by Jamie Sumner
“Louise Montgomery.”
She shifts the light to the other eye and the world goes white. I blink and see spots. She’s still too close. I feel trapped—pinned down like a bug.
“How old are you, Louise?”
“Twelve. I’m twelve. C-can you move your arm?”
“Sorry, honey. All done.” She clicks off the light and straightens up. I scoot away from her and look around. I’m in a curtained-off room in a hospital. Maybe the ER? I hear lots of talking. A baby’s crying somewhere, and somebody else is asking for water. Too many people. Too close. My arms start to itch, and I scratch at them under the blanket.
“Where’s my mom?”
The doctor, Dr. Janson, her name tag reads, looks away, and I follow her eyes to someone I hadn’t noticed sitting in a chair in the corner. It’s a woman in a suit jacket and skirt. She looks like a lawyer-banker-school-librarian. She’s holding a folder.
Dr. Janson doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she looks back at me and says, “It looks like you’ve got a mild concussion from the accident. That’s a nasty bump on your head. We’ll need to keep you for observation. We’re working on getting you a room up in pediatrics. But it might be a bit. It’s a busy night with the snow.” She pats my knee and I flinch. I see the woman in the suit see it. “Can I get you something to eat? Juice? Crackers?”
I shake my head. I can’t spend the night here in this loud, too-bright place. I’ve never slept anywhere without my mom. I turn to the suited lady. “When can I see my mom?”
She stands and walks over. I get a better look at her. She’s older than I thought, with silver running through her dark hair. I see a wedding ring. A nice old married lady has come to talk to me. This can’t be good.
“That’s what I’m here to see you about, Louise.”
“Lou.”
“Lou. You go by Lou. That’s good. Thank you for telling me. My name is Maria, and I’m with the Placer County Child Protective Service. It’s nice to meet you.”
Well, it’s not nice to meet you, I think.
CPS. This is exactly what we’ve been running from, and now they’re here, the government, sitting in my hospital room, and my mom is off somewhere, maybe even in jail, and it’s all my fault. I pinch my elbows under the covers until the tears that were about to fall shrivel back up, and I close my eyes. I play the game I used to play when I was little. If I can’t see them, then they can’t see me.
“Lou, you’re old enough to understand the process, so I’ll walk you through it, but you need to know you’re not alone. You are safe here, and we will make sure you are well taken care of. Okay?”
I open my eyes. But I don’t answer.
“Your mom is talking with the members of the hospital staff as well as the police officer, Officer Ramos, who found you on the scene.”
On the scene. It sounds so criminal, when all I was trying to do was pick up my mother from work.
“We want to know why you were driving underage, why you were left alone, and why, according to our records, she hasn’t enrolled you in any of the area schools.”
I start to explain. “We’ve only been here a few months, and—” But Maria cuts me off.
“And why you are significantly underweight and your blood panel indicates iron levels low enough to border on anemia. Lou, we often see this in kids who live below the poverty line.”
She says it like there’s an actual line we just happened to trip over. I look at her calves sticking out below her sensible skirt. They are thick and strong. She’s probably never had to worry about her next meal. She knows nothing about our lives. She doesn’t know that Mom always gives me the thickest blanket, the extra scoop of peanut butter, the first turn in the camp showers.
I remember something from health class in fourth grade. “It’s because I’m a vegetarian, the iron stuff, not because we’re poor,” I say. She just nods and writes something down. I don’t think it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. My head is getting heavy like a water balloon, and the thoughts are sloshing around without settling. I lie back on the pillow and close my eyes again. This is not happening. She is not here. I am in my sleeping bag in the truck. We are going to LA. Mom will shake me awake any second.
“I’ll give you some peace and quiet now,” Maria whispers. “But I’ll be right outside if you need me.” I feel her stand to leave. “Get some rest, Lou. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And then I’ll see my mom,” I say. She doesn’t respond. When I look up, she’s already gone.
* * *
The night is a weird mash-up of tiny bits of sleep and bad dreams. They move me at around three a.m. when a room finally opens up on the pediatric floor. There are sunshines on the floors and a picture of a cow jumping over the moon on my wall. The nurses come in every hour to aim a light at my eyes and ask me questions like what season comes after winter and can I touch the tips of my index fingers together. There’s an ice machine just outside my room. I cringe every time I hear the whirring that comes right before the thunk-thunk-thunk of the ice. Something about that sound feels like a knife scraping across a bare plate. It’s terrible. And exhausting. Who needs that much ice at 4:08, 4:36, 5:13 in the morning? I can’t sleep anyway, without Mom. My head hurts too much to cry.
By the time the door swings open at seven a.m. and Dr. Janson comes in with Maria and a new nurse, I feel weak and shivery in a way that’s worse than sitting in the snow with my head banged up.
“How are we feeling this morning?” Dr. Janson says with a hand on the bed rail, again too close to my hand.
“I’m okay.” Where’s my mom? I want to ask, but these people make me feel so small, I can’t find any words that aren’t answers to their questions.
“No dizziness? The nausea has gone away?”
I nod.
“Well, let’s get you on your feet for a minute and check that balance. You’ve got a sizeable bump up there, and I want to make sure you’re on the mend before we discharge you.”
I slip out of the bed, feeling naked in the hospital gown. It’s a child’s size small but hangs off my bony shoulders and billows out in the back like a cape. The nurse reaches out a hand to steady me, but I dodge it and grip the bed rail. There’ve been way too many hands on me lately.
“Okay, Louise,” Dr. Janson says. “Feet together and arms out to your sides. A little higher.”
She reaches out and lifts my right wrist to shoulder height, but she does it with her pen, which is okay. I hold the position until my shoulders burn and arms shake. Which isn’t very long.
“Okay, that’s enough.” She turns to the nurse. “I think we’re good to discharge tomorrow if the night goes well. That is”—she turns to Maria—“if you have everything you need from us in regards to placement?”
Maria nods. My stomach clenches. It’s like a hunger pang, but I’m hollowed out by fear. What does she mean by “placement”? Are they trying to find a place for me and Mom to stay tonight? Did I total the truck? I climb back in bed and tuck my knees up under my chin. Maria and I watch the doctor and nurse leave.
“Is my mom outside?”
Maria pulls up a chair. She is in a different suit this time, a tan pantsuit with black stripes. She looks like someone from Law & Order.
“Lou. It’s going to be a little bit before you see your mom.”
My heart ticks twice and then stops. That can’t be true. Mom would never let them get away with that. She’s lying. She’s trying to trick me into saying something that will get Mom in trouble.
“Why?” I say as calmly as I can. Underneath the sheets, my palms are clammy and cold.
“Our priority is you.” Maria sets her folder on the end of the bed near my left foot. I want to kick it. “We need to make sure you are safe and well cared for in your home environment.”
“My mom did care for me, does care for me. You’re the one keeping me out of my ‘home environment.’ ” It comes out a little panicky. Why is she doing this to us?
Maria’s shoulders slump in her shoulder pads. “Lou, you were living in your car, and it’s about to be winter. That is not safe.”
My heart kicks back in, but at double speed. I can’t breathe. I can’t stay here one more second! I rip off the sheets and jump down. I almost fall but catch myself.
“We were about to go to LA! Please, please let me see her,” I beg. And then I start crying. I want my mom. A dark, deep pit has opened up in my stomach. I need my mom.
“Honey.” Maria puts a hand on my shoulder. I howl like an animal and run to the opposite side of the room. I bang on the window and scream until my throat’s raw and bitter tasting.
A nurse bursts in, and Maria holds out her hand like a traffic cop. “We’re okay.”
Eventually I stop screaming, mostly because it hurts too much. Maria has been standing still this whole time. She watches me crawl back into bed. I pull the blanket over my head and pretend, once again, that she is not there.
“Lou, I promise not to touch you again without your say-so, okay?”
Maria’s voice has changed, there’s a different kind of pity there. She understands now that I am not normal.
Good.
“For now, until we sort this out with your mother, we’ve found a relative with whom we can place you. A judge expedited the orders this morning. You were lucky. It can take up to a month in foster care before we would even get a hearing.”
“Not my grandparents?” I say from under the sheet. Even though I know the answer. Mom hasn’t spoken to them since I was born.
“Not your grandparents. It’s your mom’s sister, your aunt Ginger, and her husband.”
“But…” I lift my head up. Aunt Ginger. I barely remember her. She’s just a freckled face in a grassy field under a summer sky. I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t even know where she lives.
Maria answers my unspoken question. “They’re awaiting our arrival tomorrow night in Nashville.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” Maria asks.
“Why’d the judge ‘expedite’ the order?” Maybe foster care wouldn’t have been so bad. At least I could have been in the same state as Mom.
“Lou,” Maria says, and something about her gentler tone makes my stomach drop. “Your mother requested it.”
My mother. My mother is sending me away.
I cover my head and howl again, but only on the inside.
4 Leaving on a Jet Plane
It’s Friday. I stand in the hospital’s tiny bathroom. There’s a shower with a handicap bar, and the toilet has a red emergency cord dangling above it.
PULL IF YOU NEED ASSISTANCE.
I wonder what kind of assistance they mean. If I pull it, will someone get my mom? Get our truck? Get our life back? No one asked me what I wanted. I lock the door and consider never coming out.
It’s been a good while since I looked at myself properly. I turn toward the mirror and take a deep breath and meet my own eyes. I am a ghost. I am the thing you imagine at your window at night. There are dark circles under my eyes, almost like pits, and I can’t tell if that’s because of the wreck or not sleeping or maybe this is how I always look. The bump on the left side of my head is a nasty knot, purple in the middle and yellow at the edges like a rotten sunflower.
One corner of my lip has split. There’s a little dried blood there. And my hair needs washing. It usually does. It’s stringy. The last time I had a decent shampoo was last Monday before the show at Joe’s. Mom wanted me to look nice for “potential investors.” We used the campsite showers, which are really just a box of stalls near the port-o-johns. I scratch at my head. The shower behind me is small, but beautifully clean. There’s no mold in the corners or someone else’s hair clogging the drain. It calls to me.
Underneath the hottest water I can stand, I rub the bar of soap into my scalp and under my arms and watch the dirt whirl away down the drain. There’s so much of it. I wonder if they let Mom shower. Is she in a jail cell, like with actual bars and a metal toilet? Despite the heat I start to shake. I miss her so much it hurts. I sit down and let the water run over my head while I cry… again.
I’m toweling off when a knock on the door makes me jump.
“Lou, it’s Maria. I’m leaving your clothes by the door.” I hear her on the other side. I can see the shadow of her feet. But when I don’t say anything, she eventually leaves. I wait another minute while the steam clears and then inch open the door. My sweatshirt and jeans are folded neatly on a chair. They’ve been washed, and there’s a new pair of underwear and socks still in their packages. My boots and suede jacket sit underneath.
I feel a tiny bit better once I’m dressed in my own clothes. I fold up my used towel and nightgown and lay them at the end of the bed. Mom cleaned hotel rooms for a while. Even in the truck she likes us to be tidy. Then I sit and wait. There’s a TV up in the corner, but I don’t turn it on. I need to talk to Mom. Something about this whole thing doesn’t add up. I know Mom. She’d fight tooth and nail for me. Somebody tricked her into sending me away. I know it. I pick up the white hospital phone, but after a minute of sitting and listening to the dial tone, I set it back down. I don’t even have a number to call. Mom, come get me, I think, and curl up on the bed again.
Eventually the trio comes back in—Dr. Janson, Nurse Caroline, and Maria. Everyone’s holding a pile of papers. Everyone looks fake cheery. It gives me the shivers.
“Looks like you’re all clear, Louise,” Dr. Janson says. “Here are your discharge papers. Remember, Tylenol or ibuprofen every four to six hours as long as the headaches persist. But if you’re stilling having them in a week, you need to make an appointment with a primary care physician. And you’ll need to do that in a month, regardless. Understand?”
Nurse Caroline hands me the papers. I take them. Nod. See, I am capable. Let me go home.
Maria opens her folder and hands me a ticket. I look at it for a full thirty seconds. It’s a plane ticket from Reno to… Los Angeles. Something blooms in my chest—hope.
“So, I’m really going? With Mom?” Maybe they just had to make sure everything was on the up-and-up before they let us go. Maybe Mom’s right outside. I take a step toward the door. “Mom and I are flying to LA?”
But Maria shakes her head. “We change planes in LA, Lou, on our way to Nashville.”
Mom’s not outside. Mom is nowhere I can get to. The spark of hope burns as it fizzles out.
“Your aunt wanted me to tell you how excited she is to have you,” Maria is saying, but I’m not listening. I’m staring at the ticket that meant one thing just a second ago and now means something else entirely.
“I’m not going,” I hear myself say. I’ve never said no to an adult in my life. It feels big—like earthquake, hurricane big. But Maria just sighs.
“Lou, you are still a minor. I understand you don’t want to leave your mother, but at this time everyone feels that it’s in your best interest to go to Tennessee.”
Everyone. Surely she doesn’t mean Mom, too? My face crumples. She sees it and starts to put a hand out but remembers her promise not to touch me and lets it fall.
“Honey, I know this is hard. And scary. But it is my entire job to make sure you are well cared for. I promise to keep you safe.”
I was cared for. I was safe.
I pocket the ticket and scream really loudly in my head. No one wants to hear what I have to say. No one cares. Mom cared, or I thought she did. But Mom’s not here. Maria waits by the bed while I gather my things—a plane ticket, a jacket, and Mom’s guitar that she passed on to Maria to give to me. I don’t want her guitar. I want her. I’m leaving without my mom, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
* * *
The airport in Reno is jam-packed. I have never been to an airport before. I don’t tell Maria this. She needs to think I can take of myself. I need to think I can take care of myself.
Maria explains that I won’t be able to take the guitar with me on the plane
. We have to “check it,” whatever that means. When the man at the Southwest counter starts to take it from me, I can’t let go. No one touches Mom’s guitar but me and her. That’s the rule. He looks confusedly from me to Maria.
“I promise they’ll take good care of it,” she says, gently pulling the case out of my hands without actually touching them. It slides away on a black conveyor belt, and I feel like a part of my soul is going with it.
Then we move to security. The line snakes back and forth, row after row of people who are too close together. Every time we make it around a corner, there’s just more people. When a rolling suitcase bumps against my calf, I have to tug on my hair to keep myself from screaming.
When we finally get to the metal detector, I narrow my eyes at it, a too-small box that may or may not sound an alarm when I step into it. I step back.
“No.”
Maria says, “Lou, this is standard procedure,” as if that matters.
I shake my head so fast it whips my hair across my face and stings. Standard procedure.
“No.”
The line builds up, and people start to file around us, like we’re rocks in a river.
A guy in a security outfit with a name tag that reads JORGE asks me to step aside.
Maria follows and says, “She’s with me. Child Protective Services.” She shows him her ID.
“Miss, if you won’t go through the metal detector, then we’ll have to do a personal check,” he says, and then before I can answer, he yells, “I need a female check over here!” I flinch.
A woman in the same blue security getup as Jorge walks up. She’s snapping on gloves, and my stomach flip-flops. What does she plan to do with those?
“Hi, honey. I’m Sheela. I’m going to be performing your security check.” I look at her through my curtain of hair. She sounds nice enough, but my eyes are on the gloves. If this is like the hospital, you don’t put on gloves unless you plan to touch a person. I’m not going to let her touch me.
