“I’ve had other jobs here. I was a greeter for several years. Before that I potted seedlings in the facility’s greenhouse. I’ve done plenty of shifts in the laundry, and when I first got here I wrapped napkins around sporks in the kitchen. I still do mess duty, just like everyone else here.”
“Okay, great.” I set the camera down and pick up my notebook. It’s a little strange to sit across from Mom. Even stranger to tell her, “Begin whenever you’re ready. It’s your story.”
There is a stretch of silence. I don’t breathe. My pencil is ready. I feel Mom switch tone, but she speaks to me.
“Well, you know what I’m in for,” she says.
“I know what you’ve told me. You’re in Blue River for two reasons. Because you told lies, and because your actions contributed to a death. I know you got manslaughter. Same as Big Ed,” I say.
“And you know what it means,” Mom says.
“Yeah. You didn’t mean to kill, but you made a mistake that caused someone’s death.”
“Yep. I sure did.”
“Who was it, Mom?”
“My father,” she says.
I feel my eyebrow hitch upward. My fingers are weak around the pencil now. Her father would be my grandfather. I have never heard this before. I lean forward. Mom looks past me—but just to the back of my chair, not way off like Big Ed did.
“I grew up in a household that didn’t have a lot of warmth,” she says. Her mouth twists just a little. “Not that I ever wished either of my parents dead. I just wished they would love me—or love me differently than they did. I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t plan me. I happen to know that an unexpected baby can be an incomparable joy.”
I smile, but I keep my pencil moving, scratching down key words.
“But at my house it was just the three of us, and it’s weird, but I felt more managed than loved. For a long, long time, I did my best at all the things that seemed to matter to them. I got good grades—great grades, actually—and good thing, because there was no room for flubbing up under that roof.” She rolls her eyes. “You’d get no love for that. I worked hard at school, and I competed hard on the swim team. I had to win so I wouldn’t have to see them turn their backs on me at the end of a race. By the time I graduated high school, I had won a nice college scholarship, and I think we were all looking forward to having me out of their house.” Mom smiles just a little. “They had a rule, actually: out at eighteen.
“So one summer night we sat down to talk over some of my plans for the fall. I had changed those plans somewhat, and I was feeling assertive because it was my life and my scholarship. That didn’t go over well. There was shouting and drinking—my father kept pouring one after the other. They were getting harder to talk to. Angry and exasperated. I was probably being a snot—I don’t know.” Mom sighs. “But things got very ugly. Finally I’d had enough of the shouting, so I picked up to leave. And that’s when my father gasped and clutched his chest. I’ll never forget it. He looked at my mother and said, ‘Oh my god, Vivian, I’m in so much pain, I think I’m going to die.’
“We had to get him to the hospital. I was the one standing there with the keys in my hand. We got my father into the backseat. Mother got in with him, and we took off.”
I set the pencil down and wiggle my fingers. I pick up the camera. Watch Mom through the window.
“Everyone thinks driving will be easy out on the straightaways. We sped along. My father had gone silent, but my mother kept calling into the front of the car—hollering—that we weren’t going fast enough. Bad weather moved in—a good old Nebraska hailstorm. I couldn’t see.” Mom shakes her head. “My God, I was trying so hard to help.” She lowers her eyes and bites her lip. “I made an awful mistake at an intersection, and that was it.” Her voice climbs up. “We crashed.”
The camera is off. I look at Mom, at her arms and legs and her head where she is tucking her fingers into her hair. I almost ask her, was she hurt all those years ago? But she squints and picks up her story again.
“The rest is kind of a messed-up blur, Perry. Flashing lights and stopped trucks, and feet slipping over hailstones and crushing them. I could see my parents in the backseat—neither one conscious.” Mom’s eyes water up. “I tried to open the back car doors, but they were crumpled in. I couldn’t budge them. Couldn’t get into that bloody nest of a backseat.” Mom wipes her eyes with her fingertips.
“I remember that the police were kind. I sheltered in a blanket at the scene for what seemed like forever. A tow truck came . . .” Mom shakes her head like she is trying to recall. “The police put me in a cruiser. We followed the ambulance with both my parents inside to the hospital. While the nurses looked me over for injuries, I kept asking about my parents.” Mom waits a beat. “Finally, I learned that my father had died. My mother had a head injury—something that was taking a lot of stitches. I asked to see her, but the nurse just ducked her chin and told me my mother was unavailable. A sad truth,” Mom says. She clears her throat.
“When the police asked, I told them yes, I was driving. Then they said there was an obvious odor of alcohol at the scene.” Mom shakes her head. She stares off for a few seconds. “The next hours were exhausting and confusing. The questions and the . . . pressure. I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I’d dropped into somebody else’s nightmare. They asked again and I told them again, I was driving. And finally, I told them that I had been drinking too. And then the next thing I know, I’m being arrested. My God, I was scared. I kept asking for my mother. I was told she would not come. At some point I realized that was her choice.
“I was alone and terrified. Bad advice was everywhere, but I didn’t know enough to see that. Eventually, I pled guilty to the drunk driving charge. But then, because my father had died in the accident, there was the manslaughter charge too.” Mom cocks her head. “Didn’t see that coming. But I had done what I had done, and I had confessed. And a confession is . . .”
“A conviction.” We say it together, though my own lips feel numb.
Mom is quiet, and I pick up the camera again. “Oddly,” she says, “I don’t consider that my Blue River story. That part would be about earning a degree in social work from the inside and my work here. But I think the part you wanted to know is what got me in, and I don’t blame you. Being incarcerated is not something I would have chosen. But I found a new beginning here. I found out that life still goes forward even when you’re inside.”
I think Mom is finished, but then she adds something. “I thought my sentencing was ferocious—I felt I’d been made an example of. But I still had no real regrets about the confession—not until I found out about you, Perry. When I realized that I had compromised two people’s futures . . . well . . . you bet I was sorry. I had a new biggest fear in the world, and that was being separated from you. We made it a lot of years before that happened,” Mom says. She looks up at me and nods. “Coming here was a patch of good inside a blurry patch of bad.”
chapter forty-four
JESSICA
Jessica Cook felt worn out on Saturday evening. She’d been determined to tell her boy an honest version of her story—but only one that both of them could afford. Every word had felt like a step onto a fragile stick above a tiger pit. Perry was earnest and trusting—open to believing the story. He’d been intensely focused with his little camera and his pencil. Afterward, he was respectful and loving, circling her with a hug that had gone deliciously long.
Perry was also smart. Jessica knew that her omissions were risky. She sighed as the microwave in the Block C kitchenette hummed and her bowl of broccoli went round and round. If he sensed gaps in her story, he could start filling them in with his own inventions . . .
Oh. Dear. She’d been so careful and now here came a flood of misgivings.
Well, if he has questions, he can ask them, she thought. She consoled herself as she pulled the steamy green florets out of the oven. She determined to swallow all her second thoughts along with them. The bro
ccoli was a gift from one Robyn Samuels, who had blushed when she’d handed it over like a bouquet of flowers. “I was told this would be a big hit,” she had said.
The woman had dancing eyes, a broad smile, and intriguing speckles of pale paint on her hands and forearms. How confounding that she had that arrogant thorn Thomas VanLeer for a husband!
Robyn Samuels had something else: respect. Not the kind some visitors to Blue River put on like a costume when they walked through the doors. Jessica had well-honed radar when it came to knowing who was genuine. She had glimpsed the mother and daughter from across the common while she and Perry were decompressing from her telling. Robyn and Zoey had alternately read their own books and chatted with various residents. There had been an origami lesson with the little Rojas girls, and Gina had come through with her rattail comb (and alcohol wipes) to weave new hair braids all around.
Jessica remembered something that Perry had said after his first week living away from Blue River—something about Zoey’s mom being on his side. Today seemed proof enough of that. The way Perry told it, he would not have made it to Blue River with his camera and his pencil had she not stepped up. Yes. Robyn Samuels had warmth and compassion.
Now if only Jessica could get past the fact that Robyn also had Perry.
chapter forty-five
OVERHEARD
I’m looking at my notes from Mom’s interview. I’m turning all my jottings into sentences and paragraphs. Every so often, I play a video from my camera. Zoey is right beside me at the long desk in the VanLeer family room. She’s doing math problems.
Mr. VanLeer goes in and out the door from the kitchen to the grill. Each little gust of chilly October air brings with it something that smells good. Mrs. Samuels comes in from the garage. I hear water running and know that she’s cleaning her paintbrushes at the kitchen sink. They either don’t know or they’ve forgotten that Zoey and I are right around the corner from the kitchen.
“There you are,” he says to her when he comes in again. “How’s the paint project coming?”
“Great!” she sings. “Sorry to leave you to do all of dinner tonight. I really wanted to get that second coat on. It always takes longer than I think it will.”
“Hmm . . . slow paint, slow food,” he says.
“Yes, both so artful!” They laugh. Then they kiss. I can hear it. Zoey is multiplying decimals. She doesn’t pay much attention to their kisses anyway.
“I don’t know what it is about little round dining tables,” Zoey’s mom says. “It’s not like we need another one here. But I couldn’t resist bringing this ugly duckling in for a facelift. I’ll find a good home for it.”
“Absolutely. Somebody’s going to love that table . . .”
Both voices trail off. The door bangs and all is quiet. They must be out at the grill together.
I look down at my notebook and rest my cheeks on my hands. The problem I am having with the Blue River Stories is that I want the stories to come from the residents—like they are speaking. But then I start writing down what they told me and everything slips out of their voices. Then I watch a slice of video and I begin to transcribe it and I hear the person loud and clear again. I work this around in my head. Then I think again about how perfect my project would be as a documentary.
“Ack!” I say.
Zoey snickers. I sit back and shake my head like maybe I can wake up my brain cells. Then I pull out a new sheet of notebook paper to try again.
So, what about quotes? I think to myself. I decide to give it a try. The back door opens again.
“Robyn, he would’ve survived without one Saturday visit.” Thomas VanLeer is insistent—and wrong. I let my next breath fill my chest slowly. Zoey hums a low growl but doesn’t look up from her equation.
“Survived, yes,” Zoey’s mom says. “But listen to yourself, Tom. Isn’t the idea here for him to do a whole lot more than survive? How about we help him thrive?” There was a little jar banging then and even some quiet cussing.
Zoey looks at me and whispers, “Ooooh . . .”
I whisper back, “Everything was fine until . . .” I point to my own chest with my finger. Zoey shrugs.
“He is thriving, Robyn.” Mr. VanLeer’s voice is low in his throat—harder to hear. I catch something about the two trips a week in the bookmobile. Then he says it again. “He didn’t need to go—”
“Yes! Yes he did—and he does!” Zoey’s mom is loud and clear. I imagine her with one finger raised in the air between them. “I saw a different boy at Blue River. He was whole. I’m glad I took him, Tom. I’ll take him again.”
“Then you’re reneging on the particulars of our foster care plan,” he says.
“I call it taking a boy to see his mother.”
“I call it you supporting the nonconforming policies of that warden who kept the boy locked up there his whole life.”
“Oh, Tom! That’s a stretch! He was not locked up. Look, we disagree about that, and you’ll have to do what you think is right on that point. That’s your job,” she says flatly. “But—and I’m sure we’ll disagree on this too—I have decided something else.” She pauses. “I want to get to know his mother.”
“Robyn, seriously?”
“Yes,” she tells him. “Don’t get in my way.” She calls down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Zoey! Perry! Supper is on.”
chapter forty-six
MISS SASHONNA’S STORY
On Saturday, we pull chairs together in our corner of the Blue River Common. No one has to make Mr. VanLeer play cards today. He has brought his own distraction—a fat folder full of papers. He’s been dragging that to the VanLeer dinner table all week long. I’m glad when he sits down by himself to work in the common.
Miss Sashonna asked Mom to be her support person today. Miss Gina has helped her put on eye makeup. She looks at my camera and points. “You ready, Perry?” I try to keep the camera still while I nod yes. “Is that thing on?” I nod again. “You ready?”
“Yes!” I finally have to say it.
“Yeah, okay. I’m Sashonna Lee Lewis.” She starts off sounding like Desiree Riggs, her voice all buttercream. She taps her long skinny fingers on her chest. “I got put in here about six months ago. I got a long time to go. I don’t even want to talk about that.” She slips out of the Desiree voice quickly.
“So, I got put in here because of something I did for a stupid man—and it’s not fair, what happened. Anyways, he was stupid, but I loved him. I was always doing what he wanted. And what he wanted to do was, he wanted to rob a bank. Just a little one. Because he owed a guy some money. I told Chaunce—that’s his name—that his plan had a serious flaw in it.” Sashonna’s finger wags in the air. “Like, if he wants me to drive the getaway car then he better teach me how first. So, he took me to a big parking lot just before we went to the bank.” She pretends she’s holding on to a steering wheel. She sways. “There I am driving! I’m all, what’s the big deal? This is easy! I got this!
“Chaunce wants to make sure I can drive real fast. I’m all, ‘I know where the gas pedal is! I’m no chicken! I punch my foot on that”—she stops to laugh—“and Chaunce’s head goes slamming back in his seat and he’s screaming like a little sister!” Sashonna cackles.
“Chaunce had me wait outside the bank, and he says, ‘Keep it running and make sure you keep all the windows open, baby! Got it? Open.’ He gives me a big kiss before he goes into the bank. It’s winter, so I’m sitting there like a Popsicle, poking at the radio, fiddling with the steering wheel. Getting in some pretend driving practice.” She wiggles back and forth. “I am ready to do my job. Then I look up at the little mirror and see some car coming up behind me. Closer, and closer . . . and holy crow! It’s the Po-Po!” She claps her hands on her cheeks.
“They slide right into the space behind me and then—they sit there! So now I don’t know if those police are onto what Chaunce is doing. But I do know, I gotta call this whole thing off! Chaunce can’t rob that bank—not whi
le the police are sitting right outside. So I think I can stop it if I just roll up those windows. So I do. Then I crank the wheel, pull the car out onto the street real careful. Then Chaunce comes running out of the bank—and it’s like he’s got a bear up his backside. He throws that duffel and it smacks into the window. Falls on the sidewalk. He grabs it up again—swearing—banging on the window. ‘Open! Open it! Go, go, go!’ So I’m pushing buttons and yanking that wheel trying to do everything Chaunce wants me to do. I get the window open and I think I’m doing good! So I push the gas pedal.
“Then the Po-Po puts on the blue-light special.” Sashonna whirls her fist and rolls her eyes. “So now I’m scared! We’re in trouble. I gotta get us out of there. So I hit the gas—real hard. Only thing is, I don’t have Chaunce! So here he comes running alongside the car. He gets that duffel in the window—finally. So that’s good and I punch the gas again.
“I know I should slow down. But the police put on the sirens, and I’m scared. So I put my foot right to the floor. Zoom! That’s when Chaunce tries to pitch himself in through the back window. But he only gets the top of him in. His legs don’t make it. I can’t look back there because—hello-o-o—I’m busy driving. Somehow he gets dragged back out of the car again. I’m still trying to go, go, go, and I feel the rear end of the car go over some bump. Well guess what? That bump was Chaunce.
“I keep going down the street before I look and see him in the back mirror. He’s hurt. Twisting in the road, gripping his legs. I slam on the brakes because that’s not what you want to see when you love some guy—even a stupid one. Next thing I know a security guard from that little bank runs up and sticks a knife in the tire. Man! So now I am afraid to try to drive a car with a flat, and I didn’t learn about going backward in my one driving lesson. I try anyway. Fwump-fwump-fwump—BAM!” Sashonna bangs her hands together. “I go smack into some flower truck that must have come up behind me. Now I’m a mess. All I want is to be with Chaunce—ask him what to do. So I get out of the car and run back to him where he’s lying in the road.”
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook Page 14
