Getting Somewhere (16 page)

W
HEN
C
ASSIE COMES
into the kitchen, Donna is sitting at the table, the cat in her lap and her head lying on her arm, asleep. Cassie hesitates for a moment in the doorway, is trying to decide what to do, when Donna sleepily raises her head and turns slowly toward her.

“What time is it?”

Cassie glances at the wall clock, feels a little stupid telling Donna something she can clearly see for herself.

“It's five. Do you want me to leave you alone for a little while?”

“No. No.” Donna is shaking her head but her eyes are still half closed and it looks like her head may fall back to the table. “I need to get going. Are you guys all done out there?”

“Pretty much. Grace said I should come help you because Sarah was signed up for cooking tonight. Is she okay?”

For a second, it almost seems like Donna doesn't know what Cassie is talking about but then she nods.

“Yeah, she has a fever but I think she'll be okay.”

Cassie sits down at the table and waits for Donna to continue.

“It's just . . . just that . . .” Cassie is completely shocked to see that Donna has started to cry. Donna walks over to the sink and leans against the edge, her fingers rapidly wiping the tears as they fall, her back to Cassie, though it's obvious that she's sobbing. Before Cassie can figure out if she should just sit there or go or do something else, Donna has turned back around and folds her arms across her chest.

She's not really looking at anything, and Cassie almost feels like Donna doesn't even know she's there. Her dark hair has slipped out of the short ponytail she usually wears when working in the garden and the sides are hanging loose, making her look like she's just escaped from a vicious wind. Cassie feels like an imposter, completely unsure how to demonstrate sincere concern, and a spectator to something she shouldn't be seeing. She is reminded of all those times in the last year or so when Gram would break down for no reason, would get mad if Cassie tried to comfort her. Cassie hated the feeling that Gram had retreated even further into herself, to a place Cassie couldn't reach her at all, feels now the same panic that she felt then, like everyone is gone from her.

Finally, Donna sits back down at the table and swipes at her dripping nose with her knuckle. Cassie goes into the bathroom and pulls a wad of toilet paper off the spool and brings it back to Donna. Donna doesn't say anything, just nods, then noisily blows her nose into the tissue. The short absence has given Cassie a chance to think and allowed a series of tragic scenarios to make their way into her head. If Donna is crying about Sarah, it must be because Sarah is really sick or hurt or something awful is going to happen to her. Cassie is struck with surprising force by her concern for Sarah, her remorse for having been frightened and repelled by her, and the way those feelings have completely evaporated.

While Donna is carefully folding the tissue in the search for a dry place to wipe her eyes, Cassie blurts, “Is this about Sarah?”

Donna shakes her head as if clearing fog.

“I'm sorry,” she says, “Sarah is fine. I'm worried about her but she's going to be all right. I just . . . I know this is silly, but do you mind if I run upstairs and just check on her?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Stay right here. I'll be right back. Okay?”

“Okay.” Donna is still hesitating as if giving in to her worry will make it justified. Cassie waves her away. “Go ahead.”

Cassie hears Donna going carefully up the stairs, moving slowly even though that doesn't stop several of the steps from creaking loudly. In just a few minutes, she is back, looking bashful but relieved.

“She's asleep. She actually looks a little better already, not so flushed.”

“Good. What do you think is wrong with her?”

Donna seems to study Cassie for a moment, and Cassie immediately knows she is trying to decide how much to tell her. She wills Donna to tell her what's going on, partly out of curiosity and partly to stem the tide of anxiety.

“Well, it's either some kind of flu or else it's an infection.” Donna hesitates. “She . . . she's been cutting and the cuts look pretty awful and I'm just hoping it's not something that will require medical attention. That would just be . . . well, that would really suck. I guess I'm worried about that and mainly feeling bad that it was happening at all. We should have known and it feels terrible that we didn't. It just seemed like she was better, that so many things were happening that we could point to and call improvements, you know? It's, well, it's just scary, how . . . complicated everything is.”

Though Cassie doesn't exactly know what Donna is talking about, she can only think about one thing.

“Could she have to go to the hospital?” The question sounds childish even in Cassie's own ears, but it's the picture she can't shake, tiny Sarah in a hospital bed, white sheets and white walls and probably her skin all pale and white, too, with tubes and wires running every which way. It's the same image she always had for Gram, the fear she always carried that, if she didn't take good enough care of Gram, they would take her away, put her someplace where Cassie might not even be allowed to go. Would they be able to visit Sarah if she went to the hospital? Maybe she wouldn't come back here at all.

Donna has her hand on Cassie's wrist. “Hey, don't worry, Cassie. I really do think she's going to be fine. She'd have to be a lot sicker than this before she'd need to go to the hospital, and we just need to make sure that doesn't happen. I told her we'd give it one day. If there isn't significant improvement by then, we'll get a doctor to come out. Okay? Plus, I haven't even talked to Ellie about it. Maybe she'll want the doctor to come out right now.”

“How will you know if she's better?”

“Well, the fever should come down and the cuts will look less red and swollen. She should be feeling pretty alert and hungry and all that stuff in a day or two. I already looked at her medical records to be sure she's had her tetanus shots and found out she even got a booster at the Center because they worry about needle contamination for addicts. So, let's not worry. And Cassie?”

“Yes?”

“Let's try not to feel guilty either, okay? This is nobody's fault.”

Cassie doesn't answer right away. Is there something she should have been doing to help Sarah, something she should be doing right now? For some reason, the image of Lauren flashes through her mind. A non-existent brother. A pile of cards. Should Cassie say something and, if so, what would she say?
How
would she say it? Certainly there's no chance that she has noticed something that everybody else doesn't already know.

“Cassie?”

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Now, what are we going to have for supper?”

Donna pushes herself heavily up from the table and moves to the refrigerator, opens it and stares into it as if she doesn't recognize anything in there. Cassie sometimes wonders how she ever does since all the food is stored in recyled containers, the labels absolutely no indication of what is inside them.

“This is the craziest thing, but I don't want to cook. Isn't that weird for me?”

Cassie shrugs. “I don't know. I'm surprised you don't get tired of it more often.”

Cassie hesitates, wonders if her offer might be heard the wrong way.

“I could fix supper. If you wanted to rest, I mean. I'm sure there are plenty of leftovers.” But Donna seems to barely hear her.

Finally, she says, “That is a great idea and I'm sure you would do just fine, but I have an even better idea. Stay here for a minute.”

Donna disappears into her bedroom and returns momentarily carrying a jar of coins, dumps them out on the table.

“Okay, let's count.”

Cassie has no idea what Donna is thinking, but she begins helping to sort the coins, putting aside the washers and hexnuts that are mixed in.

Cassie has rarely handled money before. She has to stop herself from examining each coin closely, marveling at the intricate pictures on the surfaces. She wants to know how these coins are made, where they come from, how many of them there are in the world. She has become completely absorbed in the task, has forgotten Donna is even there, and then it's over, all the coins sorted out, and Cassie feels a slight surge of disappointment. Donna tells her to drop the pennies back in the jar and then count the piles.

Cassie counts fifty-one quarters and Donna counts forty-eight dimes. They count the nickels together, add up their totals to make thirty-seven. Donna stares at the piles for a moment, shakes her head.

“Just under twenty dollars. Okay, I've got another idea. Follow me.”

Cassie follows Donna into the front hallway and watches while she opens the closet door, staring in like she did the refrigerator.

She says, “Somewhere in here is an old purse of mine.”

The closet is so full that Donna has to stand for a moment with her hands on her hips debating her strategy. First, she moves a tall pile of puzzle boxes from right in front of the door to farther back and then drags a large suitcase out into the hallway, causing a fat green nylon bag that looks to Cassie like an overgrown version of the worms they sometimes find on the broccoli to tumble directly into the open space.

Donna laughs as she spreads her arms to prevent any further mayhem, shakes her head and says, “Can't imagine the last time anyone around here had time to go camping.”

“Is that a sleeping bag?” Cassie asks as she reaches to take the green worm from Donna.

“Actually, that's a tent, if you can believe it. The sleeping bag is probably in here somewhere, too. Grace used to do a lot of camping. This isn't all her stuff though. I have to admit that I've contributed to this mess some myself.”

“Are those your suitcases?” Cassie has noticed that, in addition to the large one, its smaller mate is teetering on the shelf just above their heads.

Donna looks up at it warily, bends lower to peer into the back of the closet.

“No, those belong to Grace, too. I came here with my clothes in garbage bags, just like some of you did,” she answers, her voice muffled by the hanging coats and sweaters she is buried in to reach for something hanging on a hook on the back wall. Donna emerges with an imitation leather bag clutched in her fist. She smiles at it a little fondly.

“Belonged to my grandmother. It's probably, like, fifty years old, maybe older. But I'm pretty sure there's an old wallet in here and maybe, just maybe . . .” But she doesn't finish the sentence.

Then Donna is kneeling on the floor, and Cassie squats down beside her as she first tries to sort through the purse and then just ends up dumping the entire contents out on the floor. Donna spots the wallet first and snatches it up, holds it too her chest as if it might leap away, and wiggles her eyebrows in a comical fashion like she is just about to reveal a secret.

“Did you ever hide money?” she asks Cassie.

“What do you mean?” Cassie can't imagine why anyone would hide money unless they were afraid someone was going to steal it. She used to wonder what happened to the money from Gram's Social Security checks. Gordon always made a big deal about her placing all the mail on the kitchen table and he would sort through it, take the checks when they came, and leave the rest lying there. She never thought to hide the checks, wonders now what would have happened if she had, why she never thought to figure out a way for Gram and her to keep them for themselves.

“Oh, I used to always leave a couple dollars, maybe a five if I had it, in a coat pocket or folded up behind my driver's license in my billfold. I'd forget about it and then discover it later or have it sometime when I desperately needed it. Kind of dumb, I guess, but kind of fun, too.”

“So, you think there might be some money in there?” Cassie nods toward the wallet.

“Well, let's take a look.” Donna opens the wallet, hesitates, then hands it to Cassie. “Here, you look. Wait! How much do we have so far again?”

“It was nineteen dollars and forty cents.”

“Okay. Look inside.”

Cassie is into the game. She thumbs the few bills, pulls out a one, and wiggles it in front of Donna.

“Okay. Twenty dollars and forty cents,” Donna says. “Anything else?”

Cassie pulls out another one, lays it in Donna's hands.

“Oh gosh, that better not be all. Come on. You're driving me crazy.”

After a third one dollar bill, Cassie pulls out a five and then, finally, a ten-dollar bill.

Donna claps her hands—“Yes!”—then grasps Cassie's hand with the ten-dollar bill in it. They are laughing and nearly run back into the kitchen, lay out all the bills on the table. Thirty-seven dollars and forty cents.

“I think we got it.” Donna dashes over to the kitchen drawer and pulls out a phone book. “So, what kind of pizza do you like?”

“What?”

“Pizza. Do you like pizza?”

“I don't know. I've never had it. Are you going to make it?”

“No, I'm going to order it. From a pizza place. They make it there and then they'll bring it to us. We won't have to cook anything.”

“Really?”

“Yep. We have to go in the office to use the phone.”

Cassie doesn't move as Donna starts to leave the room. Donna is still flipping through the pages of the phone book as she walks, glances over her shoulder at Cassie, motions with her head, but Cassie doesn't want to go. She, like the other girls, has only been in the office to talk with her social worker when she comes to check on things, and Cassie doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to remember that she is here for a crime, that she's done something other people think is awful and that she does, too. She just wants to sit here at the kitchen table with the money and let Donna open that door to the outside world, the one with pizza delivery and laws that she doesn't understand and judgments she'll wear around her neck forever the minute she steps into it.