A Friend at Midnight Read Online Free

Nathaniel!” she yelled, and while she was yelling, somebody picked up at the other end. They didn’t say anything. They just breathed. Lily got irritated. She was pretty nearly always irritated at how other people conducted their lives. “Who is this?” she demanded.
    There was a long jagged intake of air at the other end and then sobs spurted out of the phone. Raw sobs, like cuts, like opening a can and slicing your palm with the lid.
    I knew, thought Lily. I knew from the area code.
    Except her brother Michael didn’t ever cry. He didn’t cry when a baseball hit him in the face. He didn’t cry when he fell off his bike and ripped open his knees. He didn’t cry when he got shots. He didn’t cry when their parents’ marriage ended and he didn’t cry when their mother went into a new one. Michael didn’t cry.
    â€œMichael?” said Lily.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTell me what’s happening. Where are you? What phone number is this? Why didn’t you let it ring when you called a minute ago? What’s wrong?”
    There was another sob, drier this time; shallower.
    From his crib, Nathaniel heard her say “Michael?” and since Nate loved Michael, he stopped shouting “Wiwwy” and started shouting “Miikooooo!”
    Lily said, “Mom and Kells took Reb to college, Michael, and there wasn’t enough room in the car for Nate and me, so we’re here by ourselves. There’s nobody around to butt in, Michael. Tell me what’s happening.”
    â€œLily,” he whispered.
    Lily waited. But Michael had nothing else to say. “I love you,” Lily told him. She never said things like that. Even when he’d left forever, she had not told Michael she loved him.
    She could hear the little huffs of his breathing, his effort to still the sobs.
    Her heart was crumpled newspaper and kindling. Fear for her brother was the match. Flame charred a corner of Lily’s heart.
    â€œI’m here,” she said.
    When he’d left, Michael had done his own packing.
    Mom had been beside herself about the whole thing because Michael’s choice was a personal defeat, an assault. She seemed to think if she didn’t pitch in, it wouldn’t happen.
    Michael didn’t care. When Mom wouldn’t help, he hiked a mile to the nearest strip of stores, collected cardboard boxes and carried them home, stacked inside each other. He did this five times. He filled them with his belongings and sealed them with strapping tape. He wrote his name and the precious new address in large fat black letters on all four sides, with big arrows pointing up.
    On the day Dad was to arrive and take him away for good, Michael was up before dawn. Actually, Lily was pretty sure he’d never gone to bed. By the time the sun was up, Michael had dragged everything he owned to the road. Not the porch, not the back door, not the driveway—but the road. He was disowning the rest of them. He propped his fishing poles and baseball bat and bike against the boxes.
    He had forgotten to pack clothing. Nothing that sat in a bureau drawer or hung on a hanger mattered to Michael. Mom gave up and dragged out two large suitcases. She folded every shirt carefully. Paired the socks. Replaced a broken lace on a sneaker.
    Silently, the family moved through the house, finding things Michael had forgotten. Reb brought his baseball glove.
    Mom brought his toothbrush, toothpaste and orthodontic appliance, which he had never worn and never would, but he let her drop the stuff into his duffel along with a book (as if Michael planned to do any reading again in this life) and an apple for a snack (as if he planned to choose apples once Mom wasn’t supervising).
    York lay in his usual box. The box wasn’t marked because Michael could not possibly confuse York’s box with ordinary boxes. Lily had a bad feeling about letting their father see York. She got her own backpack