He walked out of the mall into the fresh air. Actually, the air wasn’t all that fresh, and there still wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. But Chuck could see the sky now.
The sidewalk was crowded, but nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to Chuck. Chuck liked that. Everyone ignored him at school, too, but that was a different kind of ignoring—it was like they were all just pretending to ignore him, so they could jump all over him and make fun of him as soon as he did something dumb.
Chuck decided he didn’t want to think about school right now.
He watched the faces of the people coming toward him. Nobody smiled and said, Hi, like they always did in town back home, but most people looked pleasant enough. Gram had warned him about big cities: “Your mom doesn’t think a thing about it, but they’ve got muggers who will rob you blind, right in broad daylight, and no one will even stop to call the police.” Chuck patted his front pocket, where he’d tucked a twenty-dollar bill. But his jeans were so tight, it would take some real doing to get that money away from him. He wasn’t going to worry.
Chuck wandered carelessly for a while, crossing the street when he had the light, turning the corner when he didn’t. He didn’t have a destination in mind. He was just glad to be away from home, away from Mom and Lori’s strange fight. He didn’t dare hope for anything else.
But then he walked under an elevated train track, and a building appeared in front of him. It was like a miracle or a mirage or magic. He read the words carved in stone three times, because he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
He had walked right up to the Art Institute of Chicago. An art museum.
If anyone had asked him if he’d wanted to go there, he would have said no. If he’d even known it existed, he would have veered in the other direction. But being there was enough of an invitation.
Breathing fast, Chuck began climbing the stone steps.
Another airplane.
Lori marveled at how familiar everything seemed: the pull-down table, the tiny window with its miniature shade, the button that lowered the seat back, the flight attendant demonstrating how to use the oxygen mask. This was only her second flight, but already she felt like an old pro at flying.
She was seated on the aisle this time. She looked up and down the other rows, and everyone else seemed comfortable with flying, too. It was weird to think that all Lori’s life, when she’d been going about her usual routine—doing algebra homework, watering the 4-H hogs, washing the dishes for Gram—there had been all these people in the air above her. It was another world.
Mom’s world.
Lori never really thought much about where Mom was when she away—she was either home or she wasn’t. And when she wasn’t home, she didn’t exist.
But that wasn’t how Lori had always thought of things. She could remember years and years and years ago, the first few trips Mom took. Then, Lori had asked Gram every five minutes, “Where’s Mommy now? What’s Mommy doing now?” She could almost see herself, maybe seven years old, sitting on the kitchen floor playing with her Barbies while Gram pulled loaves of bread out of the oven. Her hair stuck out in two ponytails on either side of her head, and she was asking Gram, “Is Mom cooking supper right now, too? What’s she going to have for supper?”
And every night after Gram tucked her into bed, she’d lay in the dark, vowing, “I’m not going to sleep until Mommy comes home. If I stay awake, she’ll come home now.” When Mom was away, it was like there was always some part of Lori tensed and waiting, even when she was at school, when she wouldn’t have seen Mom anyway.
She’d been at school when Daddy died.
But Gram promised that Mom was coming home. Gram said Mommy was just taking a short trip, and then she’d be back, and she’d probably never go away again.
Only, Mom kept going away. Her one night a month turned into a couple days every other week. And that turned into a week away for every week at home. Now it seemed weird when Mom was home for a whole week at a time.
Not that Lori really paid attention.
Lori remembered the exact moment she’d stopped caring. It was a night years and years ago, when Mom got home late, after bedtime. Lori was still awake, and Mom came in to give her a good-night kiss. Lori should have thrown her arms around Mom’s neck and whispered, I missed you. I love you. I’m so glad you’re home. But Lori squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.
She’d already gotten a good-night kiss from Gram. She didn’t need another one.
Now Lori sneaked a glance over at Mom, in the middle seat. Mom had her head back and her eyes closed, and Lori wondered if she might have even fallen asleep. Every few seconds she winced, as if she had a headache or bad dreams.