Chapter 8: Isabelle: Social Media Stalker

I slow down to make the turn into my driveway, and like I've done every day for the past year, I pray my dad's car is there. But just like every other day, it's not, which means he's working late. Again. I sit in my car for a few moments to gather my thoughts because once I step into the house, I'm going to be bombarded with chores.

I take several deep, calming breaths. Mondays and Wednesdays are always the hardest. Tuesdays I'm home late because of youth group, and Thursdays I usually go home from school with Cam and have dinner with his family before choir practice. I take the keys from the ignition, toss them in my backpack, and get out of the car.

"Isabelle!" My neighbor from across the street rushes toward me. "Isabelle, dear."

I plaster a smile on my face and slowly turn around. "Hi, Ms. Rhoades."

Her white hair is piled atop her head in some out-of-date hairstyle I'm positive was never cool, not even back in the 50s when it was popular.

She flattens her palm over her chest and gasps for air like she just ran a marathon as opposed to simply crossing the street. "I've been trying to get in touch with your mother all day. Is she okay?"

"Oh, yeah. She wasn't feeling very well last night. I think she's coming down with the flu. She's probably been in bed most of the day." I keep my voice steady so as not to alert her that I'm lying.

"Poor thing." She frowns and shakes her head. "It's that time of year, isn't it?"

I nod and adjust my backpack on my shoulder. "I can give her a message if you want." Anything to prevent her from coming back over and knocking on the door when I'm not home.

"You're such a dear." She clutches my arm in what I guess is an affectionate gesture, but her hands are cold and rough and wrinkly. "I just wanted to tell her that our book club is resuming now that summer's over. We're meeting next week, but if she's got the flu, she's going to be out of it for a while."

"Probably," I agree, silently thanking God for not striking me down for lying.

"Okay, well, you tell her I said to get well soon and to come see me as soon as she's feeling better." She pats my arm and pulls her hand back. Her metal bracelets jangle loudly. She must be wearing at least a dozen of them.

"I will. Have a nice evening, Ms. Rhoades." I wave and head inside. "Mom?" I don't know why I bother calling for her. She never answers.

The living room isn't messy. In fact, it looks as though no one has been in here all day. I drop my bag onto the floor and toe off my shoes. The framed photo of my brother sits on the mantle. I pick it up and run my fingers over the cracked glass, and the memories crash over me.

"Mom! Where are the car keys?" I shout for the millionth time. "I'm going to be late for church."

"Church?" She stumbles out of the kitchen, brandishing a half-empty wine bottle. Her hair is a mess, mascara streaks her face, and her sneer is sharper than ever. "You're seriously going to church?"

"Yes." I slip my feet into my favorite sandals. "I go to church every Sunday. You know that."

"How dare you!" she shrieks, her eyes wild.

I take a small step back, fear wrapping around my heart. I don't dare speak, not when she's like this. It's not my mom screaming at me. It's the alcohol. She's been drinking a lot lately.

"How can you go to church and worship a God who stole my son from me? Your God killed my baby, and you want to praise Him?" She lets out a shrill scream and hurls the wine bottle across the room. It smashes against the picture of my brother, shattering both frame and bottle.

I yelp and shrink back against the wall. This isn't my mom. It's the alcohol.

Tears slip silently down my face. I shake the memory away and return the frame to its spot on the mantle. After my brother died, my father buried himself in work, and my mother turned to booze. Me? I'm doing the best I can to hold everything together. Without Brandon, I have to be twice as good, twice as smart, twice as responsible. It's downright exhausting, but I'll keep trying until my family's whole again - if that's even possible.

I blow out a breath and walk into the kitchen. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, wine glasses, and empty beer bottles. At least I know Mom ate today - that's better than most days. I push up my sleeves, plug the sink, and begin filling it with warm, soapy water. As it's filling, I run upstairs and gather my hair into a ponytail. Then I peek inside Mom's room. She's face-down on the bed, snoring. Relief settles over me.

Snoring means she's alive.

The room reeks of alcohol and sweat. I open the window a crack to let in some fresh air and then drape a blanket over my mother. She doesn't move a muscle, even as I gather the empty wine bottles from the floor. Back downstairs, I shut off the water so it doesn't overflow onto the floor. The last thing I need is to create another mess for myself. After rinsing the bottles, I bag them and set the bag out on the back porch, where none of our neighbors can see the evidence of our dirty family secret.

I spend the next two hours cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming the floors, and making dinner. By the time I sit down with a plate of spaghetti, I'm exhausted. But bedtime is hours away. I lower my head and say a quick blessing. Dear God, thank You for this food and for my health and for always providing for us, no matter our circumstances. Amen.

Before I take my first bite, I open social media on my cell phone and scroll through my feed. Lots of selfies of my friends to showcase the first day of school. There are none of me and my friends, though. Hannah doesn't like having her picture taken, and I only saw Andrea briefly - I'm still convinced she's mad at me for some reason. Cam has profiles, but he doesn't use his social media all that much.

He was acting odd today. Distant. Usually, he's waiting for me after every class, holding my hand, chatting away about anything and everything, making plans to hang out. But today, I barely saw him, and when I did, he didn't hold my hand or talk much. I'm not mad about it. In fact, it's sort of a relief. I don't have the emotional strength to unravel his twisted emotions on top of my own. Does that make me a bad girlfriend? I push away my insecurities and continue to scroll through my newsfeed.

Does Grayson have a profile? I twist a forkful of noodles into my mouth and then search for him. His name and picture pop up. Excitement swells inside me as I click on his profile. Man, he's hot. Stalking the new guy isn't one of my proudest moments, but I'm bored. And curious. I mean, he did the one thing no one has been able to do in a long time - he made me laugh. Not to mention, he never knew Brandon, so I don't have to worry about him looking at me with pity or asking how I'm doing. There's something freeing about letting loose without wondering if the other person felt I was betraying Brandon.

There are a lot of pictures of Grayson and his dad, who's dressed in military fatigues. Every written post Grayson has made is to announce he's moving - Virginia. North Carolina. Washington. Texas. New York - followed by a check-in at some big military base. The most recent move: Michigan. Strange. There aren't any big military bases in Michigan. Grayson hasn't checked in anywhere.

I take another large bite and continue scrolling. No mention of friends. Or girlfriends. I refuse to smile about that little tidbit of information, even if it does send a tiny thrill through me. My finger hovers over the button to send him a follow request. It's stupid to even think about clicking that button. But...we are partners on a very large project. It makes sense to stay in touch, right? It's not like I have his phone number, so social media is the best way to contact him outside of school. For homework purposes.

Before I can actually press down on the screen, a text message pops up. It's a voice recording from Andrea. I shove another forkful of noodles into my mouth, close out the app without sending a request to Grayson, and press play.