Bringing Me Back by Beth Vrabel

Author:Beth Vrabel [Vrabel, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sky Pony Press
Published: 2018-01-26T05:00:00+00:00

Jeff insisted that I sit with him at the kitchen table to eat our burgers. “Here, have my pickle.” He flipped it into my Styrofoam takeout container, right on top of my fries.

“I don’t want a pickle.” I tossed it back onto his plate.

“Just eat the freaking pickle, Noah,” Jeff snapped. He tossed it back. “It’s the only vegetable on the table. I want you to have it.”

I picked it up and took a huge bite. “Happy?”

He didn’t answer. Both of us kept glancing at the glowing green numbers on the oven clock. Six forty-five. Jeff not-so-subtly knocked the huge stack of letters between us on the table. There were about a dozen of them, all from Mom to me. All unopened. The basket on the floor held about fifty more. I pushed the letters aside, then piled fries on top of the burger patty and smooshed it all together with the top of the bun.

Jeff cocked an eyebrow at me then glanced down at his own burger. He had done the same, only with sweet potato fries.

Both of us reached for the hot sauce at the same time. “Go ahead,” he said, and I put five shakes on the remaining fries before handing the bottle to him so he could do the same. Six fifty.

I sucked up the last few dregs of my pop and polished off the burger. Six fifty-eight.

“Noah,” Jeff said warningly. “Come on, man.”

Instead of answering, I pushed off my seat. Six fifty-nine. I held up the pickle. “Look!” I said, like it was a peace offering and finished it just as the phone rang.

“Noah!” Jeff called, but I was out of the door before the last ring.

Fifteen minutes, that’s how long I had to hang out in the backyard.

See, prisoners are only allowed to make phone calls a couple times a week. Mom was up to three calls weekly, now that she had finished parenting lessons, was going to group meetings for addicts, and was meeting with Dean Trenton, her sponsor, every week. And she could only make them at seven o’clock in the evening. Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays. Here’s another prisoner rule: phone calls automatically disconnect after fifteen minutes.

“Hey, Diane,” I heard Jeff say into the receiver. “No, sorry. He’s not here.”

I stomped further into the yard, tripping over something in the dark.

“You know I’m trying. I am.” Jeff paused. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. “I can’t force the kid—”

I reached around in the overgrown grass and fallen leaves, trying to see what I had stumbled over.

“When you’re back, it’ll be different,” he snapped. “For all of us … I didn’t mean that.”

My fingers flew back like I had touched a flame when I realized what was there, under all the debris. My old football.

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