Free Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr Page B

what happened between then and now. I wish there was a way to put your finger on the map of life and trace backwards, to figure out exactly when things had changed so much: when we started getting the dregs of Dad, if that was before or after the drinking getting bad. If one caused the other, or if it was true what they say about it not being anyone’s fault but instead genetics, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. My great-grandpa was an alcoholic, and sometimes my grandma in Michigan doesn’t know how to stop once she starts. Still, it doesn’t explain how one summer there were real smiles and yard projects and watching the stars together, and then what seemed like minutes later the yard and everything else were a total mess.
    “Wildflowers do pretty well in the heat,” Cal says from behind the register. “The ones on the rack should be right for this region.”
    “Oh,” I say, turning, “I didn’t bring money. I’m just kind of… looking.”
    He opens the register. “I’m sure I can advance you a couple of dollars. Just have your folks take care of it next time they’re in.”
    There’s only one folk right now, I want to say, and he’s trying to get me out of the way so he can focus on the truly important stuff. Like Jody and her family. “Are you sure?” I ask.
    He nods. “Pick one and take it, it’s fine.” I take a packet of seeds for flowers that look small and undemanding, and bring it to the register so that he can make up an IOU.
    “Thanks.” I turn toward the door to leave.
    When I’m almost there, he calls after me. “Be careful out there.”
    “I will.”
    And I leave the store, the bells jingling behind me.
    Back at home, I lie on my parents’ bed, under the ceiling fan. I roll to my mom’s side, smelling her pillow, but whatever trace of her there’d been is aired out and washed out. I stare at my cell phone for a long time, the New Beginnings card next to me on the blanket. Maybe there’s a good reason she can’t call me, like she’s in group meetings and counseling and whatever else they make you do in rehab.
    Even if there is a good reason, and honestly I can’t think of one, it still hurts.
    I had all these big plans for the yard today but now that I’m home I can’t get myself up and doing anything. Gravity is powerful. It’s still before noon, and I already slept like twelve hours last night, but my eyes want to close and I let them.
    Pretty soon, I’m asleep.
    I dream of Jody. She’s in a hole in the ground, looking up. All I can see is her dirty, looking-up face, and there’s no one around but me. No context, no sense of if I’m in Pineview or in a forest or a desert. Just me, Jody, and the hole. I lower a ladder. But instead of Jody climbing up, I climb down. We’re both in the hole, staring at each other. She looks older than her picture on the flyer; her braces are off. She holds out her hand. I grab it. And then I wake up.
    In the yard, I struggle with the black plastic sheeting, which I probably shouldn’t be doing since it’s early afternoon, the hottest part of the day. My cell phone rings. It’s Erin.
    “Ah-ha,” she says when I answer. “Your dad suspected you might answer if it was me and not him.”
    I move into a shady spot, kicking the pile of sheeting into a manageable lump. “You’re with my dad?”
    “I’m at the office. Just taking care of some youth group business. Speaking of which, we’re getting together tonight at Vanessa’s to bake brownies and take them over to Nick’s. It’s the best we could think of right now.”
    It’s easy to see how this will go: Dad takes me to youth group, and since it’s at Vanessa’s he’ll say why don’t I just pack a bag to stay over, thereby denying me the one more night at home he promised me this morning. Which somehow feels important.
    “I’m still not feeling super great,” I say. “I should probably stay home.”
    “It will not be strenuous, I promise. And you’ll be well