The Year We Hid Away

by Sarina Bowen

  We figured out afterward that while I’d remembered her toothbrush, I’d forgotten to bring her socks.

  “It’s no problem,” Amy said. “I’ve got some.”

  Of course she did. Because Amy’s house was set up to accommodate other people’s nightmares.

  While I cajoled Lucy into eating exactly one chicken nugget and two tater tots, Amy gave me a little of her own story. She was a daycare provider for years, but now she took in emergency foster kids, because it seemed like she could do more for them.

  I wanted to hate her, but she made it impossible.

  Her husband Rich came through to shake my hand. To his wife he said, “Sheena is in bed, and waiting for you to say goodnight to her.”

  “If you’ll excuse me a minute,” Amy said, leaving the room.

  They were perfectly nice people. And so even though I knew Lucy would be safe here, it didn’t warm me to the idea of letting the state do its thing. Because not all foster parents were Amy. And at eight years old, Lucy had a decade before she would be out of the state’s clutches. Even if I liked Amy, there was no guarantee that she could stay here. If the wind blew a different direction, Lucy could end up in some godawful place, with people who took in too many foster kids as a paycheck. And there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it.

  Eventually the dreaded moment arrived.

  “It’s bed time, Lucy,” I said softly. “I’ll come back tomorrow after school.”

  “Can you pick me up?” Slowly, I shook my head. I was pretty sure that Amy would have to do that. Social services had allowed me “supervised visits” with Lucy. And I wasn’t about to fuck that up.

  As I watched, Lucy’s eyes filled again.

  “No, little buddy,” I whispered, hugging her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I just want to go with you.”

  “I know,” I said into her hair. “I’m working on it.”

  “Tell them I want to live with you.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “Tell them I don’t care where it is.”

  “I’ll say it a hundred times if I have to.”

  “A thousand.”

  “Okay, I’ll say it a thousand times a thousand. Which is a million. Or a hundred times ten thousand. Or…”

  “Shut up, Bridge,” she hiccuped.

  Amy tried to insert herself, maybe hoping that Lucy would release me. “Is there a book you’d like to read with me now?”

  “We’re reading Harry Potter,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  “No.” Lucy turned to Amy with a grimace. “You can’t read me Harry Potter. Only Bridger. He does the voices.”

  I eased Lucy back, so she was standing on her own. “Amy probably has a lot of books,” I suggested. “Why don’t you pick one out?”

  She didn’t budge. And a single tear dripped down her cheek.

  “I have to go now,” I said, my voice cracking again. “You can wave to Scarlet. She’s waiting for me in the car.”

  Lucy’s eyes traveled toward the door. So I made my move, one foot in front of the other. She followed me, but I kept going until I’d reached the front of the house, my hand on the door.

  “No!” Lucy yelped, and I had to take a big breath in through my nose.

  “Tomorrow, Lulu. I’ll be back.” I dropped a kiss onto her head, and then pushed the door open. “Now wave at Scarlet. See?”

  At that, I stepped onto the porch. I knew I should shake hands with Amy or whatever, but I didn’t think I could do it. So I kept moving, opening the door to Scarlet’s Cayenne, sliding in. My girlfriend started the engine. She lowered the passenger window and leaned across me, waving at Lucy.

  I raised a hand too, forcing myself to look up then. Waving, I met Lucy’s red eyes one more time. Tears ran down her brave face as she waved.

  “Just drive,” I choked out. Mercifully, the Porsche pulled away from the curb. Seconds later, we were half way down the block. And I could give up the charade. I put my elbows on my knees and let my head fall into my hands. My throat pooled and my hands dampened.

  I just stayed that way, trying not to totally lose it, as the car glided through the little streets, accelerating as smoothly as all that German engineering allowed. When the car finally came to a stop, I mostly had my shit together. I looked up and out the windshield. “Where are we?”

  “Whole Foods in Milford,” Scarlet said, her voice quiet. She reached over and squeezed my knee. “We missed dinner. And lunch. When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I don’t know.” Yesterday.

  “Do you want to come in with me, or shall I go?”

  I blew out a breath, not wanting to answer. I wasn’t exactly fit for public consumption.

  “I’ll be right back,” Scarlet said, reaching back between our seats for her pocketbook.

  I slid my hands around her torso, pulling her towards me. “Thank you,” I said into her shoulder, my voice rough.

  She dropped her pocketbook and slipped her arms around me. “Anytime, Bridge.”

  “Sorry I left you out in the car so long.”

  “It’s nothing,” she whispered, holding me tightly. “It was awful?”

  “Worst hours of my life.” And I said that knowing that it could still get worse. There was a very real possibility that I’d have to sit in front of Lucy sometime soon and tell her that I’d failed. That the judge ruled me unfit. That the bank took our house. That the school put me on probation for breaking their rules. The possibilities sat like a cartoon anvil on my chest.

  Scarlet trailed her fingers into my hair and gave me a single kiss on the neck. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said, releasing me. “I’ll be back in five. Or ten, if the lines are brutal.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said. Because that was the largest promise that I was capable of keeping today. Only that.

  Sitting in her car, we ate a startling quantity of overpriced sushi out of little plastic containers. And I actually began to feel better.

  “There are two more pieces of California roll,” Scarlet said, offering me the tray.

  “I’m out,” I had to say, rubbing my stomach. “Honestly, that was great, though. I haven’t had sushi in forever.” It was out of my price range. Lucy and I ate a lot of sandwiches that I made on my desktop. What judge would consider that a meal?

  “It was the first thing I saw,” Scarlet admitted. “But I haven’t had it in a long time, either. The Turner dining hall doesn’t do sushi.” Her eyes flickered into mine. “I just wish I could do more, Bridger. Seriously. Feeding you is all I could think of.”

  Well, shit. I had to reach out then, cupping her face in my hands and pulling her in. Her lips were so soft against mine. I dropped kisses onto her lips, her jaw, her neck. I stroked her lip with my thumb, then kissed her again, gently asking her to open for me. I’d missed her so much. And even with my whole life falling apart, showing a little love for her was something I needed to do.

  But she ducked my deeper kisses. “What?” I asked.

  “I probably have dolphin breath,” she said, aiming her mouth over my shoulder.

  “Dolphin breath?”

  “You know… I smell like a tuna.”

  I began to chuckle. And maybe it was because we’d been fighting, or maybe it was because this was the most stressful day in my life. But I found that hysterical. I laughed so hard my gut hurt. I laughed until my eyes were wet again, and Scarlet was sweeping her hands across my cheekbones, chasing tears away.

  For the tenth time that day, I fought for control. “I don’t really care if you have dolphin breath,” I said, my stomach still tightening with ripples of laughter.

  She put the car in reverse and turned to look over her shoulder. “Noted,” she said, maneuvering out of the parking spot. “Let’s just get back. Then you can prove it to me.”

  — Scarlet

  When we got back to Beaumont house, Bridger’s room was dark and quiet. Lucy’s mattress sat in the middle of the floor, broadcasting it
s emptiness. Wordlessly, I stepped into him, wrapping my hands around his waist. He put his chin on my shoulder and sighed. “Stay with me?” he whispered.

  “Of course.”

  While Bridger returned a couple of calls, I went next door to fill Andy in on all the horrible things that had happened that day.

  “You’re shitting me,” he said, his eyes widening behind his glasses.

  “Nope.”

  “Why can’t he just catch a break?”

  I wished I knew.

  “What can I do to help?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “This is only a few hours old.”

  “You have my number, right? I could… call funeral homes or whatever. Put me to work.”

  “Thanks, Andy. I’m sure there will be something.” My heart swelled with appreciation for Bridger’s friends. Whatever happened, I hoped Bridger didn’t have to drop out of school. This place was just too precious to lose.

  I borrowed Bridger’s toothbrush, and changed into one of his tees. We lay down together in his bed, both exhausted from the day’s events. Bridger curled his big body around mine, the way I’d always hoped he would. There had been so many nights these past weeks when I’d wished for this — to have a few hours alone with him.

  But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  I slept awhile. But the bed was tiny. And so sometime in the night, I woke while trying unsuccessfully to roll over. When I opened my eyes, Bridger was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Bridge,” I whispered. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Stuffed meatloaf,” he said immediately.

  “Um… what?”

  “Stuffed meatloaf. With mashed potatoes inside. It was my mother’s signature dish.”

  I propped myself on an elbow so I could see him better. “Was it good?”

  “Not really. I could never figure out why she went to the trouble. The potatoes would have been just as good on the side. And it took like an hour to assemble. Lucy asked me a couple of weeks ago if I’d make it for her. I had to tell her that you can’t cook meatloaf in a microwave.”

  For a moment, we both listened to the dormitory’s nighttime silence. Until I broke it. “I’m sorry about your mom, Bridge.”

  He made a face. “She did it to herself.”

  “Maybe it’s not that simple. She made some mistakes, and then her body wouldn’t let her out from under them.”

  “I never even saw her try.”

  I didn’t argue, because it wasn’t my place. Instead, I dropped my head to his shoulder and massaged his sternum with my hand.

  “What do we owe them?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The parents who fuck up so badly. How much should we put up with as payment for being born?”

  God, wasn’t that the question of the hour? “I don’t know. But I think about it all the time.”

  “I bet you do.” Bridger’s hand skimmed down the hair at the back of my head, and I snuggled in tighter.

  “I feel guilty,” I admitted.

  “For what?”

  “It depends on the day of the week. I was so oblivious, just living my own life, you know? So I feel bad for the victims. But other times, I worry that there’s a zero-point-zero-zero-one percent chance that he didn’t do it. And yet I’ve tried and convicted him ahead of schedule. Basically, I just feel guilty all the time. It’s just that the focus shifts around.”

  “You’re a good person, Scarlet Crowley.”

  Even though I’d heard it many times by now, the name sounded strange to my ears. “You’re a good person, Bridger McCaulley.”

  “I’ll try to believe it if you’ll do the same.”

  “It’s a deal,” I told him.

  Chapter Seventeen: A Lot of Shifts at the Coffee Counter

  — Scarlet

  “Wow,” Bridger said. “That has to be him. He looks just like you.”

  I looked out of the coffee shop window to see my uncle striding toward the double glass doors. I hadn’t spent enough time with Brian to bother checking for a resemblance. But it was true. My uncle and I had the same indecisive eye color, and the same wave to our hair. “You’re right,” I said. “That’s him.”

  Bridger stood up. He’d dressed up in khakis and a button-down shirt today. But there was no hiding the exhaustion in his eyes.

  Brian pushed through the doors, his gaze immediately scoping laser-like onto me. In a few long strides he’d reached me, pulling me against his chest in a powerful embrace. “My God, you’re all grown up.” He laughed, but the sound was sad. “So tall.” He inhaled deeply and then stepped back, still holding my arms, and just staring at me.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, feeling suddenly shy.

  “Any time.”

  “This is Bridger,” I said as Brian released me.

  They shook hands, and Brian sat down.

  But I didn’t. “I’m going to get coffee for everyone. What do you drink?” I asked my uncle.

  He put a hand on my arm, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Coffee black, one sugar packet. Thank you, Sweetie.”

  By the time I got back, they were deep in discussion. And Bridger had begun to take notes on the pad in front of him.

  “You have a real shot at guardianship,” Uncle Brian said. “You’re old enough, with great prospects and no criminal record. If her teacher will stand up in the courtroom and tell the judge that you’ve done a great job this year, that will help, too.”

  Bridger wrote 3rd grade teacher on his notebook. “Mrs. Rose is great, and she’ll help us. But I just don’t see why a judge would approve me,” Bridger said.

  “You’re looking at it the wrong way,” Brian insisted. “They want to keep families together. It’s good common sense, and it saves the state money. It sounds like your biggest obstacle is housing.”

  “That’s where the dean comes in,” I put in. “He’ll help you figure out your options.”

  Bridger was still frowning. “Even if they help me find somewhere legal to live, it will cost money. Which I don’t have. A judge wants to see some income, no?”

  “The money isn’t as important as you think,” Brian said. “Lucy has her own income, right? Her social security benefit will cover a lot of expenses.”

  Bridger’s face was blank.

  “Your father has passed, correct? And Lucy is under eighteen. She’s entitled to his survivor’s benefit. And now your mother’s.”

  “But… my parents weren’t retired when they died,” Bridger said.

  Uncle Brian shook his head. “Makes no difference. If any working adult dies leaving a minor child, the child earns a benefit until she turns eighteen. Did you ever see any mail coming into your house from the Social Security Administration?”

  Bridger’s eyes went wide. “Yeah I did.”

  “That was Lucy’s check.”

  “Fuck. My mother probably spent it on…” Bridger let the sentence die, dropping his head into his hands.

  Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s your ticket to providing for her. The judge will already know that.”

  “But how did I not know that?” Bridger asked the tabletop.

  Because you don’t ask anyone for help. Somehow I managed to keep that sentiment to myself. But it wasn’t easy.

  “How much money are we talking about?” Bridger asked.

  “It depends on how many years your parents paid into Social Security. More than a thousand dollars a month, though.”

  My boyfriend’s eyes opened wide. “Damn. That’s a lot of shifts at the coffee counter.”

  “You’ll have to contact the Social Security Administration,” Brian said. “They need to know about your mother’s death.”

  Bridger picked up his pen. “I’ll add it to the list.”

  By the time Bridger’s notes reached the bottom of the page, Brian had him feeling cautiously optimistic. “If the college helped me with housing, I might not have to drop
out,” he said.

  “Dropping out should be your very last resort,” Brian said, his voice gentle. “Now, if you’d consider completing your degree before you petitioned for guardianship…”

  Bridger was shaking his head before Brian even got the words out. “I’m not waiting. I can’t look Lucy in the eye and tell her that I feel like finishing school before she gets out of there.”

  Brian was silent for a moment, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. “I know she’s important to you. But there’s a big difference between the job you could get right now, and the job you can get eighteen months from now. It’s not selfish to wait. Your sister would also benefit from a Harkness diploma on your wall.”

  Bridger rubbed his temples. “I get that. I do. But she benefits more by not being in the system for two years. I’m sure that there are good foster parents in the world. But you can’t tell me that there aren’t any creepers out there.”

  My uncle’s eyes pinched shut for a second, and I saw him take a deep breath. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  My uncle didn’t press Bridger about his choices after that, and I loved him for it. I could tell just from a couple of hours in his presence that he was probably a kick-ass social worker. There was a calm way about him, and a lack of judgment.

  Basically, he was the complete opposite of my father.

  “How soon do you think I can get a hearing?” Bridger asked.

  “I’m going to find that out for you while you meet with the dean,” Brian said. “You’ll need a lawyer, of course. The Harkness Law School probably has a pro bono program. I’ll try to find a phone number for it.”

  “God, could this ever work?” Bridger asked, his eyes flashing with emotion.

  Brian stood up. “I’ve stood in a lot of courtrooms with people who wanted custody of their kids, and I’d say you look like a better candidate than about ninety percent of them.”

  “But how many of them win?” Bridger grumbled.

  “Lots,” Brian answered. “Now I’m going to the courthouse to poke around and ask questions. You’re meeting the dean. And Scarlet is going to study for her exams.”