Touched - By Cyn Balog Page 0,8

dead on the sand, surrounded by a circle of onlookers.

When I snapped back to reality, I realized that Bill had come over to my side of the desk. I found a piece of paper, folded, in my palm. I stood and thanked him. A cool ocean breeze greeted me when I opened the screen door and stepped outside.

The pain in my head subsided.

You will pick up your bike, straddle it, then open the sheet of paper in your hand.

I did so, but before I even read the paper, I cringed at what I knew was written on it. Scrawled there were nine words:

Get help before you end up like your mother.

I was eight the first time I was called Crazy Cross. It was by a chubby red-haired girl named Carrie Weldon who lived next door and had only a day earlier come over for Oreos and milk. Nan had beamed, excited because I had found a “nice friend,” as she had called Carrie. But the next day, my new nickname was all over the playground. Carrie had told everyone at school that my family was a bunch of monsters.

Until that moment, I’d thought the kids at school were the weird ones for having mothers who would walk them to the bus stop and come to their holiday concerts. To me, that was a job for Nan. Nan was also responsible for feeding me, clothing me … well, basically for everything. She did the same for my mother.

When Bill said, “Get help before you end up like your mother,” he really knew only a part of what being “like my mother” meant. He knew that my mom was a recluse and never left the stuffy second floor of our cottage. Only Nan really understood what was up with my mother and me. Most people would just cross to the other side of the street whenever they saw us coming. They thought we were harmless, but they didn’t want to take any chances. They figured we had something going on, but they weren’t sure what.

I trudged into our house, stuffing the pink sheet of paper from Bill into the pocket of my SPBP Windbreaker. Three months. Three months I’d managed to keep myself together, keep that nice, comfortable future intact. And it was all gone in the blink of an eye. It had been foolish to think I could keep it. My head still throbbed, and I hadn’t yet been able to fully unclench my fists. I kept them in tight balls at my sides. As the door slammed, three competing thoughts popped into my head: spilled milk, clown hair, and Bruce Willis. A You Will sliced through them, and I braced myself for the sound I dreaded.

Immediately, I heard it. Moaning from upstairs. It was the same low buzz of anguish that Carrie had heard ten years ago. Often, it wasn’t bad, and I could block it out. But on the worst days, it nearly drove me mad, echoing in my nightmares.

Nan was playing Journey in the kitchen, which she usually did to drown out my mom. She had a dish towel in her hands, and something that smelled strongly of fish was sizzling in a fry pan behind her, right under a row of tomatoes and cucumbers ripening on the windowsill. She must have been working in the garden today, judging from the circles of dirt on her bare knees. There were bobby pins holding down three almost-fluorescent orange curls at the base of her forehead, over a big, toothy grin. Though the hair was shockingly different, the smile was a constant. You’d think we’d won the lottery with the way Nan smiled all the time.

She caught me staring at her hair and sighed. “Don’t say a word. Must have picked up the wrong color at the supermarket. You know how my eyes are. I’ve already bought new color. I’ll dye it back this week, when I—”

There was a moan, like the hum of an engine. Nan swallowed, but the smile returned, bigger than before.

“How long has she been going on like that?” I asked, even though I already knew. Mom and I were like two sides of a coin. Whenever I cycled, she did, too. Whenever my future spun out of control, her future, which was tied to mine, did, too.

“Since lunchtime. You must have done a doozy.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about it. Mom moaned again. It made my eardrums rattle. “Why is she