Chapter 8 - The Gas Station Phone
The church doors didn't move when I pulled them. I tried both handles and knocked once with my glove, and the sound just fell flat into the parking lot. The paper on the inside of the glass said the office was closed until after Christmas. The lights were off. I stood there with Lily leaning against my leg and the wind finding the gap at my neck.
My name is Emma. I was eight that Christmas Eve, and the parking lot was getting darker by the minute.
Down past the stop sign I could see a glow. It was yellow and white, buzzing-looking even from far away. A gas station sign. The price numbers were lit up and there were lights over the pumps. I shifted Lily's weight and pointed.
"See that?" I said. "We're gonna go there."
She didn't lift her head. Her hat had slipped down over one eyebrow and her bunny was tucked up under her chin. I fixed the hat and took her mitten in my glove. The walk down the county road felt longer than it looked. The sidewalk ended, so we stayed on the packed snow at the edge where the plow had pushed it. Cars went by fast and threw up gray spray. I kept us back and kept saying, "Almost there, almost there," even though I wasn't sure.
The bell over the gas station door rang too loud when we pushed in. Warm air hit my face and smelled like coffee and hot dogs. My cheeks stung. Lily blinked hard at the lights.
A man behind the counter looked up from a little TV. He had a dark vest on and his hair was sticking up in back. He stared at us, then at the door behind us.
"Whoa," he said. "You girls out alone in this?"
Lily pressed into my coat. I pushed my hood back so he could see my face. My gloves were wet and I didn't know what to do with my hands.
"Can we use your phone?" I asked. "For my mom."
He frowned and came around the end of the counter a little. "You okay? Where's your folks?"
I swallowed. The heat was making my eyes water. "My dad's in the hospital. And my mom — she's not with us. I need to call her."
He looked at Lily, at the bunny with one ear flopped down, at the snow melting off our boots onto his mat. He pulled his cell out of his vest pocket and held it out.
"You know the number?"
I took it. It was warm and heavier than I thought. The screen lit up and asked for a passcode, and he reached over and tapped it in without saying anything. Then the little phone keypad came up.
I stared at it.
At home Mom's number was just there. I tapped her picture, the one where she's holding Lily at the park. I never had to type it. At school we learned 911, and I knew Grandma's house because it was on the fridge for emergencies, but Mom's cell — I tried to see it in my head. I thought of the numbers but they kept moving around.
My thumb hovered. I pressed three numbers, then stopped because they didn't feel right. I erased them.
"I don't —" I said. My throat got tight. "I don't know it by heart."
The man didn't grab the phone back. He just nodded slow, like he got it. "How old are you, hon?"
"Eight."
He breathed out through his nose. "You did good getting her in out of the wind. What's your mom's name?"
I didn't say it right away. Grandma's voice was still in my head from the doorway. Your mother should have called. I looked down at Lily. She had her mitten in her mouth, chewing on the gray knit.
"I can't say?" I whispered. "I just need her."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. How about this — I call the sheriff's non-emergency line. They can find your mom faster than we can guessing numbers. You two can wait right here by the heat vent where it's warm. Deal?"
Lily tugged my coat. "Emma, I'm tired."
May you like
"I know," I said. I crouched a little so we were eye to eye. "We can sit right here. Inside. No more snow for a minute."
The man was already tapping his phone. He glanced at me for permission before he hit call. I nodded, and my glove squeaked against Lily's snowsuit as I pulled her closer to the warm air coming up from the floor grate.
