I'll Be Here

neighborhood.  Inside the house my family is being crazy.  Jake bought Aaron some new dancing game for the game system and now they’re all in the living room following the dance moves of four neon-clad teenagers on the television screen.  Aaron is laughing.  They barely notice me breaking through the front door and disappearing into the bathroom.
    Twenty-eight minutes later I’m sitting on one side of my bed staring at my phone.  It looks the same as it did one minute ago.  Metallic Black with a backlit screen.  No messages.  No missed calls.  I even try calling it from the house phone to make sure that it’s all in working order.  It is. 
    I log onto the computer to see if there’s an email that I missed.  There’s not. 
    By now I’m starting to worry.  I’m imagining all the things that could have happened to Alex.  I picture him at the bottom of a set of concrete stairs, his neck twisted at a bizarre angle.  Or trapped in the belly of a mangled mess of metal that used to be a car, his head lolling backwards, drips of reddish brown blood drying up on his cheeks.
    Outside my bedroom window, the sky is a broken charcoal grey.  My empty stomach grumbles.  The last thing I ate was an apple right before I got to work.  That was around three this afternoon. 
    I pick up my cell phone and my heart fires off rapidly.  The line rings five times and then Alex’s voicemail picks up.  Sorry you missed me.  Leave a message.  I’ll either call you back or I won’t.  I end the call without leaving a message.
    Another two minutes go by and now I’m pacing an orbit around my bed.  I call again determined to leave a message. 
    I push my shoes off and shove them under the bed with my toes.  Alex’s voicemail beeps, which is my cue to speak.  I think that I can do normal if I try.  “Hey, it’s Willow.  Call me back.”
    Did that sound alright?  I’m not sure.  If Alex is hurt and he’s at the hospital and he gets his phone back from one of the nurses, what’s he going to think if he listens to his messages and all he’s got from me is one lousy, blasé message about calling me back?
    I call again.  This time, I let the anxiousness seep into my voice. 
    “I’m uh… I’m really worried about you.  I’m sure you’re fine, but you haven’t called and I don’t know if you’re on the road or what.  Just please call me back, okay? Okay.”
    ***. 
                In the morning I wake up on top of the blankets, stiff from sleeping in the wrong position, my body still clothed in my “proper date” outfit, the pockets of skin under my eyes coated in mascara sludge and my lip gloss pooled crusty chunks at the corners of my mouth.  At least I’m not wearing any shoes.  They lay peeking out from beneath the dust ruffle of my bed exactly where I left them last night.
    My tongue tastes like melted pennies and disappointment.  Leaning over the bathroom sink with my hand cupped, I take a deep drink of hot tap water and swirl it around my mouth before spitting it down the drain. 
    After a quick shower, my hair dries around my shoulders in mass of tangles as I slip into a pair of worn jeans and a soft t-shirt.  I don’t bother with make-up.  That would be fighting a losing battle because there’s no way that concealer would even work to get rid of the dark circles that are under my eyes this morning.  I am out the front door before anyone notices that I am up or gone.
    Then I’m sitting in my car at the Quick Stop on White Shell Drive.  I’ve gathered my thick hair in a messy coil and secured it with a large-mouthed clip that I found beneath the passenger’s seat of my car.  I also discovered a half-eaten roll of Sweetarts, a ticket stub from a bad movie that I saw last November with Taylor and Allison, and a Xeroxed diorama of a cathedral in Spain.  Go figure.
    The radio plays out in the background but I’m not really listening.  White Shell is a major road and cars are whooshing by even this early on a Saturday morning.  It takes a dozen passing minutes for me to decide but then I’m turning the wheel and checking my mirrors and pretty soon I’m parking my car at the curb in front of Alex’s house.  I don’t see his car but it could be parked by the garage which is actually hidden from the road at the back side of the house.
                On the front stoop, I hesitate, pondering the implications between ringing the doorbell and knocking.