Mom just looked at Lori. But that look was worse than any punishment Gram ever doled out. That look could have sliced bone. It was like Mom had the same kind of X-ray vision as the superheroes on the TV shows Mike and Joey watched—like she’d seen clear to the ugly depths of Lori’s soul and pronounced, I don’t want you as my daughter.
Chuck felt like he was four years old again, getting carsick just riding into town. The feel of Mom’s hand on his back was the same, the sound of her voice was the same: “It’s okay, Chuck. You’ll be fine.”
Chuck could close his eyes and see the weeds by the side of the road back home: Queen Anne’s lace and milkweed, cornflowers and foxtail, dandelions and clover. And a little boy crouched down in those weeds, his mother bent over him, comforting him: “It’s okay, Chuck. You’ll be fine.”
It sounded all backward, but those were some of his happiest memories from childhood, getting carsick. Not the sick part—that wasn’t any fun. But afterward, he and Mom would be there in the weeds, not moving, the sky bright blue overhead, the ground solid beneath their feet. And then they’d get back in the car, where Lori and baby Mike waited patiently in their car seats. Lori wasn’t even big enough to see over the front seat, where Chuck had to sit. But she’d call out to him in her little-girl voice, “Chuckie okay? Chuckie okay?” So worried. Neither one of them liked having to sit apart.
That was when they were best friends. That was before.
Did Lori remember at all?
Mom still had her hand on Chuck’s back, but she was asking Lori, “Are you all right? You don’t feel queasy, do you?”
Chuck’s ears were still ringing so badly, he couldn’t make out Lori’s answer, but he could hear the cruelty in her voice. The contempt. That brought him back.
He wasn’t four years old anymore. He was fifteen. Carsick four-year-olds were still cute and lovable. Fifteen-year-olds who threw up on planes were disgusting. He deserved whatever Lori had said.
Chuck shook Mom’s hand off his back.
“I’ll go get cleaned up,” he mumbled.
The man who met them at the airport was black.
Somehow that made it worse, the way they were presenting themselves: Lori, all rumpled in her stupid homemade dress; Chuck, still reeking of vomit, even though he and Mom had all but hosed him off; and Mom—well, even Lori had to admit that Mom still looked pretty good. How could she have stayed clean, sitting right there beside Chuck while he was doing his impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, spewing every which way? It wasn’t fair.
Not that Lori really wanted Mom covered in vomit.
Did she?
Lori couldn’t think straight after that look Mom had given her. She still felt as shaky and jolted and scramble-brained as she’d felt the time she’d touched an electric fence on a dare.
And that was a shame, because she really wanted to think about what it meant that the man who met them at the airport was black.
There weren’t any black people in Pickford County.
Or African Americans—some of the more with-it teachers at Pickford High said you were supposed to call them African Americans now.
From the moment the man had come over to greet them, Lori had wanted to assure him, I’m not prejudiced. Everybody says people in Pickford County are prejudiced, but I’m not. So don’t worry.
Mom was talking to the man as if she hadn’t even noticed he was black.
“Yes, I think we should get Chuck some Dramamine for the next flight. Or those pressure bracelets—I’ve heard those are very effective.”
“Good idea!” the man exclaimed. “My wife and I went on a cruise last winter, and it seemed like everyone we met had those bracelets. Now, that’s a cure I wish I’d invested in ten years ago.”
He was leading them through a maze of people as he talked. Lori almost wished she were young enough to get away with holding someone’s hand, so she wouldn’t get lost. She caught snatches of other people’s conversation—“caught the twelve-thirty flight” . . . “get to Atlanta before my meeting.” A woman was making an announcement over the public-address system, and it didn’t even sound like she was speaking English. Lori wished Emma were along so she could hold her hand and pretend it was for Emma’s sake.
Suddenly the black man stopped. Lori was trailing him so closely, she almost bumped into him.
“Oh, I didn’t even think,” he said. “I’m sure one of the shops here would carry those bracelets. Do you want to look for them now, before we get your luggage?”
There were shops all around. Just walking from the gate, they’d already passed more stores than were on all of Main Street in downtown Pickford.