was no longer his mom. Sarah wouldn’t chew reeds and stick them in her hair. But Billy would.
Ian guessed Billy was a perpetual eight-year-old because he acted the way Ian imagined an annoying younger brother would act. Billy showed up after Jackie abandoned Ian on the roadside two years ago. Ian once overheard his parents talking about his mom’s appointment with a psychiatrist. The doctor reasoned Billy was his mom’s way of coping with her guilt over the roadside incident. Her mind fractured further and along came Billy. Ian noticed the less he had his friends over, the more frequently Billy appeared, as though his mom knew on some level that Ian needed a companion.
He liked hanging out with Billy, except those times he wanted to tag along when Ian and his friends went to the skate park. That would be weird.
Billy lunged to his feet and ran off. The toad returned. Awesome. Ian snapped a photo, then heard a large splash. He lifted his head in the direction of the noise and gawked. “Billy! What are you doing?”
His mom stood in the center of the shallow pond, water up to her hips. She skimmed her fingers along the water’s surface, humming. A lilting tune Ian didn’t recognize, the beauty of the melody at odds with the water’s filth.
Ian made a disgusted face. He could see the pond scum on his mom’s forearms. Ducks swam, ate, and defecated in the pond. Even he didn’t venture into the water except that one time when Marshall tripped him. Ian had stumbled back, arms flailing like windmills, and fallen on his rear. He’d been soaked. The smell alone had him hightailing it back to the house for the hose.
But despite the water thick with moss, mud, and who knew what else, his mom appeared serene. Beautiful. Billy had left and Sarah returned. Sunlight danced across the ripples she caused as she swayed. It glittered along the glossy strands of her hair. She continued to hum, head tilted toward the sky and eyes closed, the touch of a smile highlighting her face.
Ian raised the camera to his face. He wanted to remember his mom like this. Peaceful, not splintered. This was the way he was beginning to understand how her mind functioned. He pressed the shutter button. The camera clicked and his mom jerked. She stretched her hands skyward, flared her fingers, and screamed, fuming.
“Gross!” She swiveled around looking at the water, then at Ian. Her expression mirrored the disgust he felt a moment ago. Then she saw the camera. She gritted her teeth, her lips pulled back, and trudged through the thick water and up the bank, coming to stand in front of Ian. Water dripped from her drenched skirt. Her chest rose and fell, the breath coming from her sounding like an engine in the back of her throat.
Jackie.
Ian didn’t know what propelled him to take a picture at that moment. The difference between Jackie and Sarah a moment ago was startling. He wanted to document the shift. But he knew he was tempting fate. The shutter snapped and the camera flew out of his hands. Fire blistered across his cheek. Ian clapped a hand over the burn, his gaze darting from his camera in the dirt to Jackie.
“You hit my camera.”
“I hope I broke it.” Jackie stomped her feet and shrieked. “I feel disgusting.” She wrung out her skirt. “What day is it?”
Stunned from the smack she’d delivered, Ian stared at her, mute.
She gripped his upper arm and Ian hissed.
“What’s the date?” she asked.
“Fuck you,” he spat, finding his voice. He’d learned that word from her. Sarah would wash his mouth with soap should she learn how he back-talked Jackie.
Jackie shoved him away and ran to the house.
Ian stumbled over to his camera. He blew dust off the lens, inspected the film casing, and looked through the viewfinder. He pressed the shutter button, and the camera clicked. He heaved a sigh of relief. Everything was intact.
He turned to the house the same moment Jackie swung open the rear screen door. His parents didn’t want him photographing Jackie. Dogging her was too dangerous. She was unpredictable. She either spent hours prowling the house like a caged animal or left to get to God knows where. Jackie would never tell him. She treated Ian more like a brother than a son. And Ian was beginning to see her as a malicious sibling who wouldn’t think twice about harming him.
But if he wanted to be a photojournalist he couldn’t let fear keep him from going after his subject.
A shadow moved behind the lace curtains in his parents’ room. Jackie was up there. Ian bolted to the house, and the second he stepped inside, glass shattered. He glanced up at the ceiling. Drawers slammed and something heavy dropped on the floor. He ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, and skidded to a stop at the room Jackie was ransacking. Clothes spilled from his mom’s dresser like a bubbled-over pot of oatmeal. His dad’s underwear and T-shirts pooled on the floor, puddles of clothes. Drawers had been upended and tossed aside. His mom’s soiled clothes were in a heap by the door. Jackie had changed into a blouse and jeans.
She opened the closet door and shoved aside his dad’s shirts and his mom’s dresses. She felt through pockets.
“What’re you doing?” Ian stepped into the room. He tightly gripped his camera as though an anchor.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Where’re the car keys?”
“I don’t know.” Ian took in the room. In less than five minutes, Jackie had created more of a mess than a passing tornado. He snapped a photo.
“I swear, kid, you take one more and I’m gonna strangle you with the camera strap.” Jackie reached for a shoe box on the top shelf.
Ian moved farther into the room. “You shouldn’t be in there.”
Jackie smiled at him over her shoulder. It wasn’t a nice smile and it took everything in Ian not to cower. Jackie raked her arm across the shelf, clearing its contents. Shoe boxes and purses landed with a thud, their contents spilling out.
“Stop making a mess.” Ian grabbed a shoe box. Jackie yanked it from him. She peered inside and laughed. “You’re such an idiot.” She held up a set of keys and shook them in Ian’s face.
Ian’s stomach turned over. It looked like they were going for a ride.
Jackie pocketed the keys. “Where does your dad keep his guns?”
Ian made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He lurched back. Jackie grabbed his wrist.
“Speak up.” She gave his arm a sharp tug.
“He—he doesn’t have any guns,” he said, trying not to piss his pants.
“Seriously?” she scoffed. “I know he has them, so you don’t have to lie. Where are they?”
Ian clenched his jaw and locked his knees. He still shook like a high-strung mutt and hoped Jackie didn’t notice.
She bitch-slapped his temple. “Don’t be a shit, Ian. Tell me.”
Ian clutched his head. “No.”
“God, you’re a pain. Fine, whatever.” She pushed him away from her. “Where’d you put my money?”
“It’s not your money.” Ian rubbed his wrist. “Where’re you going?”
“None of your business.” Jackie searched the purses, coming up empty. “What’s the date?” she asked again.
“Why do you care?”
She snatched a metal nail file from the vanity table and held it against her wrist. “Tell me the date or I’ll make your precious mommy bleed all over the carpet.”
“July tenth,” Ian divulged, too scared not to answer.
“Shit.” She tossed the file and lapped the room, her hand in her pocket jangling the keys. “He’s moved again. Shit, shit, shit.” She roughly gripped her hair, stretching the skin on her forehead. “Is there still time?” She peered through the window curtains. “It’s still light. OK, OK, OK. There’s time. He’ll come.”
Ian frowned, not sure of what he heard. “Time for what? Who’ll come? Dad?”
“Screw your dad.” She pivoted from the window and sneered. “He’s out of town again, isn’t he?” She crossed the room and got into his face. “Do you miss your daddy?” she asked in a baby voice.
His dad was photographing the Padres game against the Cardinals. Yeah, he missed him, but he wasn’t going to let Jackie in on that secret. Hoping to distract her from asking about his dad, he moved the camera between them and snapped a photo. The lightbulb flashed, temporarily blinding her.
Jackie lunged for him. Ian dodged under her arm. He leaped on the bed and slid across, landing on the other side. But Jackie didn’t go after him. She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Jackie was taking his mom away from him.
Ian raced after her, skidding to a halt on the front porch. The station wagon arrowed down the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust.
He’d been left alone again.
Slowly, feet dragging, he returned inside the house.
It looked like he’d be eating cereal for dinner. Again.