Yellow Brick War
Page 14
Mom looked at me carefully. “Your hair’s different,” she said.
Right. Back in the caves, at the Order’s headquarters, Glamora had magically changed my hair from pink to blond. That definitely didn’t fit too well into my “I spent the last month in a hospital” story either. I opened my mouth to say something, and my mom shook her head.
It was like she knew exactly what I was thinking. It was like she could hear all my complaints. She might not have known everything that had happened, but she understood. If that wasn’t a first, it was close. She really had come a long way, I guess.
“All that matters is that you’re home now,” she said firmly, and I relaxed a little. She paused. “But . . . I should call your dad.”
I had not seen my father since I was a single digit. And I never wanted to see him again. I had thought that was one thing that Mom and I agreed on no matter what her blood alcohol level read.
Seeing the shock on my face, my mom scrambled to explain. “I had to tell him, Amy. I thought maybe he could help.”
I laughed. It felt—and sounded—bitter. “I’m sure he was out there combing Dusty Acres looking for me.”
“He sent a check,” my mom said simply. “Amy,” she went on, “I really owe you an apology. A big one. Not just for leaving you when the tornado came. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that. But for everything before that, too.”
She was crying again, and this time she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’ve been a terrible parent,” she said. “For a long time. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I know, and I’m sorry.”
I raised my eyebrows. This, I had not expected. “What happened to the pills?” I asked bluntly, and she flinched.
“When I”—her voice broke—“lost you, I realized what had happened to me. What I’d let myself become. I quit cold turkey, Amy. I knew I had to be there for you when you came back. I looked for you everywhere after the storm, but it was like you’d just vanished into thin air. Somehow I always knew that you’d come back to me, though, and I wanted to deserve it when you did.” She smiled through her tears. “I’m even working,” she said. “I got a job at the hardware store as a cashier.”
“You quit cold turkey?” I asked, surprised. “That must have been tough.”
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said, looking down at her lap. “It was awful.” Her tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. “But it was nothing compared to what it felt like when I thought I’d lost you.”
Some part of me wanted to reach across the distance between us and hug her, but I’d fallen for her promises one too many times before. If she’d quit using when the tornado hit, that meant she’d only been sober a month. And a month was nowhere near enough time to trust anything had really changed. But if she’d made flyers and searched frantically from hospital to hospital, that was the biggest effort she’d made for me—for anything other than a bottle of pills—in a really long time. Either way, it didn’t matter, I told myself. I’d already made up my mind that I was going back to Oz. There was nothing for me here. I’d learned to live without my mom. I could do it again. We were both silent for a minute.
“Mom?” I said finally. “I’m really sorry, but Star—um, she didn’t make it.”
My mom gave me a sad, are-you-kidding-me smile. “Honey,” she said, “Star’s a rat. If I have to choose between a rat and my daughter, I’ll take the kid every time.” She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, with a note of false cheer in her voice, “do you want to see your room?”
“My room?”
“I had to fight for a two bedroom. They wanted to give me a studio. But I knew you’d be back.” She got up and opened one of the doors off the living room. I looked over her shoulder and my eyes widened in surprise. Like the rest of the apartment, the room had barely any furniture—just a narrow twin bed and a little bedside table and lamp. But my mom had painted the walls a pretty, pale pink, and hung bright white curtains over the window. She’d bought a bottle of my favorite perfume, too, and left it next to the lamp.
“This is nice,” I said cautiously. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m going to get us something better really soon. Even though I just started at the hardware store, I’m already saving. You must be tired—do you want to rest?” <
Right. Back in the caves, at the Order’s headquarters, Glamora had magically changed my hair from pink to blond. That definitely didn’t fit too well into my “I spent the last month in a hospital” story either. I opened my mouth to say something, and my mom shook her head.
It was like she knew exactly what I was thinking. It was like she could hear all my complaints. She might not have known everything that had happened, but she understood. If that wasn’t a first, it was close. She really had come a long way, I guess.
“All that matters is that you’re home now,” she said firmly, and I relaxed a little. She paused. “But . . . I should call your dad.”
I had not seen my father since I was a single digit. And I never wanted to see him again. I had thought that was one thing that Mom and I agreed on no matter what her blood alcohol level read.
Seeing the shock on my face, my mom scrambled to explain. “I had to tell him, Amy. I thought maybe he could help.”
I laughed. It felt—and sounded—bitter. “I’m sure he was out there combing Dusty Acres looking for me.”
“He sent a check,” my mom said simply. “Amy,” she went on, “I really owe you an apology. A big one. Not just for leaving you when the tornado came. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that. But for everything before that, too.”
She was crying again, and this time she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’ve been a terrible parent,” she said. “For a long time. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I know, and I’m sorry.”
I raised my eyebrows. This, I had not expected. “What happened to the pills?” I asked bluntly, and she flinched.
“When I”—her voice broke—“lost you, I realized what had happened to me. What I’d let myself become. I quit cold turkey, Amy. I knew I had to be there for you when you came back. I looked for you everywhere after the storm, but it was like you’d just vanished into thin air. Somehow I always knew that you’d come back to me, though, and I wanted to deserve it when you did.” She smiled through her tears. “I’m even working,” she said. “I got a job at the hardware store as a cashier.”
“You quit cold turkey?” I asked, surprised. “That must have been tough.”
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said, looking down at her lap. “It was awful.” Her tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. “But it was nothing compared to what it felt like when I thought I’d lost you.”
Some part of me wanted to reach across the distance between us and hug her, but I’d fallen for her promises one too many times before. If she’d quit using when the tornado hit, that meant she’d only been sober a month. And a month was nowhere near enough time to trust anything had really changed. But if she’d made flyers and searched frantically from hospital to hospital, that was the biggest effort she’d made for me—for anything other than a bottle of pills—in a really long time. Either way, it didn’t matter, I told myself. I’d already made up my mind that I was going back to Oz. There was nothing for me here. I’d learned to live without my mom. I could do it again. We were both silent for a minute.
“Mom?” I said finally. “I’m really sorry, but Star—um, she didn’t make it.”
My mom gave me a sad, are-you-kidding-me smile. “Honey,” she said, “Star’s a rat. If I have to choose between a rat and my daughter, I’ll take the kid every time.” She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, with a note of false cheer in her voice, “do you want to see your room?”
“My room?”
“I had to fight for a two bedroom. They wanted to give me a studio. But I knew you’d be back.” She got up and opened one of the doors off the living room. I looked over her shoulder and my eyes widened in surprise. Like the rest of the apartment, the room had barely any furniture—just a narrow twin bed and a little bedside table and lamp. But my mom had painted the walls a pretty, pale pink, and hung bright white curtains over the window. She’d bought a bottle of my favorite perfume, too, and left it next to the lamp.
“This is nice,” I said cautiously. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m going to get us something better really soon. Even though I just started at the hardware store, I’m already saving. You must be tired—do you want to rest?” <
