I want to throw up.
There’s the doorbell.
I can’t get my arm to lift.
Okay. This is what I came here for. I can do this.
I take a huge breath and push the bell.
Like nine days pass in the span of a few seconds.
Dead bolt clicks.
Knob turns….
And the door swings open to reveal a short, dark-brown-skinned man with a little Afro and hair shooting out of his ears.
I think my heart actually stops.
He draws back, then shakes his head like there’s something loose inside it and blinks a few times. “You look like my niece.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and clasps his hands over his plaid-covered paunch. “Whatcha sellin’?” he says.
“Oh. Umm…” I look at his face. He seems younger than Ethel. Couldn’t be her husband…At least I don’t think.
“Now don’t get all shy on me,” he says. “I’ll support ya if ya pitch it right. Go on now.”
“Oh, um. I’m not selling anything, sir.”
“Okay then…”
“I’m actually looking for an Ethel Streeter?”
When his eyes drop, I know it’s all over.
* * *
—
While Zander and I were searching high and low, Ethel Streeter was dying of stage five chronic kidney disease. Her son Bartholomew was completely emotionless as he told me how his mother hid the disease from him until it was too late, and then wouldn’t accept the kidney he offered her. They merged their assets just a couple weeks before she passed, and he’s currently in the process of getting her name off all the deeds. Most of her stuff—which previously filled the house Zan and I tried to visit in Druid Hills—is sitting in a Public Storage unit awaiting the estate sale he has planned for “after the legal stuff is in order.”
I decline the iced tea he offers me, and within ten minutes, I’m back in the truck.
Stopping. Going. Stopping again. Trees blur by. Nothing registers.
I’m just…here.
And then I’m at the Gas ’n’ Go. Even though I requested off today.
To go see Ethel.
Who’s no longer with us, as Bartholomew put it.
By some miracle, I manage to get out and go inside.
“Rico? I thought you weren’t coming in,” Mr. Z says when he sees me from his perch behind the counter.
“My plans…changed,” I say. “Can I still work?”
“Of course you can, dear. Clock in at will.”
“Thanks, Mr. Z.”
“Oh! Before I forget: when you next speak to your friend Mr. Macklin, do tell him we receive high praise on the quilted with aloe vera!”
Ugh.
“Will do, sir!” Whether before or after I break the news about Ethel, though…
I can feel the dark place creeping up behind me. I’ll fight it off for as long as I can, but with no hope to cling to now—
I sigh.
Jax is still in the hospital.
And so is Mama. Which means no work for her today.
The fate of my family wraps around me like a weighted blanket.
Gulp the tears and panic away. Six-hour shift to get through.
Breaking down is not an option.
This isn’t over, dear reader.
I am still here. I am still waiting.
I will not be snuffed away into oblivion as if I never existed. Permitted to expire with my glorious one-hundred-and-six-million-dollar face smashed up against some lowly business card in this appallingly stale-smelling billfold.
I haven’t seen the light since my purchase, but I hear conversations and music and strange spoken narratives (audiobooks, I heard them called?), and money is a frequent topic of discussion. It seems you humans would do just about anything for it.
She. Should. Not. Give. Up.
I will haunt her dreams until she finds me.
I’M WORTH SO MUCH MORE THAN THIS!
The phone rings, and I startle so intensely, I fall off the bed. Once my heart rate comes down from the-brink-of-death, I hit the light on the side of my watch and pick up the phone as the numbers force their way into my brain. 11:58 p.m.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Danger?”
“Umm…” I rub my eyes. “Which one?”
I hear some papers shuffle. “I have a Stacia on file?”
“Oh. She’s not here.”
More eye rubbing. It’s starting to register that a phone call at almost midnight is odd. And kind of scary, current circumstances considered.
“She’s working a night shift,” I say. “Is there something I can help you with? I’m her daughter.”
“Is there a Mr. Rico available?”
“No, there’s no Mr.—” Wait…“I think you might be talking about me. I’m Rico.”
Silence except for more shuffling. Then: “You’re Rico Danger?”
“Yes…”
“How old are you?”
What the heck? “I’m seventeen. Why?”
“Hold, please.”
There’s a rubbing sound, and then I can hear muffled voices like the caller is covering the receiver with her hand.
Then: “You’re the elder sister of Jaxon Daniel Danger?”
Awake now.
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“Is there a way we can get in contact with your mother, sweetie?”
Oh, so I’m sweetie now? “Not very easily, ma’am. As I mentioned, she’s at work.” This is getting frustrating. “Is there something wrong with my brother?”
She sighs. “He had a rough day today,” she says. “Ms. Danger was here for a few hours this afternoon, but she left when Jaxon fell asleep. He’s been inconsolable since he woke up and couldn’t find her.”
I shake my head. Why does she never listen to me when I tell her how important it is to say goodbye to him?
I should be at the hospital, but Mama insisted I sleep at home: spring break’s over. Gotta go to school tomorrow. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say before I have a clue what I’m saying.