Those That Wake Read Online Free
Author: Jesse Karp
today (not possible, given how long she had been blathering on about it) or that they didn't care (not possible, given how long
they
had been blathering on about it).
What the hell was it about New York, anyway? After all the crap that had been heaped on that place, why would two people want to spend a vacation there?
"Screw this," she said out loud.
She turned music up louder than ever would have been permitted in a parentally supervised house, cleared her mind of this useless nonsense, and got down to work.
Just because the internship she'd been planning on—had, in fact, assumed she'd be getting, given her much-vaunted credentials—had fallen through didn't mean there weren't a thousand others waiting for her elsewhere. She started looking and found that, in not having bothered to look around, she had missed others that interested her just as much. Two of them were even through the Medical Center, where she already knew people who would, she assumed again, be happy to help her out.
Her eyes wandered to the message indicator.
Still no call.
She put the music back on louder still, too loud for Mookie, anyway, who darted out of the house through his dog door and started rooting in the yard. She retreated to the laundry room and ironed what was waiting in the dryer while the next load was going, then ironed the new stuff. She folded it and brought it to its proper places and had the knob of one of her dresser drawers crack off in her hand as she slid it open. Like the mug, it was done, but unlike the mug, it could be replaced.
Still no call.
With a high-pitched shriek of frustration, she gave in, snatched up her cell, and keyed her parents. Expecting to be frustrated once again, and not sure whether to present herself as happy or furious if she did get a response, she was immediately surprised to have the screen brighten with her mother's face after one ring.
"Hello?" Claire Westlake said, looking quizzically at the screen.
"Mom!"
"I'm sorry?" her mother said. She was focused right on the screen, and Laura could see the generic décor of a hotel room behind her, so the cell was clearly working properly.
"Mom, it's me." She took off the Mets cap; though, if anything, the hat should have made her
more
recognizable.
"I'm sorry," her mother said. "Who's 'me'?"
This whole day of not calling and refusing to answer in service of some half-assed joke? That was not like her mother, and it was definitely not like her father.
"Mom, what are you doing?"
"I'm sorry, young lady, but I don't know you. Have you"—her mother stumbled, obviously troubled by this exchange herself—"have you checked the number you're dialing?"
"What's wrong, Claire?" her father's voice came from off the screen, and her mother shook her head without looking away.
"Mom," Laura said again, because, really, what else was there to say? "It's
me.
Laura."
"I'm sorry, Laura," her mother said. "You seem to have the wrong number."
"I..."Laura's voice trailed away, her mind suddenly stupid and her fingers numb.
"Try again," said her mother, not unkindly. "I'm sure you'll get who you're looking for." She looked at the screen quizzically for one more moment, then keyed off, leaving behind a scrolling ad for reduced train fares to New York.
Laura stood immobile in the middle of the living room, her body stiff and her eyes dizzy. Dazed, she looked down at the empty screen.
"Mom?"
ANNIE
MAL'S EYE WAS PURPLE and yellow. It didn't hurt as much as his knuckles, which always stung fiercely the day after a fight; nor as much as the back of his torso, where he'd taken a kidney punch; nor his wrist, which had hyperextended in a clumsy block. Nevertheless, it was the eye that Sharon noticed.
"What do your new parents say about that?" she asked, and maybe her voice was smug, or maybe that was how she always sounded. Mal couldn't remember. "I'm sure they love it, knowing you're coming into their home with other people's blood on your knuckles."
"They get me
they
had been blathering on about it).
What the hell was it about New York, anyway? After all the crap that had been heaped on that place, why would two people want to spend a vacation there?
"Screw this," she said out loud.
She turned music up louder than ever would have been permitted in a parentally supervised house, cleared her mind of this useless nonsense, and got down to work.
Just because the internship she'd been planning on—had, in fact, assumed she'd be getting, given her much-vaunted credentials—had fallen through didn't mean there weren't a thousand others waiting for her elsewhere. She started looking and found that, in not having bothered to look around, she had missed others that interested her just as much. Two of them were even through the Medical Center, where she already knew people who would, she assumed again, be happy to help her out.
Her eyes wandered to the message indicator.
Still no call.
She put the music back on louder still, too loud for Mookie, anyway, who darted out of the house through his dog door and started rooting in the yard. She retreated to the laundry room and ironed what was waiting in the dryer while the next load was going, then ironed the new stuff. She folded it and brought it to its proper places and had the knob of one of her dresser drawers crack off in her hand as she slid it open. Like the mug, it was done, but unlike the mug, it could be replaced.
Still no call.
With a high-pitched shriek of frustration, she gave in, snatched up her cell, and keyed her parents. Expecting to be frustrated once again, and not sure whether to present herself as happy or furious if she did get a response, she was immediately surprised to have the screen brighten with her mother's face after one ring.
"Hello?" Claire Westlake said, looking quizzically at the screen.
"Mom!"
"I'm sorry?" her mother said. She was focused right on the screen, and Laura could see the generic décor of a hotel room behind her, so the cell was clearly working properly.
"Mom, it's me." She took off the Mets cap; though, if anything, the hat should have made her
more
recognizable.
"I'm sorry," her mother said. "Who's 'me'?"
This whole day of not calling and refusing to answer in service of some half-assed joke? That was not like her mother, and it was definitely not like her father.
"Mom, what are you doing?"
"I'm sorry, young lady, but I don't know you. Have you"—her mother stumbled, obviously troubled by this exchange herself—"have you checked the number you're dialing?"
"What's wrong, Claire?" her father's voice came from off the screen, and her mother shook her head without looking away.
"Mom," Laura said again, because, really, what else was there to say? "It's
me.
Laura."
"I'm sorry, Laura," her mother said. "You seem to have the wrong number."
"I..."Laura's voice trailed away, her mind suddenly stupid and her fingers numb.
"Try again," said her mother, not unkindly. "I'm sure you'll get who you're looking for." She looked at the screen quizzically for one more moment, then keyed off, leaving behind a scrolling ad for reduced train fares to New York.
Laura stood immobile in the middle of the living room, her body stiff and her eyes dizzy. Dazed, she looked down at the empty screen.
"Mom?"
ANNIE
MAL'S EYE WAS PURPLE and yellow. It didn't hurt as much as his knuckles, which always stung fiercely the day after a fight; nor as much as the back of his torso, where he'd taken a kidney punch; nor his wrist, which had hyperextended in a clumsy block. Nevertheless, it was the eye that Sharon noticed.
"What do your new parents say about that?" she asked, and maybe her voice was smug, or maybe that was how she always sounded. Mal couldn't remember. "I'm sure they love it, knowing you're coming into their home with other people's blood on your knuckles."
"They get me
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