All of Me

eight • rough day

• • •

We made it back at a quarter to three, my eyes swimming after over an hour in the car with Gray sleeping next to me. He tried to help keep me alert with I-spy and the alphabet game but the combination of a lot to drink and a little to smoke knocked him right out. He only stirred when I switched off the engine and shook him awake, holding his arm around my shoulders to help him into the house.

Mom was fast asleep when we got home but her laptop was on in the kitchen, an eerie glow in the dark house, open to a page about a missing man in Long Island City. It killed me to see that. She obsessively keeps track of other disappearances as though she's trying to spot a theme or prove that less was done for Dad.

When I closed off that page, I saw the second article she had open. The last one anyone wrote about Dad. He vanished on the eighth of September. By the twentieth, it was old news. After that, his name only appeared a couple of times in lists of unsolved cases. Most considered it solved, whether they had decided he had upped and left, or he was missing presumed dead.

Mom's not wrong that people didn't care as much about him as they do about most other people, but I wish she could find a way to move on. No good comes from drowning herself in the fact that the police would rather search for a teenage girl or a single mother than my dad, nor does it help her when they're found. Dead or alive.

After I force-fed him a glass of water, Gray crashed on my bed. He was asleep again within minutes, absolutely silent by my side. I wish I could've done the same but it's not so easy for my brain to shut off. It took me a while to drift off, easily four o'clock by the time I lost consciousness, so I'm riddled with the burn of sleeplessness when I wake up at eight.

My body feels too heavy, my head thick with last night's cloud, and I desperately want to get another couple of hours but it's too bright and I can hear Mom downstairs. Gray's gone too, the other side of my bed empty and neatly made. He's even fluffed the pillow.

I tug on a bathrobe for a little decency and head downstairs, ignoring the cries of my lungs and my eyes. The intensity of the side-effects of exhaustion make me realize that since we've been here, I've been sleeping better. I felt this way most mornings after Dad went missing; I got used to it. Now it feels new, and that feels good.

Mom's making coffee when I drag myself into the kitchen. She looks as tired as I feel, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail, and dark bags underscore her eyes. When she spots me, she gives me a weak smile and pours two mugs of coffee, passing one to Gray. His name sums him up right now.

"Hey," he says, his voice scratchy. The downside of a good night: the morning after. Mom fills the biggest glass with water from her filter jug and pushes it across the table to him.

"You need to hydrate," she says, her hand on his shoulder like he's her son. The amount of time he spends here, he might as well be. Whenever his dad's at work, he's here, and often even when Tad's home, they're both here.

"Thanks, Jen," he says, finishing half of it in a couple of seconds.

"Morning, honey," Mom says when she's made sure Gray's drinking. She holds my gaze, as though she's trying to guess what I'm going to say before I say it. Her eyes flicker to Gray then back to me. "You didn't drink, did you?"

"No," I say. "Not a drop."

Her face clears, relief flooding her. "Good," she says, and her smile grows a little. "I didn't realize you drove back last night."

"I didn't want to stay the night," I say, "and I thought it was probably best to get Gray back. And I wanted a break before we go to Cleveland."

"Thank you," she says. I'm not sure why. "You're so sensible." She gives me a one-armed hug. There's no strength in her grip, but she holds on for a few seconds, her face pressed into my hair.