Sarah listened to all of this with the pragmatism of a child, in spite of her fear. She believed what Theresa said, that these people didn’t care about her, that they’d hit her, that she shouldn’t talk to Dennis when he was drunk.
The world was becoming more and more terrifying, more and more solitary.
Sarah looked down at her hands. “You said we’re foster-sisters. Does…does that mean you’re my friend, Theresa?”
It was humble and plaintive and it made Theresa’s breath hitch in her chest.
“Sure, Sarah.” She forced conviction into her voice. “We’re sisters, remember? Yeah?”
Sarah managed to smile. “Yeah.”
“Good girl. Now come on, it’s time for dinner.” Theresa’s face grew stern. “Don’t ever be late for dinner. It makes Dennis mad.”
Sarah was terrified of Dennis from the moment she laid eyes on him.
He was a simmering volcano, full of heat, ready to erupt. This was something that anyone who met him sensed.
He felt
(dangerous)
And
(mean)
He stared at Sarah as she and Theresa sat down.
“You Sarah?” he asked. His voice rumbled. The question crackled like a threat.
“Y-yes.”
He gazed at her for a long moment before turning his attention to Rebecca.
“Where’s Jesse?”
Rebecca shrugged. “I don’t know. He knows better, but he’s been getting pretty defiant.”
Sarah was still staring at Dennis, wide-eyed, so she saw the rage that passed over his face at this. It was a snarl of pure hate.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to have to do something about that.” His face closed up again. “Let’s eat.”
The meal was meat loaf. Sarah thought it was okay. Not as good as Mommy’s, but that kind of felt right, anyway. Dinner passed in silence, punctuated by the clink of silverware and the sounds of chewing. Dennis had a can of beer, and he took large gulps of it between bites of his meat loaf, putting it down and staring around the table. Sarah noticed that he spent a lot of time looking at Theresa, while Theresa was careful never to look at him.
Dennis was on his third beer by the time dinner was over.
“You girls clear the table and do the dishes,” Rebecca said. “Dennis and I are going to watch TV. When you’re done, you can go to your room.”
Theresa nodded and stood up and began gathering the dishes. Sarah helped. The silence continued. Rebecca smoked her cigarette and stared at Dennis with a mix of desperation and resignation, while Dennis simmered and stared at Theresa with an emotion Sarah couldn’t define.
Everything about this was alien to her. Dinner at home had always been full of conversation and stories, laughter and dogs. Daddy teased her, Mommy would watch and smile. Buster and Doreen would sit at attention, hoping beyond hope for table scraps that (almost) never came.
There, Sarah was special, and things were light and fun.
Here, things were heavy. Things were dangerous. She wasn’t special, not a bit.
She followed Theresa into the kitchen and over to the sink.
“I’ll rinse the dishes off,” Theresa said, “and you put them in the dishwasher. Do you know how to do that?”
Sarah nodded. “I used to help Mommy do it.”
Theresa smiled at her. She started the process, and they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Things almost seemed normal.
“Who’s Jesse?” Sarah asked.
“He’s the other one of us living here. A boy, sixteen.” Theresa shrugged. “He’s nice enough, but he’s started defying Dennis. I don’t think he’s going to be here much longer.”
Sarah placed a handful of forks into the cutlery basket. “Why?” she asked. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“He’s going to piss Dennis off, and Dennis is going to beat him up, and this time I think Jesse’s going to fight back. Even that bitch Karen Watson won’t be able to ignore that.”
Sarah took a plate that Rebecca handed her. “Is Ms. Watson mean?”
Theresa looked at her, surprised. “Mean? Rebecca and Dennis are bad, but Karen Watson? She’s pure evil.”
Sarah considered this concept. Pure evil.
They finished rinsing the dishes. Theresa put dish detergent into the dishwasher and turned it on. Sarah listened to the muffled “thunka-thunka” sounds coming from the dishwasher and was comforted by them. They sounded no different from the ones at home.
“Now we go to our room,” Theresa said. “Straight there. Dennis will be really drunk by now.”
Sarah sensed danger again. She was starting to understand that this was life here. You walked across a minefield of eggshells at night, while the enemy listened with bat ears for the sound of a single crack. The air in this home was heavy with tension and caution and (she sensed) real danger.
Sarah followed Theresa as they left the kitchen. She glanced toward the couch as they passed the living room. What she saw happening there made her blink in shock. Rebecca and Dennis were kissing—that was no big deal, she’d seen Mommy and Daddy kiss plenty of times—but Rebecca didn’t have her shirt on, and her boobies were showing!
Something twisted in Sarah’s belly at the sight. She knew, at some visceral level, that she wasn’t supposed to be seeing this kind of thing. Kissing was fine, boobies were fine (she was a girl, after all) but boobies mixed with kissing…her face burned and she felt queasy.
They entered the bedroom and Theresa closed the door, taking great care to make no noise.
(Eggshells and tension, eggshells and tension)
Sarah sat on her bed. She felt faint.
“Sorry you had to see that, Sarah,” Theresa muttered, angry. “They’re not supposed to do that where people can see them—especially kids.”
“I don’t like it here,” Sarah said in a small voice.
“Me neither, Sarah. Me neither.” Theresa fell silent. “I’m going to tell you something else. You won’t understand it now, but you will in the future. Don’t trust men. They only want one thing—what you saw on the couch. Some of them don’t care how old you are, either. Some of them like it better that way.”
There was a bitterness to Theresa’s voice as she spoke that made Sarah turn to her. The thirteen-year-old was crying, silent, angry tears that were meant to be felt but not heard.
Sarah jumped off her bed and went over to sit by Theresa. She put her small arms around the older girl and hugged her. She did this without thinking, as much a reflex as a plant turning toward the sun.
“Shhh…don’t cry, Theresa. It’ll be okay. Don’t cry.”
The older girl wept for a few more moments before wiping away her tears and forcing a shaky smile.
“Look at me, being a big old crybaby.”
“It’s okay,” Sarah said. “We’re sisters. Sisters can cry in front of each other, right?”
Theresa looked stricken, filled with a commingling of old wounds and old happiness. They ran together through her spirit, a muddy flood, few whites, many grays.
In later years, Sarah would remember this moment, convinced that it led Theresa to do the things she did.
“Yeah,” Theresa replied, her voice shaky. “We’re sisters.” She grabbed Sarah and hugged her. Sarah closed her eyes and hugged back and inhaled. She thought Theresa smelled like flowers in summer.
For a moment—just a moment—Sarah felt safe.
“So,” Theresa said, breaking the hug with a smile, “do you want to play a game? All we have is Go Fish.”
“I like Go Fish.”
They grinned at each other and sat on the bed and played, ignoring the grunts and moans from other parts of the house, safe on their island in a sea of eggshells.
27
THERESA AND SARAH HAD PLAYED FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF, and then had talked for another two. The room was a like a sanctuary from the truths that had brought them here. Theresa had talked about her mother, and had shown Sarah a single p
icture.
“She’s beautiful,” Sarah had said, awed.
It was true. The woman in the photograph was in her mid-twenties, a mix of Latin and something else that came together to produce laughing eyes, exotic features, and a mane of chestnut hair.
Theresa had glanced at the photo one more time before putting it back under her mattress with a smile.
“Yeah, she was. She was really funny too, you know? Always laughing about something.” The smile had disappeared. Theresa’s face had grown colder, her eyes more distant. “She got raped—sorry, she got killed by some stranger. A man that liked to hurt women.”
“My mommy got killed by a bad man too.”
“Really?”
The six-year-old had nodded, somber. “Yes. But no one believes me.”
“Why?”
Sarah had related the story of The Stranger. Of what he’d made her parents do. When she’d finished, Theresa hadn’t said anything for a moment or two.
“That’s some story,” she’d finally replied.
Sarah had looked up at her new sister, hopeful. “You believe me?”
“Of course I do.”
The love that Sarah had felt for Theresa at that moment had been fierce.
She’d wonder, years later, if Theresa really had believed her. She’d wonder and shrug it off. The truth was unimportant. Theresa had given her a feeling of safety and hope when she needed it most. Sarah loved her for it forever.
Rebecca had knocked on their door just before ten o’clock.
“Time for bed,” she’d said.
Now they lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.
Sarah was allowing herself to feel some relief. Things had been bad. So bad. And most things still were. She knew that this wasn’t a good place to stay. She didn’t know what her future held. But she wasn’t alone anymore, and that, well, that was everything right now.
“Theresa?” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re my foster-sister.”
A pause.
“Me too, Sarah. Now go to sleep.”
Sarah was sleeping her first dreamless sleep in many days when the sounds woke her up.
A man was there, covered in shadows, crouched over Theresa’s bed.
The Stranger!
She began to whimper.
The sounds stopped. A thick stillness hovered in the air.
“Who’s that? Sarah? You awake?”
She realized the voice belonged to Dennis. Terror became puzzlement, followed by a creeping unease.
Why is he here?
“Answer me, girl,” he hissed. “You awake?”
His voice sounded so mean. She whimpered again and nodded.
He can’t see you, silly!
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
Silence. She could hear Dennis breathing.
“Go back to sleep. Or keep quiet. Whichever.”
“It’s okay, Sarah,” Theresa said, her voice faint in the darkness. “Just close your eyes and cover your ears.”
Sarah closed her eyes and pulled the covers up over her head, trembling. She kept her ears uncovered, listening hard.
“Go on, put it in your mouth,” she heard Dennis whisper.
“I—I don’t want to. Please, Dennis, just leave me alone.” Theresa’s voice was filled with misery.
A quick sound, followed by a gasp from Theresa that made Sarah shiver.
“Put it in your mouth, or I’ll put it somewhere else. Somewhere that’ll hurt. You understand?”
The silence that followed seemed unending. Then, wet noises.
“That’s it. Good girl.” Sarah didn’t know what his “good girl” really meant, but she knew it was something bad.
(Very bad)
That was what she felt in this room right now, the presence of something very, very bad. Something ugly. Something that made her feel dirty and ashamed without knowing why.
The noises changed, got faster, and then they stopped and Dennis groaned, a heavy, horrible groan that made Sarah tremble.
Another long silence. The sounds of motion, moving sheets. The floor creaked. Footsteps. She heard them coming near her bed.
(Monsters)
They stopped and she knew Dennis was there. Standing over her. She tried not to move, not to breathe. Tried to
(Be nothing)
She could smell him. Smoke and alcohol, mixed with a musky sweat, all of which made her want to scream and gag at the same time.
“You’re pretty, Sarah,” he whispered. “You’re going to grow up to be a nice-looking young lady. Maybe I’ll come pay you a visit in a couple of years.”
(Be nothing Be nothing Be nothing)
Sarah was so terrified that she began to get nauseous.
She felt him move away. Heard his footsteps padding toward the door and out the room.
They were alone now. Sarah could hear her own heartbeat, fast like a hummingbird, loud like a drum.
This died down enough for her to become aware of Theresa crying. It was a faint, deep sound.
Talk to her, dummy.
I’m scared. I don’t want to come out from under the covers. Please don’t make me, I’m only six, I don’t want to do this anymore no more—
Shut up! She’s your SISTER, you big fraidy-cat!
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut tight one last time before opening them. She took a deep breath and mustered all the courage her child heart could deliver. She pulled down the covers.
“Theresa?” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
Sniffling sounds.
“I’m fine, Sarah. Go to sleep.”
She didn’t sound fine, not at all.
“Do you want me to come hug you and sleep with you?”
A pause.
“Don’t come over here. Not in…this bed. I’ll come there.”
Sarah watched Theresa’s shadow rise and move toward her. The bedsprings squeaked as the older girl climbed into bed with her.
Sarah reached out with her hands. They met Theresa’s shoulders and she realized that the older girl was sobbing, face pressed against the pillow to mask the sound.
Sarah pulled on Theresa’s shoulders with her small hands, urging the older girl toward her.
“Shhh…it’s okay, Theresa. It’s okay.”
Theresa came into the small girl’s arms without resistance. Her head found Sarah’s chest and she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Sarah hugged Theresa’s neck and petted her hair and cried a little herself.
What happened? A few hours ago we were playing Go Fish and felt happy, then Dennis comes and does these bad bad bad bad bad things.
A new fear thrilled through Sarah.
Maybe this is how everything’s going to be now!
She set her mouth and shook her head.
No. God wouldn’t let life be like that.
She thought these things as Theresa wept. The sobs turned into quieter tears, which turned into sniffles, which turned into nothing. Theresa kept her head on Sarah’s chest. Sarah kept stroking her hair. Mommy used to do that for her when she was upset, and it always helped.
Maybe all mommies do that. Maybe Theresa’s mommy did it too.
“Men are bad, Sarah,” Theresa whispered, breaking the silence.
“My daddy wasn’t,” Sarah replied, regretting the words as they came out of her mouth.
She was only six, but she knew that Theresa wasn’t really talking about men like Sarah’s daddy. She was talking about men like Dennis. Although he was the first such man Sarah had ever met, she knew that Theresa was one hundred percent right about him.
All Theresa said was “I know,” and she didn’t sound mad.
“Theresa?”
“Yeah?”
“What did he mean when he said he’d come visit me in a few years?”
Another long silence, this one filled with things Sarah couldn’t identify at all.
“Don’t you worry about that, little girl,” Theresa said. The tend
erness in her voice brought an unexpected prickle of tears to Sarah’s eyes. The older girl’s hand came up to her cheek and touched it, once. “I won’t let him get you. Not ever.”
Sarah fell asleep believing this.
28
“WHAT COLOR, HONEY?”
It was Sunday and Sarah was with her mother in her studio. She liked to do this sometimes, just sit down and watch Mommy paint or sculpt, or whatever. Her mother looked most beautiful when she was being an artist.
This painting was a landscape. Mountains in the background, preceded by a large open meadow dotted with lushly leafed trees. The colors were vibrant and unreal: a purplish sky, butter-yellow grass, the sun an impossible orange. Sarah thought it was amazing. Her mother was asking her what color she thought the leaves on the trees should be.
Sarah frowned. She didn’t have words to explain why she liked the painting. Mommy had told her in the past that that was okay, that what you felt was more important than what you thought. What she felt about this painting was “pretty” and “joyful.”
“The real colors, Mommy. But shinier.”
Sarah didn’t have the vocabulary, but Linda knew her meaning was exact. Sarah was seeing something in her mind and trying to describe it. It was up to Linda to figure out what.
“Shinier…you mean brighter? Like a lightbulb gives more light or less light?”
Sarah nodded.
“Okay, honey.”
Linda began mixing oranges and reds, bemused.
Maybe she’s got some artist in her.
Sarah was saying that the leaves should be the correct colors of autumn leaves, but brighter, in fitting with the rest of the painting.
She glanced at her daughter.
“Do you like this painting, babe?”
“I love it, Mommy. It makes me want to go and play and jump and stuff.”
Mission accomplished, Linda thought, happy and satisfied.
She turned back to the painting and began coloring the leaves, over-bright.
Sarah watched her mother. She was aware of a deep feeling of happiness. She was a child, she lived in the now, and the now was very, very good.
Her mother stopped painting and went rigid. Her back was to Sarah. She stood there, unmoving, frozen in place.
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