“Why do you keep it this way?”
She interlocks her fingers—her eyes watery, face tired—but doesn’t step a foot in the room with me in it.
“Would you want someone to forget about you?”
Guess that makes sense. I look around at Alyssa’s memorial, a frozen day in time, and inhale deep.
“It still smells like her.”
Mrs. Richardson’s face sort of crumbles. Her bottom lip twitches and she stutters out of the room. I follow, closing the door behind me.
The living room is dry, the cushion seats sunken in. I wait, letting her have her moment in the kitchen, gasping for air between her sobs. Glasses clatter, cabinets slam. It’s not like the way she cried when she got to our house that night. She let out the longest scream ever, mouth frozen open with a sob that even made some of the police officers in the room tear up. I’ll never forget her scream.
She returns with two glasses of iced tea. Hers looking much lighter in color than mine. I glance at the mat by the door. His shoes aren’t there.
“Where’s Mr. Richardson?”
She passes me a glass and chuckles.
“He’s long gone.”
“’Cause of Alyssa?”
“No, ’cause of you,” she says with a snort.
I don’t understand. What did I do to him?
“We . . . had a difference of opinion when it came to you,” she says. “He never forgave me for agreeing with the plea bargain. He thought you should have gone to jail for life.”
“You didn’t think so?”
She shakes the ice around the glass a little and takes a sip.
“Oh, trust me, I had a lot of dark thoughts about you. I wanted you dead.”
She is staring at me so hard, so angry. She’d kill me right now if she had the chance. Maybe I made a mistake coming here. I hold the iced tea with both hands.
“But,” she says with a sigh. “It all just didn’t make any sense. I didn’t want another child to lose her life.”
She knocks back her drink like it’s water.
“Then, they wouldn’t file charges against your mother, and that really put him over the edge. ‘She was supposed to be taking care of my little girl!’ he screamed at the DA. After that, he wouldn’t look at me anymore. He blamed me for leaving Alyssa with you and your momma. He never said it, but he did.”
I can’t believe Mr. Richardson left her. They were so perfect together. I thought he loved her. He didn’t treat her anything like the way Ray treated Momma. And he was a good daddy.
“Your mother came by here once after . . . it happened. Unannounced as usual. Walked in here like it was nothing. Even brought a shepherd’s pie, talking nonstop about the lines at the grocery store. We’d just buried Alyssa not even a week before. Guess I was so in shock when I saw her . . . I lost my wits. She went into the kitchen like she used to and I just stood there, couldn’t move. Then Greg came home . . . he was so mad.”
My bladder is about to explode. Can’t drink another drop of this tea.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Go ahead. You know where it is.”
I head down the hall, passing her bedroom. An unmade bed with a single sheet dangling over the side, newspapers scattered on the floor, empty glasses and bottles of vodka on the side table. It doesn’t seem like one woman lives here, but ten homeless women instead.
Black mold lines the tiles around the bathtub. I finish my business and wash my hands, drying them on bleach-stained hand towels. On the cabinet by the toilet are a bunch of pill bottles with long-name prescriptions. One I recognize because Momma used to take the same. But whatever those pills are supposed to be doing, don’t seem like they working.
Back in the living room, Mrs. Richardson is standing by the tree, blowing smoke out the window. She looks so much older now, eyes far-gone like Momma’s, foot tapping like New Girl’s used to. She turns and stares down at my stomach for a long time, not saying nothing. I put my arms over it, protecting Bean.
“It’s a boy,” I say, noticing my own nervousness.
She grins and pulls out another cigarette.
“I told you it would be.”
She tosses the pack on the coffee table by her new drink that she didn’t bother mixing with iced tea this time. She offers me a cigarette and I shake my head.
“What happened to you?” she asks.
I touch my cast and shrug.
“Had an accident.”
She raises an eyebrow, laughs, then kicks one of the yellowing gifts by the tree.
“This was for you. I bought you some books by Judy Blume. Remember I told you about her?”
“Fudge?”
“Right. Those Mary Higgins Clark novels were just a little too grown and dark for your age.”
One of the old ladies Momma used to clean for gave her a shoe box of old books for Christmas. Momma was so mad (“Old bitch couldn’t give me a real tip!”) but I loved them.
On the bookshelf next to the tree, there are three framed pictures of Alyssa. She looks so tiny in them. I remember her being so much bigger, heavier in my arms.
I didn’t mean to throw her . . .
“You know, that’s my greatest regret. Not taking enough pictures.” She sips her drink, desperately. “Should’ve taken more pictures.”
She falls back into her chair, rotating a lighter around her fingers.
“I just miss her . . . so much,” she says, her voice cracking. “I only had her for a second and I miss her so much. How do you miss someone you barely knew?”
She doesn’t sob. She doesn’t cry. Maybe she’s like me. Maybe she’s all cried out.
Below the pictures of Alyssa is a long row of black books with gold writing down the seams. Her encyclopedias always seemed so expensive and regal; I remember being afraid to touch them. They had the same ones in baby jail, except they were worn down, beaten, pages ripped and whole books missing. But I would read them, over and over, hearing Mrs. Richardson’s voice. Whenever I didn’t know something, Mrs. Richardson would make me look it up and read it out loud. “Do you know where diamonds come from Mary?” I’d shake my head and she’d smile. “Well, look it up. Tell me about them.”
My knee is starting to throb. I also can’t breathe right, and the smoke isn’t helping. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed myself so soon.
“Why didn’t you have more children?” I ask, sitting back down.
She sighs and takes another sip.
“Greg never thought he’d be a good father. He sorta did it ’cause he knew how badly I wanted a baby. Then Alyssa was born and boy . . . I’ve never seen a man fall in love so fast. He talked about having more children right away. He wanted two boys and another girl. That’s why he . . . wanted to go out that night. Wanted to get me alone, get me relaxed, so he could get me pregnant again.”
She laughs.
“Men are so stupid,” she hiccups. “Think a little liquor and the sperm will go straight to the source of life.”
I just stare, because I don’t really know what she is talking about.
“You know, I never told the police this, but that night, I knew something was wrong. I felt it. I kept telling Greg I wanted to check on Alyssa. He kept telling me to stop worrying.”
She looks at the door to Alyssa’s room, as if she was about to walk right out. When she doesn’t, I exhale.
“After . . . it happened . . . Greg was just a different person. He couldn’t handle it. Who really could?”
No one could, it seems. No one could handle a dead baby. Not Mr. Richardson, the mob outside the courthouse, Mr. Jerk Face, the COs, the social workers, Ms. Stein, Momma, her, or me. I swallow and finally identify the stale smell, reeking and suffocating the apartment. It is six years’ worth of pain, soaked in gasoline, set on fire. The smoke is smothering, which makes asking her for this one favor that much harder.
“Mrs. Richardson . . . I’m sorry. For everything that has happened.”
She nods her hea
d. “I know you are.”
“And I know . . . I don’t have the right to ask you this . . . but . . . can you adopt my baby?”
Mrs. Richardson’s foot stops tapping. She just stares, her face turning dark. I don’t know what to think, so I just keep going.
“They are gonna take my baby away. But if they do, I’d rather you take him than anyone else. I’d rather him be in a good home. With a good mother, like you. You’re a good mother.”
She huffs. If she squeezes her drink any tighter the glass will shatter.
“I’m nobody’s mother anymore, Mary.”
I shift in my chair.
“I’ll be free . . . I think . . . by the time I’m eighteen,” I push on. “And then I’ll come back for him. I promise. He won’t be any trouble. He’ll be a good baby.”
Mrs. Richardson sighs and looks out the window, the sun setting.
“You know the other thing that happened when your mother came to visit. She talked about you. Went on and on about her baby girl. How she was going to put you in dance classes when you get out of the ‘hospital.’ Beauty pageants or something. Went on and on then says, ‘It’s so much work having a girl.’ Alyssa wasn’t even dead three weeks yet.”
That sounds just like Momma, foot all in her mouth.
“Please,” I whisper. “You’re my last hope.”
“I’m a mess, Mary. Just a mess—”
“But you can get better. I know you can. You can teach him all kinds of stuff so he’ll be real smart. Please.”
She sighs and doesn’t meet my eye.
“Mary . . . I can’t. And I’m not even sorry that I can’t.”
chapter seventeen
“The prosecution is bringing up new evidence, which could, in layman’s terms, be a problem.”
Ms. Cora walks in, closes the door, and sits on New Girl’s bed, very serious-like. She even has a suit on today.
“I need you to tell me what happened with your brother,” she says slowly.
All the air leaves me in one quick second.
No, Momma, you wouldn’t . . .
“Why do they need to know about Junior?”
She scratches her eyebrow, then takes off her raincoat, pulling some files and a notebook out of her briefcase.
“Because . . . your mother is claiming that you might have had something to do with Junior’s death too.”
I stare at her, wishing it all away as my eye starts twitching. There is a buzzing in my ear, like a fly. Herbert? No, he’s dead. Just like Alyssa.
“I know, I know,” she sighs, rolling her eyes like the whole thing is foolish, a waste of time. “But the circumstances surrounding your brother’s death are . . . very, very similar to Alyssa so we need to have our story straight. We’re trying to win the war, not these silly battles.”
“Junior died in his sleep,” I say, my voice cold. Her face tenses up.
“Your mother . . . she doesn’t believe that’s the case. She says she left him alone with you when he died. They are considering opening up an investigation. You were too young when it happened to be tried as an adult, but if they find probable cause, they can arrest you. You could face another ten years. Plus, the DA could use this as evidence . . . when it comes to Alyssa.”
For the first time I feel like New Girl and I really could kill Momma for this.
“I didn’t kill Junior. He died in his sleep. I found him. That’s all.”
She pauses and there it is. Doubt. It sweeps across her face quick like the shadow of a moving car. She nods and writes in her notebook, not meeting my eyes.
“Was your mother there at all?”
“I was home alone.”
She blows out air and continues writing.
“Do you think Ray or maybe some of his friends or family would have any—”
I give her a look that shuts her up.
Ray is dead. I know how, I just don’t feel like saying. I don’t feel like talking about it. We didn’t go to his funeral. His real wife wouldn’t let us. He had a son, a little older than me.
His name was Junior too.
From the February 13th Deposition of Carmen Vaquero—Ramon Vaquero’s Widow
I tell you, I know for true. That crazy bitch killed my husband.
My Ramon, he couldn’t just be with one woman. I know for true. Men are never satisfied with just one. But no matter what he did with those other women, he loved me the best. We been together forever, since we were fifteen. My Ramon was a good father and took care of his family. So, why chase him? I let him do what he wants, ’cause he always gonna come home to me.
Then he meet this woman, she was crazy. He told me about her. That she would sing all kinds of crazy stuff in the living room, all kinds of things. I told him, stay away from that puta, she crazy, she’ll put something in your soup! He say, mi amor, relaaaaaxxxx. I have her under control.
One day she come to my door, looking for my Ramon. Had a little girl with her. She was yelling and screaming that he beat her. I say, Ramon! No way, he would never hit a woman. And Ramon told me she used to hit herself when she sang those crazy songs. She crazy, I know for true.
Then she said he tried to sleep with her little girl. I punched that puta right in the eye. My Ramon would never do something like that. Ever! Qué asco! Her little girl don’t say nothing. Just look at the ground the whole time.
When my Ramon didn’t come home for seven days, I knew something was wrong. I called and she said he was dead. I say, how? How no one call me? I go to hospital, they say he die of stroke. I say, stroke! No way. He was healthy as a horse. Then they cremate him. I say why? He didn’t want that. He wanted to go back home to Santa Domingo to be buried next to his mami. I tell you why, ’cause that crazy puta kill my husband, I know for true. And you wait all this time to talk to me now. Ha! I could have told you years ago about that crazy puta and that little baby would still be alive today.
Ms. Reba knocks on the door and pokes her head in.
“Umm . . . Mary? Your mother is here to see you.”
I limp into the visitors’ room, thinking Ms. Reba was lying. No way she’d be here, she ain’t have the nerve. But there she is. My momma. Or whoever she is, sitting in a dark purple church suit. No hat this time.
“Baby! How you doing?”
Bitch is nuts.
“So NOW you want to see me?”
“Of course, baby girl! You know I will always be your momma.”
“But you’re not my momma.”
“Yes I am! Now, I know you’re mad, but Momma can’t take the fall for your mistakes all the time. Not my fault the devil’s inside you. I’ve been trying to help you for years.”
She tries to touch my hair and I slap her hand away. It stings my hand to do it, so I know it hurt hers too.
“‘YOUR mistakes’? How could you tell them I killed Junior!”
“Baby, I didn’t!”
“I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t!”
She rubs the burn on her hand and huffs.
“You know what, I’m just about tired of all this nonsense. After everything I’ve done for you, you couldn’t just keep your mouth shut. Your legs neither.”
“What you’ve done for me? Momma, I’m in jail!”
“Oh, you in a home,” she says, waving me off then checking her nail polish. Red, chipping like school paint. “You’re not wearing some orange jumpsuit in chains no more. They’ve gone easy on you, just like I told you they would. You know what would’ve happened if it was me? I would’ve went away for life. Then who would’ve taken care of you?”
“You’re not taking care of me now!”
She waves me off again like I’m a pestering fly, as if the idea is as crazy as she is.
“You had your whole life ahead of you. A couple of years, ain’t nothing. But me, I would’ve died in that prison. And you know it’s true.”
That is true. The COs wouldn’t have done anything to help her besides beat her and throw her in the hole until she
goes mad. That’s if the other women wouldn’t have gotten to her first, slicing her face or raping her in the shower for killing a baby. She would’ve been on her deathbed in less than five years.
“And it’s so dangerous in those prisons. Fighting and carrying on. Them girls turning other girls into lesbians. Oh Lord, child, I just couldn’t do it.”
She waves me off again until something dawns on her and she spins quick.
“And what’s all this stuff you been telling them about me! About Ray. About me trying to bring Alyssa back to life? Some type of witchcraft or something? You know I don’t do that type of stuff. Why you tell them that?”
I don’t say nothing. I’m tired of answering questions. Feels like all I do is answer questions nowadays.
“I told you to get those pills for you,” her voice cracks. “Not for Alyssa! You were supposed to take them. Them pills were supposed to calm you down!”
She’s right. She did tell me to get my pills. She did tell me to take them. But I didn’t.
“It was just better this way, baby girl. It ain’t all that bad, right? You not even in jail no more. I told you, they take it easy on little girls.”
I snort. Easy? Nothing about this life is easy.
“You know I’ve always prayed for you more than I’ve prayed for myself. I visited you, just like I said I would. Then you go get pregnant and screw everything up! Why you doing this to me, huh?”
I cross my arms, leaning them on Bean, watching her come apart at the seams like a cheap dress. She starts pacing in a small circle in front of me, thinking hard, hands and lips shaking. By the fifth circle, she snaps her fingers with an eager smile.
“I know! How about this? I’ll adopt your baby. Yeah, I’ll raise him and when you’re old enough, I’ll give him right back.”
Her head nods nonstop, as if it’s the best idea in the world, which makes me think this is what she had in mind all along. To take my baby, to start all over again. Another SAT word pops into my head: audacity.
“What . . . in the world would make you think I would EVER let you near MY baby?”
Momma looks downright stunned. She clutches her chest and takes a step away from me, like the words could give her a stroke any minute.
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