Impassable Read online

  IMPASSABLE

  Jen Ponce

  Copyright © 2020 Jen Ponce

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living, dead, or zombie, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Jen Ponce

  Printed in the United States of America

  Thanks for your support, your feedback, and the sprints, Stephanie! You rock.

  (Stephanie writes too, though her books have fluffy, intelligent cats, scaly, intelligent dragons, and kickass, intelligent women.

  Check out her books here! http://stephanieebarr.us/)

  Thanks, Lorri, for your eyeballs and editing prowess! I love you! (Best sis ever!)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Books By This Author

  About The Author

  1

  Now

  She crouches behind the counter of a gas station holding her nose to keep the sneeze inside. An inch of dust coats every surface and it smells faintly of mildew and death. Something died in the back room. As long as she doesn’t look, she can believe it is an animal and nothing more.

  Doesn’t matter anyway. She came in to grab a gas can and see if there is food. She didn’t see the boy standing on the corner until he shouts at her.

  “Help me!”

  She shuts her eyes and concentrates on not sneezing, on the nubby red plastic under her fingers, on the utter silence all around her. A silence cut through with the boy’s faint screams. “Not real,” she whispers to herself, the shrieks rising as if someone is torturing the boy.

  For all she knows, he is being tortured, but she knows better than to go out there and see. She knows better than to believe the story of pain and need in his voice.

  She knows better and hates herself for it.

  She counts to ten, the only way she’s found to combat the fear that constantly rides her, has constantly ridden her since October. At ten, she makes herself open her eyes and search the station for another exit, one that won’t dump her out where the boy is sure to see.

  The door to the back room stands ajar as if daring her to push it open. She doesn’t want to look but she has already counted to ten and she can’t stay frozen. She’ll die if she lets the fear win.

  She does an awkward duck-walk to that door and pushes it open, the hinges squeaking loud enough to make her cringe.

  “Help! Please!”

  “Not real,” she whispers again. She duck-walks into the dark room where the smell worsens and the door bumps against something soft. Fleshy, even.

  The electricity has long since failed but she has a flashlight she shines around the room, the small beam reflecting off the exit sign at the far back. She risks rising and heads for the exit, not letting her eyes drift anywhere but the door. Seeing what happened in this room would only bring more fear and heartache and she’s had enough of both for a lifetime or three.

  The door, nothing but the door.

  She reaches it, twists the lock and then the knob, giving it a push with her shoulder when it sticks. Sunlight streams in, making her blink back tears as she slips out onto concrete covered with litter, cans, and discarded butts. There’s still snow on the ground in the shade of the blue trashcans and in the bed of a rusted pickup that sits on blocks near the alley.

  This town, like every other place she’s passed through, is dead. The windows of a King Fresh grocery store glint vacantly across the street as she scoots along the building to peer around the corner. Nothing.

  “Please!”

  No movement. The windows of the gas station wrap around to the front, so she’s forced to duck-walk again to the next corner. Her truck is there, and it still holds gas. She stopped to see if she could get another can to fill. She stopped for food and water and to rest.

  She should have known better. The truck gave her away, its noise and movement.

  She is just tired. So tired.

  A shrill cry rips the air and then there are loud, hysterical sobs. “Hungry!”

  What if he’s real?

  “Not real,” she whispers to herself, to the part of her that always wants to go to them, to help. Always wants to comfort and hug and care for them. A thirsty little girl alone in a house. She just wanted to help. She just wanted to—

  “He’s not real,” she insists, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts. It’s hard, so hard. She can’t get enough downtime to practice what she preached. Hadn’t she told Isaac how to deal with his intrusive thoughts?

  And how did that end? Hmm?

  No. She won’t think of him.

  Had Tina been real?

  Not her, either. She can’t go there, can’t think of anything that might distract her, that might cause her to go away in her head.

  “Hungry!” The word is drawn out with the boy’s desperation.

  What if he’s real? she asks herself again. What if he isn’t one of them? What if he’s alive like she is, abandoned by parents who loved him and worked so hard to keep him safe, only to die and leave him alone?

  What if he was bit and they left him to turn because they couldn’t bear to kill him themselves?

  She’s been down that road before.

  “Stop it,” she hisses. “Get your shit together so you don’t end up dead.”

  She’s been alone so long, she’s resorted to having conversations with herself. It keeps thoughts of her own kids at bay, her kids who are three hundred and seventy odd miles away. Her kids who may very well be dead.

  “No. Not dead,” she whispers and not for the first time, either. “They can’t be.”

  Where is the boy? Has he attracted others? Is he standing just out of sight, waiting for her to make a mistake?

  She can’t stay here all day, so she counts to ten and when she hits ten, she runs, her boots loud on the pavement.

  “Mama.”

  Her knees turn to water and she trips, slamming face first into the truck. Her nose explodes with bright, hot pain. When she pushes herself upright with a gasp, she sees the boy only a few feet away now. He’s missing his shirt and his little face is smeared with dirt. She wants to pick him up, wrap him in a blanket, and kiss his cheeks. She wants to tell him he’s okay, that it’s all right, that he’ll be safe now.

  “Mama, please!” His words are like snakes slithering out of his mouth and she screams without sense or thought, pawing at the door to open it. She scrambles in and slams the door, dropping the keys when she tries to get them into the ignition. Sobbing with fear, she feels for them, her eye
s so filled with tears she loses sight of the boy. Where is he? Where--

  The boy hits the door and she shrieks. Where there’s one, there will be more, they will be here and they’ll be hungry and—her fingers find the keys and she snatches them up, breathing through her mouth because her nose is plugged. She gets the key in the ignition as the little boy paws at the window.

  “Mama? Mama? Hungry! Please?”

  She pauses, not turning the key. What if he’s real?

  She doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the glassy, death-fogged eyes, but what if he’s real? “Start the car, stupid,” she growls at herself and does, the roar of the motor startling in its violent assault on the silence around her. She shifts into gear and steps on the gas, wincing when she hears the boy hit the side of her truck.

  She looks in the rear-view mirror and see that he’s fallen, though he is already struggling to rise.

  What if he’s real?

  More importantly, what if he’s not?

  2

  Then

  When Lana stepped out onto that narrow, car-lined street, I was struck again by her beauty. The late afternoon sun highlighted her hair, setting it on fire with reds and oranges. I’d known her over twenty years, and she was still gorgeous. Her green eyes sparkled as she leaned down to peer in the window, making rolling motions with her hand even though we haven’t had anything but electric windows forever. I buzzed the glass down and grinned at her.

  “Are you coming or not?”

  “Do I have to?” I loved her or I would not be here about to do this thing.

  “Yes. Come on. It’s for the boys.”

  For the boys, yes. For Jackson and Tucker I’d do about anything. Even this. I heaved an annoyed sigh and buzzed the window back up. My blue tennies splashed in a sun-gilded puddle littered with autumn leaves. It was warm but the forecast predicted a temp drop below freezing tonight. Another thing to hate about this whole thing—the threat of snow.

  “You look like a woman going to her own funeral,” Lana said as she slipped her arm in mine and we made our way up to the shabby door decorated with a wreath covered in plastic pumpkins and leaves. My lip curled and I got her elbow in my ribs. “Stop it. Like you’d do any better.”

  I acted offended but she was right. I was not crafty, at least not in the arts and crafts. Give me an asshole bureaucrat wanting to keep one of my LGBTQ kids out of this program or that housing and I got all kinds of sneaky. I also got mad, but that was a whole other story.

  “Rod has changed.”

  “According to Rod,” I muttered.

  “According to everyone who knows him. And his wife April seems like a sweetheart.” Lana’s dark brown hair brushed her expressive eyebrows and I brushed it away from her forehead to plant a kiss on the exposed skin. “What’s that for?”

  “For you being sweet and positive in the face of impossibility.”

  She snorted and then lifted her fist to knock.

  I steeled myself for the encounter, not as optimistic as she was for Rod’s transformation. I remembered Lana’s anger and the boys’ tears when, for the fifth Christmas in a row, he didn’t show, didn’t send presents, hell, didn’t even call. Chasing the next high, the next drunk, that was all he’d ever done.

  The door swung open and I was shocked by how filled-out my kids’ biological dad had gotten. No longer gaunt and trembling, he had actual flesh on his bones. “Lana! Dee! You’re early. April, they’re early!” He stepped back and we moved into a small entryway. To our left was a small kitchen and a narrow hallway extended off in front of us. April was a short woman with blond hair, a big nose, and a wide, gap-toothed grin.

  “He’s been doing nothing but talking about you,” April said as she shook Lana’s hand. “You and the boys. Come on in. Please. I made cookies? And tea? Would you like some?” She looked between the two of us anxiously.

  “Sure,” I said and got a nervous wisp of a smile before she slipped past us to fill green glasses with tea.

  “I have Mom’s stuff in here, in boxes. It’s a bit messy but you’ll understand, right?” Rod showed us into a cozy room filled with an overstuffed brown sofa, a warn recliner, and a wall full of dolls. “April’s a collector,” he said and grinned as if that was the cutest thing a woman could ever do and I almost, almost thought warmly about him. For a second. “How’s the social work, Dee? Saving a lot of kids?”

  I nodded and sat on the couch with Lana, hating the way it tried to swallow me up. “Mostly I tell them how awesome they are, give them some tools, and then they save themselves.”

  “Right. You were … right. I had someone like that on my team in treatment. He told me he couldn’t save me, I had to save myself.” He swallowed and reached for a box, his throat working hard. “Mom had a bunch of things set aside for Jackson and Tucker, things she kept from me so I wouldn’t sell them.” He looked like he thought we’d reach over and hit him and, truth be told, I kind of wanted to but I promised Lana I wouldn’t. “I’m sorry.”

  Lana had her, ‘I’m going to make the best of it,’ expression on and she managed to smile at him and said, “I know. I’m glad you’ve found some peace in your life. And I’m sorry about Mimi. She was a fun lady.”

  “Yeah, she was. A real card.” He chuckled and then moved the box a bit, opening the flaps up. “She has everything labeled. Some of it’s from my great grandpa. Didn’t want to risk mailing it.” He lifted a cuckoo clock from the box, the weights resting on a decorative shelf at the bottom. He carefully let the weights hang and held up the clock. “Not exactly exciting for teen boys, I know. This was my grandma’s. She always had it hanging over the fireplace and when Mom got it, she kept it in our living room. Still works.” He passed it to me, and I caught a whiff of attics, dust, and mothballs. I wrinkled my nose before I could catch myself and Rod said, “I know it’s not fancy, but it was something from my childhood—”

  “It’s not that,” I said when Lana gave me a frown. “Mothballs.” I leaned in like an idiot and sniffed and Lana shook her head.

  “It’s cool, Rod. I’ll bet Jackson will really like it. He loves old things.” She patted me on the knee like a zookeeper trying to calm a nervous elk.

  I almost giggled at the elk bit and had to duck my head to keep from grinning. Lana mouthed, ‘What is wrong with you?’ and I shook my head.

  Rod kept talking, hopefully oblivious. “Good. He’s so tall now.”

  “Yes, he is.” Lana shifted so she couldn’t see me as well, couldn’t see me hiding my grin like an idiot. “Six feet now.”

  Rod and Lana exchanged some trivia about the boys, stuff Rod would have known had he gotten his head out of his ass and took the trouble to stay in their lives. I moved the clock to the coffee table and stood when April came in with the refreshments balanced on a tray. When I offered to take it, she let me and passed out the glasses while I held the tray. “Rod says you’ve been with Lana for thirteen years?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but we’ve known each other a lot longer.”

  “Wow. My mom and dad didn’t even make it that long. Did you get married when Obama made it legal?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but I figured correcting her would just lead me down a road Lana wouldn’t approve of, so I just said, “Yep,” and hoped she wouldn’t ask more.

  “Rod and I met in treatment.” My poker face wasn’t working well because she said, “I know, it’s a general rule that you can’t get into a relationship with another addict for at least a year. We’re really quite happy, though and we keep each other sober.” She waggled her glass, making the ice tinkle. “Learning to love tea together.”

  “Good for you,” I murmured, unable to muster much enthusiasm for their romance. I had compassion and a half for the kids I worked with, many of whom were also addicts. Pretty much, it was just Rod I couldn’t feel happy for. He was an ass, for all that he had changed his life around.

  April sat on the floor at Rod’s feet—something else t
hat made me want to wrinkle my nose—and gazed up him as if he were everything she’d ever wanted.

  Ick.

  More things came out of the box, knives, rocks glued to cardboard and labeled in an old fashioned script, an old ball and cup with a frayed string, and a couple of those creepy porcelain dolls that featured prominently in horror movies. Leave it to Rod to give us haunted shit in the guise of being nice.

  “Don’t you think so Dee?” Lana asked, her voice tight.

  I nodded, not sure what I was supposed to think. “Sure,” I said, and I knew I was going to hear about it when we got back to our hotel room. I thought I was doing pretty good—I hadn’t hit the guy yet.

  She gave me both dolls and so I sat there with two expressionless faces staring up at me. One of them had teeth, creepy teeth that looked sharp as hell. They both smelled like mothballs. I managed not to twitch, and the conversation moved to the boys. “Jackson is a straight A student. Tucker gets As, Bs, and Cs. He’s more interested in sports than grades, but he keeps them up so he can play. And Jackson already has several scholarships for his trombone and a few for theater and, of course, academics.”

  “That’s awesome. Where’s he going for college? UNO is good,” Rod said with bald hope in his voice. I wasn’t sure why he thought Jackson would move halfway across the country to live near a man who didn’t give a good goddamn about him for most of his life, but he did. Hope sprung eternal.

  “I’m sure it is. He hasn’t decided on any place yet, but I’ll tell him what you said about UNO,” Lana said, diplomatic as ever.

  “Thanks.” Rod cleared his throat and glanced at April, who gave him a little nod and I groaned internally. What the hell was he working up to? “There’s another reason why I asked you guys here. I know I don’t have the right to ask, but April encouraged me to just spit it out and hope for the best.” He licked his lips. “I was thinking that, maybe, the boys could spend this upcoming summer here, with April and me.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said, the words out before I could even think about them. I ignored Lana’s, “Dee,” and Rod’s hurt expression and April’s little horrified gasp and put the awful dolls back into one of the boxes on the coffee table. “Sorry, but Rod, you’ve only been sober for six months. Maybe that’s the longest you’ve ever been sober, and that’s great but why the hell should we trust the boys with you when you’ve proven yourself to be the very opposite of trustworthy almost all their lives?”