Page 134 of Intermission
But Mom will have a field day if she knows the truth.
A sudden return of anger warms my blood. No. Freaking. Way.I would rather get swept up in a tornado than be forced to tell this story to mymother. One taste of heartache per day is enough, thank you very much. My foot presses the gas pedal, and I hum “Ease on Down the Road” fromThe Wiz. It’s way more upbeat than how I’m feeling, but it seems appropriate on so many other levels.
The slight reflection of the green road sign is all I can see through the mix of rain and hail. I slow to make the turn toward the highway.
Yes. I’ll drive through the night. Eventually, I’ll get ahead of thestorm.
I stop just short of the turnoff.
What if the hail gets worse and damages my car? Will I get in an accident? Or have to file a claim on my insurance?
Does my insurance cover hail damage?
I don’t know, but I cringe at the thought of dipping into my meager savings to pay the deductible.
The one-thousand dollar deductible.
Dollar signs multiply with each teensy grain of ice that hits my car. The hail is small now. Not large enough to cause damage. But it could get bigger. Not to mention the visibility issues of rain and wind, and both increase the possibility of an accident. I have to make rent and pay for my share of utilities, groceries...
When I turn on the radio, I’m greeted by the automated voice of the National Weather Service Alert System. “...with damaging winds up to seventy miles per hour and—”
I turn it off, hit the brakes, rest my forehead on the steering wheel, and groan.
There’s no other choice. I swallow hard, forcing my pride into my stomach.
I’m going home.
My code still works at the gate to Parre Hills, but my hand stings from getting pelted by hail as I punch it in. It’s like the storm is moving at the same pace and direction I am, driving me toward doom.
I drive as fast as I safely can through the gated community to my parents’ house and pull under the carport back by the garden shed.
“Stay here, Janey. I’ll be right back.”
One swipe of the wind’s breath steals the car’s warmth. I run up to the garage, lift the protective cover of the keypad, and pray my parents haven’t changed the code.
The keypad blinks twice, and the door lifts. “Yes!” I run back to the car, grab my backpack, and then open the back door for Janey. “Come on, girl! Come on!”
Frozen spheres bounce across the cement driveway as if God has dumped out a barrel of gum-machine bouncy balls. In the brief time it takes me to get back to the garage with Janey, the hail’s size has increased, but at least my car is protected from the worst of it.
It isn’t until I press the interior button to close the garage door that I realize both of my parents’ cars are missing.
My parents aren’t home.
My parents. Are not. At home.
Mercy.
Janey shakes. A fresh coat of rain and mud—and maybe a little fur and drool—fly my direction.
“There’s no getting around it, pup. You have to get a bath before you go much further. It’s straight to the shower, okay?”
Janey whines and tucks her tail between her legs but follows me into the house. Her claws click on the slate floor of the mudroom that connects the garage to the rest of the house. She stops by thewashing machine and sits, as if obeying that particular command.
“Shower, Janey.” My voice is firm as I flip on the light. At the far end of the large mudroom, a pocket door leads to the smallest bathroom in our house.
“Go on, now.”
I pull open the glass shower door and turn on the water, testing it with my hand to make sure it’s not too hot or cold. When Janey doesn’t move, I straddle her, put my hands on her hips, and push. “Shower. Now.”
