The Art of Adapting Page 8

  “Excuse me?” Byron asked, looking behind him to see if he’d dropped something.

  “That move. Parkour.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Hopping over stuff without stopping.”

  “Um, I think it’s called free running?” Byron said. “I’m just trying it out.”

  “It’s called parkour in France, where it was invented. But free running is the same thing.” She put the empty glass pitcher and tub of Country Time on the counter and slid both toward Byron. “There’s a parkour club on campus. You should come watch them sometime. They’re badasses.”

  Betsy strolled toward the sliding glass doors, gyrating all of her curves the whole way there, holding the menu to her chest.

  “Hey, Bets?” Byron called. She turned and gave him a bored look. Trent always called her Bets, and suddenly Byron couldn’t remember if she liked it or hated it. “You, uh, want ice in your lemonade?”

  “I sure do.” She smiled, gave him a little hair flip, and stepped outside.

  Byron opened the Country Time tub and inhaled the sweet lemony dust that rose out of the container. Trent snorted behind him.

  “What?” Byron asked, as if he didn’t know what was coming.

  “I’m so totally texting your mom later. Just so you know.”

  Byron was spared from having to kick Trent’s ass by the sound of Trent’s mom, Tilly, opening the front door. She came in struggling with about six grocery bags, so Byron stepped over to help her out.

  “Oh, will you look at that, Trent? Byron helps me carry the groceries in. And I see he’s even making lemonade for everyone. Isn’t that amazing? Seeing someone pitch in and help like that? Doesn’t it inspire you?”

  Trent snorted again. “Hey, pool boy, when you’re done I’ll take a glass with ice, too. And make it sweet. Use an extra scoop of the good stuff.”

  “Trent Alexander MacAaron, you’ll get off that couch and come make it yourself,” Tilly said. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asked Byron.

  “Of course he is,” Trent said, still looking at the laptop.

  “Um, actually, I haven’t asked my mom, so . . .” He didn’t want to sound too eager, what with Betsy within earshot and all. But he really didn’t want to go home in case the cop was still there.

  Tilly stopped unpacking a grocery bag and wiped her hands on a towel. “Oh, I’ll call right now and ask her. I’ve been meaning to thank her for that stuffed pepper recipe.”

  Tilly picked up the phone and headed off, leaving the bulk of the groceries still on the counter. Byron’s mom would never do that. There was even frozen stuff that shouldn’t be left out. Byron started putting the groceries away. It occurred to him as he emptied the first bag that this was exactly what his dad was always harping on him about, how he needed to pitch in more, be the man of the house, take responsibility. It wasn’t that Byron never did stuff like this for Lana—just yesterday he’d put the dishes from the sink into the dishwasher without even being asked—but clearly Graham just assumed that he was a lazy slob.

  “You know, I’m dying of thirst out there,” Betsy said, coming inside. Byron barely gave her a glance as he emptied the second grocery bag and started in on the third. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, watching him. “You’re putting away our groceries? How is it possible you’re friends with my loser brother?”

  Byron smirked. “Your mom pays me to be. I’m supposed to teach him some manners.” Betsy giggled and smacked him on the back.

  “You’re awesome,” she said. She dug through one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Nilla wafers. She stood there eating them, crumbs falling all over the shelf of her chest, watching Byron finish the job. Man, Tilly was raising some lazy kids. Byron folded and put away the empty grocery bags, then finished making the lemonade, since clearly no one else was going to.

  After she got off the phone, Tilly came in, saw that Byron had put away the groceries, clapped her hands together like a two-year-old, then kissed Byron. Kissed him. Instead of thanking him like a normal person, she grabbed his head in her hot chubby hands, squished his face, and kissed his cheek. It was like seeing his great-aunt Ida at Thanksgiving, down to the gaudy rings that left dents behind and everything. He could see the sweat on her upper lip and the smudge of lipstick on her front tooth as she came at him, but there was nothing he could do except stand there and take it. After it was over he had the overwhelming urge to wipe his face with something, but he knew how rude that would look. Plus, she still had ahold of his head. And Betsy was standing there, munching away, watching him.

  “You’re an angel,” Tilly said. Her palms were sweaty. “I should call your mom back. Tell her she raised you right.” She gave Byron’s face a little shake that made the fat on her upper arms sway and her breasts jiggle. He tried not to look down, but Tilly was holding him near her eye level, and as his eyes fought to find somewhere else to look, there it was, the paper towel tucked into her cleavage, all wrinkled and full of human body oils and sweat. Suddenly Byron didn’t want to stay for dinner. He could grab a burger on his way home, kill time until he was sure the cop was gone.

  “You know, now that I think about it, I have this history assignment . . .” he said lamely, pulling his face away from her hands. He tried to remember what they were learning about in history, but his mind was blank.

  “Yeah, but you also have Uncle Weirdo to tell you everything you never wanted to know about World War II,” Trent offered.

  Damn, that was it. Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima. Byron would be able to think clearer if Betsy weren’t watching, a dusting of crumbs forming a white m across the tops of her breasts. It would also help if he weren’t so damn hungry. His stomach chose that exact moment to betray him, letting out a long noisy growl.

  Tilly’s jaw fell open. “No!” she gasped. “Your mom already cleared it and you’re starving.” Tilly took Betsy’s box of cookies and handed them to Byron. “Here, this will tide you over while I cook.”

  Byron stood there like an idiot while Tilly started snapping green beans, slicing potatoes, dusting chicken in flour and spices for frying. Byron loved her fried chicken. Betsy sighed and poured herself some lemonade before heading back for the pool. Byron knew he shouldn’t watch her go with her mom right there, but it was impossible not to. Her hips swayed with every step. When she got to her lounge chair Betsy turned and smiled at Byron, held up the lemonade like a toast. He just about fell over. Forget the cop. Today was turning into the best day. This was the most attention Betsy had ever paid to him. Trent snorted before the screen displaying his dream cars. Byron looked his way and Trent held up his cell phone, no doubt another reference to texting Lana. Byron couldn’t say anything with Tilly there, though. Tilly smiled and pointed to a chair, and Byron sat.

  “So, you’ll never guess who I saw at the store the other day,” Tilly said. “Melinda Bass. You remember her daughter Serena? She went to middle school with you boys, but then they moved away? Well, now they’re back. Anyway, Melinda says they just rented the cutest little bungalow in Mira Mesa, which I think means she’s divorced and can’t afford to buy, even in this market. I mean, her husband was, like, an investment banker or something. Cold, but well off. Did you know their oldest, Jack? He was two years ahead of you. Right after high school he joined the Army . . .”

  Byron was trapped. Once Tilly started talking, there was no stopping her. He couldn’t see Betsy now that she’d settled into the lounge chair with her back to him. He looked over at Trent, and he was pretty sure Trent was smiling into his laptop, enjoying Byron’s suffering, punishment for ogling Betsy. Trent was right, though. It was a pretty good word.

  9

  * * *

  Lana

  Lana rose on Saturday morning to the quiet of a house without children. She was getting used to her Saturday mornings alone, but that didn’t mean she liked them. She headed for the kitchen to make coffee and wait for Matt to emerge from his cavelike room. She knew he could hear her. Matt had the best hearing of anyon
e Lana knew. Even though she would just be having cereal and he’d have the same English muffin prepared the same way every day, she waited to eat with him. She hated eating alone.

  Coffee with Nick the day before had been interesting, but not terribly enlightening. He’d expected to have the afternoon off, but ended up working, so instead of casual Nick she got Police Officer Nick. They met at her house, and then never did make it out to coffee, because a half hour into their catch-up session he’d gotten a call and had to run. Lana had wasted their brief time with idle chitchat and never got his full story, just the basics: Marines, police force, a marriage in there somewhere to a woman with kids from a previous marriage, divorce, and no kids of his own. Lana had ended up with more questions than answers, a desire to pry deeper, but no clear sense of whether or not Nick wanted to go deeper himself. In that way he was the same old Nick: dignified and polite and hard to read.

  Nick had met Byron, briefly, and had marveled at how much he’d looked like Lana. She wondered what he’d think of Abby, Graham’s look-alike, if he’d met her. Nick was a strange mix of familiar and new, and Lana felt the same, like he brought out a decades-old version of herself that didn’t fully sync with the current Lana. She honestly wasn’t sure which version of herself she liked better at the moment: the young dreamer overwhelmed by the many options to consider or the responsible, methodical juggler who prided herself on being unflappable in a crisis.

  She got her second cup of coffee and started getting impatient. She was hungry, and there was still no sign of Matt. It was time for him to take his anti-anxiety meds. She knocked gently on his door, pills in hand, to offer to make his food for him, and got no answer. She peeked inside his room. He wasn’t there. His thick weighted blue blanket was folded neatly in half and resting on the foot of the bed. His shoes were missing. His jacket was gone. His keys were not on the little shelf where he always kept them.

  “Matt?” she called. It was impossible that she’d missed him, but still she walked into the main part of the house, expecting him to magically appear by the front window where he camped out when the kids were gone. His window seat was empty. “Matt!” She got no answer. She dialed his cell phone and heard the familiar trill of birds chirping that was Matt’s beloved ringtone. She found his phone on his bedroom floor under a pile of dirty clothes.

  Lana dialed her sister Becca as she ran through the house looking for him. Thankfully her car was right where she left it, and the kids’ bicycles were still in the garage right next to it. So he had no transportation, but Matt was definitely gone. Becca’s voice mail picked up. Lana hung up without leaving a message and called Graham. “I need you to keep the kids a little longer.”

  “Lana, I have plans. You need to give me more warning . . .”

  “Matt’s missing,” she said breathlessly.

  “He’s a grown man, I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Lana rifled through the papers on Matt’s desk, looking for clues. He had star charts and strings of programming codes and recipes and mathematical equations and lists of old movies and flyers for local bands in every color imaginable. Nothing of use. He also had two empty bottles, one of vodka and one of bourbon, tucked neatly behind a stack of books under his desk. She recognized both as belonging to Graham. She’d emptied the liquor cabinet prior to Matt moving in. She wondered where Graham had hidden those bottles so that she’d missed them. And why he’d felt the need to hide them in the first place. She’d always thought she knew Graham so well, that part of their demise was due to stagnant familiarity. But ever since he’d left he’d become increasingly mysterious to her.

  “Please,” she said.

  Graham let out a terse sigh. “Honestly, the way you baby him . . .”

  “I’m going out to look for him. He’s on foot. He can’t have made it far.” She willed this to be true as she said it. “I’ll call when I’m back.”

  “Lana . . .” Graham said wearily, as if this sort of thing happened often, as if Lana burdened him with her troubles regularly, when in fact she hadn’t asked him for a single thing since the moment he said he wanted to move out.

  Lana hung up and dialed Nick Parker. As his phone rang she realized it was the first time she’d ever hung up on Graham. She was proud of herself, but didn’t have time to gloat. Nick’s voice mail answered. He was the only police officer she halfway trusted, but what had she called to say? Did a half hour of getting reacquainted entitle her to call in personal favors from him? He was the same Nick: still handsome and solid, polite and poised and impenetrable as ever. A gorgeous machine of a man. She still knew virtually nothing about him. Was he even the type to honor personal favors? Lana had no idea.

  “Nick, it’s Lana. I, um. First off, it was great to see you yesterday. We should do it again soon. I wonder if you could call me back? I seem to have . . . Well, there’s a Matt issue I could use a hand with.”

  She sounded like a stammering crazy person. Her request had been too vague, but it seemed crazier to call back and leave a second, more detailed message. She rounded the rooms of the house a second time, a third. But of course Matt was gone and frenzied searching wasn’t going to reveal him. She took a deep breath, fetched her car keys, and set out. She called Becca again.

  “Two calls in ten minutes? You must miss me desperately,” Becca said with a laugh. Lana started the car and backed out of the garage. She headed north. She’d cover a grid, street by street.

  “Matt’s missing.”

  “Oh, crap,” Becca said. “How long?”

  “I don’t know. Last time I saw him was when I went up to bed last night, around ten.”

  “Well, he could be anywhere by now.”

  “That’s not helpful, Becca.” Lana felt a surge of bile, pure acidic panic, rise up her esophagus. She’d had two cups of coffee and no food. Of course her stomach was upset. Matt was fine. He had to be. She’d just gotten him back. He was safe now.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sure he’s not in Mexico or anything. Did he bring his wallet with him?”

  “Yes. And a jacket. But not his phone.”

  “Well, can he cross the border with just his ID?”

  “I don’t even want to think about that,” Lana said. She didn’t know the answer. She was sweating now, little trickles of failure dampening her armpits and dripping between her breasts. In the past few months Matt had gotten a DUI and ended up hospitalized for an overdose. He needed supervision. Lana had arrogantly assumed she was up to the job. What had she been thinking?

  “Okay, probably not Mexico. Matt doesn’t like dirt or germs or people. He’s a creature of habit, right? So what are his habits?”

  Lana hit a cul-de-sac and stopped the car. “Outside of the house? I don’t know. He’s never gone anywhere.”

  “Maybe you should call the police?” Becca said.

  “I just called Nick and left a message.”

  “I meant a cop you haven’t slept with,” Becca teased.

  “I’ll find him.” Lana doubled back to cover the streets south of her house. “And if I can’t, I’ll call Nick again.” The grid idea wasn’t working. The streets were long loops of similar houses interrupted by cul-de-sacs. There was no grid, which she knew, as she’d lived in the curving-road development for fifteen years. She couldn’t think clearly. Where would Matt go? She knew he missed his nightly walks, but he’d only taken them around the neighborhood, just a stroll around a block or two, until Lana had taken them from him, worried about what her neighbors might think. How far would he wander without her there to stop him?

  “San Diego’s a pretty big city,” Becca said. “And Matt’s brain is . . . well, it’s Matt’s brain. I mean, who knows what he’s thinking? Maybe the police already picked him up.”

  If the police had Matt, that wouldn’t be good. Especially if Nick wasn’t available to intercede. That pissy social worker who’d wanted to put him in a state facility would no doubt hear about it, and would probably interfere with Lana getting him back. Maybe right
fully so. “Let’s just pray that they don’t,” Lana said.

  “Never knew you were much for praying,” Becca chided. Her levity irritated Lana.

  “I guess this is as good a time to start as any,” Lana snipped. Lana had said mini-prayers before, like after watching Abby go down hard on the soccer field once, unable to move for a few endless seconds because she’d had the wind knocked out of her. As Lana had sprinted toward Abby’s unmoving body she’d offered up a quick, Please, please, please let her be okay, to whatever force controlled such things. That was prayer, right? And it had worked. Abby was fine.

  “I don’t pray, per se,” Becca said. “But I’ve been doing these meditations. You visualize what you want, put it in this glowing, spinning ball, and you send it up to the universe and ask for ‘this or better.’ It’s very relaxing. And empowering.”

  “Well, can you ask the goddamn universe for this one for me?” Lana said. She was starting to cry, which wasn’t helping her look for Matt. She couldn’t see a thing. She pulled over and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “Lana, he’s fine,” Becca said. “He’s Matt. He’s . . . protected by angels or something. You know what I mean?”

  “He’s fresh out of the hospital where he almost died,” Lana reminded her.

  Becca sighed. “Okay, I get it. Keep looking and I’ll keep you company.” Becca lived in Virginia, so she couldn’t help look for Matt, but her voice carrying across thousands of miles calmed Lana’s nerves. Mostly.

  Lana found a wadded but probably clean tissue in a side pocket of her purse and wiped her eyes. “Just when I think I’ve gained the upper hand over my train-wrecked life, something has to happen to remind me it’s all still in flux.” The harder she tried to stop crying, the more she cried. She hadn’t slept well, never slept well anymore, and that always made her more emotional. She’d hated it whenever Graham pointed that out to her, but he’d been right. “I’m coming undone, Becca. Unspooling like one of Graham’s golf balls. Byron sawed one open the other day and it had these endless loops of rubber inside. He unraveled the guts of the ball, turning it from something to nothing in moments. That’s me.”