Page 31 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
2010
I was at track practice when, from out of nowhere, the haboob hit. Usually, there’s some warning before a dust storm forms, but not this one. We were doing laps around the oval when Coach Teal blew his whistle and shouted for us to get our asses into the gymnasium to shelter in place.
We sprinted flat-out, running faster than we had at any point in practice, as the wall of dirt rose up and blotted out the sun, turning the sky black.
By this point, my mom and I had been in Arizona for seven years, and I’d lived through my fair share of these storms. But this one was next level.
We sat in the locker room, eight teenaged boys marinating in the scent of sweat, musty towels, and Axe body spray until Coach gave us the all-clear to leave.
Navigating the short distance to my car in the student parking lot was like walking through a war zone. Bushes had been ripped up by their roots. Dirt was churned. Trash cans were on their sides, litter strewn everywhere. I drove home hunched over the wheel, white-knuckling it. Every traffic light between school and home was out. Car alarms wailed, and emergency vehicles flew by at every intersection, sirens blaring.
When I finally walked into the kitchen through the back door, I tossed my keys on the kitchen table and slumped into the closest chair. “That was brutal,” I moaned.
There was no response. I knew my father—stepfather—was out of town, traveling on business, but Mom should have been home. And ordinarily, her reaction to an announcement about a bad day was to flutter into the kitchen and offer me a snack and an ear to pour out my tale of girl trouble, a slow heat time, or too-heavy homework load. But today, nothing.
I combed the house room by room, calling her name. She wasn’t in the laundry room. She wasn’t upstairs reading or napping. The house was empty. No Mom, no note affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet, no clue as to where she might be. I’d parked on the street in the driveway, so I went out to the garage to check if her car, a silver Honda Civic, was there. It was. But she was gone.
My chest was tight with worry by the time I grabbed the cordless phone from its base and punched in Jessica Chavez’s number. The Chavezes lived across the street, and Mrs. Chavez was my mom’s closest friend. Mom had probably gone over to have coffee and gossip and lost track of time.
Mrs. Chavez answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Chavez, it’s Tristan. Is my mom there?”
“No, honey, she’s not here. She’s not back?”
“Not back from where? Her car’s in the garage.”
There was a pause, brief but noticeable. Then she said, “I saw her leave your house. It was after the worst of the storm had passed and I was checking my trees for damage. One of those Hummers pulled up in front of your house. It idled for a while until she came outside and got in the passenger seat. I waved to her, but I guess she didn’t see me.”
My stomach twisted and I gripped the phone. “Are you sure it was a Hummer?”
“I’m pretty sure. It was one of those big boxy trucks that looks like a Jeep on steroids. Isn’t that a Hummer?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s what it was. A black one.”
I started to sweat. I only knew one person who drove a black Hummer, and he pitched himself into the Atlantic Ocean seven years ago. Mom had sold that thing before we left. Unless … I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to block out Tate, red-faced and screaming at her that he wanted Dad’s car. Could he have bought it back from the lot?
“Did you happen to notice if it had out-of-state plates?”
“Hmm, I can’t say that I did. Tristan, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just worried that she’s not home yet,” I choked out the lie. “The roads were a mess when I left track practice.”
She cooed, “Such a good son. I’m sure your mother is doing fine, just fine. Do you want to come over here and have dinner with us?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Chavez. I’m sure you’re right, and she’ll be home any minute.”
She sounded hesitant about leaving me there alone, even though I was sixteen. “Well, okay. If you need anything, you let me know.”
“I will.”
As I ended the call, the loud rumble of an engine sounded out front. I ran to the living room window. Sure enough, there was a big black Hummer hulking in front of the house. Dad’s Hummer, I was almost sure of it.
When Mom got out of the truck and ran toward the front door, her face was streaked with tears, and I was positive. I wrenched the door open.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
