She gathered books, checked to see if the other letters to Tanya had been found—they had not. She picked up her phone charger and some clothes. It wasn’t yet 6:30 in the morning, but Lena didn’t know what day it was. There are times in your life, Lena knew, where to think actively about what was happening in the moment, what had recently happened, would shatter everything. You could only focus on the small tasks, let them link together to build a chain to pull you through the day and hopefully toward the necessary distance needed to survive.
When she got in the car, there was coffee waiting in the cupholders. Smith said it was also okay if Lena wanted to sleep, not to worry about giving directions.
“You know, we don’t know why people need to sleep,” Smith said.
“Because we get tired?”
“It’s not that simple.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Sleep does so many things.”
“How are we going to explain to my mom why you’re there with me?”
“I’m not staying with you.”
“Am I kicked out?”
“Oh, no. No. You’re just getting a break. You need to recalibrate.”
Fog seeped off the rivers and roads, thickening the air. One of the things that made this part of Michigan different from home was how foggy it was. The locals said it was because Lakewood was in a valley. That’s why all the tornadoes avoided it too. Just the week before, Lena had heard an old man in one of the donut shops talking about how the government was learning how to control the weather now, because climate change was going to be a true crisis. His friends nodded. Lakewood was one of the test stations. No tornadoes. Blizzards miss us. You think that’s all because of a valley? The hiss of tires on the road. Rubber telling pavement gossip that shouldn’t be repeated.
Smith was driving fast. The car smelled of gas station coffee: burned, yet almost delicious. On the back roads, the car’s headlamps did little to cut through the fog, only seemed to emphasize how thick it was.
Lena pretended this was going to be an ordinary visit. They would go to the casino if her mother felt well enough. Go to the cemetery. They would make dinner together. What if her house was being observed? What if they had done to her whatever they did to Madison? There were no guns in the house, Lena reminded herself. Small cameras that looked like smudges on the ceiling. Her mother’s cell phone being used to listen in on all the conversations.
Smith drove past a car pulled over on the side of the road. Its hazard lights blinking in a 2/4 rhythm. They owned so many knives, Lena thought.
“Do you like science fiction?” Smith asked her.
“What?”
He told her that he was writing a sitcom in his free time. Aliens were planning to invade and conquer the Earth. But their plans keep getting delayed or messed up because the boss keeps telling jokes and pulling pranks, or making people mad in different ways. Stealing credit for ideas. Saying the wrong thing.
“Why wouldn’t the boss just get fired?”
“Because he’s the son of a big-time admiral in the alien space force. Nepotism. Sexism. And maybe the twist is they don’t really want to invade Earth, but aliens need to be kept busy, so.”
“Doesn’t it make you sad to think aliens would have all the same problems we do?”
“That’s why the joke works.”
Lena leaned her head against the car window, made a show of yawning. She shut her eyes.
Smith touched her shoulder and said they were at her mother’s. Despite everything, she smiled. Their little yellow house. Across the street, Miss Cassandra’s hibiscuses were bright pink. Lena got out of the car. Smith popped the trunk and she pulled out her backpack. She was caught between a desire to be polite and say goodbye and the urge to run into the house and hug her mom. Lena put up her hand like a crossing guard telling someone to stop. He took it as a wave, returned it, and drove away.
Lena pulled out her keys, unlocked the front door. The house smelled different, like popcorn and violet soap. Her mother was awake; she could hear her singing loudly along to the radio in the kitchen. The living room was mostly clean, with some kicked-off shoes on the floor. A cooking magazine drooped off the couch.
“Mom.”
Lena’s mother dropped the coffee mug she had been holding and hugged her. They were laughing and crying and Deziree was saying, “This is the best surprise.” In the flurry of hugging and emotions and I-missed-yous, Lena could see how her mother had changed. She was standing straight, her voice was clear, her eyes bright.
“Oh baby, you look rough.”
“I’m getting over a virus,” Lena said. “And I was feeling burned out, so.”
“Let me make you breakfast. Coffee.”
Her mother let go of her to pull out pancake batter, eggs, milk. The wall closest to the kitchen table had a long, forest-green streak on it. The rest of the wall was still painted cream. Color cards were taped to the wall: jade, eucalyptus, malachite, cactus, Joshua tree, fig, sea glass, sorcerer’s mist. Deziree heated butter in a pan and turned down the radio. The coffeemaker blew steam out its top. In the chair that used to be her grandma’s place at the table were two shoeboxes stacked on top of each other.
“What color are you thinking?”
“I was thinking perfect chameleon.”
It sounded gross, but it did look nice. A softer color. Although Lena preferred English cottage ivy.
“If you want, we can paint the kitchen while I’m here.”
Her mother laughed. She was wearing a robe Lena had never seen before—floral pinks, silky—over her usual sweatpants and tank top. Deziree poured batter into the pan.
“I like your robe.”
“It was a gift.”
Lena pulled out plates, silverware, mugs. She went to the refrigerator, found some bacon. She fried it on the burner next to her mother. Deziree kept pausing to touch Lena—the top of her head, a squeeze of her arm or her shoulder, a small hand in the middle of her back. Home was the sounds of them cooking together, their voices harmonizing when a song they both knew and liked came on the radio, her mother’s deep laugh. Lena pushed herself to be present, not to let her mind whir to why she was allowed here. Not to think, they’re only letting me see my mom because it will make me want to stay in the studies. I am being manipulated. Deziree made a pancake in the shape of an “L.”
After breakfast, Deziree carried the shoeboxes from the kitchen to the living room. Set them on the couch, patted the spot next to them.
“These are filled with some of Mom’s papers. I think she would have wanted you to have some of them.”
The top box had journals, loose sheets of paper, notes, letters, recipes. The other box had pictures of Lena when she was young. Second grade: a peony-pink dress with a frilly white collar, no front teeth. First grade: a pair of black overalls with a long-sleeve white shirt beneath it. More pictures, more papers.
“There are other boxes in her room,” Deziree said. “I’m just taking my time.”
“Mom, I can do it, if it’ll be easier. It’s not a problem for me.” It was, but she couldn’t stop herself from offering.
“I like it. It’s why I’m taking my time. I get to see her better. I’m not purple to let her go.”
Deziree paused. “I meant yet, not purple.”