Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [6]
Alice is watching her mom and her dad and holding on to her dad’s other hand until Ellie worms her way in and pushes her out of the way. Then she hangs back feeling forgotten.
She wishes she knew what to say, but every phrase that pops into her head sounds stupid or childish. And Matt’s not one for big gestures or big speeches, and he’s definitely not one for spilling his guts at the Greyhound station surrounded by strangers.
Last night Matt gave Alice a map of the Middle East. They put it up on her wall together and put pins in where he’s supposed to be going. Not that anybody knows for sure. Alice wonders how anybody can get things done when nobody knows anything for sure.
And then he’s walking away from them, his duffel slung over his shoulder, his too-short hair bristling out the back of his cap. The backs of their necks, she thinks—the skinny, tense ones and the ones with rolls of fat—they look like kids, like boys, really.
She sprints out of the waiting group and catches up with her dad.
“Dad . . . Dad—”
He stops and lifts her off the ground in a hug. When he sets her down, he slips his watch off his wrist and puts it into her hand. She’s working as hard as she can not to cry. It suddenly seems so important to see him, really see him. He turns away and the wind picks up and the grit of the parking lot blows into their eyes, and Alice thinks desert and Alice thinks land mines and Alice thinks will she ever see her dad, this dad, the way he is right now, full of this life, again?
She stands there watching until every last one of them is on board and the bus begins to back out of its bay.
She turns around to see that some of the families are waving little flags, like the ones you get for the Memorial Day parade. It begins to snow, the heavy, quiet snow that blankets the world in stillness and makes the road surfaces treacherous within minutes.
Angie waves her scarf as the bus drives away. She stands there too long, long after the bus is out of sight, long after the other families have piled into their cars and left. She blows her nose and finally crosses the parking lot to join Ellie and Alice at the car.
“Could you unlock the car please?” Alice asks, shivering.
Angie gives Alice a long, unreadable look.
“It’s cold, Mom.”
For once Alice and Ellie do not fight about who gets to sit in the front. The three of them get into the car and it’s way too quiet. Angie pulls the seat forward so she can reach the pedals and reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror. Ellie has brought her recorder along and thinks that now might be a good moment to practice.
“Not now, Ellie.”
“But Mom—”
“Not now!”
Angie backs up and turns and when she reaches the street she doesn’t seem to know which way to go. These hesitations are so unlike her mother, Alice thinks.
Driving down Monroe Avenue, Angie pulls her silk scarf off, rolls down her window, and holds the scarf outside, billowing and snapping in the wind.
“Mom—?”
When Angie lets the scarf go, Alice turns in her seat to watch it float away before it drifts to the snow-covered ground. The car behind them runs over it.
“What did you do that for?”
“I love that scarf! You could have given it to me,” Ellie chimes in.
Angie just keeps driving.
“Mom! It’s cold back here! Close the window!”
“I think . . .” Angie begins and then trails off.
“Mom!” Alice says. “The window!”
“Who wants frozen custard?” Angie asks.
“In this weather? Are you crazy?”
“I do! I do!” Ellie shouts.
Angie makes a sudden U turn, throwing Alice against the door. Alice feels a jolt in the pit of her stomach. The car fishtails in the snow as she tries to grab the door handle.
“Mom! What are you doing?!”
“Can I get jimmies?” Ellie wants to know. “Extra jimmies? A cup full of jimmies?”
Alice is looking at Angie. She is driving way too fast. Angie never drives too fast. And, Alice registers