How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? (30 page)

“I didn't say I was scared,” I go. “I just don't like it.”

But she doesn't answer me because she's already leading the way back up to the house so she can take us down the other steps, to the beach. And I keep trying to catch Winnie's eye but she's not looking at me and I wish she wasn't Jean's friend because I want to say to her that Jean must be the biggest dumbass psychologist ever because she obviously doesn't listen.

That was yesterday. Today, I hate Jean more because of the way she sits up on the upper deck with Gemma, reading through folders, while Matt and Winnie and me are dragging all the furniture up from the basement and wiping it down and sweeping the deck. Zac's helping Amanda clean the pool, even though I think he should be helping us, and all you can hear is water splashing and their voices laughing—it sounds like there's not much cleaning going on, and I bet they are boyfriend/girlfriend already.

Matt offers to finish off the carrying part but I don't let him, even though my arm is killing me from all the lifting. And just when I think we're finished it turns out the basement needs to be cleaned out too, because it's the rec room where Winnie and me are going to be doing the art class, so we do that too.

After lunch, we have our meeting and just before it starts, Erin shows up, the trainee psychologist. And I wish that Laurie was here because she'd roll her eyes and laugh at how excited Erin gets when she hears my accent and how she goes around the table hugging everyone, just like Jean did. Laurie would hate Jean too, I know she would, and I know she'd think it was lame how the others all keep laughing at every one of her crappy jokes.

Jean hands out these sheets stapled together with each of our names at the top that have a printed schedule for each day with eight time slots. I scan the slots for my name, I'm in five of them, no, six. I count Winnie's—she's in four. Amanda's in five, the same as Matt and Zac. I'm doing more work than anyone else, but when I glance over at Winnie to see if she's noticed, if she'll say anything, she's writing down something Jean has just said. The talking goes on for ages—Jean first, then Gemma—about what it's like for these kids to be homeless and in shelters, as if they know anything about it. They take ages going through the activities. It takes longer because of all the questions—everyone has questions and after nearly every one Jean says “great question!” before she answers. I'm the only one who doesn't ask anything, just like I'm the only one not taking notes.

Jean is going on about something lame called “Be Myself Time” where kids sit around in the rec room and do anything they want. She's all animated explaining it, how the time is unstructured so the kids can pick up an instrument and play it or draw or read, whatever they feel like. She says it three times, “Be Myself Time,” as if she's just come up with the name, as if it's the most amazing name in the world.

Matt is next to me and he's not writing anything down. I lean closer to him. “I think I'd prefer ‘Be Someone Else Time.' ” I whisper, but when he turns around his voice is too loud. “What?”

Jean stops talking and looks over and the silence is like school all over again. Across from me, Amanda's next to Zac. Now that her hair is dry I can see it's curly and blonde, even though it's tied back. She dips her chin down to her chest and I realise she's trying not to laugh.

“Did you have a question, Rhea?” Jean is smiling a pretend smile.

I look at my blank page and shake my head. “No.”

Her eyes hold mine, they're big in her face, lots of white around her dark brown pupils.

“You're comfortable with your role? Helping out on the beach and in the kitchen and afternoons with Winnie in Arts and Crafts?”

“Yep.”

They're all looking at me, everyone is, except Amanda, who's doodling on her page. Jean is still smiling, as if she is waiting for me to say something more.

“So, how do you feel about tomorrow?” she says. “Are you nervous? Excited?”

She hasn't asked anyone else a question like that, not even with all their questions, and I know it's a trick, that she's picking on me because I haven't asked her anything. And that's when I think of a question.

“Do you think it makes any difference?”

She puts her chin in her hand. “Makes any difference?”

“I mean, you've told us all about the lives that these kids have. Do you think a few weeks at the beach making sandcastles actually changes anything?”

She sits back, straight up in her chair.

“It's a lot more than building sandcastles, Rhea. I don't know if you followed the whole programme but there are many components—”

“Art, music, physical activity, nutrition, play, community.” I list them off, exactly as she said them. “I know what they do, but I just wondered if it actually makes any kind of difference.”

It's the first question that's not a “great” question, or even a “good” question. She looks down at her page and back to me.

“We give these kids a place to be children, Rhea, a place to heal. You'll see the difference for yourself.” Her voice is annoyed, she's not able to hide it. “On the first day, they'll be shoving sandwiches in their pockets, hardly able to talk to us, and when they leave they'll be laughing and playing like children.”

“Yeah, but what happens after? After they go back home?”

Winnie is looking at me now, frowning behind her glasses, and I know she wants me to shut up. In the beginning, I was asking to annoy Jean, but now I'm asking because I really want to know. Jean is pulling at the curl over her ear, where a little bit of grey is. She opens her mouth to answer, but Gemma gets there first.

“There's a lot of evidence to support the fact that helping children reclaim their childhoods can lead to a better ability to cope as adults.” Her voice is so soft and I can hardly hear her over the noise of the air conditioner. “This programme is only five years old, though, so it's too early to track real outcomes.”

“So you can't know for sure?” I go.

She shakes her head. “No, we can't.”

Jean is the first one to get up from the table after that, and we have a break before dinner. When I go up to the room, Winnie's there changing her T-shirt and I'm glad we're sharing then, because we haven't had a chance to talk since the train.

“Well?” she goes. “What do you think so far?”

I lie down on the bed, even though I still have my Docs on.

“It's okay.”

“Only okay?”

I know I should have pretended to like it, to like Jean, but Winnie's supposed to be my friend and I thought the whole point of having friends was to tell them the truth.

“I like the house, but it'd be nicer if we didn't have to share it with this bunch of whackjobs.”

“Whackjobs? I haven't heard that in a while. Why are they whackjobs?”

I roll over onto my back, look at the ceiling.

“I don't know—they all are. Like, Erin. All she wants to talk about is some bumfuck part of Leitrim where her dad's from. I've never been to Leitrim. I'd rather kill myself than go to Leitrim.”

Winnie laughs and that makes it okay to keep talking.

“And that other one, Gemma—what's up with her? She hardly said a word all day and now she's sitting on her own on the balcony upstairs with her eyes closed.”

“I think she's meditating.”

I can hear a smile in Winnie's voice, I think I can.

“And Jean, all that crap about healing these kids' emotional scars. That's total bullshit.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

I wait for her to say more but all I hear is the hiss of her perfume. When I look over, she's dabbing it behind her ears. She's wearing her white shirt, the one with the pink flowers on the collars.

“You're getting dressed up for dinner?”

“I'm going to a meeting after, in Bridgehampton.”

“Again? You went last night.”

She folds her T-shirt, doesn't answer me.

“David's going to drop me in.”

“In New York you don't go to AA every night.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Not when I was staying with you.”

“No,” she smiles, “not when you were staying with me.”

She puts the T-shirt in the top drawer of the dresser, the drawer I said I didn't mind her having. Sometimes I hate these conversations, when Winnie just repeats everything I say.

“Is your meeting anywhere near the ice cream place? The Candy Kitchen?”

“I don't know—it's probably not too far. Why? Did you want to come with me?”

“No.” I sit up on the bed. “No, I was just asking.”

“Okay.”

She slips her feet into her flip-flops. We have half an hour before dinner and I wonder is she going to walk on the beach and I'm thinking of asking her if she wants to do that, but then she says the most annoying thing ever.

“Just give the place a chance, Rhea. It's going to be okay. When I get scared, I'm judgemental too.”

She leaves then, closing the door behind her, before I can say anything back, and that's what annoys me most of all, that I don't get to tell her that she obviously wasn't listening to me and that I'm not fucking scared.

It pisses me off, Mum, that she can be so wrong about me, and I should have said something to her but there was no time at dinner and later, after she came back from her meeting, she seemed really happy so I didn't want to then. But then I couldn't sleep, and lying in that hot-ass room with her snoring, it's all I can think about, and not even listening to David's Pink Floyd tape on my Walkman can stop it.

Because I'm not scared of Jean, Mum, or of this stupid place. And I'm not scared of the water. If I was scared I wouldn't be breaking the rules—I'd be in bed now, up in that stuffy attic, trying to sleep. If I was scared, I wouldn't be down here on the beach, by myself in the dark. I wouldn't be writing to you.

Rhea

Dear Mum,

I want to write a list of all the kids' names but I don't know what order to put them in and I can't remember all their names because some of them are names I've never heard before and I have to know how to spell something before I can remember it.

Out of thirty-six, only three are white, the others are mostly black and Hispanic. It might sound fifty kinds of crazy, but I can't understand half of what they're saying—even the ones who speak English—and they can't understand me either.

None of them are meant to be older than twelve but one of them claims he's thirteen—Marco, one of the white kids who wears a T-shirt with an Italian flag on it all the time. Erin makes him the captain of one of the volleyball teams which anyone with half an eye could see is a bad idea. Shirley is the captain of the other team and she gets to go first. She picks Amanda, straightaway, so I'm the only counsellor left, with all the other kids. Marco spends ages choosing, his arms folded.

“Come on,” Erin goes after a while. “Pick someone!”

“Okay.” He walks towards me and, at the last minute, whirls around to point at Isaac. “You!”

Isaac runs over and they high five. It was Shirley's turn again and her eyes hovered over me.

“Are we allowed to have two grown-ups on our team?”

She's asking the question to Erin, but before she can answer, Marco does.

“She's all yours. I don't want no handicapped bitch on my team.”

I hate the way he looks at me when he says it, but I hate even more that I look away.

“Marco!” Erin goes. “Apologise, you can't call people names like that.”

She doesn't know, Mum, that that's the worst thing to do, to make a big deal out of it, so I cut across her and laugh like what he said was a joke. “Fine by me. I'm going to enjoy kicking your skinny Italian ass!”

The kids laugh then and Shirley high fives me and they go on choosing until everyone is chosen and I pretend I don't see the pity in Amanda's face. And we do kick his ass, Mum. Even though it's only a kids' game, I run all over the beach like it's the Olympics or something and we beat them 21–7. I scored twelve of our points.

I'm wrecked now, Mum—it never stops here—volleyball, art, helping David make the rice for dinner and cleaning up after, although that was worth it because I got to sample his banana walnut muffins, straight from the oven. Tonight was movie night—
E.T.—
and I thought I was going to be able to watch it all, but even then they don't sit still. It was getting to the best part—the part where the plant comes back to life and then E.T. does—and then Natalie threw up all over her shoes and because I was sitting nearest I had to clean it up.

I'm not complaining, Mum, I'm not. It's just that

Dear Mum,

I fell asleep last night, right in the middle of writing that sentence. It's fifty kinds of crazy that I'm more tired now than when I was on the streets. When I say it to Winnie she says it's the sea air, but I think it's because Jean is working us like slaves and I have more work than anyone else.

Like this morning, I'm on breakfast, with Matt and Zac, even though I was on dinner last night. Breakfast is easier though because half of them are having “Be Myself Time” and eighteen kids between three of us isn't too bad—even though Zac doesn't do much and pretends he doesn't see the milk Luis spilled all over the table. I like him, Luis, but he's so scared all the time, you'd think I was going to hit him for knocking over a glass of milk. When I tell him it's okay and bring him another one, he starts crying and I pretend not to see the box of Cheerios he has shoved in his pocket in case it makes him cry more.

I don't know how to be with kids—what to do when they fight or cry or anything. It was Erin who stepped in when Maleika and Shirley were pulling each other's hair on the beach over whose turn it was to go on the Swingball and I don't know how she does it, because five minutes later, they were both jumping over the waves at the edge, each of them holding one of her hands.