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in the house and that she ate something and that the bills
were paid.
“Finally, she had to do something because we were
broke. There was a big mortgage and hardly any life insur-
ance, and my mom only had a part-time job. She had to
sell the house and find full-time work, and we moved into
a little townhouse. We got through all that, and I did
what I could to help. But that seemed to be all she could
manage. I felt like she couldn’t even see me.”
Lucy stopped. She ruffled up and then smoothed
down her choppy hair, crossed her legs and sighed.
“My dad died in March. I was in ninth grade. I held
it together, barely, till the end of the school year, and
then—I just got really angry. At her, at everything. We
had some huge screaming fights. I was acting like a
complete bitch, but I think I was just trying to get
some
kind of reaction. After a couple of weeks of that, I took
off. I caught a bus to Toronto and stayed in a hostel for a
few days, and when my money ran out I began panhan-
dling and sleeping in parks. I met some people, and the
longer I stayed away, the harder it was to come home. I
hated it, and I was scared almost all the time, but I felt
like I couldn’t go back.”
“Your mom must have been crazy worried,” I said.
I tried to picture my mother as a sudden widow. She’d be
heartbroken, but I was as sure as I could be that her reac-
tion would be to grab hold of me and Noah and hang on
for dear life. But maybe that’s what Lucy had expected of
