Eleven months. It'd been eleven months since Christine Halcott's father disappeared. Eleven months since Christine'd had a good night's sleep. Eleven months since her mother, Bridgett, had called her 'Chris', a nickname her father had gotten into the habit of using. It started with a phone call. Matthew Halcott's body had been found in an old cemetery forty miles from Wamsutter and Interstate 80. Which raised a couple hundred other questions. While Chris was on the phone with the Sheriff in Wamsutter, she used her work computer to transfer as many funds from her savings to her checking account online. She thanked the Sheriff for his condolences and hung up. Christine spoke with the head of the obits page, explaining to him what happened and that she needed a few days to drive to Wyoming and back. He understood, and she fled the building.
A five minute drive that felt like an eternity later, Chris pulled up into the driveway of the Halcott's modest two story house, complete with white pickett fence. Slamming the door of her blue 1999 Plymouth Highline, Christine jogged up the front walk to her house, fumbling with her keys. Sliding the key into the lock, she shoved her shoulder against the door impatiently as she turned the key, pushing the door open. "MOM!" Chris shouted into the house, closing the door behind her. She took the stairs, two at a time, until she reached the second floor, hurrying down the hall to her mom's bedroom. "Mom," Christine repeated when she got to the doorway. Her brow furrowed when she saw her mother, curled up on her side, her back to the door. When Matthew disappeared, Bridgett hadn't attempted to hide the fact that she blame Christine for Matthew's departure. Her heart squeezed painfully. Swallowing the bitterness that rose in her throat, Chris cleared her throat.
"I'm, uh, I'm gonna head out of town for a couple days, mom. I won't be back tonight. Or the next. I'm not sure when I'll be home, actually," Christine said, staring at the back of her mother's head. Bridgett was quiet, no reaction. Christine entered the room, walking around to her mother's side of the bed, seeing that her mother was, indeed, awake. "Mom. Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm not going to be here to make dinner. You'll have to do it yourself. Are you comprehending what I'm trying to get across?"
Bridgett sighed, her shoulders rising and falling and she continued to stare at the wall, just below the window, across from her. "Yes, Christine. I am capable of taking care of myself," The woman replied in a bored tone.
A look of disgust crossed Christine's face and she scoffed, "Coulda fooled me," under her breath. Rolling her eyes, Chris left the room, heading down the hall to her own. Grabbing one of her suitcases, she dropped it on the bed, flipping it open. Within a few minutes, she had a week's work of clothes packed haphazardly in the suitcase. She grabbed a smaller bag, one she could keep in the front seat with her, tossing in her iPod, the jack already in the car. Entering the bathroom, she grabbed the travel case from under the sink, throwing in what she'd need on the trip. She set that in the top of her suitcase before zipping it up.
Halfway down the stairs, Christine hollered "I'm leaving!" She got no reply, not that she was expecting one, and exited the house. Returning to her Plymouth, she opened the driver side door, leaning the seat forward and setting her suitcase in the backseat. Pushing the seat back, she slid inside, dropping the small duffle into the passenger seat. Sliding the key into the ignition, Christine paused, resting her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the garage door, wondering if she's going to regret making this trip.