Amy And Roger's Epic Detour Part 1

Amy and Roger's Epic Detour.

by Morgan Matson

Acknowledgments.

First and foremost, I owe huge and heartfelt thanks to Alexandra Cooper, every writer's dream editor. Thank you so much for your editorial brilliance, patience, kindness, and humor. I couldn't have taken this journey without you.

Thank you to Rosemary Stimola, agent extraordinaire and source of endless wisdom.

Many, many thanks and much grat.i.tude to everyone at Simon & Schuster for going so far above and so far beyond. Thanks especially to Justin Chanda, Lizzy Bromley, Krista Vossen, and Julia Maguire.

This book, in its infancy, began at the New School's MFA program. I owe huge thanks and dozens of cupcakes to the faculty and my fellow students for their invaluable input: David Levithan, Tor Seidler, Sarah Weeks, Amalia Ellison, Lucas Klauss, Maude Bond, Lisa Preziosi, Zach Miller, and Reinhardt Suarez.

Thanks to my mother, Jane Finn, for all her support and encouragement-and for driving across the country with me in a '98 Volkswagen Cabrio. Twice.

Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian-thank you for being my writing buddies in coffee shops all over Brooklyn, and for helping me to find words when I thought I was out of them. Also, for sharing your pastries.

Thanks to Jason Matson, Lola and Jesse Meyers, Laura Martin, Naomi Cutner, and Kate Stayman-London.

And above all, thanks to Amalia Ellison, my best friend. Without you, this book-and so much else-would never have been possible.

1.

Miss California

Eureka [I have found it]

-California state motto.

I sat on the front steps of my house and watched the beige Subaru station wagon swing too quickly around the cul-de-sac. This was a rookie mistake, one made by countless FedEx guys. There were only three houses on Raven Crescent, and most people had reached the end before they'd realized it. Charlie's stoner friends had never remembered and would always just swing around the circle again before pulling into our driveway. Rather than using this technique, the Subaru stopped, brake lights flas.h.i.+ng red, then white as it backed around the circle and stopped in front of the house. Our driveway was short enough that I could read the car's b.u.mper stickers: MY SON WAS RANDOLPH HALL'S STUDENT OF THE MONTH MY SON WAS RANDOLPH HALL'S STUDENT OF THE MONTH and and MY KID AND MY $$$ GO TO COLORADO COLLEGE MY KID AND MY $$$ GO TO COLORADO COLLEGE. There were two people in the car talking, doing the awkward car-conversation thing where you still have seat belts on, so you can't fully turn and face the other person.

Halfway up the now overgrown lawn was the sign that had been there for the last three months, the inanimate object I'd grown to hate with a depth of feeling that worried me sometimes. It was a Realtor's sign, featuring a picture of a smiling, overly hairsprayed blond woman. FOR SALE FOR SALE, the sign read, and then in bigger letters underneath that, WELCOME WELCOME HOME. HOME.

I had puzzled over the capitalization ever since the sign went up and still hadn't come up with an explanation. All I could determine was that it must have been a nice thing to see if it was a house you were thinking about moving into. But not so nice if it was the house you were moving out from. I could practically hear Mr. Collins, who had taught my fifth-grade English cla.s.s and was still the most intimidating teacher I'd ever had, yelling at me. "Amy Curry," I could still hear him intoning, "never end a sentence with a preposition!" Irked that after six years he was still mentally correcting me, I told the Mr. Collins in my head to off f.u.c.k. end a sentence with a preposition!" Irked that after six years he was still mentally correcting me, I told the Mr. Collins in my head to off f.u.c.k.

I had never thought I'd see a Realtor's sign on our lawn. Until three months ago, my life had seemed boringly settled. We lived in Raven Rock, a suburb of Los Angeles, where my parents were both professors at College of the West, a small school that was a ten-minute drive from our house. It was close enough for an easy commute, but far enough away that you couldn't hear the frat party noise on Sat.u.r.day nights. My father taught history (The Civil War and Reconstruction), my mother English literature (Modernism).

My twin brother, Charlie-three minutes younger-had gotten a perfect verbal score on his PSAT and had just barely escaped a possession charge when he'd managed to convince the cop who'd busted him that the ounce of pot in his backpack was, in fact, a rare California herb blend known as Humboldt, and that he was actually an apprentice at the Pasadena Culinary Inst.i.tute.

I had just started to get leads in the plays at our high school and had made out three times with Michael Young, college freshman, major undecided. Things weren't perfect-my BFF, Julia Andersen, had moved to Florida in January-but in retrospect, I could see that they had actually been pretty wonderful. I just hadn't realized it at the time. I'd always a.s.sumed things would stay pretty much the same.

I looked out at the strange Subaru and the strangers inside still talking and thought, not for the first time, what an idiot I'd been. And there was a piece of me-one that never seemed to appear until it was late and I was maybe finally about to get some sleep-that wondered if I'd somehow caused it all, by simply counting on the fact that things wouldn't change. In addition, of course, to all the other ways I'd caused it.

My mother decided to put the house on the market almost immediately after the accident. Charlie and I hadn't been consulted, just informed. Not that it would have done any good at that point to ask Charlie anyway. Since it happened, he had been almost constantly high. People at the funeral had murmured sympathetic things when they'd seen him, a.s.suming that his bloodshot eyes were a result of crying. But apparently, these people had no olfactory senses, as anyone downwind of Charlie could smell the real reason. He'd had been partying on a semiregular basis since seventh grade, but had gotten more into it this past year. And after the accident happened, it got much, much much worse, to the point where not-high Charlie became something of a mythic figure, dimly remembered, like the yeti. worse, to the point where not-high Charlie became something of a mythic figure, dimly remembered, like the yeti.

The solution to our problems, my mother had decided, was to move. "A fresh start," she'd told us one night at dinner. "A place without so many memories." The Realtor's sign had gone up the next day.

We were moving to Connecticut, a state I'd never been to and harbored no real desire to move to. Or, as Mr. Collins would no doubt prefer, a state to which I harbored no real desire to move. My grandmother lived there, but she had always come to visit us, since, well, we lived in Southern California and she lived in Connecticut. But my mother had been offered a position with Stanwich College's English department. And nearby there was, apparently, a great local high school that she was sure we'd just love. The college had helped her find an available house for rent, and as soon as Charlie and I finished up our junior year, we would all move out there, while the WELCOME WELCOME HOME Realtor sold our house here. HOME Realtor sold our house here.

At least, that had been the plan. But a month after the sign had appeared on the lawn, even my mother hadn't been able to keep pretending she didn't see what was going on with Charlie. The next thing I knew, she'd pulled him out of school and installed him in a teen rehab facility in North Carolina. And then she'd gone straight on to Connecticut to teach some summer courses at the college and to "get things settled." At least, that's why she said she had to leave. But I had a pretty strong suspicion that she wanted to get away from me. After all, it seemed like she could barely stand to look at me. Not that I blamed her. I could barely stand to look at myself most days.

So I'd spent the last month alone in our house, except for Hildy the Realtor popping in with prospective house buyers, almost always when I was just out of the shower, and my aunt, who came down occasionally from Santa Barbara to make sure I was managing to feed myself and hadn't started making meth in the backyard. The plan was simple: I'd finish up the school year, then head to Connecticut. It was just the car that caused the problem.

The people in the Subaru were still talking, but it looked like they'd taken off their seat belts and were facing each other. I looked at our two-car garage that now had only one car parked in it, the only one we still had. It was my mother's car, a red Jeep Liberty. She needed the car in Connecticut, since it was getting complicated to keep borrowing my grandmother's ancient Coupe deVille. Apparently, my grandmother was missing a lot of bridge games and didn't care that my mother kept needing to go to Bed Bath & Beyond. My mother had told me her solution to the car problem a week ago, last Thursday night.

It had been the opening night of the spring musical, Candide Candide, and for the first time after a show, there hadn't been anyone waiting for me in the lobby. In the past, I'd always shrugged my parents and Charlie off quickly, accepting their bouquets of flowers and compliments, but already thinking about the cast party. I hadn't realized, until I walked into the lobby with the rest of the cast, what it would be like not to have anyone there waiting for me, to tell me "Good show." I'd taken a cab home almost immediately, not even sure where the cast party was going to be held. The rest of the cast-the people who'd been my closest friends only three months ago-were laughing and talking together as I packed up my show bag and waited outside the school for my cab. I'd told them repeatedly I wanted to be left alone, and clearly they had listened. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. I'd found out that if you pushed people away hard enough, they tended to go.

I'd been standing in the kitchen, my Cunegonde makeup heavy on my skin, my false eyelashes beginning to irritate my eyes, and the "Best of All Possible Worlds" song running through my head, when the phone rang.

"Hi, hon," my mother said with a yawn when I answered the phone. I looked at the clock and realized it was nearing one a.m. in Connecticut. "How are you?"

I thought about telling her the truth. But since I hadn't done that in almost three months, and she hadn't seemed to notice, there didn't seem to be any point in starting now. "Fine," I said, which was my go-to answer. I put some of last night's dinner-Casa Bianca pizza-in the microwave and set it to reheat.

"So listen," my mother said, causing my guard to go up. That was how she usually prefaced any information she was about to give me that I wasn't going to like. And she was speaking too quickly, another giveaway. "It's about the car."

"The car?" I set the pizza on the plate to cool. Without my noticing, it had stopped being a plate and had become the the plate. I was pretty much just using, then was.h.i.+ng, the one plate. It was as though all the rest of the dishes had become superfluous. plate. I was pretty much just using, then was.h.i.+ng, the one plate. It was as though all the rest of the dishes had become superfluous.

"Yes," she said, stifling another yawn. "I've been looking at the cost to have it s.h.i.+pped on a car carrier, along with the cost of your plane fare, and well ..." She paused. "I'm afraid it's just not possible right now. With the house still not sold, and the cost of your brother's facility ..."

"What do you mean?" I asked, not following. I took a tentative bite of pizza.

"We can't afford both," she said. "And I need the car. So I'm going to need it driven out here."

The pizza was still too hot, but I swallowed it anyway, and felt my throat burn and my eyes water. "I can't drive," I said, when I felt I could speak again. I hadn't driven since the accident, and had no plans to start again any time soon. Or ever. I could feel my throat constrict at the thought, but I forced the words out. "You know that. I won't."

"Oh, you won't have to drive!" She was speaking too brightly for someone who'd been yawning a moment before. "Marilyn's son is going to drive. He needs to come East anyway, to spend the summer with his father in Philadelphia, so it all works out."

There were so many things wrong with that sentence I wasn't sure where to begin. "Marilyn?" I asked, starting at the beginning.

"Marilyn Sullivan," she said. "Or I suppose it's Marilyn Harper now. I keep forgetting she changed it back after the divorce. Anyway, you know my friend Marilyn. The Sullivans used to live over on Holloway, until the divorce, then she moved to Pasadena. But you and Roger were always playing that game. What's it called? Potato? Yam?"

"Spud," I said automatically. "Who's Roger?"

She let out one of her long sighs, the kind designed to let me know that I was trying her patience. "Marilyn's son," she said. "Roger Sullivan. You remember him."

My mother was always telling me what I remembered, as if that would make it true. "No, I don't."

"Of course you do. You just said you used to play that game."

"I remember Spud," I said. I wondered, not for the first time, why every conversation I had with my mother had to be so difficult. "I don't remember anyone named Roger. Or Marilyn, for that matter."

"Well," she said, and I could hear her voice straining to stay upbeat, "you'll have a chance to get to know him now. I've mapped out an itinerary for you two. It should take you four days."

Questions about who remembered what now seemed unimportant. "Wait a second," I said, holding on to the kitchen counter for support. "You want me to spend four days in a car with someone I've never met?"

"I told you, you've met," my mother said, clearly ready to be finished with this conversation. "And Marilyn says he's a lovely boy. He's doing us a big favor, so please be appreciative."

"But Mom," I started, "I ..." I didn't know what was going to follow. Maybe something about how I hated being in cars now. I'd been okay taking the bus to and from school, but my cab ride home that night had made my pulse pound hard enough that I could feel it in my throat. Also, I'd gotten used to being by myself and I liked it that way. The thought of spending that much time in a car, with a stranger, lovely or not, was making me feel like I might hyperventilate.

"Amy," my mother said with a deep sigh. "Please don't be difficult."

Of course I wasn't going to be difficult. That was Charlie's job. I was never difficult, and clearly my mother was counting on that. "Okay," I said in a small voice. I was hoping that she'd pick up on how much I didn't want to do this. But if she did, she ignored it.

"Good," she said, briskness coming back into her voice. "Once I make your hotel reservations, I'll e-mail you the itinerary. And I ordered you a gift for the trip. It should be there before you leave."

I realized my mother hadn't actually been asking. I looked down at the pizza on the counter, but I had lost my appet.i.te.

"Oh, by the way," she added, remembering. "How was the show?"

And now the show had closed, finals were over, and at the end of the driveway was a Subaru with Roger the Spud Player inside. Over the past week, I'd tried to think back to see if I could recall a Roger. And I had remembered one of the neighborhood kids, one with blond hair and ears that stuck out too far, clutching a maroon superball and calling for me and Charlie, trying to get a game together. Charlie would have remembered more details-despite his extracurriculars, he had a memory like an elephant-but Charlie wasn't exactly around to ask.

Both doors of the Subaru opened, and a woman who looked around my mother's age-presumably Marilyn-got out, followed by a tall, lanky guy. His back was to me as Marilyn opened the hatchback and took out a stuffed army-style duffel and a backpack. She set them on the ground, and the two of them hugged. The guy-presumably Roger-was at least a head taller than she was, and ducked a little bit to hug her back. I expected to hear good-byes, but all I heard him say was "Don't be a stranger." Marilyn laughed, as though she'd been expecting this. As they stepped apart, she met my gaze and smiled at me. I nodded back, and she got into the car. It pulled around the cul-de-sac, and Roger stood staring after it, raising one hand in a wave.

When the car had vanished from sight, he shouldered his bags and began walking toward the house. As soon as he turned toward me, I blinked in surprise. The sticking-out ears were gone. The guy coming toward me was shockingly good-looking. He had broad shoulders, light brown hair, dark eyes, and he was already smiling at me.

I knew in that instant the trip had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.

But I think it only fair to warn you, all those songs about California lied.

-The Lucksmiths.

I stood up and walked down the steps to meet him in the driveway. I was suddenly very conscious that I was barefoot, in old jeans and the show T-s.h.i.+rt from last year's musical. This had become my de facto outfit, and I'd put it on that morning automatically, without considering the possibility that this Roger guy might be disarmingly cute.

And he really was, I saw now that he was closer. He had wide hazel eyes and unfairly long lashes, a scattering of freckles, and an air of easy confidence. I felt myself shrinking in a little in his presence.

"Hey," he said, dropping his bags and holding out his hand to me. I paused for a second-n.o.body I knew shook hands-but then extended my hand to him, and we shook quickly. "I'm Roger Sullivan. You're Amy, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. The word stuck in my throat a little, and I cleared it and swallowed. "I mean, yes. Hi." I twisted my hands together and looked at the ground. I could feel my heart pounding and wondered when a simple introduction had changed to something unfamiliar and scary.

"You look different," Roger said after a moment, and I looked up at him to see him studying me. What he mean by that? Different from what he'd been expecting? What had he been expecting? "Different than you used to look," he clarified, as though he'd just read my thoughts. "I remember you from when we were kids, you and your brother. But you still have the red hair."

I touched it self-consciously. Charlie and I both had it, and when we were younger, and together all the time, people were always stopping us to point it out, as though we'd never noticed ourselves. Charlie's had darkened over time to auburn, whereas mine stayed vividly red. I hadn't minded it until recently. Lately it seemed to attract attention, when that was the last thing I wanted. I tucked it behind my ears, trying not to pull on it. It had started falling out about a month ago, a fact that was worrying me, but I was trying not to think about it too much. I told myself that it was the stress of finals, or the lack of iron in my mostly pizza diet. But usually, I tried not to brush my hair too hard, hoping it would just stop on its own.

"Oh," I said, realizing that Roger was waiting for me to say something. It was like even the basic rules of conversation had deserted me. "Um, yeah. I still have it. Charlie's is actually darker now, but he's ... um ... not here." My mother hadn't told anyone about Charlie's rehab and had asked me to tell people the cover she made up. "He's in North Carolina," I said. "At an academic enrichment program." I pressed my lips together and looked away, wis.h.i.+ng that he would leave and I could go back inside and shut the door, where n.o.body would try and talk to me and I could be alone with my routine. I was out of practice talking to cute guys. I was out of practice talking to anyone.

Right after it happened, I hadn't said much. I didn't want to talk about it and didn't want to open the door for people to ask me how I was feeling about things. And it wasn't like my mother or Charlie even tried. Maybe the two of them had talked to each other, but neither of them talked to me. But that was understandable-I was sure both of them blamed me. And I blamed myself, so it made sense that we weren't exactly sharing our feelings around the kitchen table. Dinners were mostly silent, with Charlie either sweaty and jumpy or swaying slightly, eyes glazed, as my mother focused on her plate. The pa.s.sing back and forth of dishes and condiments, and then the cutting and chewing and swallowing process, seemed to take up so much time and focus that it was really amazing to think we'd once had conversations around the dinner table. And even if I did think about saying something occasionally, the silence of the empty chair to my left killed that impulse.

At school my teachers had left me alone, not calling on me for the first month afterward. And then after that, I guess it just became habit that they didn't. It seemed like people could revise who you were very quickly, and they seemed to have forgotten that I once used to raise my hand and give my opinions, that I once had something to say about the Boxer Rebellion or symbolism in The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby.

My friends had gotten the message pretty quickly that I didn't want to talk to them about it. And without talking about it, it became clear that then we really couldn't talk about anything. After not very long, we just stopped trying, and soon I couldn't tell if I was avoiding them or they were avoiding me.

Julia was the one exception. I hadn't told her what had happened. I knew that if I told her, she wasn't going to let me off the hook. She wasn't going to go away easily. And she didn't. She'd found out, of course, and had called me constantly right after, calls I let go to voice mail. The calls had tapered off, but she'd started e-mailing instead. They came every few days now, with subjects like "Checking In" and "Worried About You" and "For G.o.d's Sake, Amy." I let them pile up in my in-box, unread. I wasn't exactly sure why I was doing it, but I knew that if I talked to Julia about it, it would become real in some way I couldn't quite handle.

But as I looked at Roger, I also realized that it had been awhile since I'd had an interaction with a guy. Not since the night of the funeral, when I'd invited myself to Michael's dorm room, knowing exactly what was going to happen. When I left an hour later, I was disappointed, even though I'd gotten exactly what I thought I wanted.

"It's not true, you know," said Roger. I looked at him, trying to figure out what he meant. "Your s.h.i.+rt," he said, pointing. I glanced down at the faded blue cotton, emblazoned with ANYONE CAN WHISTLE ANYONE CAN WHISTLE. "I can't," he continued cheerfully. "Never have been able to."

"It's a musical," I said shortly. He nodded, and silence fell, and I couldn't think of anything else to say on the subject. "I should get my things," I said, turning to the house, wondering how the h.e.l.l we were ever going to get through four days.

"Sure," he said. "I'll load my stuff in. Do you need a hand?"

"No," I said, heading up the stairs. "The car's open." Then I escaped inside, where it was blessedly cool and dark and quiet and I was alone. I took a breath, savoring the silence, then continued into the kitchen.

The gift my mother had sent was sitting on the kitchen table. It had arrived a few days ago, but I hadn't opened it. If I opened it, it meant that the trip was actually going to happen. But there was no denying it now-the proof was making comments about my T-s.h.i.+rt and putting his duffel bag in the car. I tore open the package and shook out a book. It was heavy and spiral-bound, with a dark blue cover. AWAY YOU GO! AWAY YOU GO! was printed in white fifties-style script. And underneath that, was printed in white fifties-style script. And underneath that, Traveler's Companion. Journal/Sc.r.a.pbook/Helpful Hints Traveler's Companion. Journal/Sc.r.a.pbook/Helpful Hints.

I picked it up and flipped through it. It seemed to be mostly blank pages, with a sc.r.a.pbook section for preserving "Your Lasting Memories" and a journal section for recording "Your Wandering Thoughts." There also seemed to be quizzes, packing lists, and traveling tips. I shut the book and looked at it incredulously. This was the "present" my mother sent me for the trip? Seriously?

I tossed it on the counter. I wasn't about to be tricked into thinking this was some sort of fun, exciting adventure. It was a purely functional trip that I was being forced to take. So I didn't see any reason to make sure I'd always remember it. People didn't buy souvenirs from airports they'd had layovers in.

I walked through the rooms on the first floor of the house, making sure that everything was in order. And everything was-Hildy the Realtor had made sure of that. All our furniture was still there-she preferred not to sell empty houses-but it no longer even felt like ours. Ever since my mother hired her, she'd taken over our house to the point where I sometimes had trouble remembering what it used to feel like when we were all just living in it, and it wasn't being sold to people as the place where they'd always be happy. It had started to feel more like a set than a house. Too many deluded young marrieds had traipsed through it, seeing only the square footage and ventilation, polluting it with their furniture dreams and imagined Christmases. Every time Hildy finished a showing and I was allowed to come back from walking around the neighborhood with my iPod blasting Sondheim, I could always sense the house moving further away from what it had been when it was ours. Strange perfume lingered in the air, things were put in the wrong place, and a few more of the memories that resided in the walls seemed to have vanished.

I climbed the stairs to my room, which no longer resembled the place I'd lived my whole life. Instead it looked like the ideal teen girl's room, with everything just so-meticulously arranged stacks of books, alphabetized CDs, and carefully folded piles of clothing. It now looked like "Amy!'s" room. It was neat, orderly, and devoid of personality-probably much like the imaginary s.h.i.+ny-haired girl who lived in it. Amy! was probably someone who baked goods for various sports teams and cheered wholeheartedly at pep rallies without contemplating the utter pointlessness of sports or wanting to liven things up with a little torch song medley. Amy! probably babysat adorable moppets up the street and smiled sweetly in cla.s.s pictures and was the kind of teen that any parent would want. She probably would have giggled and flirted with the cute guy in her driveway, rather than failing miserably at a simple conversation and running away. Amy! had not, in all probability, killed anyone recently.

My gaze fell to my nightstand, which had on it only my alarm clock and a thin paperback, Food, Gas, and Lodging Food, Gas, and Lodging. It was my father's favorite book, and he'd given me his battered copy for Christmas. When I'd opened it, I'd been disappointed-I'd been hoping for a new cell phone. And it had probably been totally obvious to him that I hadn't been excited about the present. It was thoughts like that, wondering if I had hurt his feelings, that ran through my head at three a.m., ensuring that I wouldn't get any sleep.

When he'd given it to me, I hadn't gotten any further than the t.i.tle page. I'd read his inscription: To my Amy-this book has seen me To my Amy-this book has seen me through many journeys. Hoping you enjoy it as much as I have. With love, Benjamin Curry (your father through many journeys. Hoping you enjoy it as much as I have. With love, Benjamin Curry (your father). But then I'd stuck it on my nightstand and hadn't opened it again until a few weeks ago, when I'd finally started reading it. As I read, I found myself wondering with every turn of the page why I couldn't have done this months ago. I'd read to page sixty-one and stopped. Marking page sixty-two was a note card with my father's writing on it, some notes about Lincoln's secretary, part of the research he'd been doing for a book. But it was in the novel as a bookmark. Page sixty-one was the place he'd gotten to when he'd last read it, and somehow I couldn't bring myself to turn the page and read beyond that.

I still had no idea what Walter saw. I wasn't sure I was ever going to know. But I wasn't about to leave the book behind. I picked it up and tucked it carefully in my purse. I gave the room a last look, turned out the light, dragged my rolling suitcase out into the hall, and closed the door behind me. It was actually a relief not to see the room anymore. In the past month, I'd spent almost no time in it, cras.h.i.+ng downstairs on the couch most nights and just heading up to get clothes. It was too stark a reminder of my life Before. And it still didn't make any sense to me that absolutely everything in my life could have changed, that it all could have become After, but the pictures on my walls and the junk in the back of my closet remained the same. And after Hildy's Amy! makeover, it seemed like the room had become a version of myself that I would never live up to.

I was about to drag my suitcase downstairs, but I stopped and looked down the hall to my parents' bedroom. I hadn't been in it since the morning of the funeral, when I'd stood in the doorway so my mother could see if the black dress I'd chosen was appropriate.

I walked down the hall, pa.s.sing Charlie's bedroom, which was adjacent to mine. The door to Charlie's room had been closed ever since my mother slammed it behind her after she had literally yanked him out of it one month earlier. I opened the door to the master bedroom and stood on the threshold. Though tidier than it once had been, this room was at least still recognizable, with its neatly made king-size bed and stacks of books on each nightstand. I noticed that the books on my father's side, thick historical biographies alternating with thin paperback mysteries, were beginning to gather dust. I looked away quickly, reminding myself to breathe. It felt like I was underwater and running out of oxygen, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to stay there much longer. The door to my father's closet was ajar, and I could see inside it the tie rack Charlie had made for him in fifth-grade woodshop with his ties still hanging on it, all preknotted to save him time in the morning.

Trying to quash the panicky feeling that was beginning to rise, I turned away from my father's side of the room and crossed to my mother's dresser. On an impulse, I pulled open her top drawer-socks and stockings-and reached into the very back, on the left side. The drawer was emptier than usual, but even so, it took me a second to find it. But when my fingers closed around something smooth and plastic, I knew that Charlie had been telling the truth. I pulled it out and saw that it was an ancient pantyhose egg, with L'EGGS L'EGGS printed on the side in gold script that was flaking off. I cracked the egg open and saw, as promised, that the egg was stuffed with cash. printed on the side in gold script that was flaking off. I cracked the egg open and saw, as promised, that the egg was stuffed with cash.

Charlie had told me that he'd found it sometime last year-I hadn't wanted to ask how or why. But there was a piece of me that registered how desperate he must have been to have found the money my mother kept hidden in her sock drawer. That was about the time I started noticing just how far gone he actually was. Charlie had told me that he only dipped into it in case of emergencies and was always careful to put the money back, since he was sure Mom would notice. It always had six hundred dollars in it, mostly hundreds and fifties. Maybe Charlie had been too out of it by the end to care, or maybe he hadn't had time to replenish it before he found himself on a plane to North Carolina, but there was only four hundred dollars in it now.

I heard the front door slam downstairs and realized that Roger was probably wondering why it was taking me so long to get my suitcase. Not stopping to think about what I was doing, I pocketed the cash, snapped the egg shut, and put it back in its place. A piece of me was running through justifications-you couldn't trust these house hunters and shady Realtors, really I was just helping my mother out-but I knew none of them were the real reason I'd taken the money. So then why had I?

I pushed the thought away and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind me and dragging my suitcase down the stairs. When I reached the kitchen, I saw Roger standing in front of the fridge, staring at it. He looked at me as I thumped my suitcase onto the landing.

"All set?" he asked.