Page 48 of The Me I Left Behind

“I don’t recall you saying you had to be at school early for any reason.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then….”

A horn beeped in their driveway. Carol quickly wrapped her sandwich in a paper towel and darted toward the window. “It’s Logan.” She whirled back. “I’ll ride to school with him, Mom. Okay?”

The girl was practically out the front door before she’d said she could. “Fine, I guess,” she muttered.

Jason sleepily looked at her. “You know he’s not in school. Right?”

A zip of anxiety punched at Maggie’s heart. “What?”

“He dropped out last year.”

Shit. Shit-shit-shit.

“No, I didn’t know that.” She paused, thinking. What would she have done at Carol’s age? “You don’t think she’s skipping school, do you?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. Can I have cereal? I don’t feel like eggs.”

“Sure.”Whatever.

With a sigh, she studied him as he got up and stumbled toward the cabinet for the cereal, opened the door, and stared at the boxes. At least it wasn’t the refrigerator.

“Were you up late playing video games?”

He shrugged, his back still to her. “I need a shower. I’ll eat after.”

“What about the cereal?”

“Not the kind I like.”

“Oh.”

He turned and ambled out of the room again, yawning. Not looking at her. He’d been quiet lately. Too quiet. And exhausted all the time. Was he sleeping at all?

“Can I have his eggs?”

“What?” She looked at Chloe, who was on her third piece of toast. “Sure.”

She scraped Jason’s eggs onto her plate and took a big bite. “The paper’s in my bag, Mommy.”

“Oh?”

“The art thing.”

That’s right.“Okay. I’ll get it. I have to go downtown this morning, anyway.”

A giddy sensationcrept up from somewhere deep in her tummy and curled upward, warming her chest. Maggie felt a keen surge of happiness roll over her as her fingertips gently caressed the row of pastel chalks lined up in the box on the store shelf in front of her.

To her left sat a display of paint brushes, so she wandered closer. She picked up a long-handled brush with a natural bristle, smoothing the fine hairs between her forefinger and thumb. Down the aisle, she saw the display of acrylic and oil paints, and more.

Beyond those were aisles of various types of art media.

She let go of a long breath. It felt like she’d been holding that breath for a couple of decades—and she felt free.

Normally she would have picked up supplies at the local drugstore, or the big box store a few blocks away, but she’d had to go to the florist downtown to order flowers for a funeral, and knew the art supply store was next door. She’d rarely been there—had passed it by many times and glanced inside via the large glass-pane windows. Her heart always did a little twitter-pat when she did so.