Read Online Riding Fury Home by Chana Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

couch and stacked pillows on it, in case Mom started to roll. Then I ran. Out our front door, up our driveway, next door to Mrs. Summers. She opened the front door, and I sputtered, “Mom on couch . . . sleeping pills . . . don’t know how many . . . ” She put her arms around me, pulled me into the hall. She patted my back as I kept talking.
    Then, from across the river, the town siren began to wail. Who could have called? Who could already know what happened to Mom? I tore myself from Mrs. Summers, ran out her door, and back down our driveway. The front door was ajar.
    In the dim hall, I encountered our other neighbor: small, blond Mrs. Jansen. Her sad eyes met mine. “I came by to see your mother, Karen, and found her on the couch. I’ve called the ambulance.”
    The crunching of wheels on the driveway gravel, the slamming of doors. Two men carrying a stretcher. I followed them as they carried my mother out the front door. I stepped outside. The light was very bright. Townspeople had gathered in the driveway and all over the front yard. No one spoke, but their eyes pierced me. My mother was loaded in the ambulance, and the red light on its roof started flashing.
    I started to run. Around the back of our house, down the path to the river. Running and running, the trees blurred by my tears, until I came to the river and leaned against an old sycamore, my breath heaving. The river ran dark and muddy. It was early March, two months after my mother had jumped in. I stared into the waters, my spine against the tree, until I was numb with cold. Then I made my way back to the empty house.

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    MRS. FREDRICKSON called out again, “Karen, are you home?”
    â€œI’m here!” I yelled back.
    She came into the living room. “Dear, let’s go up to your room and get some of your things. Pajamas, underwear, clothes, school books. You can come stay with us.”
    Mrs. Fredrickson put me in Barbie’s room. Barbie shared the room with her little sister Cheryl Ann, so that meant Cheryl Ann got booted into Monica’s room.
    That night, after Barbie and I had settled into our twin beds, Mrs. Fredrickson came in to say goodnight. There were two windows, and she went over and opened each one halfway. Frigid air swirled through the room. “Could you close the windows?” I asked, “It’s really cold in here.”
    â€œFresh air is good for you. It will make you strong,” she replied. She left the room, but returned with an extra blanket, which she laid on my bed. I felt embarrassed, needing more than the others, but I didn’t know how they stood such cold.
    This was a house of rules. Every day when Barbie and I got off the school bus, Mrs. Fredrickson made us a snack. As soon as we were done, she said, “You have to do your homework now.” Kids had a set bedtime; dishwashing duty was rotated among the girls. In a way, it was a relief to know just what I was supposed to do. Here, kids were kids and grownups were grownups. But I didn’t like being bossed around so much.
    Dinner was strange. Not what they ate, but how they did it. Mr. Fredrickson came home from his job as a big-shot executive at Johnson & Johnson and changed out of his business suit into slacks and a plaid flannel shirt. One of the girls set the table. Mrs. Fredrickson sat at the end nearest the kitchen, the father at the head, the kids along the sides. Mr. Fredrickson said a prayer, and I had to
bow my head, too. Then Monica, because she was the oldest, was the first to hand her plate to her mother, who spooned vegetables and potatoes on the plate. Then the plate was passed down one side of the table from kid to kid until it reached Mr. Fredrickson, who put a piece of meat on the plate, which was passed back to Monica. There was no sound the whole time except for the chink of the serving spoon hitting the plate. The Fredricksons believed that children should not talk at the table