She always tosses out bunches of candy wrappers at once. They're decoys, because the used pregnancy tests are always tucked into the family-sized Lifesavers packets. Always.
Sam knows Deanna has never managed to remain conscious through a single lecture on symbolism, literary or otherwise, and the Lifesavers wrappers are nothing more than coincidence that solidified into habit, but Sam would really like it if Deanna came up with a new disposal method involving a different type of candy. But that's not something you can bring up with your sister.
This modus operandi's not even that sneaky, after all. Dad would have found out ages ago if Sam didn't always dig out the Lifesavers wrappers and hide them in something else in the garbage – empty tissue boxes work okay, large shampoo bottles with a screw-off cap are possibly the best.
It seems like a big fucking deal, or that it should be. Digging your big sister's used pregnancy tests out of the garbage and re-hiding them so it's not her ass that's grass.
It should be, except it's not. This little variation of dumpster diving is just about the only thing in the world Sam can do for Deanna, except stretch his tip-toes to reach the pedals of the Impala and drive her home from the parties, the telephone booths where she refuses to talk about where she's been; the clinics.
To Deanna, it's all about Sam. For that, to keep that, he can dig through motel trash cans for a little plastic stick with a urine-soaked card on one end of it, and little lines like Sam's Etch A Sketch on the other, their decisions all-powerful and non-negotiable. He suffers through a complete aversion to any and every flavor of Lifesavers almost gladly.
Deanna says she's dodged every bullet ever shot at her, which isn't true, there's a scar on her thigh the size maybe of a dime that proves it. Sam knows she tells lovers, hookups, he doesn't know what to call them – half his class doesn't even really know what sex is – she tells them, whoever they are, that she broke her leg real nasty and had to have metal screwed in to set the bone. Sometimes this accident happened during a game of kick the can, or maybe on a rocky beach in Hawaii, a movie set in LA (there are a thousand variations, and Deanna loves herself a good lie).
Some days when she wears shorts that don't cover much Sam can see the dime-scar of that undodged bullet, high on her thigh. Deanna sits in the motel room like that – exposed, Sam thinks – cleaning guns and chugging coffee because she knows it'll make her pee sooner than water would.
Sam stops looking, steals some money out of Dad's wallet, and stalks out into the dusty, unremarkable sunlight that could come from any state he's ever been to. He trots along the road and hits the air conditioning of a corner gas station in just a few minutes. Sam stands just inside the door and blinks sun spots from his eyes. He's eleven and it's a school day – Wednesday, maybe? – so he has to make this quick before people think to ask questions. Sam hates being eleven.
He goes into the aisles quick, keeping his head up and his back straight so it doesn't look like he's sneaking. Sam thinks he's going to get Deanna one of those mini-pies, oversweet crust and too sticky fruit filling. But at the cash register he finds himself handing over Dad's money (whatever, it's not Dad's money, Dad cheats it off people) for a package of Lifesavers, because he's thought all he can and he still can't figure out just what his sister needs saving from.