Page 27 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

Kids are practically hanging over the seats laughing while the mower swerves slightly near a ditch before jerking back toward the shoulder again. I even laugh at first because it’s ridiculous. The driver’s bundled in this huge winter coat and hat, impossible to really make out through the falling snow and dirty bus windows, and whoever it is lifts one arm dramatically like they’re waving at traffic, which only makes everyone laugh harder.

“Bro’s mowing snow!”

“Somebody’s drunk uncle escaped!”

The mower fishtails again, and the bus erupts into another round of laughter while I shake my head, smiling despite myself.

By the time the bus reaches my stop, the laughter has died down from the roar it was moments ago.

I step down into the cold with my backpack slung over one shoulder, already thinking about whether Dad remembered to take something out for dinner before work. The bus doors hiss shut behind me, and I barely make it three steps before I hear someone running through the snow behind me.

When I turn, Ryan is jogging toward me from farther down the road, snow sticking to his hair and shoulders. His face looks strange immediately, tense.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

But Ryan isn’t really looking at me. He’s looking past me toward the road behind us, toward the distant sputtering sound of the lawnmower engine still echoing through the snowfall.

“Go inside, Jade.”

I laugh a little because the seriousness in his voice catches me off guard. “What?”

“Go inside.” He insists.

“What’s going on?”

He finally looks directly at me, and whatever I see in his expression makes my stomach tighten painfully. “Go,” he says again, sharper this time.

Before I can ask another question, he turns and starts running back toward the road. Toward the lawnmower.

I stand there for a second watching him disappear through the falling snow, confused and suddenly uneasy in a way I can’t explain, nor do I understand. Then I turn toward the house and immediately notice the porch door is open.

That alone feels wrong. Mom would never leave it open in weather like this.

By the time I climb the porch steps, my boots soaked through with melting snow, a strange smell drifts out from inside the house. Cigarettes first, strong enough that it instantly reminds me of the older kids who smoke behind the gym at school, but underneath that, there’s something else. Something chemical and burnt that stings the back of my throat the second I step through the doorway.

Realization hits like a punch to the gut. The lawnmower. Ryan getting off the bus here. The look on his face when he told me to go inside before taking off down the road.

I hear the muffled sound of the mower engine through the snowfall outside, then Ryan yelling over it, his voice sharp and frantic in a way I’ve never heard before.

And I know.

My knees almost give out right there in the doorway, so I move inside.

The smell inside the house keeps getting stronger the farther I step in, thick and sour and burnt all at once. It sits heavy in the air, trapped in the warmth of the house after the freezing cold outside, and within seconds, my head starts feeling strange. Not pain exactly. Pressure. Like the room tipped slightly to the side without warning.

“Mom?” I call, but my voice sounds weak even to me.

No answer. The mower engine suddenly cuts off outside, then silence. No, because silence doesn’t buzz.

I grip the wall as dizziness rolls through me hard enough to make my stomach twist. My eyes water from the smell hanging in the air, and for a second, I honestly think maybe I’m getting sick.

The front door slams open behind me so hard it rattles the frame.

I jump and turn just as Ryan half-carries my mother through the doorway, her boots drag against the floor, her head lolls sideways before she tries laughing, but the sound barely makes it out of her throat. Ryan covers his mouth with his coat sleeve like he’s trying not to breathe any of the air in the house, and the second he sees me standing there, he swears under his breath.

“Christ.”

My mom looks awful, not just drunk, worse.