If You Find Me (4 page)

I study the wallpaper, the little bunches of cherries on a cream background so real, I want to lick them. Pretending it doesn’t matter is just that: pretending. The truth is, up until yesterday, it hadn’t mattered.
“I can wear my boots instead of the sneakers,” I offer.
Mrs. Haskell smiles warmly. “I think that’s a good choice.”
Fifteen minutes later, she calls me into the bathroom, the dress in hand. It’s practically wrinkle-free. I’m grateful Jenessa will look like a real little girl, not like some backwoods orphan thrown away like trash.
“Can you leave the water going?”
Mrs. Haskell nods her approval, reaches in to adjust the temperature, then leaves the bathroom.
I find Ness in front of the television, where a little bear is grinning as he’s snuggled by his mama. I practically have to carry her to make her come with me.
We’re stripped naked under the man-made waterfall, and the steam enfolds us as I soap her down. I use the little bottle of yellow stuff to wash our hair squeaky-clean, like Mrs. Haskel instructed me to do. Another memory surfaces: one of washing indoors, bubbles everywhere, and Mama’s face, smiling and relaxed, loking like a whole different Mama.
Jenessa is seal slippery against me, splashing like a baby, and afterward, I wrap her in a fluffy peach towel that brushes the ground. I haven’t seen her smile so much in a long time. Having gotten over the events of last night, now it’s like a game to her, a wonderful adventure full of tastes and sights and sounds she never dreamed existed, let alone imagined could be hers for the claiming.
I take the underclothes Mrs. Haskell hands in through the cracked door, crisp and new in crackly packages—I reckon it’s no wonder the man took so long getting back with breakfast. With my own towel wrapped around me and tucked in above my chest, I help Ness step into the underwear, bright white and smelling like store-bought, a smell that crinkles her nose in curiosity.
“Arms up.” I slip the new undershirt over her head. She fingers the tiny pink flower at the neckline. “You’re as clean as the whistle of the Tennessee warbler,” I tell her before sending her out to Mrs. Haskell.
Wiping the steam from the mirror, I stare at myself, relieved I don’t look as much like the toothbrushing stranger from an hour ago. I still have the same long dirty blond hair, poker straight. A nose that matches Nessa’s, mostly. But it’s the eyes that hold me captive, empty of concentric creek ripples and breezy tree branches playing the sky like my bow plays my violin.
Who am I now? Who was I before? Am I the same girl?
Licking a tear from the corner of my mouth, and like so many times in the past, I pray to the one who knows: Saint Joseph.
Years ago, I dubbed Saint Joseph the patron saint of Beans. It came from a story in one of the rummage sale books Mama brought back from town. Saint Joseph once saved the whole of Sicily, Italy, by bringing forth a plentiful harvest of fava beans.
Nessa insists she loves fava beans, even though she’s never had any. Maybe that’s why. We ate most kinds of beans in the woods. We’d have starved to death without them.
Saint Joseph, if you’re still listening, please look out for us? We’re not in the woods anymore, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Please keep us safe, and help me keep Nessa safe. Help me remember the es in “don’t”, not to drop my g’s, and not to say ain’t.
Most of all, please look out for Mama? No matter what she did.
On beans I pray.

I help Jenessa to her feet as the judge swooshes out of the courtroom through a private door Mrs. Haskell said leads to his chambers, which is like his personal office– slash–dressing room. I don’t know what the slash means. All I can come up with is the slash I make when I gut a squirrel.

The whole thing unfolded in a mixture of mumbo jumbo, cleared throats, and shuffling papers, with a few important facts set in stone:

1. It’s true. When Mama took me away like she did, she broke the law.
2. The man had been the one with legal custody, like Mrs. Haskell said. I hadn’t fully believed it until I heard the judge say it all official like.
3. We belong to the man now.
4. Mrs. Haskell would send the court a monthly report, and there’d be weekly check-ins with her to monitor our progress.
5. We wouldn’t be going to foster homes . . . or back to the woods.
And that was that.
Out in the hallway, Mrs. Haskell turns to me with misty eyes. I can feel it sure as fava beans that she really does care about us. “Can I give you a hug, Carey?”
I shrug, awkward as a long-legged fawn as I let her enfold me in her arms.
“You girls are going to be just fine,” she whispers, giving me an extra squeeze.
Standing back, she rifles through her purse and pulls out a square of stiff creamy paper.
“This is my card, with my office address and phone. If you have any problems or questions or need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I watch her smooth Nessa’s curls off her forehead, my sister’s hair like a halo in the sun slanting through the high windows. “You girls take good care of each other, you hear? Like you did in the woods. You did a good job, Carey. A damn good job.” I duck my head and smile, unmoored by the flood of unexpected emotion.
“You’ll be okay, you know.”
I take a deep breath and find her eyes, green like Mama’s, but sharp and clear. She motions with her head in the man’s direction, and I nod with reluctance, the smile fading. I don’t see as we have much choice.
Mrs. Haskell grins at Nessa, who hops on one foot across the sparkling tiles, from white square to white square, avoiding the speckled ones. She presses the card into my hand.
“Don’t forget, Carey. Anytime. And look on the back.” I turn the card over and see written numbers.
“That’s my home number. Use it if you need it.”
We all watch Mrs. Haskell’s back zip down the hallway, and she waves over her shoulder without turning around. And then it’s just us, the three of us, sharing the same DNA in different ways, although we may as well be strangers from different planets. “Take your sister’s hand, Carey. You girls stay on the steps, and I’ll bring the truck around.”
I obey, taking Jenessa’s warm hand in my cool one as we follow a few paces behind. My legs tremble from all the sitting, but Nessa seems fine. She rubs her stomach in small circles, her face pleading. “You’re hungry already?”
She hops up and down, wagging her head.
“How about a nice bowl of baked beans with ketchup?” She stamps her foot.
“Kidding! We’ll have to see what he says, but I’m sure we’ll get something good.”
She skips down the hall, dragging me along.
I know what she’s saying, like I always do, even without the words. I’m dying to try the handburger, too, and the milk shake, which I remember to be something like drinkable ice cream. I don’t remember the handburger though, or the fries. Handburgers must be something you eat with your hands, not much different than in the woods. And french fries, well, French means France, so it must be something fried from France.
We may be backward in some ways, but Ness and me, we know our countries. We must have taken apart and put together Ness’s wooden puzzle of the world a few hundred times.
I do know what pizza is—it’s the favorite food of a little girl in one of Jenessa’s books, made of bread, white cheese, and tomato sauce, baked and served in triangles. And we had funnel cake once; Mama brought it back to the camper as a surprise, full of laughter and smiles, which meant her meth connection had come through. The man pulls around the front of the courthouse, waving us over from the driver’s seat. I help Jenessa up to the cab, sitting her between us, the lap belt stretched across us.
“You girls hungry?”
Jenessa bounces up and down, smiling, with all her teeth showing.
“She wants to know if we can have handburgers and milk shakes and french fries?”
The man—our father, now that it’s official—smiles at us; a full- on smile, one of the first.
“You bet you can. They have the best ones at the Rustic Inn, but it’ll take us about a half hour to get there. Can you two wait that long?”
Jenessa sighs loudly, her dimples swallowed up in a scowl. My father tries not to smile, and I appreciate that; no one likes a spoiled little girl. I think of the bulge of her belly after breakfast and marvel at how, once again, her stomach appears concave. But I don’t think she’s being cute at all.
I elbow Nessa.
“We can wait, sir.”
“Good. It’s worth the wait.”
Outvoted, Jenessa rests her head on my shoulder. I look out the window over her head, watching the scenery flash by. It all looks so unfamiliar, and I feel naked without the cover of our beautiful lofty trees. Even the sun feels hotter in the absence of the Hundred Acre Wood’s canopy of a million shimmying leaves.
Nessa stares out the front windshield, taking it all in. New is amazing to her. She can’t fathom it being anything else. But I can. Although it’s good she’s seeing it as exciting, because it could’ve been the opposite, after all those years tucked away in our Hundred Acre Wood. She could’ve stayed like she was yesterday. She really scared me yesterday.
And I’m still worried. I can’t help it. Silent and sweet may not be the best combination amongst town folk. Out in civilization. Out in the real world.
The truck is silent except for the whistle of air through my father’s cracked window.
I tug at one of Nessa’s curls, and she flicks me off like a fly. I’m not the main attraction anymore.
Feeling wicked, I do it again.

I know about cameras. Our mother had one, an old Brownie, but we never had any film to put in it. Ness kept bugs in it, like a cage. Fat beetles and even a butterfly once, always set free after five or ten minutes. I’m wishing I had that camera now as I giggle at the sight of Nessa grappling with the handburger near as big as her head, ketchup like Mama’s lipstick smeared around her mouth.

Civilization is almost worth it for the food alone, I reckon. The fries are right good with lots of salt, and the burger runs with “medium-rare juices” down our collective chins.

“Slow down, Ness. Chew your food,” I tell her, my eyes scanning the walls for the bathroom entrance, just in case our little wolf regurgitates.

I’m momentarily distracted by a chubby toddler in a high chair, clacking a spoon against the table and smacking his lips. I remember Ness at that age, easily. Mama propped her up on a stack of yellowing newspapers, a rope around her waist tying her to the back of a chair.

I take the handburger from Ness’s hand, cut it in half, and place the smaller half on her plate. She flaps her hands in protest, then immediately goes back to eating.

My father regards me silently, and for a second, as fast as the flash of a camera bulb, I see pride. Pride in me. Something unfolds in my chest: a winged, fluttering warmth. It’s almost too much to bear.

I turn back to my sister. She’s eating with her eyes closed, chewing slowly. I take a few bites of my own burger, dunk a few more fries in ketchup. I’m already full up.

“You need to build yourself back up too, Carey,” he says with a softness that only makes it worse. The warmth flutters behind my eyes. No. I blink it back.

“Yes, sir.”
I take another bite of my handburger, then another. “It’s only forty minutes or so to the house from here. Everything’s already set up for you two. I’m sure what ever comes up, we’ll work it out,” he tells me.

I glance at him and hold it this time, both of us measuring, wondering, worrying about this new life.
“Those are some gorgeous girls you have there,” the woman with the toddler calls out to my father, smiling at Nessa and me.
“Thank you. How old is your boy?”
“Fourteen months. Already he’s eating us out of house and home.”
Their words float back and forth over our heads as I watch Jenessa eat her last fry and slurp her milk shake clean.
As for me, I’ve eaten almost half my burger. A pink-cheeked girl whisks off the remains (my father calls her a “waitress”) along with most of my fries, returning minutes later and handing me a spongy white box I reckon is made from the same material as my father’s and Mrs. Haskell’s steaming cups of (what I now know to be) coffee. She winks.
“There you go. If you don’t want it, I’m sure your dog will love it.”
I slurp the dregs of my milk shake, and she shakes her head uh uh. I stop, my ears burning. Don’t act backwoods. I want to ask the man, my father, for another glass, but the thought of asking, of the connection it implies, is so uncomfortable, I don’t.
The waitress hands my dad a slip of paper on a little black tray, and a pen.
“I’ll take it whenever you’re ready.”
He raises his hand in answer, and she waits while he scribbles on the paper, then hands it back to her.
“You girls ready?”
Jenessa looks to me for an answer, and I nod. I dip my napkin in my water glass, lean across the table, and scrub my sister’s mouth. She scrunches up her face and swats my hand away.
“We’re ready, sir.”
“Then let’s go home.”
Home. Four letters heavier than twenty thousand elephants. It’s like he’s saying a word bursting with a bunch of other words not yet ready for saying. His expression shifts, reminding me of the twists of colored glass in Nessa’s garage-sale kaleidoscope.
“Let’s go.”
Nessa takes the lead, smiling back at the patrons we pass, who can’t take their eyes off her. I bring up the rear with our “Styrofoam” boxes. But Nessa’s steps grow heavy, her feet dragging as she ducks beneath our father’s arm, which holds the door wide. Her peachy complexion takes on a greenish tinge, like the time I made her try chickpeas.
I don’t waste a second as I shove her toward the bushes lining the walkway to the parking lot. She stumbles and I catch her by the forearm. I have a moment to drop the food boxes and grab her hair into a ponytail before her lunch lands in the grass.
My father watches, dumbfounded.
“She’s all right, sir. You saw I tried to slow her down. She’s just not used to having—”
“Real food, I know,” my father says, finishing for me, his eyes flashing. Anger. It’s a face I know better than any other.
“Please don’t be angry with her, sir. Please?”
“Angry? Why would I be angry? Poor thing. So hungry. I should’ve ordered her something lighter. Like a grilled cheese. It’s my fault, not hers.”
I rub Nessa’s back in small circles.
“How about you? Your stomach okay?”
He reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, and I flinch. I don’t mean to keep doing that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. His hand freezes midway, then drops to his side.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Truth is, my stomach’s not so great, either.
Nessa’s crying now, either because she threw up, which she hates, or because she lost all that tasty food.
“Don’t cry, baby. You can have the rest of my handburger later.”
My father goes back into the restaurant and returns with a roll of paper towels. I know paper towels. He hands me a Styrofoam cup filled with water.
“Do you need any help?”
I shake my head no, so used to caring for Jenessa, it’s like caring for myself. I pour water on a handful of paper towels and swab off her mouth, then her chin.
“Breathe through your nose and stick out your tongue.”
She obeys, and I wipe her tongue, too. But her normally sweet breath still reeks.
I rip off a fresh sheet and dry her tears as she hiccups and sniffles, her eyes droopy and red by the end.
“She’s flat tuckered out, sir,” I say.
We watch her. She’s weaving where she stands, her face pinched. I tuck her under my arm and pull her close.
This time, I sit in the middle and Ness sits by the window, where I can quickly lean over and roll down the glass if need be.
I barely breathe, although I’m aware of every breath she takes. He takes. I try not to touch arms, his tan one leaning on his leg when he’s not shifting gears, the hairs honeyed up by the sun. His hands are large and work-roughened, but his fingernails are clean. The radio’s on low. I remember radios. The haunting strains of a violin piece I can play by heart—Violin Concerto in E Minor by Mendelssohn—rise through the cab and cradle us all.
His words are casual but careful, like when something’s a big deal but you don’t want to sound it like it is.
“That’s a violin case you got there,” he says, nodding his head toward the backseat.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you play?”
I wait for Jenessa to shift position, her head finding my lap, her breathing slow and even.
“Yes, sir.”
“Joelle taught you, did she?”
I nod, not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.
“Your mama made those strings sing like a bird.”
I think of Mama playing, my head stuffed with years of sound. Thing is, the violin reminds me too much of Mama now. It reminds me of the worst parts . . . the hungry parts, and not just for food. And the white-star night . . . I’m not sure I ever want to play again.
I watch the cars whiz past, everyone in a hurry, all those different lives. A daughter and father pop up in the car beside us, the girl’s head resting solidly on the man’s shoulder. Each vehicle is like its own bubble world hurtling toward realities so unknowable, yet so personal, it hurts to look at them.
Even if I were to like him, which I’m not saying I do—I can’t, after what he did to Mama and me— still, I’m thankful not to feel so afraid.
“Is she okay now?”
He ducks his head in Ness’s direction. She’s a warm thing carved into my lap.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know how to ask this, but—”
I wait, not knowing what to say.
“Do you know who her father is, Carey?”
I squirm, my face burning.
“Mama called her a ‘trick baby, a one-hit wonder. . . .’ ” My voice trails off.
His face turns red, and I look away, like you do at other people’s private things.
“Your mama still doing those drugs?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighs a long, sad sigh, the kind that comes from the belly.
“Did you girls get to eat every day?”
I sneak a look at him. His eyes remain glued to the road, like our words are no big deal.
“No, sir,” I reply truthfully. “Nessa cried when I killed the rabbits and birds, and it took a miracle to get her to eat them. The canned goods had to stretch. Mama didn’t always come back when she said she would, and those times I gave my share to Nessa. When you found us, we were running right low. Ness wouldn’t eat any more beans. Even with her stomach rumblin’—rumbling—like an earthquake.”
“It’s an awful lot of changes, from that to this, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.”
“You’ll never want for food when you’re with me, okay? That’s my solemn promise. So eat all you want.”
I don’t tell him I couldn’t have gorged if I’d tried, my stomach stuffed full of butterflies and grown-up worries. I also don’t tell him I ache something fierce for the river, the trees, the flecks of robin’s egg blue playing hide- and-seek through the heavy boughs. That’s the kind of filling I crave.
I jerk forward at the downward shift of gears. The truck slows as he turns onto an old road crisscrossed with tar patches.
“This road will take us to the farm. I think you’ll like it there. There’s plenty of room for you girls to run around. Just like your woods.”
The road soon turns into dirt, bumpy and loud.
“We’re in Tennessee, USA?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just farther west from where you girls were living.”
The strangest noise, a baying whoop, grows in volume. Ness sits up, excited, searching for the thing making the noise. She climbs into my lap to see better, staring out the windshield, the light soft but not yet dusk.
Woooooooo! Woo woo woo woo!
She turns to me, but I don’t have an answer.
Wooooooo! Woooooooo!
Nessa bounces, her face splitting into a huge grin as we catch sight of an animal we know from her picture books.
“That’s my hound dog, Shorty. Got ears like radar. He probably heard the truck coming before we’d even left the blacktop.”
I press back into the seat, holding Ness tighter.
“He’s a bluetick coonhound. What, don’t you like dogs?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’ve never seen one outside of Ness’s picture books.”
His eyes widen in disbelief. I wish I’d just said yes.
“He’s right big,” I say, my voice quivering. “Why do you call him Shorty?”
His eyes crinkle with affection.
“Because he’s short one leg.”
I look harder, and it’s true: The hound is missing his left hind leg, yet he runs alongside the truck like no one’s business.
“I found him as a stray, skinny as you and Jenessa, snapped up in a bear trap. Doc Samuels couldn’t save his leg, so it had to go. But he learned real fast how to make it work— see how he slides the one leg underneath him?”
I watch Shorty use his back leg like he was born that way, positioned under the center of his body, more than compensating for the lack.
“Smart critter,” I agree, my eyes on Jenessa, who leans in toward me when my father isn’t looking, her breath curling into my ear.
“My dog,” she whispers, too low for our father to hear. “Mine,” she adds, no changing her mind.
I squeeze her tight and smile into her hair, the bubble moment lasting all of about two seconds before the weathered farmhouse rushes into view, larger than any house I’ve ever seen, clad in a cheerful coat of yellow paint. There’s a porch that wraps around the house and lots of rocking chairs, but that’s not what causes my jaw to drop.
On the stairs is a pretty woman in an apron, her raven hair woven into a braid that snakes over her shoulder and hangs clear down to her elbow. Next to her is a girl, face dark as a thunderstorm, arms crossed over her chest, her mind made up, like Jenessa with Shorty.
Nessa’s eyes are wide enough to pop out.
“Maybe I should’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you girls. That’s my wife, Melissa, and her daughter—my stepdaughter— Delaney.”
Jenessa and I look at each other and then go back to staring at the strange figures. I can’t even pray to Saint Joseph, because I have no idea what to say, or what good a saint of beans could do for us now. My throat feels clogged with a bean the size of a baseball. My father opens the door and jumps to the ground, stretching his legs after all those hours crammed in with us.
This is a fine wrinkle all right. Jenessa turns to me, her eyes full of question marks. I shrug; even I know I’m out of my league. The keening ache washes over me again like creek water soothing a stone, and that fast, I’m pining for the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, the smoky campfire, the world I know with my eyes tight shut, and even the beans.