They won't even let you inside the airport, mom says. She's flat on her belly on a dirty lawn chair, one hand resettling her straw hat.
I already have the ticket, I say. I bought it with dad's credit card.
Sure you did, she says. She kicks her legs and wriggles forward, reaching out for her drink. Her fingers clasp around the dirty glass and she closes her eyes, sucking down on melting pink.
After dad left, she quit her job and declared our house a Fun-Only Zone. She made a speech standing on a wobbly kitchen chair, paper umbrella waving. She declared that only Happy Things would be discussed from that day forward. She even put up balloons and invited her sisters over for the party, but they just sighed into the phone, Oh Marjorie. I know, because she sighed back, Oh Celia. Oh Lynn.
I go inside, the screen door slapping behind me. Mom's new golden retriever puppy, Buddy, is squatting down to pee on the tile. Then he turns around, tail wagging, and sniffs his little yellow puddle.
For once, I walk away.
My room smells like carpet cleaner and Buddy's piss. I lean over and put my nose into the suitcases. Thank God, he hasn't peed in them. Almost everything I own is in those suitcases. I go to the window, pressing my forehead against the glass.
A blue minivan drives lazily by. Good-bye street, I whisper.
At dinner, which is bacon-and-pineapple pizza for about the nine millionth night in a row, Mom says, You don't know the first thing about traveling. You don't even have a passport.
Sure I do, I say.
She sticks out her hand, waggling her fingers. Then let me see it, she says.
I shrug and go to my special drawer, pulling it open, one hand beneath so she won't hear the squeak.
She stares at the passport, breathing through her mouth. As if I couldn't spot a fake, she says, rattling the small blue book at me. And your picture, young lady. You look like a goddamn Chinaman. Aren't I always telling you to keep your eyes open when people take your picture? Like this, she says, throwing her eyes open like a store mannequin.
Then she pours another drink, and rests her forehead against the table, starting to cry. I massage her back until I can pry the passport away and slip it back into my drawer.
The next morning, the sky is cold and prickly. I sit at the window like a cat, arms wrapped around my chest, waiting for dad to pull into the driveway. Our neighborhood smells flat and empty. Abandoned. It's criminal to leave so early, but dad said, Honey, flight times are flight times.
Dad pulls in at exactly 4:45. I waddle into the driveway with both suitcases knocking against my legs and tell him to throw them in the trunk while I kiss mom good-bye. He catches my hand and says, She is not your responsibility, Sara.
She should be someone's responsibility, I say.
He shrugs, touching a crack in the driveway with his foot.
I turn back. The house is full of cracks, paint peeling off, the storm drain hanging loose. It looks like it might fall down at any minute.
It's time for us to be ourselves, he says. His voice is soft, and it makes little clouds in the air.
The clouds melt into sky, and I hurry away, inside, to mom's room, climbing up onto her soft queen bed. I feel sleepy, and her hair looks so smooth against the pillow, it's like being a little girl again. I crawl in closer, laying my head next to hers. We snuggle there for a minute, mommy and me. Then she groans and shoves out her arms, smacking me and yanking at the covers. Don't, she says, whining. They're mine.
She flips herself over and nuzzles back down into the bed. I wait for a moment, on all fours. Stay, I tell myself. The right thing to do is stay. Then a horn honks outside, three impatient bursts, and I slowly back down off the bed, feeling the skin rip off my heart as I let go of the sheets, walking backward through the smell of vomit and perfume, hand on the doorknob, good-bye.