The Space Between Heartbeats Read Free

phone. She shuts the fridge with her hip and steps over to the island. Today she’s in a charcoal knee-length pencil skirt and matching jacket with a cobalt-blue blouse. She looks stunning. Even after everything she’s been through, the woman knows how to make an impression. Sometimes I think Mom finds it easier to simply focus on appearances. It’s the one thing we seem to share these days.
    She slams her coffee mug down. Black liquid jumps over the edge and lands on the counter. “Well, how should I know? Do you keep track of her every movement?” She turns and grabs a dishcloth, her voice getting louder. “She’s your daughter, too, you know.”
    I clear my throat. “I’m standing right here,” I remind her. It’s not unusual to hear my parents fighting, but it is unusual to hear them fighting about me. Maybe they heard me come in late. Maybe they actually care for once.
    “Yeah.” My mother sighs. “I’ll call the school.”
    She rinses out the cloth and places it neatly on the edge of the sink.
    “Yep. Love you, too.” The words sound routine, emotionless, like there’s no truth to them. She hangs up and sighs heavily.
    “I am going to school, just so you know. But if you want me to get there on time, you’ll need to give me a ride,” I say.
    She doesn’t look up, but gulps down the last of her coffee and shoves the milk back in the fridge.
    “The silent treatment? That’s what you’re going with today?” I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s really mature, Mom. You should start writing for a parenting magazine.”
    She glances around the room, her cool blue gaze brushing over me like I’m nothing more than a speck of dirt as she checks to make sure she has everything she needs. With a sharp sigh, she fluffs up the back of her short blond bob, gathers her square leather handbag, and heads out of the kitchen.
    I want to apologize for pissing her off. I want to admit I have no idea what happened last night and I’m sorry that I came in really late . . . again. I want to tell her that I’m scared. But there’s an impassable gulf between us that grows larger every day, filled with all the things we won’t— can’t —talk about.
    I follow her to the entryway, wondering if it’s even worth it to plead for a ride. The idea of her stony silence isn’t exactly appealing, but being late to school has consequences, too. I’m really not in the mood for detention today.
    “Look, Mom—”
    The tinny ring of her phone cuts me off. Mom opens the front door as she pulls it out of her jacket pocket and presses it to her ear.
    “Jackie, my favorite client.” Her bright, plastic voice makes my skin crawl. “Of course you’re not bothering me. What do you need?”
    “A ride to school,” I mumble over my shoulder as I brush past her and out the door. It’s so unfair that her work contacts always get her sunshine, while her family is left with the melancholy dregs.
    “Well, I have the open home scheduled for two on Saturday, so we still have a little time left. Why don’t I make some calls and get back to you?” She pauses when she reaches her car and lets out a merry laugh. “Don’t worry, you will be my number-one priority today.”
    “Unlike me.” I throw her a pointed look. She glances away from me as she nods and hmms at Jackie. “Ugh, forget about the ride. I’d rather walk anyway.” I turn on my heel and make a quick retreat down the driveway, yelling over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to call the school to tell them I’ll be late.”
    The walk to school is just under two miles. I look at my watch and pick up the pace. This day has detention written all over it.
    I get about three blocks from the house before my feet start to bother me. Just as I’m regretting my choices, I hear the welcome sound of an approaching car—maybe Mom has decided to take pity on me, after all. I glance back, but instead of Mom’s sleek silver sedan, it’s an ugly mustard yellow beater, rock