Eliot Strange and the Prince of the Resistance

47) Home Again and Again

My feet peddle as fast as any two feet can peddle that are cramping and about to fall off. I don't make it a half mile in town before I am almost blown off the road by a car. I only notice that it is a red jeep after it flies past me. I don't see the driver, but I am sure it has to be Agent Lancaster. Just like my dad, he is going in the opposite direction than he is supposed to be headed. Things are all turned around today.

I start to think about all the possibilities of what is happening. I replay the last few days in my mind as I struggle to pedal towards where and what, I don't know. I have gone in a million different directions lately. My brain is starting to hurt. I guess Gus was right, I have a concussion. So rightfully, I am confused.

There is no way I am getting to Stuart, Virginia on a bicycle. Not tonight and not any night or day either.

I have to regroup. I head home to the home I keep visiting for the last time.

It all feels very weird and familiar at the same time.

When I get home, I prop my bike on the porch, lock the door and get into my bed. My comfy, soft bed. I have to come up with another plan to get to my mom and Torin because even in my disjointed reasoning skills, even I know a girl with wasted feet is not riding a bicycle 30 miles uphill to rescue a prince. That is impossible.

I sleep and I dream. I am making a decision that must be made very soon. It's an important decision, a life changing decision. I am deciding what to be when I grow up. Funny, I dream, I am grown up. Eighteen already, but college is coming up, so I need to be deciding on my major. I don't feel ready, but I am excited anyway. I have narrowed it down to two choices, movie star or professional tennis player. I am thrilled about both choices but can't decide. On one hand, I do love to dress up, and the movie premieres would be so much fun. I do love attention and getting my picture made and wearing designer clothing, and even in my dream I know I am not that way at all, but I can change. I can. Carli can help me. She can be my hair and make-up girl.

On the other hand, I never played tennis in my life, and I lack coordination, but hey, I am steady, so there is that. And Steven can be my coach. He is a good coach even with a broken foot.

In my dream, my mom comes home. It has to be her because she is the only one with a key. She peeks in on me like she always does after a long trip. I'm glad she is home. I need some help making my choice about my college major. Movie star or tennis player? It is a very tough decision, but I am not stressed about it all. After all, either would be great, I dream, even though neither of them, along with a million other jobs, are real jobs anymore. All the jobs are gone now.

Poof. Just like that, no one needs to get up and go to work anymore. Hey, that is not bad at all. Wonder what I'll do now? I could go scuba diving or to the opera? Hey, I can go in my scuba outfit to the opera.

This dream is funny.

I wake up to the smell of bacon cooking. It must be Sunday because mom always makes me a big breakfast on Sunday. I love, love, love bacon. I hope she is making pancakes too.

Really, I smell bacon. I would be concerned that someone is in my kitchen except all I can think about is - where the hell did someone find bacon? And, I can hear voices, and one of them is my mom. My mama is home.

I want to bound out of bed and rush in the kitchen to see her, but the other voice makes me pause. She is talking to someone with a British accent, and it is not Torin or Jack or even Agent Lancaster.

It is Gus Lancaster.

I wait for a minute and listen to the words I can't quite make out, but I don't hear Torin's voice. Last time I saw him, he was with Gus headed to safety, but Torin is not here in my kitchen making my breakfast with my mom.

Only when I hear the voices stop do I get up and go to the kitchen. Gus is not here anymore. I was about half awake. Did I dream him?

There's my mom standing with her back to me at the stove. She's flipping a pancake. Yahoo, I think before my addled brain thinks - what the hell? She is making me breakfast just like she did before the world ended. Is it Sunday? When did she get back? What time did her flight arrive? Who picked her up at the airport? Probably, Mr. Thomas. And then I think, no wait, he was going in the opposite direction last night with my dad.

I finally think to speak. "Mom?" I ask like my brain won't believe she is back home.

She drops the spatula and, God-forbid, the pancake in the floor and rushes to me and hugs me without speaking.

I won't let her off that easy. "Where in the hell have you been?"

"We need to talk," she says.

Uh, no shit.

She squeezes me one more time and kisses the top of my head like she did when I was little. She ushers me over to the table and sort of sits me down in a chair with a gentle, but strong, touch down on my shoulder like I am a misbehaving toddler who needs a firm hand. I am instantly transformed into a defiant, angry teenager.

I have been doing fine without you.

I want to let her know that I know her secret. I want her to feel bad for deserting me. "I found your hidden room."

She pauses while she is thinking what to say next. She picks the pancake off the floor. I hope she is not going to throw it away.

I wait for her explanation and her "I'm sorry". My mom doesn't say anything. She continues to make pancakes. The coffee brewing in the pot smells delicious, and I don't like coffee. Wait, when did the power come back on. How?

And, then I remember my mom is with the people who've been cutting the power back on.

The silence continues with just the clink of metal on metal and brewing coffee and, what? Is that orange juice? I don't say anything either because I am determined to win this battle of "fill the awkward silence". I won't let her win.

When the pancakes are finished, she brings them to the table with the bacon and the eggs. Eggs? Are chickens still around? Where are they hiding?

Here's where I would like to say - that I dumped the plate of bountiful happiness in the floor and looked at my mom like - did you really think you could buy me off with breakfast? But, I eat every bite. Every glorious, mouth watering, squishy, crunchy, soft, delectable bite. And when I finish, I hold my plate in front of her like Oliver Twist and silently ask - Please, sir, I want some more - with my eyes.

Praise be to Charles Dickens, there is more. I eat three plates. I have to unbutton my jeans, though I don't let my mom see that.

When the meal is over my mom finally speaks, "I've come to get you."

"You're too late," I say.