One for the Murphys (19 page)

She’s watching Leno and laughing. She waves me in.

She wears one of her happy shirts. There are ten stripes across the front, and I count them over and over. Over and over.

She studies me for a bit before saying, “Tell me.” Her voice coaxes a child from her hiding place. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I shake my head.

She walks to the other side of the room while I stare at Mr. Murphy’s picture—his Navy picture—and remember the day I smashed the glass.

She turns the television off and then stands in front of me. I hold my breath.

She reaches out and lays her hand on my arm. I jump but force my feet to stay put. I close my eyes. One, two, three…

“Let me give you a hug, Carley. I think you could use one.”

I want one so bad, but I shake my head.

“It’ll be okay,” she says.

I am stiff and glued in place. “I want you to be proud of me. I don’t want to be weak. I want you to remember me being strong.”

She laughs a little. “There isn’t a shred of weakness in you. Besides, now don’t you think there’s a lot of strength in letting
people help you?” She leans toward me just the slightest bit. “It’s easier to lock yourself away, Carley. It takes strength to face things that scare you.”

“It’s just that I don’t want you to see me like that. You know. A mess. Crying like a baby.”

“You mean human?”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“What? You
can’t
disappoint me, Carley.” She leans to look me in the eye.

I look up at where the ceiling meets the wall. I stuff two fists into my pockets. “I can’t. I don’t know how. I mean, I don’t do that.”

“Sure you do.”

“No… I really don’t.”

She puts her arms out. “Come here. If you’re not going to cry with me, who’re you going to cry with?”

I don’t have an answer.

“C’mon, now. It’ll be okay, Carley. I promise.”

While my head struggles for what to do, my feet move forward and Mrs. Murphy’s shoulder becomes a soft place to land.

Her arms come around me and rest on my back. I panic and stiffen and pull away hard, but she won’t let me go. “It’ll be okay, honey,” she whispers. “Stay with me.”

There’s a fire beneath my skin that makes me very afraid. I turn my head, searching the wall for something to count, but there’s just the softness of her shirt and the sound of her voice. The warmth of her breath on my ear.

She holds me tight, rocking back and forth a bit.

My body feels like it isn’t mine. Strange. My eyes water. My shoulders shake. My own sounds make me want to run but I
can’t
let go. I squeeze her harder and harder. The way you hold the safety bar on a roller coaster when it dips. I close my eyes and bury my face in her shoulder and hold on tight.

“That’s right, honey,” she whispers again. “It’ll be better now.”

Where once I would’ve run, I’m now still. I stand, collapsing in her arms, depending on this woman to hold me up.

And she does.

I wake up slowly, embarrassed about the night before. How Mrs. Murphy walked me into my room after I couldn’t cry any more or hardly even stand. How she folded the blankets back and tucked me in. How I mumbled that I felt like a five-year-old and how she told me that it was about time I got to be a five-year-old.

How when she turned to go, I reached out without thinking and grabbed her arm. And when I couldn’t say anything, she simply said, “I’ll stay.”

I fell asleep knowing she was sitting on the bed watching me and knowing she wouldn’t leave till I fell asleep. I tried to stay awake, but I can’t remember anything so tiring as crying.

When I get downstairs, I’m still in my clothes from the day before. Mrs. Murphy is at the sink. When she turns to me, I feel a little silly. Until her face softens and she looks at me like she’s seeing the best thing ever. “Hey,” she says. “How’re you doing today, huh?”

“Fine.”

She laughs. “Oh, that’s right. You’re always fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

She looks so surprised. “Sorry? About what?”

“About last night.” I know what she’ll say, but I want to hear it.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything. Not ever.”

“I don’t know why I did that. I really don’t do stuff like that.” It’s hard not to look away. “Well, not usually anyway.”

She smiles without showing any teeth and takes a breath. “Well, I think sometimes the heart just leads the way.”

I remember a time when that would have made me laugh in disgust, but it did feel like that. And I guess I don’t regret it or anything, but I’m still embarrassed. “Okay,” I answer.

Her gaze lingers for a couple of seconds before she smiles with a little suspicion in her eyes and says, “Good, then.” When she winks at me, I think about how her kids have always known this warmth inside. And how I know it too now.

M
rs. Murphy is baking an apple pie.

I know it’s for me and it’s for a party. Not a good party—a going-away party. I never thought I’d have a reason to dread one of her apple pies, but I do now.

The kitchen has been decorated by the boys. There’s crepe paper tied and taped to everything. Michael Eric made a giant sad face with huge blue tears. It’s so easy for him to express that stuff. Before meeting the Murphys, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to draw something like that for anyone.

I take my spot on the counter. Mrs. Murphy takes a green bean casserole out of the oven, then turns to me and asks, “Do you need anything?”

I shake my head. Then I say it. “You know, for the record, I don’t really want to go. I mean, I’m happy that my mom is okay and all but…”

Her eyes are shiny now. “I know,” she says, patting my knee. “I know.” She bites the inside of her cheek as she turns and takes my favorite dish, which I now call “Mrs. Murphy’s Famous Chicken Thingie,” out of the oven.

“I was hoping for lasagna,” I say.

Sadness turns to surprise for a second before she says, “Oh, be quiet!” and hits me on the leg with the oven mitt.

“Nice. Beat up on the foster kid,” I say, laughing. But then I remember that she, too, is a foster kid. So many things make sense now.

Mrs. Murphy smiles like part of her is missing. She leans in and drops her voice. “You just
remember
, Carley Connors, you were a
part
of this family. And you’ll
always
be in my life, even if I’m not in yours.”

I hear the words, but I also hear it in her voice. My stomach twists and I brush away a tear as soon as it leaves my eye. I can’t remember anyone ever saying such a thing to me. I can’t remember anyone else ever looking at me like that. So deep and nice and right into the middle of me.

She puts her hand on my knee. “You remember that.
Promise
me.”

I nod, holding my breath because I’m afraid that if I breathe, I’ll lose it.

“It’s okay,” she says.

My stomach muscles harden. “I don’t want the boys to see me blubbering.”

She laughs out loud. “You mean that little drop of water? I
don’t think that constitutes blubbering. Besides, they’re used to me. They wouldn’t even notice
that
!”

The doorbell rings. I answer it and find Toni wearing her pink Yankees hat. “Surprise!” she yells, smacks me on the arm, and heads for the kitchen.

“Hey, Mrs. Murphy,” she says.

“And hey to you! I like that hat!”

I’m so glad she’s here.

Mr. Murphy pipes up from the family room. “Love the hat!”

“Yeah,” Toni says. “I decided that the Yankees can overcome anything. Even pink.”

“You look nice in pink,” I say. “It sets off your eyes.”

“Don’t torment me, Connors. Besides, pink would only set off my eyes if I were a vampire or something.”

I laugh at her. “I think you’d be more like one of those sweet, white bunnies.”

“Watch yourself, Connors.” She smiles, but it’s sad underneath.

Everyone comes to the table, and it gets loud. Mrs. Murphy is running around, pouring drinks.

“Do you want me to help?” I ask.

“No! This is your night. You just relax.” She sits down at the table. “Jack, why don’t we turn off the Sox game tonight? This is a special occasion.”

He stands.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It would seem weird without it on.”

“You’re something special, Carley,” he says, winking at me,
“but Julie is right.” He turns the TV off and comes back. He pulls in his chair. “Who wants to do grace tonight?”

Michael Eric yells, “Me! I’ll do it!”

“Okay then, Michael Eric. Take it away.”

We all hold hands, and I think of the first night I did this here. How I prayed to leave then, and now I’d pray to stay.

“Dear God,” Michael Eric begins. “Thank you for our food and toys and baseball and stuff. Please let the Red Sox win so Daddy isn’t crabby, and please let us keep Carley here. If you can’t or you’re busy and stuff, then I’ll ask Santa. Amen.”

Toni looks sad, and Adam asks, “Mom? Would Santa leave Carley under our tree?”

“I don’t think Santa can give a person for Christmas, honey,” Mrs. Murphy says. She still holds my hand from the prayer.

“Santa can do anything!” Michael Eric exclaims, his mouth already full of food.

“You’re a piece of work there, Michael Eric,” his dad says. “God broke the mold when he made you.”

Daniel answers, “Yeah. Broke it over his head.”

“Shut up!” Michael Eric yells.

“Now, now,” their mom says. She gives my hand a firm squeeze before she finally lets go.

After we finish dinner, Mrs. Murphy produces two apple pies. She hands me a serving fork and puts a whole pie in front of me. “I know. I don’t expect you to eat the whole thing,” she says. “But I wanted you to know it’s all yours. Your very own.”

“Well, not all yours. Right, Connors?” Toni asks. “Being the friend that I am, I’ll help.”

So Toni and I work on the one pie while the Murphys work on the other one.

“Hey, Carley,” Daniel says. “Remember when Mom made cupcakes and one was missing? Remember how Michael Eric told everyone he didn’t take it, but he had chocolate frosting all over his neck?” Everyone laughs.

“What about that wicked pickup game Daniel and I had with those guys who used to give him a hard time?” I say.

Daniel smiles. “Oh wait—the best was you teaching Jimmy Partin a lesson.” Michael Eric and Adam go nuts.

Uh-oh.

“Wait. What’s this about Jimmy Partin?” Mr. Murphy asks.

As I try to say that it was nothing, Michael Eric says, “He was being a jerk face and so Carley hung him in a tree!”

Mrs. Murphy is wide-eyed. “You
hung
him… in a
tree
?”

I blurt out, “By his overalls straps; he was fine. Would it help if I said he deserved it?”

Toni says, “It would help me. Sure.”

“Me too,” adds Mr. Murphy.

Mrs. Murphy shakes her head. “I think I’m glad that I didn’t know.” She smirks. “So that’s why he leaves Michael Eric alone these days?”

I nod.

Michael Eric and Adam spend some time doing Jimmy Partin imitations. Soon most of the pie is gone, and I walk Toni to the door.

“Well, this is it,” I say.

“Deep, Connors. Very deep.”

“I don’t know what to say. I feel horrible.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Toni stuffs her hands into her jeans pockets.

“Hey, tell Rainer that I’ll miss him!” I laugh.

“Rainer is back to himself. He told me that you’ll never be anything but a roll stuffer. He’s such a simp!”

I laugh, wondering if she knows how much I’ll miss her. I put my life on the line, step up, and give her a hug.

She gives a stiff hug back but pulls away quick. “One more thing, Connors. Because I want you to remember me.” She steps outside, jumps into the bushes, and comes up with a wrapped box. She holds it out.

“A present? Really?” I don’t hesitate to open it. Inside is her crazy embroidered New York jacket. “I can’t take this, Toni, it’s your favorite jacket.”

“That’s precisely why you need to take it.”

I know I should force her to keep it, but I’m really happy to have it. Not only the jacket but the memory of her holding it out to me, looking miserable and like it’s Christmas all at the same time.

“Here’s the other one,” she says, handing me a new
Wicked
CD.

I smile.

“Track eighteen, Connors. It’s all about track eighteen.”

I bend over and unlace my high tops.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I look up. “You have to take these.”

“Some trade, Connors. Sneakers so disgusting they can probably walk by themselves.” She laughs.

“So I was thinking, Toni,” I tell her. “Someday you could be
Elphaba. On stage. In New York. And when that happens, I’ll be there to see you.”

“Really?” she asks. “Ya think so? Me? Elphaba in New York?”

“Yeah. And I promise I’ll come,” I tell her. “Because we’ll be friends ’til we’re old and deaf and blind and crippled.”

“Wow, Connors,” she says, sniffing. “You sound like you’re going to be a real blast.”

We both laugh. And then she hugs me fast and hard, turns and runs. Out and across the grass with my high tops under her arm. I dread how much I’m going to miss her.

Putting on her New York jacket, I walk back into the kitchen. I must look miserable, because Mrs. Murphy comes over and rubs my back. Then she says, “I’ve got something for you too.” She hands me the gift, but as soon as I see it, I know what it is. When I reached for it this morning to add my eightieth tally, it was gone.

I peel the paper off and draw my fingers over the letters that spell
BE SOMEONE’S HERO
. Then I flip it over and glance at the tally marks written on the back.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” she says. “I can’t imagine why that’s there.”

I half smile, thinking about how it started as a tally of days in captivity and how, now, it feels like a tally of days at home.

I look up at Mrs. Murphy and say, “Thank you,” wishing that I could say something more—something so perfect that she’d remember it forever. I step up to her, a little afraid. I rest my head on her shoulder and give her a hug. I say, “Thanks for the present. I’ll take it as a
sign
.”