“It looks worse than it is,” he says with an awkward smile.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Not your fault,” he says. “Did you hear anything yet?”
“No, did you?”
“No. I guess if we don’t hear by Tuesday we should call.”
Cheyenne is swinging high, laughing. I introduce Arthur and Jerry, who I think won’t have a thing to say to each other. But it turns out that Jerry is a big sports fan, and Arthur’s signed up for an advanced computer course. I didn’t even realize I’d stereotyped them until I was surprised by their conversation. Oh well, at least I didn’t say anything embarrassing.
After lunch, Sean and Teresa and Leticia walk Cheyenne close to the lake, so she can watch people fishing. Jerry and Arthur are tossing the frisbee back and forth. Jerry’s always seemed to me like a total indoor type, but I see now that he is quick and agile. I sit under a tree, next to Mom, watching the frisbee action, and Cheyenne in the distance.
After a while Mom says, “This cancer stuff really got me thinking.”
“You look healthy, Mom,” I tell her. It’s true, too. I watched her walking up to our table earlier today. Her steps were sure and quick, her brown hair, though thin, was shining in the sunlight. When she called hello to us, her voice was strong. Not like a sick person’s.
“I feel great today, but I know there’s something inside my body that’s trying to take over, trying to kill me.”
I pull at the grass by my feet, not knowing what to say.
“At first I thought, okay, life’s got me worn out, anyway. Let it go. But then I thought about all I’d missed. And watching Teresa and Sean . . . well . . . I wished I’d been a better mother to you.”
I look at her, but she turns her head. I wonder if she’s hiding tears.
“Teresa kept urging me to call you, get to know you better, but I thought it was too late. I mean, you’re grown up now. I can’t possibly make up to you for years of . . . not paying much attention . . . or . . . whatever . . . I’m sorry.”
I hear the tears in her voice, and it’s hard for me to talk, too, but I say, “If you’d just talk to me about things . . . not turn everything into water under the bridge . . .”
She heaves a big sigh. “What do you want to know?” she says.
Questions whiz through my head, about my father, and my grandparents, and what was I like as a baby, but the question that comes out of my mouth is the most crucial question of all. If it turns out I only get one question, this is it.
“Do you love me?” I ask.
I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.
“My problem, I think, was that I loved you too much.”
“It didn’t seem like it,” I whisper.
“I’ve thought a lot about that lately, reviewing my life now that I may be nearing the end of it. It seemed to me that everything I loved turned to ashes. My father died when I was four. I have almost no memory of him. My mother, beautiful and full of life, left me in a foster home when I was seven. I never knew why, except maybe I’d been bad, or somehow didn’t deserve her love. I ran away from my foster home when I was sixteen and started working at Santa Anita, then from there to Bay Meadows, you know how that goes.”
I want to stop her, to ask questions, but she is telling me this as if in a dream, and I’m afraid if I interrupt her, that will be the end of her story. So I listen quietly, hoping no one comes over to where we’re sitting.
“I guess you could say I was wild. I’d not had much guidance growing up, just ‘do this, do that,’ from my foster parents. It’s a wild crowd, anyway, that racetrack bunch, drinking, gambling, fighting, living on the edge. I kept up with the best of them, or the worst, however you want to look at it.
“And then I got pregnant with you. I don’t even know for sure who your father was—could have been one of three, though your hair makes me think it was probably a guy named Wayne.”
Wayne who? I want to know. Where is he? I want to know.
“But I loved you from the beginning—quit drinking and smoking as soon as I found out I was pregnant, promised I’d never leave you like my mother left me, no matter what. I think I was a pretty good mother for the first few years, as good as a mom can be who’s always on the road and has to work long hours.
“But track people, even if they’re wild, they’re warm hearted. This one trainer took his mother with him wherever he went—Lucky Mama he called her—anyway, until you started school, she took care of you when I was at work.
“We had some good times, though. I didn’t have to be at work until noon, so we’d go watch them exercise the horses in the morning. We’d take apples to feed them and you loved to feel their soft noses.”
Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I want to ask what happened, what got lost. Teresa walks toward us, then slows, looking at us appraisingly. She goes back to the lake.
“The picture you always used to ask about,” she sighs. “That was Benson. I met him at Hollywood Park—really, you met him first. He saw us at the morning workout and came to talk to you, gave you a slice of fig, which you popped into your mouth and then made such a face we laughed ’til we were weak. We loved each other, the three of us, from then on. I’d never known such happiness—didn’t even know the possibility of it. He loved me, and he loved you. He was one of those pure-spirited kind of guys that don’t hang around racetracks much. He never wanted to hurt anyone, or see anyone hurt, and it was beyond him to tell a lie.
“After Hollywood Park we went together to Bay Meadows. That’s where the picture was taken. At the end of that meet we were going to get married. We had the rings and everything. Benson had a job lined up to train horses in Kentucky, to settle into one place. He was going to take us there with him. And then there was the accident, a freak thing with the practice gate and a horse he was training—he was crushed to death in an instant.”
She pauses, staring off into space, and I wonder if she’ll say anything else.
“Then what?” I urge.
She looks at me as if surprised to see me there, then continues.
“Then . . . then . . . I was lost, shattered. And I think, somehow, in some twisted way of looking at things, I thought it was our happiness that had killed him. Like people don’t deserve that much love. And I think, maybe this doesn’t make any sense but I’ve been mulling it over a lot lately, I think I was afraid if I loved you so much, the same thing could happen to you. I was afraid, that’s all.
“Now there’s all this awareness about depression, and grief support groups, and the importance of showing love to children, but then none of that was around. At least not that I ever heard of. Maybe if I’d had some help . . . but I was working it all through, inside, and I guess I got it all messed up.”
She is quiet for a while, still looking away.
“Mom,” I say, wiping at my tears.
She turns to look at me. She too has to wipe away tears.
“Thank you, Mom,” I say.
We sit together for a long time. The noises of the park, laughter, leaves rustling in trees, muted traffic noises, wash over me as I replay her story, again and again, in my mind.
At twilight Leticia calls us all over to the table and takes the cover off the cake.
“To us graduates!” She holds the cake cutter high overhead. “We should have a song,” she says.
We sing “Happy Graduation to You,” to the tune of “Happy Birthday” and get all hysterical at “Happy graduation dear Leticia, Jerry, Melissa, Sean . . .” because everyone sings the names in a different order.
“Bushel and a Peck,” Cheyenne demands. Cheyenne and I start out. Leticia knows the song and so does Arthur. I see my mother at the end of the table, her cheeks wet with tears.
“Again,” Cheyenne says, and Leticia and Arthur start the song again. It’s not all that complicated to pick up on and this time everyone sings, loud and raucous and laughing.
It’s hard to explain, but for an insta
nt, when everyone’s singing, I feel a glow of us all loving each other a bushel and a peck.
We cut the cake and pass it around. Cheyenne dives in with both hands.
“Little bites, Chey-Chey,” I tell her, but it’s too late. Her mouth is so full she can barely chew, and that gets us all laughing again.
Later in the evening, after everyone’s gone home, we pack up our stuff and head back to the apartment. Sean carries Cheyenne on his shoulders and walks next to Teresa. Mom and I tag along behind.
“Where did Cheyenne learn that song?” Mom asks.
“‘Bushel and a Peck’?”
She nods.
“I taught it to her. I don’t even know where I learned it. It just came out one day, when I was playing with her and she wanted a song.”
“We used to sing it all the time, you and me and Benson. I never sang it again, after he died.”
“Well, I guess it stuck, anyway,” I tell her.
On Monday I hear from Ms. Fallon that I got the job. I’ll start in two weeks. There’s a one-week training program where I’ll get paid six dollars an hour, and then I’ll get seven dollars an hour after that, when I start my regular job.
I quick add up how much a week that will be—two hundred and forty dollars the first week, then two hundred and eighty. I’m used to getting by on three hundred and fourteen dollars for the whole month.
I call Jerry and get a busy signal. I hang up and decide to make myself wait five minutes before I try again. Just as my five minutes is up and I’m reaching for the phone, it rings.
“Hello,” I say.
“Did you get the job?” he says, his voice about an octave higher than usual.
“Yes! Did you?”
“Yes!”
“Can I come see you tonight? We can make plans for work.”
“What kind of plans?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Just plans,” he laughs.
After dinner Jerry comes knocking on the door, two cans of Pepsi in one hand and a little box of apple juice in the other.
“Let’s go to that park with the lake,” he says.
It seems like I’m spending half my time at the park these days. It’s crowded in the apartment though, and there’s not much for Cheyenne to do there.
I tell Mom and Teresa we’re leaving and grab a diaper for Cheyenne, just in case.
“Come on, Chey-Chey.”
She runs to me. I take her by the hand and we walk out into the cool California evening.
“I knew we’d get hired. I knew we would,” Jerry says, “but then I started thinking about how my face looked that day, and I got worried.”
“I was afraid to count on it,” I say.
“Not a good attitude,” Jerry says with a smile. “My mom always says if you expect good things they’re a lot more likely to come your way.”
I think about that. How my mom was so afraid of losing more love after Benson died, she set herself up to live without it.
We stand by the lake for a while, watching the same boy fish that Cheyenne watched last week. He smiles a shy smile at us, but when we say “hi” he doesn’t answer. I think maybe he doesn’t speak English.
“Let’s go over by the slides,” Jerry says.
We sit in the sand while Cheyenne climbs up to the top of the slide and then comes whisking down, over and over.
“Our first real job,” Jerry says. “It’s like we’re adults . . . Well, I guess you’re already an adult, being a mom and all.”
“Yeah, but the job’s a big deal to me, too,” I tell him. “But it’s more complicated for me.”
“How?”
“Well, transportation’s easier for you, because you’ve got a car. And the big thing for me is finding a good day care situation for Cheyenne. Except for those few weeks when we were out in the desert, I’ve never left her anywhere but the Hamilton Infant Center.”
“Couldn’t you still do that?”
“I wish. But they only take the children of students attending that school district.”
“What about your mom?”
“It would be too much for her, and I think Cheyenne would get bored. She really likes being around other little kids. Every morning now she wants the school van to pick us up.
“And there’s this ‘proper business attire’ thing, too. You just have to have a couple of white shirts, one to wash and one to wear, and the same with dark pants, and five different ties, and you’re set. I should have five distinctly different outfits.”
“So what are you going to do?” Jerry says.
“Work it out,” I say, hoping I can.
I decide to go back to Hamilton High for the last three days. I can take my finals then and go to the Peer Counseling party. That’s the kind of final Woodsie gives, a party.
Cheyenne is so excited to see Ethan and Brittany at the Infant Center that she runs around in circles until she’s dizzy.
“Welcome back,” Bergie laughs. “And how are things going for you, Melissa?”
“Good. Really good,” I tell her.
“No more problems with Rudy?”
“No. But he doesn’t know where I live . . . Has he been around here?”
“Not since the restraining order. I’ve not seen a thing of his mother, either. But did you notice what we got since the last time you were here?”
“The fence?” I say.
“Yep. Eight feet tall. Makes the place look like a prison, but no one gets through the gate now without proper ID. I’ve been asking for better security here for years. It took your Rudy to get it for us,” she laughs.
“Not my Rudy,” I say.
“Good,” she says.
On the courtyard people are passing around yearbooks for signing, saying how much they’ll miss each other and talking about summer plans. Josh from Peer Counseling asks me to sign his.
“I wish I had one for you to sign,” I tell him. “I didn’t order one in time.”
This is not exactly a lie. I didn’t order one, but it was because I couldn’t afford it. Maybe, if I do well on my new job, Cheyenne won’t ever have to worry about not being able to afford scout uniforms, or drill team outfits, or yearbooks.
I write the only thing I can think of to write, “Dear Josh, I enjoyed being in Peer Counseling with you. Good luck in the future. Your friend, Melissa Fisher.”
I hand back his yearbook and go looking for Leticia. There is some kind of commotion over by the gate. Rudy? But it’s just some kids joking around with the security guard. I’m jumpy, I guess.
In Peer Counseling we eat pizza and sit around talking. Woodsie comes over and sits next to me and Leticia.
“What are your plans for next year?” she asks.
“Cal State Fullerton—track scholarship,” Leticia says.
“Wonderful! What major?”
“Probably P.E. I’m not sure yet.”
“How about you, Melissa?”
I tell her about my job.
“Good for you,” she says. “But keep learning. Maybe take a college night class now and then. You’re very smart, you know.”
I nod. Maybe I will do that someday. Right now, it seems like if I can take good care of Cheyenne and work full-time, that’s a lot. I wonder if Woodsie has kids.
I’m sorry to miss graduation, but if Rudy were to come looking for me anywhere, that would be the place. He knows how much I wanted to graduate up there with my class. The important thing though, is that I’ve done all the work, I’ve finished with good grades, and the diploma is mine. I just have to wait for it to come in the mail instead of getting it on stage.
Mom and Teresa are going to take me out to dinner graduation night, and then Teresa’s going to keep Cheyenne while me and Mom go to a movie. It’s not cap and gown on stage and then Grad Nite at Disneyland, but it’s not a kick in the shin, either.
CHAPTER
20
Journal entry, 3:15 a.m., Saturday night, Sunday morning, I mean.
I can�
��t believe how long it’s been since I’ve written anything here—before school was out, a little over two months ago. Yikes. A lot has changed since then, except that I still write in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat lid, so the light won’t disturb anyone.
Teresa and Mom and I are looking for a three bedroom place, something with a little yard, because it’s just too crowded here. Teresa doesn’t complain, but I know she’s tired of sleeping on the couch. Now that I’m working I can pay my full share of the rent, so we should be able to find something.
Anyway, I want to get caught up with what’s been happening, and then for sure I’ll write at least once a week. Maybe it’s okay that I haven’t written lately—maybe I’m not as unhappy or confused as when I was writing a lot.
Well, here goes.
At first I thought I’d never learn all I needed to know to do a good job at Graphic Design Services. There were times I expected my boss, Ms. Lopez, to fire me on the spot. Like when I thought I’d messed up the whole computer program so no one could get paid on time. But then she came to my desk and helped me work through it, step by step. Now, after being there almost two months, payroll is easy for me and it always goes out on time. I’m learning to do quarterly reports, too.
I still like the fact that my computer behaves the same way day after day. Also, I like coming in at the same time each day, and saying hello to the same people, and leaving at the same time. It feels safe to me.
I love getting a paycheck. It was a shock to me at first to see that out of $560.00 for two weeks I only got to keep $445.27. So now I’m paying taxes rather than taking money from other people’s taxes. That’s fair. I want to pay my own way. I hope I never ever have to sit in that welfare office again. I’m pretty sure I won’t.
Right off the top of each paycheck, I give my mom and Teresa $170 for my share of rent and food. Then another $240 goes to the day care center. The rest goes for clothes and diapers for Cheyenne, and replacing some of the necessary items that got left behind at Rudy’s. Last month I bought her a carseat and this month I’ll try to find a used high chair at a yard sale or thrift store. Then, I need clothes for me, too. Slowly I’m trying to get things to wear to work. There’s a limit to how many days a week I can wear the black skirt and pink T-shirt without being embarrassed about it. Jerry says no one notices, but I notice.
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