IAN, AGE NINE
“What about this shirt?” his mom asked.
Ian scrunched his face at the navy-blue polo. Preppy clothes. No way, Jose. He’d been shopping for school clothes with his mom for thirty minutes, twenty-nine minutes longer than he cared to be at the downtown clothing corral. He gazed longingly out the big, square front window onto Main Street. Three kids he recognized from school pedaled by on their bikes. One rode a skateboard. He popped off the curb. Saturdays were meant for pegging girls with popcorn at the matinee or wrestling his best friend, Marshall, as they balanced on slick rocks in the creek to see who drenched whom first.
Spending the day running errands with his mom was not Ian’s idea of a fun Saturday, especially since she’d been shifting a lot.
Last night she flirted with Doug, the cashier at the market. They lived in a small town. Everyone knew everyone, and Doug knew Ian’s mom was married. He also knew, as many of the townsfolk did, that she wasn’t quite right in the head. But that didn’t stop her from asking Doug if he liked her new blouse. Did it look better on her with the bodice buttoned or unbuttoned? Untucked or tucked into the waist of her skirt? Then she demonstrated. Doug wasn’t the only one looking uncomfortable as he awkwardly answered her questions and bagged her groceries. Ian was mortified. His face flamed a hundred degrees. He prayed for Doug to bag faster so they could get out of the store before one of his friends saw that his mom was acting like a high school senior looking for a hookup. The last thing Ian wanted was for her to embarrass him again while they shopped for clothes. He silently pleaded that none of his friends would show up at the store.
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” His mom admired it and Ian flicked the collar. She made a noise of impatience. “It’s the style. All the actors in Hollywood are wearing them.”
His mom religiously read her rag mags, as his dad called them, cover to cover.
“I don’t like it.”
“We’re not leaving until you find something.”
Ian groaned a complaint and wandered to a rack of graphic Ts. He flipped through the hangers, stopping at a black shirt with an illustrated camera and yellow star for the camera flash. The shirt was ugly. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it any more than the polo his mom wanted to buy. But the shirt reminded him of an idea he had on the drive home from the market last night.
He showed his mom the shirt. “What if I took pictures of you?”
She returned the polo to the rack. “Me? What for?”
“Remember when you asked me last night why I was upset?”
“Here’s a shirt.” She showed him a green T.
“Mom,” he complained, “you were acting funny at the grocery store and you didn’t believe me.”
“I still don’t.”
She never did when he told her. He’d show her the empty vodka bottles and she’d accuse him of pouring them out. Then she’d ground him. Since she couldn’t remember drinking the alcohol, it didn’t happen.
“Do you remember paying for the groceries?”
Her hand hesitated over the rack.
“Do you remember unbuttoning your shirt in front of Doug?” His neck heated just thinking about it.
She gasped. “Ian Collins, watch your mouth. I’d never do such a thing.”
“But I saw you. So did Doug.” He muttered the last bit.
She forcibly shoved aside a group of shirts. “I do remember shopping and driving home.”
But not those moments in the checkout line.
“What if I take pictures of you when you act differently? You know, those times you make Dad and me call you Jackie.”
His mom paused in her shirt hunt. She tugged away a few strands of hair stuck in the corner of her mouth and looked down and away. Ian saw her neck quiver and knew he’d hit a nerve. His mom didn’t like hearing that name spoken out loud. Ian first remembered hearing her say the name when he was five, but Jackie had been around since before he was born. His dad always begged her to stop. But how could she when she didn’t remember those hours, or days, she insisted her name was Jackie?
His mom fiddled with a hanger hook. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ian.”
“Maybe the pictures will show you and Dad why Jackie needs money. She’s always looking for your wallet and I know you hide it whenever we’re home. I can find out why she needs it.”
His mom pierced Ian with her gaze over the rack. “How do you know this?”
“I heard you and Dad talking.”
“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But I can show you what Jackie does and where she goes. Don’t you want to know what happens?”
“Ian—”
“I can follow Jackie and take pictures.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
Ian put on his brave face. He stood taller. “Jackie’s never hurt me. She’s just mean and I’m getting stronger.” And bigger. He’d be ten soon.
“No.”
“But you always ask me what happened even when you say you don’t believe me.”
His mom yanked the graphic T from him and tossed it over the rack. “I said no.” She gripped his wrist. “We’re done here.”
Ian jerked his arm from his mom’s grasp. It was bad enough that she was upset with him in public, but he wouldn’t let her drag him from the store like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. He followed her out the doors, sulking.
“I’ll be careful,” he insisted when they reached the car, not ready to give up. She might not realize it, but his mom needed him. Baseball season had his dad on the road with the Padres. His long absences made her irritable and anxious.
“You’ll do no such thing,” his mom said when Ian sank into the station wagon’s backseat.
“But I want to help.”
“Not in that way. No pictures, Ian. End of discussion.” She started the car. “Your dad’s due home in a few hours and I have to start dinner. I can’t be worrying about you galloping off and playing superhero.”
“I don’t gallop.” Ian pouted. He picked up his camera from the floor and clicked the lens cap on and off. Click-clack.
He wasn’t trying to play superhero either. But he did see Jackie as the villain.
“Stop that noise. It’s annoying.”
Ian scowled. He clicked the cap on and off again, faster. Click-clack. Click-clack.
His mom braked hard, coming to a full stop. Ian’s forehead slammed into the front passenger seat.
Ian rubbed his head. His parents barely saw each other during baseball season. Dad had to wonder what his mom was up to when she shifted to Jackie. “I’m going to ask Dad. He might want to see the pictures.”
“I don’t give a shit what you ask him.”
The fine hairs on Ian’s neck lifted. His skin prickled as though ants were racing across his shoulders and down his arms.
His mom stomped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward rather than turning toward home. Ian watched the road they were supposed to go on disappear from view. He swung his head around and was about to tell his mom she forgot to turn. But it wasn’t his mom in the driver’s seat, not anymore. He could tell by her posture, the determined set of her jaw, and the way she gripped the steering wheel. It was all wrong.
Sweat dampened Ian’s palms. Suddenly, the idea of documenting Jackie seemed stupid.
“Where are we going?” he dared to ask.
Jackie didn’t answer. She popped open the glove compartment and funneled her hand through tire-pressure sticks, paper napkins, and old sunglasses until she found a hair band. Using her knee to steer, she tied her hair into a high ponytail and then rolled down the windows. Pungent air, sour with the odor of fertilizer, clung to the inside of the car like smoke from his mom’s burned dinners. It hovered below the ceiling, filling every corner.
“Mom?” Ian asked, not quite stomaching he should be calling her Jackie. Maybe if he kept saying Mom she might shift back. “Mom? Mom . . . Mom . . . Mom!”
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommeeee! Stop calling me that. I’m not your mother. I’m Jackie. Say it.”
Ian held his mouth closed tight and shook his head.
“Say it,” she ordered.
He shook his head harder and Jackie slammed the brakes. His head rolled forward, straining his neck. “Ow.”
She gunned the engine and braked again. “Say it!”
Ian rubbed the back of his neck and scowled at her.
“I’ll keep doing this.”
His neck and forehead hurt. “Jackie,” he whispered.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“Jackie.” Bitch, he thought to himself and then felt guilty for thinking it in the first place.
“Much better.” She grinned. It wasn’t his mom’s smile.
Jackie accelerated. The car sped along the two-lane road, taking them farther from town.
Ian took a deep breath and slowly, as quietly as he could, removed the lens cap. He called up his bravery and lifted the camera to his face. He brought Jackie into focus and snapped a photo. The flash went off.
Jackie’s head swiveled. She glared at him.
Ian snapped another photo, capturing her twisted expression, her skin blotchy from anger and the wind. She flipped him off.
He pressed the shutter button. The bulb flashed again.
Jackie braked, swerving to the side of the road. Ian swayed violently in the backseat. She thrust the gear stick into Park and dumped the contents of Sarah’s purse on the front seat. She opened the wallet and swore. “There’s barely any cash.” She pocketed a five and flashed Ian the ATM card. “Did you get the PIN?”
He shook his head.
“You promised you’d get the PIN.”
He’d also promised himself he’d protect his mom when his dad couldn’t. He had no intention of breaking that promise.
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Because he hadn’t asked her.
“Of course she won’t tell you, you moron.” She cuffed his ear. Ian winced. “You’re supposed to watch her withdraw the cash and memorize the numbers.”
“You make me wait in the car.”
Ian realized his slip as soon as he spoke.
“I don’t make you. Sarah does. I’m not Sarah!” she shrieked. “Sarah’s weak. She has no guts. That’s why I have to do everything for her.”
“What do you have to do for her?”
Jackie glowered at him. He squared his shoulders. He had to show her she couldn’t intimidate him even though he quaked in his worn Vans.
She looked at him in disgust, then shoveled the contents back into his mom’s purse.
“No PIN, no ride. Get out of the car.”
“What?” Ian scanned the area around them. They were in the middle of nowhere. Open fields sprawled outward in all directions.
Jackie leaned over the seat and snapped the latch on Ian’s door. “I said get the fuck out.”
Something about the timbre of her voice kept Ian’s rear glued to the vinyl. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move, his legs were shaking so badly.
Jackie grabbed a pen and pressed the end deep into her neck where it threatened to pierce her skin. “Get out or I stab myself. You’ll never see your mom again.”
“You wouldn’t,” Ian dared.
“Don’t test me.” She pressed harder. A pin drop of blood pooled.
Ian’s belief Jackie would never harm him, let alone herself, blew out the car with a gust of wind. He scrambled from the station wagon.
“Close the damn door,” Jackie shouted when Ian just stood there.
He slammed the door.
“Walk home, loser,” she yelled through the open passenger window. “Don’t hitch a ride and don’t let anyone see you. You do and I’ll make sure you never see your mom again.”
The station wagon sped away, engine groaning, tires spitting gravel and dirt.
When he no longer saw the Pontiac, his tears fell freely. Not only had he left his camera in the backseat, but he didn’t know his way home.
For five days Ian followed the road in the direction he thought was home. He kept to the edges of cornfields and dairy farms, drinking from the sprinklers and eating ripening corn when he risked being seen. With each approaching car, he ducked behind a tree or into stalks barely tall enough to hide him. He wanted to see his mom again so he followed Jackie’s order. He slept days and walked nights so he wouldn’t be seen. But after spending the third night wandering alone, he realized he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
He was lost.
He wondered if he’d ever find home. He missed his mom. His dad would be worried. Were they looking for him?
On the fifth day, Ian drifted into a fitful sleep on the sloped edge of an irrigation ditch under the shade of a large tree only to wake up when he felt a butterfly touch his head. His eyes snapped open to the blurry image of a woman kneeling beside him.
He shot upright and scooted away, his back pressing into tree bark. His heart beat furiously. He wasn’t supposed to be seen. Jackie would find out and take his mom away from him. He tried to stand, to bolt away, but the woman grasped his shoulders and gently urged him down. Bone-weary and weak, he flopped back in the dirt.
“Hello, Ian.” The woman smiled.
He squinted against the sun’s glare, then blinked at her. Hair fine and fair haloed her head in the late-afternoon light. He stared, transfixed, at the strange blue shade of her eyes. Surely, he must be dreaming.
He heard a car door slam and stiffened. He tried to scoot away. The woman kept her hold on his shoulders.
“It’s OK,” her voice soothed. She smiled some more, then glanced over her shoulder. “He’s over here, Stu.”
Dad.
A sob burst from Ian. He croaked like a frog.
“Don’t be afraid,” the woman reassured. “Your dad’s going to take you home.”
His mouth quivered. “Who are you?” And how did she know his dad?
“I’m a friend. You can call me Laney.”
“How did you find me?” He didn’t want Jackie to find out he didn’t walk all the way home.
“Magic. And Jackie will never know.” She pressed a finger to her lips and stood, retreating.
“Ian. My God, son.” Stu sank to his knees and grabbed Ian, holding him firmly to his chest. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Mom?” he cried. He started shaking—he didn’t know whether from lack of food, relief he’d been found, or fear that Jackie hadn’t shifted back to his mom. “Where’s Mom?”
“It’s time to go.” His dad picked him up, cradling him like a baby to his truck.