Upstander by James Preller (free ereaders .TXT) 📕

turmoil of her house as a garbage disposal. You didn’t want to stick your hand in there. Keep busy, keep doing stuff, that was the strategy. When Mary had to be home, she lingered in her room or blobbed in front of the TV, passing a bowl of pretzels back and forth with Ernesto. He was a nuggets man, and Mary approved. Mary felt relaxed only when she hung out with Alexis and Chrissie. She didn’t have to think about things. Lately Tamara Agee had joined them. She was a perfectly nice girl who functioned as Chantel’s replacement. Together they served as the easygoing distraction that kept Mary from remembering how bone-deep miserable she really felt. She laughed, thinking, It’s like eating marshmallows.

After a trip to the mall on Wednesday with Chrissie—it was just the two of them, not a triangle or a rectangle but a straight line!—Mary paused on her modest front stoop. It was always like that now. Take a deep breath. Back straight, shoulders squared. She pushed open the door, eased into the silent house. Her mother looked up expectantly. She sat in the living room on a cushioned bench tucked beside the bay window that looked out over the front yard. Mary’s mother leaned forward, knees together, a phone cradled in her hands. Mary saw the spasm of disappointment on her face.

“Hoping for someone else?” Mary said.

“Jonny’s been gone for two days without a word,” Mrs. O’Malley said. Her face was drawn, with gravity and stress pulling it down.

“He’s been gone almost forty-eight hours.”

Mary sank into a chair across from her mother, waited.

Mrs. O’Malley continued, “I’ve called all the hospitals, the police. I’ve checked with his old friends. Nobody knows where he is.” She looked out the large front window, as if willing her son to skip up the path. There was nothing, no one.

“You look tired, Mom,” Mary said. “Have you eaten?”

Mrs. O’Malley wasn’t listening. She swiped at her phone with a forefinger, stared down, frowned. “He hasn’t posted anything on social media,” she said, not bothering to look up. As if she were alone in the world, talking to herself. “It’s like he’s vanished.”

“He’s probably all right,” Mary said. “He’s done this before.”

Mrs. O’Malley nodded, sucked on her lower lip.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Mom,” Mary said.

After a pause, Mrs. O’Malley looked up. Confusion swam in her eyes. “What? Did you say—?”

“I’ll make you tea,” Mary said, rising. “What kind would you like?”

“You decide.”

“Mom?”

No reply. Mary stood, annoyed. “Mom!” she repeated in a sharper voice.

Her mother looked up from the phone, startled. Her eyes shimmered, like wet stones in a riverbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know what kind of tea. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters,” she said. And her hands reminded Mary of nervous birds, plump little wrens hopping about the understory, pecking away for seeds and bugs. Her mother didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“I’ll make Raspberry Zinger with honey,” Mary decided. “Do we have cookies? Never mind. I’ll look.”

In the kitchen, Mary waited for the water to boil. She texted Griffin: Hey, favor. We’re trying to locate my brother. Do you think maybe one of your sisters might know? The one who lives in town? I forget her name. Could you check?

No signs of dinner tonight. It was almost six. Ernesto didn’t seem to be around; his orange pickup truck wasn’t in the driveway. So mac and cheese again, Mary thought. There are worse things.

A moment later, Griff texted. Sure. Vivvy. I’ll let you know.

And seconds after that, another one followed: You okay?

The teapot whistled.

Mary stared at the screen, not knowing how to answer. Was she okay? Not great, no, she finally replied, then pocketed the phone.

It was nice of Griff to ask. More than what she was getting from anyone at home. Mary piled four Triple Berry Fig Newtons on a plate—a massively underrated cookie, in Mary’s opinion—and brought two cups of tea into the living room.

“We went to the mall,” Mary informed her mother. “It was fun.”

Mrs. O’Malley nodded. Lifted the cup, but neglected to take a sip. “Did you get anything?”

“A T-shirt that says ‘Give Peas a Chance’ and some funny socks about kale.” Mary paused, then added, “I didn’t have much money. You said you were going to take me, so…”

Mrs. O’Malley brought a hand to her neck, smoothing it. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Last week,” Mary said.

Her mother seemed to absorb those words. She slumped under the weight, the downward pull of gravity again.

“It’s okay, Mom. There’s been a lot going on.”

They sat quietly for a while. Tea was a bad call on a hot day, but it seemed to fit her mother’s mood. Melancholy and iced tea didn’t mix.

“Where’s Ernesto?” Mary asked, hoping to generate some non-Jonny conversation. “I haven’t seen him lately.”

“We’re taking a time-out.” Mrs. O’Malley looked down, working hard not to betray any emotion. She carefully placed the hot cup on the table. “He needs a break from all this … kerfuffle.”

The thing with worry and sadness, Mary thought, was how they filled a room. The air became heavy with them; they formed a thick fog that was hard to walk through. When you breathed in, you brought the sadness down deep into your lungs, and when you breathed out, some of the worry got stuck inside. It became part of your body. She cautiously suggested, “You shouldn’t let Jonny talk to him like that.”

Her mother cringed, as if stung. She studied her fingernails, nodding slightly. “It’s been hard for Jonny. He remembers his father.”

“Yeah, but.”

“I know, you’re right, I shouldn’t make excuses for him,” Mrs. O’Malley said, reading Mary’s thoughts. “I keep making the same mistakes.”

“And maybe,” Mary ventured, “the screaming doesn’t work?”

Mary’s mother actually laughed out loud. “You think? Ha! Can I just”—she balled her hands into fists—“mash him on the foot with a bowling ball instead?”

It was funny and real. Their first true moment in months. The laughter, for that brief instant, chased the