Free Define "Normal" by Julie Anne Peters Page A

flickering neon sign was exactly as Michael had described it. The A and Y were burned out. It wasn’t a hotel, though. Just a rundown, sleazy motel off the highway ramp. I’d forgotten to ask Michael what room. It didn’t matter. He was huddling outside one of the red doors.
    I took a deep breath. “You can just pull in over there.” I pointed. “By that kid.”
    Mrs. Luther whipped the Beamer into one of the dozen empty spaces and turned off the ignition.
    “You don’t have to come in,” I told her, lifting the door handle.
    “Nonsense,” she said.

    “No—”
    But she was already out of the car and heading toward the room. Jazz scurried out behind her.
    Michael scrambled to his feet when he saw us. “This is my brother Michael,” I introduced them.
    Mrs. Luther reached out a gloved hand. His scared eyes met mine. I didn’t know what to do either, so I nodded okay. He shook the hand limply. She said, “We’ve come to help.”
    Then go away, I thought. Get in that Beamer and drive back to paradise. Leave us alone here in hell.
    “How’s … everyone?” I asked Michael.
    He caught my drift. “Not good.”
    “Why don’t we go inside out of the cold?” Mrs. Luther suggested.
    Michael met my eyes. His sick expression mirrored my feeling of foreboding.
    Mrs. Luther opened the door.
    Chuckie lay curled in a ball on the single bed, his thumb in his mouth. “That’s my other brother, Chuckie,” I said quietly “Let’s just get him and go.”
    “Where’s your mother?” Jazz asked.
    I shot eye-daggers at Jazz. She didn’t flinch, just continued to hold my gaze. Then she blinked off and looked at Michael. His eyes strayed to the corner. Don’t look, I pleaded silently.
    But she did.
    There, behind the TV, sat Mom. She was hunched up, hugging her knees on the filthy floor. “Mrs. Dillon?” Jazz’s mom said softly.
    A sort of whimper rose from Mom’s throat. A wounded-animal sound. Mrs. Luther approached and knelt down in front of Mom. She touched her shoulder. “What’s your mother’s name, Antonia?” she asked without taking her eyes off Mom.
    “Patrice,” I replied.
    “Patrice. I’m a friend, Patrice. Can you hear me?”
    Mom whimpered and scrunched up tighter. I walked over and pulled Mom’s dress down over her knees so you couldn’t see … you know. “She gets like this sometimes,” I said. “When she doesn’t take her medicine.”
    “Medicine? What kind of medicine?” Mrs. Luther stood up suddenly.
    I stepped back. “I don’t know. Something for her nerves.”
    “Oh.” Mrs. Luther frowned. “Do you know her doctor’s name?”
    “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.” My voice caught.
    “All right.” Mrs. Luther removed her gloves and stuck them in her purse. “I’m going to the motel office to make a few phone calls. Antonia, Jazz, you get Chuckie and Michael into the car.” She handed Jazz the keys. “I’ll be back to help with your mother,” she said to me. Her hand grasped mine and squeezed. “Don’t worry, Antonia. Everything’s under control. Everything’s going to be fine.”
    Fine, I thought. Whose definition?
    After she left, Michael grabbed my coat sleeve. “Why’d you bring her?” he snarled. “She’s going to ruin everything.”
    I stared at the motel door. He was right. But for some reason, I felt relieved.
    Jazz said, “Don’t worry, Michael.” Her words didn’t convey much comfort, especially when she added, “My mother’s a control freak. Believe her when she says everything’s under control.”
    “Where are we going?” Michael asked as soon as we were all bundled in the car and driving away. Mom was strapped in up front next to Mrs. Luther, while the four of us crammed together in back. Chuckie lay in my lap, sucking away on his thumb. Out the window, I watched the wavering Wayfarer sign slowly disappear in the distance. “Are you taking us to the cops?” Michael asked.
    Mrs. Luther glanced back at him. She smiled. “Of course not,