The Wrong Side of the Setting Sun

By Tracy Daley

Paige Stevenson is a survivor, caring for her sister since she was seven years old, blaming herself for her mother's addictions.

But all of her survival skills will be tested when she's sent to live in Indonesia with a father she's never met in a country completely different than her own.

Paige swears to get her and her sister home, but the cost of getting a flight is over one million rupiah. The promise of help from a treasure hunting Australian, lucky lizards, and Indonesian legends aren't enough to make Paige believe she can depend on anyone but herself. But when her sister goes after a legend of a treasure on her own, Paige will learn the truth about loss, loneliness, and the path to forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Daley
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960617002

Tracy Daley

Tracy Daley has helped refine and edit dozens of books throughout her career. She has held many positions in publishing including editor, publicity specialist, and acquisitions editor. She lives with her husband and three kids in Taylorsville, Utah, but escapes to the mountains as often as possible.

Book preview

THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SETTING SUN

By Tracy Daley

FOR EACH OF YOU

Magic exists, not only in the heart, but in those rare moments when it wakes up to touch the one who’s forgotten how to believe. - Anonymous

1

LOST AND NOT FOUND

Mom doesn’t always come home at night, but this time feels different.

She went out two days ago, looking serious, wearing her best clothes, a tight flowery dress and orange heels that match. She doesn’t wear a dress often. She even put a brush through her hair, so thin it didn’t really matter, brittle enough to leave broken strands in the bristles.

I didn’t ask because she had that look, the needy one where I know nothing I say will matter, when only one thing’s important to her.

And I’m ready to break like pieces of hair caught in a brush.

We look for her today, after Em and I get home from school. Thought we saw her in an alley, but it was a man, wrapped in a patchwork quilt, cardboard roof propped against the dumpster, keeping the snow off, but not the cold.

One more place Mom isn’t. I’m glad she’s not here, but it means my job isn’t done. It’s up to me to get her home.

Where should we go now? Em asks. She bends over and tucks the man’s hand under his blanket. He doesn’t move. Em’s almost eight, small enough to be six, brave enough to be sixty. At fifteen I’m not half as brave. She doesn’t know that, though.

I’ll decide in a minute, I say, swallowing a lump as hard as a rock, as big as a baseball, wishing Em didn’t sound so determined to do my job. Don’t touch him. I wave my hand toward the man under the box.

There’s nothing I can do for him and that’s what I have to focus on. What I can do. The puddles splash under my feet as I head back to the end of the ally.

Em shadows my footsteps, jumping to land in the puddles. I wait for her on the sidewalk. The sun slips behind the nearest building, leaving the street in a long shadow, the temperature dropping like shadows suck the warmth from the air.

Slushy flakes fall, wet and cold against the back of my neck. There is a roar of water as a car splashes melted slush onto the sidewalk. Em shivers in her oversized sweater, wet sleeves hanging past her hands, almost to her knees.

I need to get her home.

I need to find Mom.

I keep us together. The three of us. But Mom isn’t here and Em needs to be home.

Another car hits the deep puddle of water, throwing it far enough to splash our legs. I pull Em closer to me, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. Her blond hair is crimped with curls, heavy against her head. I wish I’d grabbed a cap to cover her ears that are red around the edges from the wind.

I can take care of Em and find Mom. I can do both. I’ve done it for the last seven years. The exhaustion behind my eyes and the cold bite on my nose and fingers never stopped me before.

It’s a lie. I made a choice a long time ago.

I need to get you warm, I say.

Not yet, Em says. We haven’t checked the laundry mat or the shelter. Maybe we should ask someone. Em twists her head, looking up and down the street, her eyebrows close together, like this is a mystery or a treasure hunt.

A man walks towards us. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a long coat, head bent forward.

Let’s ask him, Em says.

I don’t need help, but I hear Em take a breath. She’s about to talk. Seven-year-olds don’t know when to keep their mouths’ shut, and Em doesn’t know what to say when she opens hers.

I step in front of the man. Excuse me?

He lifts his head like someone jerked it up with a string.

We’re looking for our mom, I say.

The man’s eyes narrow. If I had a rag, I’d wipe that judgment right off his face.

Do I know her? the man asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets and raising his shoulders ‘till the collar of his coat covers his ears.

Her name is Caitlyn Stevenson, I say.

No one around here by that name. Have you checked with the police?

No. Don’t need the police. Don’t want the police.

Em steps beside me, hands on her hips, sweater sleeves dangling around her legs. She’s missing. We need to find her.

The man’s face smoothes out, kind of sad and confused, like Em has the power to warm all of Chicago as well as this man’s heart.

Em does that. People are stuffy and mean to me from the moment they meet me until their body grows cold in the ground.

But not Em. No one can hate Em. Not even me. Even when I used to want to, I couldn’t. Not all the way.

The man shakes his head. She’ll come home, girls. Sooner or later. He moves past me, not glancing back.

I don’t need his help, but for some reason his words hook onto my heart and pull it toward my toes.

Let’s try the laundry mat next. Em has my hand and pulls. Her energy is a life preserver that keeps me from sinking.

I take a step to follow, but a flash of red and blue bounce off the building’s window next to us. The wail of sirens follows a second behind. I pull Em close and turn my back to the street. Kids don’t belong in this part of town. I don’t have the right answers if the police start asking questions.

The police car passes by, stopping at the end of the block. I hadn’t noticed the fight. A couple of guys attracting a crowd. Attracting attention.

The protection of daylight is fading and the streets are turning dangerous. I keep Em close as patrol car number two passes, blocking the street ahead. Two options. Keep Em out and try to find Mom. Take Em home, safe. And leave Mom to hope. Do I have enough left?

I make the choice again. Turning Em away from the cluster of people at the end of the street. Choosing Em over Mom. Hoping Mom will come home. Hoping she’ll forgive me.

Em and I walk six blocks in silence.

We come to the railroad tracks. I check the ground without thinking and find a quarter, three cans for recycling, and a frozen glove. I’m good at finding things. Not because I’m lucky.

I’m not.

Because I’ve learned how to look.

Em and I walk around the small abandoned shack that served as a station at one point. Behind the shack is a condemned single-wide trailer, caution tape still across the front door, the back half settled to the ground, the broken windows stuffed with blankets, bags, and garbage to keep the cold out.

Home for the last six months. A new record.

Maybe she came back while we were looking, Em says.

Maybe, I say. I hope so. I really do.

I notice tire tracks in the muddy snow. Nobody ever comes back here. That’s why I chose this place. Maybe I need to find some spikes to put by the road. That will keep the cars away.

Em and I crawl under the caution tape and push the sagging door open. Em darts over to her side of the room where the hoarders left hundreds of paperback books piled halfway up the wood-paneled wall. She loves to look at them while relaxing on a pile of fabric.

I stand in the doorway and breathe through my mouth. The smell of trapped air, mold, and something rotten takes a minute for me to get used to. It’s worth dealing with the smell. This place is so much better than the car. Em kept getting sick and we couldn’t keep the plastic in the back window.

I’d dream the car was getting smaller, crushing me until I couldn’t breathe. I hate small spaces and the car felt like it was shrinking. I found the trailer one day and it looked like a mansion. An old trailer, abandoned, beautiful. Hoarders had left a trail through the house created by piles of everything imaginable, leaning one way or another.

When I showed Em, I felt like I was showing her mountains of treasure. I thought it was a solution to our problems. That Mom would be able to get better with a place to stay.

It didn’t work. Not yet.

I take a step inside.

Mom? I call.

No answer.

No luck.

No surprise.

I watch Em curl up, a chapter book in her hands. When Em was five I spent time teaching her, letters on the store windows, words on street signs. She picked things up so fast. I’d only have to tell her once.

Not like me. School was just a place to keep warm and eat lunch. Em’s different. I remember one day we sat together on a cot, Mom passed out on the bed next to us. We’d found some books at the shelter and I was reading to her, trying to sound out a word, slow and choppy. Em read it for me.

At five. I was twelve, embarrassed, and done reading out loud. She turns another page. Em used to get a kick out of the fact that I was named after part of a book. I told her my name was spelled different and so I wasn’t a page in a book. I was Paige.

Just Paige.

Now she can read anything. I watch her open a book. Is it something to do or something she loves? Maybe books take her away. Help her forget what things are like.

I imagine the warm fire I could start with the paper. Warm us both up while keeping Em close to me, not so far away. Books make her happy, though. The corners of her mouth twitch before she turns the page. We’ll warm up another way.

I move toward the kitchen, leaving the door open to let the fresh air into the trailer. I’m careful to keep from brushing up against the stack of newspapers by the door. The wall of hoarder’s mess is an accidental feat of engineering. I don’t know how Em manages to climb to her spot without causing a domino effect.

In the kitchen, I shuffle some of the paper pile off the canned food, another of the treasures I found in the condemned trailer. I wish I could warm up the spaghetti O’s, but the stove is buried beneath boxes crammed below the cupboards. It wouldn’t work anyway. No gas. No electricity. Better than a box in the alley.

I remember Mom, before Em, when it was just the two of us, sitting at our kitchen table, a real table in an apartment I can hardly remember.

Well, Counselor, she’d say, scraping the last of the spaghetti sauce from her plate, We made it through another day, thanks to you. You keep me strong, you know that, Paige? With you, I’m perfect. She’d always tell me that, tell me how I kept her strong, how it was all because of me.

I never really understood what she meant, even now, staring at the can of cold spaghetti O’s. I was enough for her then. Why aren’t I enough for her now?

I hear a car door slam. For a second, I hope it’s Mom.

But Mom doesn’t have a car anymore.

2

DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS

I run out of the kitchen, bumping my shin on a box, knocking down some junk with my elbow. I come around the corner in time to watch a woman pull down the cross of caution tape and walk in like she owns the place.

Her tag reads CHILD PROTECTION SERVICES.

My brain skips town, leaving my body stuck, thoughts leaking down my spinal cord. I don’t know how they found us.

I motion to Em and she slips down her pile and comes to me, grabbing my hand.

Paige Stevenson? The woman looks at me. Sweetie, I’m Cheryl. And this must be Em? She checks her clipboard. I’m here to help.

Em returns Cheryl’s greeting with a wave. I pull her closer to me. I attempt to use my polite voice, my I-respect-adults voice. I still sound angry.

I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I smile, but feel like I’m baring my teeth, instead. We meet our mom here after she gets off work. She should be here any minute. We don’t actually live here. I wave my hand like the idea of humans living in these conditions would be ridiculous. My heart clenches, though. This place has been a home for us when we had no where else to go. We appreciate your concern.

Cheryl’s lips press tight. She lets the clipboard fall to her side and leans forward, putting some of her weight on her own bent knees. She wearing a dress suit, slightly wrinkled. There’s a snag in her pantyhose, and her gray heels are scuffed.

Her posture is one adults use when trying to get down to a child’s level. An attempt at eye contact, bonding. I squeeze Em’s hand. I don’t trust this lady to know what is best for us. She doesn’t understand my life. She doesn’t understand how hard I work to keep the three of us together.

I know that’s not true. She acts like she’s sad about my lie. Lies usually make adults angry, not sad. Your mom is the one who told us where we could find you. She asked us to make sure you were okay.

I shake my head. You don’t know my mom. She wouldn’t tell you that. After everything Mom hasn’t done for us, I can’t believe she’d do this, send them here instead of coming herself.

Mom knows that they won’t let us stay together, not in the condition Mom’s been in for the last couple years. They would take us away. Em would get taken one direction and I would have to go another. Like expecting you to live while your head is pulled one way and your heart ripped in another.

Is Mom okay? Em asks.

I want to cover her mouth. If we let this woman know we don’t know where our mom is, she’ll never leave us here alone. That’s all I need, to be left alone.

She’s fine. I lift Em’s hand up and pat the back of it. She’ll be here soon, remember?

Mom has to come home soon. If we go with Cheryl, I know what will happen. Em will get sent to live with her dad. And he doesn’t know how to take care of Em, not like I do. He never did anything for us when he got Mom pregnant and hooked on drugs. He didn’t even stick around long enough to see Em born.

They won’t keep me with Em. I’ll be sent somewhere else, and that’s not acceptable. I push Em behind me. There’s a broken window in the bedroom. We could get out, get away, hide somewhere. Together. I hesitate. I don’t know how I’ll find Mom if we leave now.

Cheryl raises a hand, a wait gesture, like she read my mind and knows I’m about to run.

When was the last time you saw your mom? Cheryl asks.

This morning, I lie.

Cheryl lets her head sink lower, like she has to get down a level to talk to me even though she’s not that much taller than me. That’s impossible.

I forget to pretend, her words too final, too sure. Why?

She lets her eyes drop for a moment. An apology. A regret. When she looks back up, her eyes have that awful squeezed together look. Pity.

I’m sorry, girls. I thought she would have tried to get ahold of you with her one phone call.

One.

Phone.

Call.

I’ve failed. Not like I’m-gonna-talk-to-the-teacher-and-retake-a-test kind of fail, more like game-over-you’re-dead kind of fail.

Phone call? I say. Not because I don’t understand, but because my brain is struggling to redesign the plan. Figure out how to retake this test.

After everything I’ve done to keep us together, to try to help Mom make it through, she’s stuck in a jail cell without me there to take care of her.

Your mom was arrested yesterday on charges of drug trafficking. She’s being held at Cook County. She’s not coming home, sweetie.

The trailer walls feel like they’re growing up, stretching out, the hoarder piles growing taller, towering over my head like they are about to spill over in an avalanche, burying me beneath a mountain of unusable treasure.

Cheryl pauses, maybe to let me digest the information. I don’t know, but I’m way past that point. The news slid down my throat like a razor blade, ripping me apart from the inside.

My mom doesn’t sell drugs she just . . .

snorts them in the bathroom?

hides them in her purse?

borrows them from friends?

She told the police where to find you, Cheryl says. She wanted us to make sure you were safe.

I look down at Em, weaving our fingers together so they can’t tear us apart. Em’s face is serious, eyes squinted as she processes the situation. For seven she’s way too smart. She knows what this means without me explaining anything.

My trailer isn’t safe anymore. There is