Don't Look Behind You by Lois Duncan Page B

saw she had finished her drink and fallen asleep with her head propped against the window. Beyond the double pane of glass the clouds were the color of smoke, and the sky was beginning to dissolve into gentle darkness. Mom’s face was illuminated by the overhead reading light, which accentuated the rounded curve of her cheek. With nothing to do but read and eat and watch television, she, too, had put on weight during our confinement. That, and the angle at which the shadows fell, blunted her features and gave her for the moment the look of a stranger. This was not the author Elizabeth Corrigan; the woman dozing beside me was Ellen Paul Weber. In the seat on my right, Abby continued to chatter.
    â€œI bet Dad and Margaret don’t even own a DVD player. They probably don’t even sell them in that hick town. If my parents had to get a divorce, you’d think at least my dad could have moved someplace exotic like Miami or West Palm Beach. But no, he moved to Dullsville to be with Margaret. Then after she got him to marry her, she didn’t want to leave, because her daughter’s got one more year of high school. Besides, Margaret’s sister and her family live in Dullsville, and Margaret can’t get along without all her relatives. Are your parents divorced? Is that why your dad’s not with you?”
    I mumbled some sort of noncommittal reply. Then, to my relief, the flight attendant who had come by with the drink cart reappeared with a cartload of snacks. They didn’t look appetizing enough to wake Mom up for, but I accepted one for myself and was pleased when Abby did too, as I hoped that meant she’d stop talking and concentrate on eating. I underestimated my seatmate, however, for while I gnawed my way through a dry bag of pretzels, Abby continued to rattle along, undaunted by the food in her mouth, filling me in on every unpalatable detail of her parents’ divorce and remarriages.
    Finally, in self-defense, I gave up on eating, put my seat into a reclining position, and closed my eyes. Incredibly, Abby finally took the hint and fell silent. I focused on the hypnotic roar of the engines, and the next thing I was aware of was a voice on the loudspeaker asking passengers to fold up their tray tables and check their seat belts in readiness for our descent into the Sarasota Bradenton Airport.
    When I opened my eyes I saw that Mom was also awake and had hauled herself up into a sitting position. As soon as the plane had taxied to a stop at the gate, we collected our bags from the storage compartments over our seats and joined the line of passengers leaving the aircraft.
    We emerged into warm, damp air filled with unfamiliar fragrances, descended a set of portable stairs to the ground, and crossed a short stretch of runway to the terminal, which was brightly lit and churning with activity. The door through which we entered opened into the baggage area, where a revolving belt was preparing to spew out luggage.
    Abby, who had popped out of her seat the moment the plane touched the ground, was there ahead of us with her mouth already in motion. With her stood a middle-aged couple whom I could only assume were her father and the detested Margaret.
    Since we had not checked any luggage, Mom and I continued on across the lobby to a set of double doors at its far end. A few minutes later we were joined by Dad and Bram, who had left the plane through a door in the tail section. Bram seemed calmer, but his eyes were overly bright, and he did not show the slightest sign of drowsiness.
    â€œYou’re not wearing your sunglasses!” Mom said accusingly.
    â€œIt’s dark!” Bram protested. “You don’t wear shades at night!”
    â€œYou’ll have to until you get your contacts,” said Mom.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” Dad said. “I spaced out. There’s been so much else on my mind I forgot to make him put them on. A car is supposed to have been left for us