Peas and Carrots (24 page)

The last Hilltrans bus downtown stopped at 11:30 p.m.—not much help at 4:50 in the morning. Still, it isn't that long a walk out of the neighborhood and to the gas station at the bottom of the hill. I'll call a cab to the transit station, where all the buses go, and take an intercity bus to the commuter ferry. The 6:32 Bolt Coachline will take me to Rosedale, and my ticket's at the will-call window.

This is it.

I pull my dark sweatshirt hood up and put my arms through the backpack straps….

And then I take it off again.

Baby's not going to understand this. I just…I have to see him one more time.

I ghost up the stairs. This house, so quiet, seems full of sound. The pipes under the floor make tiny ticking noises as water rushes through them, making them expand the tiniest bit. I can hear Mr. Carter snoring a little—at least I assume it's him and not Foster Lady—on the other side of their bedroom door.

As I walk down the hallway, the refrigerator kicks on, and I freeze, then silently count to ten, walk forward again, down the hall, past the night-light, into Baby's room.

As usual, he's out cold, his body twisted and his arms flung wide, as if he's leaped into a wild dream.

I smooth my hand over his round, Charlie Brown head lightly. Baby takes after Trish; you can't wake him up with an explosion. But if you do get him back to the land of the living before he's ready, he's cranky like a dog you took a bone from. He whines and tries to bite you. It's not cute.

I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Bye, Baby,” I whisper. I try to walk away. If I don't get going, I won't find a cab to the transit station in time. I exhale and turn to the other crib, where Jamaira is awake, as usual, making her little squeaky noises. Poor thing, with all those seizures. I heard Foster Lady telling Mr. Carter last week that her swallowing has got so bad, they're going to put a feeding tube in her. She'll probably die before long. I force myself to walk to her crib.

“Hey, Maira….Whoa.”

She's awake—but still. Not shaking with little shakes, like her seizures give her, or kicking her little legs, but stiff like a plank, and still. Her little back is arched, and I reach for her without meaning to.

My hand touches her face, and I know instantly. She's sick—like, fever sick.

God. I can't—

I sprint into the kitchen and rip off a paper towel. The tiniest stream of tap water wets it, and I fold it in a square. Back by her crib, I touch it to her face.

“Here, Jamaira, here—stop that. You're going to kill yourself. Shhh, baby.”

It's not stopping. I don't know why I got her face wet. What was I thinking? It isn't enough. Oh, God.
God.
Help.

I look down the hall toward Foster Lady's room. I can't—

Damn.

With a sharp sigh, I hurry down the hall and knock sharply.

“Hope?” a sleepy voice inquires.

I open the door a crack. “Jamaira's making funny noises,” I whisper loudly.

Mr. Carter's voice. “Who is?”

Foster Lady murmurs, “Is it the baby? Let me turn up the monitor—”

Into the humid silence come little mewling choking noises. I hear the rustle of bedclothes as Foster Lady rolls out of bed. I back into the hall, and she pushes past, practically running, not even turning to look at me standing in the middle of the hallway in my black jeans, black hoodie, and black shoes.

But Mr. Carter does.

“Dess?”

I move from the door as he comes closer. “Good night,” I whisper, backing away.

“Thanks for waking us,” he says, peering at me, a little frown between his eyes. Will he ask me what I'm doing out of bed?

“Welcome,” I whisper, stepping back farther. “Good night.”

“Wait. Dess—”

“Russell? Russ, I'm going to the ER.” Foster Lady's voice is low but breathless, panicky. Mr. Carter turns, for just a second, and I melt away into the hall and out of sight.

I listen a moment. Voices. A light goes on in Foster Lady's office.

It's the perfect scenario. A commotion at the other end of the house, all the loving, careful faces turned toward the littlest one, who needs them.

I'm out. Hell, nobody will even miss me.

When Hope finally dragged herself out of bed, Mom was at Children's Hospital with Jamaira, and Austin was keeping company with Dad on the family room floor, leaning on Dad's knees as he did crunches.

“Hey,” Hope said listlessly, and plopped, yawning, on a recliner.

“Hey, yourself,” Dad said, slightly out of breath as Austin chose to sit on his stomach. “About time you got up.”

“I got hungry.” Hope sighed. “I tried to send you mental messages that I needed breakfast in bed, but you didn't pick up.”

Her father snorted. “Wish
that
was going to work. I made waffles. There's a couple left. If you want more, all you have to do is pour the batter, and
voilà.
”

“Meh, too lazy.” Hope looked over at Austin, who was untying his father's shoes. “Hey, Austin. Go wake up Dess.”

“Now, that's just cruel,” Dad said as Austin obligingly wandered off.

“It is, isn't it?” Hope said cheerfully. She gave a luxurious stretch and sighed her contentment. “I think that makes up for her getting Mom nosing around me about Cal.”

“What?”

Hope smirked and shook her head. “Never mind. You had to have been there.”

Her father looked affronted. “Well, I thought I
was.
”

Austin came back into the room, looking annoyed. “Where's Dessa?”

“She's not in her bed?” Hope settled deeper into the recliner. “She didn't go with Mom, did she?”

“No. Your mother left just after five.” Her father sat up with a frown, then rolled to his feet. “Dessa!” he called loudly. “Odessa Matthews!”

Hope blinked. Dad
knew
how Dess felt about being called by her whole name. What was he thinking? A flutter of unease forced her to her feet. Maybe Dess was outside?

Hope padded over to the slider and peered into the yard. It had been frosty earlier, and even now it was cold—too cold to be out in the yard doing nothing. Hope glanced down as she stepped away from the glass and stilled, her eyes on a square of black screen propped neatly against the side of the house.

“Oh, no. Are you kidding?” she whispered. “No…”

She headed for Dess's room at a gallop. When she reached the door, her father stood in the room, an awkward figure in the midst of the bleached pine and posters. He held up Dess's phone to Hope's inquisitive face.

“Well, she's here, then,” Hope said, relief coloring her tone. “She must have gone for a walk or something.”

Her father shook his head slowly. “Not and leave her phone,” he said, his voice tired. “Look around, Hope. Everything she came here with is gone.”

Hope turned, wordlessly taking in the neatly made bed, the small pile of clothes folded on the dresser, and on the bedside table, the crackle glaze nail polish Dess had borrowed just yesterday.

Her father sighed. “I wonder…Tell me, did Dess seem all right to you last night?”

“Well, yeah, she—” Hope broke off, remembering Dess towing her through the Anguianos' house as she said her goodbyes.
Are you on something?
Hope remembered, with a sick feeling, Dess's almost angry retort.
I'm not going to be here forever.

“She wouldn't do this to me,” Hope blurted. Then her hand hovered over her mouth. Dess would do what she wanted, to Hope or anyone else. She darted a quick glance at Austin, who was lining up Dess's colored pencils from the cup on her desk. “She wouldn't do it to Baby, I mean.”

Her father wordlessly extended an arm, and Hope buried her face in his chest. Her ribs seemed to squeeze her lungs painfully as feelings ricocheted through her chest. Dess had
bailed
? Just like that? When they'd finally become…something like friends? Why?

Her voice muffled, Hope asked, “What are you going to do? Call the police?”

Dad sighed. “Well, yes,” he began. “Or Mr. Bradbrook, who will take a report and then call the police.” He sighed again and shook his head. “We should have expected this. The girl's been worrying about her grandmother, and I thought she was too dressed in the middle of the night.” He sighed again, a long exhale, by now a familiar sound. “Well. Let me get on the phone. I—”

“Dad, wait. Can't we just find her?” Holding him in place, Hope wrapped her fingers around her father's wrist.

“Where?” Dad shook his head. “Hope, no. We don't know when she left, we don't know what direction she went. She could have had a friend help her out. We need to call this in.”

“Wait. I'll—I'll call Aunt Henry. We can just drive around for a while, can't we? You don't have to tell anyone yet, Dad. It'll go on her record, won't it? If she runs away, don't they put her back in Juvenile Hall?”

Her father's face seemed old. “Hope, Dess is a ward of the state, and we're her guardians. We
have
to call this in. Do you understand? That's our job.”

“Well…call her social worker. The old one, the one she likes. Tell her we'll look for her first. And…and if we don't find at least what direction she went in two hours, then we'll call the police. Or her other social worker.”

“Hope.” Her father's expression was kind.

“Please, Daddy.” Hope caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “It wasn't fair that she couldn't go see her grandma. We should have— Hey! We could drive her to her grandma's. If
we
drive her, it's not like she's running away, right?”

Her father blew out a hard breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sweet, you're not making sense. It's almost eleven o'clock on a Saturday. Rosedale's a seven-hour drive, on a good day. We're not showered, you haven't eaten, you're not dressed—”

Hope headed for the bathroom at a dead run. “Five minutes, Dad!”

It was more like twenty-five once Hope had tied up her hair and jumped into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and once Dad had cleaned up and wiped down Austin. His wireless headset screwed into his ear, her father discussed the situation with her mother, who was still at the hospital. From Dad's responses, Hope could tell that her mother was frustrated.

“No, you couldn't have known,” her father repeated as he bundled Austin into his car. Mom had taken the minivan with Austin's usual car seat, so Hope was strapping in his spare. “She likes to raid the snack cabinet at night—you couldn't know this was the night she wouldn't go back to bed. Yes, I called the bus company. I know—she's got a four-hour jump on us, but—uh-huh….Yeah, babe, I know. I understand….Well, we'll just have to take our chances.”

“Do you have your truck, Austin?” Hope asked tersely while checking that they had extra training pants in case they couldn't find him a bathroom in time.

Austin nodded solemnly, seeming to sense the importance of his cooperation. “I have my backpack.”

“Good man.” Hope ducked back into the house. Next to the door was a bag into which Dad had thrown what looked like the entire contents of the snack cabinet. Hearing the garage door open, Hope tossed in a couple of bottles of water, grabbed her impromptu waffle-sausage-egg-cheese sandwich, and closed the door behind her.

“Ready?” Dad looked at her from the driver's seat.

“Ready,” Hope agreed.

Visiting hours for a lot of hospitals are 24/7, unless you're trying to get into the Critical Care Unit. Then they get all picky with you, especially if you're carrying a fat backpack full of what looks like everything you own in the world and if you look like maybe you slept in your clothes, and like some little kid at the Kaffee Haus down the road where you had breakfast spilled his mother's coffee on your shoes. And if you look younger than, like, twenty, they get real nosy.

The receptionist tip-taps her manicure on the keyboard as she types. “Matthews…okay. Are you a relative? Immediate family only in CCU.” She looks me over.

“I'm a relative.” I give the lady a close-mouthed smile. At the Kaffee Haus, I washed up, brushed out my hair, and did the best I could to get the coffee smell off me. I should have put on more makeup.

“Name?” An over-plucked brow rises.

“Tricia Matthews,” I deadpan.

She scribbles my name down on her clipboard and takes out a black felt-tipped pen. “And you are—”

“Her daughter.”

“Uh-huh, thank you.”

She hands across the counter a square name tag that reads “MATTHEWS 4505c.” “The elevators are just down the hall to your right. Fourth floor, room 4505, by the window.”

“Thanks.” I peel away the backing and slap the tag on my chest.

I slept on the bus but find myself yawning as I stand in the stale air of the elevator. One of the hard things about traveling is not bathing. And the food…This morning I ate jerky and granola bars and splurged on a container of yogurt when we stopped for gas. I've been using hand sanitizer on everything. I need a shower. I miss having as much fresh fruit as I want, and also Mr. Carter's good coffee.

Weak.
I've been gone, like, ten hours, and all I can do is whine. Foster care has made me soft.

I sigh as the elevator chimes. Time to get this over with.

The “hospital smell” hits me as soon as I set foot off the elevator. My stomach heaves at the noxious aroma of drugs and sick people, alcohol swabs, old coffee and cafeteria food, too-strong disinfectant, and fear sweat. I've smelled this before, in the emergency room with Trish when she got the flu real bad one time. Without meaning to, I raise my hand to my face but remember not to touch it, just in time. Man, the
stench.
I don't see how people in here can stand it.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

I turn toward the nurses' station. In better light, the guy might be cute, but it's dim, and all I see is a coffee cup and scrubs. I don't want him looking at me, anyway.

“I know where I'm going, thanks,” I say, and edge away down the tiled hall, reading numbers. It's not far from the nurses' station, and when I step in, the room is white, white, and that pale hospital green.
Blah.
Curtains are drawn around the bed by the door, and the second bed is empty. I head for the window, relieved that it's not quite as dim by the third bed. Maybe there will be more air there.

“Granny Doris?”

The woman's face is wrinkled and pale, with a mass of purplish bruises down one side. Her eyes are closed, and a needle is taped into the bend of her arm, with another machine connected to her index finger. Only the stripy white-orange of her wiry hair lets me know for sure that this is Granny Doris, whose bold hair color I used to look for in the crowd at Mass when I lost track of her. She looks different now—caved in, almost, and really, really old.

When did she get so old?

Maybe she wasn't lying about being too old to take care of us. She's too old to look after Baby, that's for sure.

My stomach flips again, and I grab a paper cup from the stack next to her water jug on a little table and pour myself a drink. When I'm sure I'm not going to heave, I pull up the brown visitor's chair and settle my pack over the back before I sit.

I stare at her a moment, then lick my lips. “Well, I'm here. I didn't bring Baby because hospitals are
crawling
with drug-resistant germs—I read it on the Internet at the library. You didn't think I'd come, but I'm here—till they kick me out. Okay? And they might kick me out—I just want to warn you. You don't have to talk if you don't want. I brought some stuff to read.”

I unzip my backpack, pull out my little bottle of sanitizer, and squeeze out a clear blob on my palm. I rub my hands together until they're freezing cold and germ-free. It's temporary, but it makes me feel better. I don't know if she can even hear me, but I read on the Internet about how people in comas can hear you. Granny Doris only got a bad concussion, so she can probably hear me all right.

“I guess I could say sorry for not answering your letters, but…” I shrug. “You pissed me off, not taking Baby and me when we needed somebody. Anyway, I'm with Baby now. He's been staying with this one foster family for all this time, and when they finally decided I wasn't going to be a bad influence or whatever, Farris got me put with him. Actually, I guess Trish decided she wanted me moved—”

“Trish.”
The voice is a weak whisper, and behind blue-veined lids her eyes move. I freeze, my pulse pounding. That answers my question about whether or not she can hear.

“Yeah, Trish,” I repeat. Pause. I glance at the door and lower my voice. “Your daughter. She's the one who got me moved back with Baby—her and Farris, my old social worker.” I drink more water. It's too weird to talk to Granny Doris without her talking back. Usually she made me be quiet. She used to say I talked so much, she couldn't think.

“So, anyway…You know they moved Trish down here to Ironwood? I probably can't see her. They put her in solitary, since she's…um, since she's doing some stuff for the police. Anyway, later, I might use your shower. I came all this way down here on a bus, and I probably smell like fast food and diesel.” I clear my throat, and a nervous laugh pops out. “Hope says I'm obsessed with smells, and with germs. Hope—she's the real daughter of my foster parents. My foster sister, I guess. You'd like her.” I rub my chest with the heel of my hand. “She probably hates me right now, though. They were nice—really nice—and I ran away anyway. That's going to make them look bad, you know? Like they didn't do a good enough job with me. You know what people say about foster parents.

“They don't do it for the money, though. Granny Doris, they've got a swimming pool, and a big old house. Me and Baby and another little—” My voice dries up, and I rub my chest again.

“Trish,” Granny Doris whispers.

For the next several hours, that's all I can get out of her: “Trish.” She thinks I'm my mother, which tells me she hit her head a lot harder than I thought.

Trish. Man, I wish she was here to do this instead of me.

Even though Granny Doris doesn't answer me, I talk to her. I tell her about the Anguianos' house, Rob, air hockey, Stella, the souvlaki that Kalista shares with me at lunch, and how much
Jeopardy!
I watch. When the volunteers come and bring us magazines and cookies, I sanitize my hands again and tell her about the snack cabinet and all the celebrities I read about, and how Ms. Aiello works my nerves.

I talk until I get hoarse, till I get sick of the sound of my own voice.

I'm gulping water when I hear the curtain swish back from the first bed. Twisting in my chair, I see a small Asian woman in a patterned blue smock over her scrubs and sensible shoes.

“Hi there. It's time to do vitals on Mrs. Matthews. Can I have you step out for just a minute?”

I blink. “Oh, yeah. Sure. No problem.”

I check the clock in the nurses' station and stretch. It's almost six. I should probably go down to the cafeteria and see if there's anything decent to eat, but I can't bring myself to go anywhere farther than the bathroom, where I wash my face and hands again and press my cool, wet fingers to my skin. As I think about how hot Jamaira was, my stomach lurches. I guess she's all right—Foster Lady got up and took care of her. But it's stupid how bad I want to pick up the phone—the phone I don't even have—and ask.

The nurse is out of the way when I step back into the room. Behind me, I hear the chime, and the elevator doors open. And then I hear a voice.

“Hi, excuse me. I'm looking for Doris Matthews's room.”

The nurse's voice is quizzical. “I'm sorry. They should have asked at reception—are you family?”

I dart into the hallway. “Yes! She's family,” I insist, skidding to a stop next to Hope. I'm blinking fast. “She's my sister.”

“Yeah.” Hope shifts so that her arm is touching mine. My throat tightens up, but we stand shoulder to shoulder, daring the nurse to say something.

She looks us over and clears her throat, eyebrows raised. “Ah, okay, then. Great. Well, no more than two visitors for our CCU patients at a time, and visiting hours are over at eight,” she begins, but Hope shakes her head.

“I'm not going to stay,” she says, eyes on mine. Her sunglasses are perched on her head, and her ponytail is a little more subdued than usual—like she's been leaning against the car window or hasn't brushed out her hair since I flat-ironed it. “I just came to bring you your phone,” she continues, putting the familiar sleek rectangle in my hand. “Dad got a hotel—when you're ready for bed or to get something to eat, just text, and we'll come pick you up.”

“We?”

“Me and Dad and Austin.” Hope smiles a little at my expression. “Mom and Jamaira were still at Children's when we left, so it's just us.”

“Come here.” I haul on Hope's arm and drag her toward Granny Doris's room. When the nurse is out of earshot, I turn to Hope, eyes wide. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

Hope shrugs, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Giving you a ride home?”

“Seriously? I—I can come back?”

Hope scowls. “You
do
remember we have a Constitution test Monday.”

“But—” I can't find the words. Isn't anybody going to blame me? Isn't anybody mad? “Is Maira okay?”

“Maira?” Hope's expression saddens. “She's…Well, Mom says they're helping her eat, and she's comfortable. She…Mom says she smiled for her a couple of times.”

Without meaning to, I look toward my grandmother's bed and swallow hard.

Comfortable.
Is Granny Doris comfortable? She might not even wake up. She might still think I'm Trish.

Hope leans half against my shoulder, half against the wall, and yawns. Her breath smells like fruity purple gum. “Sorry. Long drive. Look, Dad's going to yell at you, all right? And then Mom will. Then probably Mrs. Farris and Mr. Bradbrook and probably Austin. But what else is new? Let's see your grandma and then go home, all right?”

Home. I thought home was where I was—with Granny Doris, doing what Trish would maybe want me to. I thought that since Granny Doris needed me, I was in the right place. Family is important, right? Me and Baby aren't going to stay with the Carters forever. Trish—eventually—and Baby and me are going to try and make some kind of life. Maybe.

But if Trish can't make it? If Granny Doris kicks off? What then?

“Dess?” Hope straightens. She flails a self-conscious hand. “If you're not ready, we can wait for you or whatever. Just don't rush, okay? I know she's part of your birth family. The rest of us can wait.”

The words loop like a rope around me, pulling me into the herd.
Mom. Dad. Home. The rest of us.
Hope talks like I'm supposed to be with her—like “home” is real, not foster care. No wonder I got soft. Foster Lady and Mr. Carter got Baby and me believing it, too.

“No, don't wait. I'm coming.” My throat is achy and sore, but my shoulders are straight, like a weight has been lifted off my back. I move to the bed and bend over Granny Doris.

“Granny Doris, it's Dessa. I'm back,” I announce. “This is Hope. She just…showed up. So I'm going to go now and let you rest, okay? I'll come back and check on you later.”