Eleven and Holding

by Mary Penney

  We left the big hospital building via the stairs, and Dr. Eckstein led me across a grassy park, surrounded by picnic tables, a horseshoe pit, and an old barbecue. We walked into a long, cool brick building disguised in ivy.

  She parked me in a plain-looking lobby, with a few chairs, some bad magazines, and golden oldies being piped in overhead. “Macy,” she said, squatting next to me. “I need you to wait here for just a few minutes. I need to check and see if your dad is as ready to see you as you are to see him.”

  I drew my eyebrows together, confused. “What—” I started.

  She hurried to explain. “He’s been missing you something fierce. I just want to be sure today is the right time for both of you. This is very important, this first visit.”

  I tried to sit back in the chair after she left, but I was too nervous. I couldn’t quite explain it. This whole Project Evenstar was a mystery, and kind of a spooky one at that. Had they run freaky scientific experiments on my dad here? Changed his appearance, so he could run some black ops? Dr. Eckstein was definitely trying to prepare me for something. That much, I could tell. But what, I had no idea.

  The minutes ticked by in slow motion. All the magazines were about two years old. They had a battered copy of Highlights magazine, but I stopped reading those years ago. I spotted a bulletin board on the wall across from me. It had the same prayer tacked up that Nana had stuck to the side of her cash register for as long as I could remember.

  Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

  I asked her about it once. She said it kept her sane.

  There were some photographs under that, and I went over to look at them. Looked like a Ping-Pong tournament, with a bunch of guys cutting up about it. Didn’t see my dad in any of the pictures, though. Next to that was an index card someone had written, looking to share a ride to Los Robles on visiting day. Then a big long schedule of AA meetings. Was AA the car-towing place? I never could remember. Either way, you could pretty much find an AA meeting about any time of the day around here.

  The lobby door opened, and a high school kid came in, with an attitude you could smell for miles. He looked like someone on my mom’s caseload. He jutted his chin in my direction and sat down. Hung an unlit cigarette on his lip. After he cracked each of his knuckles and neck in each possible direction, he asked, “How come you’re here today? You get a special visiting pass, too?”

  “Um, yeah. Dr. Eckstein brought me over. I’m just here to visit my dad. He works here on the project,” I explained.

  “Is he one of the docs?” he asked.

  “No, he’s not a doctor. He was in the army. But now he’s been assigned to Project Evenstar.”

  The kid took an imaginary hit off his unlit cigarette. “Yeah, well, my old man has been ‘assigned’ here three times, and he never stays. He’s got seven days in rehab this time, and I ain’t holding my breath.” He stabbed a dirty finger in my direction.

  The word “rehab” came at me like a rogue wave. I caught my breath and sailed over the top of it. “I’m, um, sorry— Uh, wull, I hope he makes it. I mean, does better making it . . . this time.”

  “Is your dad getting out today? Is that why you’re here? ’Cos usually they only let families call or visit on Saturdays.”

  “No,” I said, my windpipe getting narrower by the second. “He’s not getting out— I mean he doesn’t come here for that. He’s not in for— He doesn’t need rehab. He’s working on a secret project for the government.”

  My words hung there, in the air, for just a second. My heart twisted as I heard, suddenly, how stupid they sounded.

  For one nanosecond, the kid flashed me a soft look, like he understood. But then a big, sarcastic smile took over his face. “That’s a good one! Yeah, my old man’s working on the secret project too. His code name is Agent Alvarez. What’s your dad’s secret name?”

  I heard footsteps coming down the hall. Every step closer made my heart thump harder.

  “Macy? You ready? Come on back.” Dr. Eckstein waved to me from the door. She spied the kid next to me. “Hey, Thomas. How are you doing today?”

  He grunted and looked away.

  My legs felt paralyzed under me. I willed them to get me up and walk me toward her. Right, left, right, left. Every step I took felt dangerous. Like if I wasn’t very careful, my entire world might explode. I moved into the hallway with her.

  She closed the door to the waiting room and looked down at me. “Okay?”

  I swallowed. “Does my dad, uh, work here?” I whispered. It all felt, suddenly, like some kind of bad dream.

  She nodded. “Work is a very important part of the treatment. Your dad is assigned to the kitchen some evenings, and works in the garden, too.”

  I licked my lips. Part of my brain tried to make sense of what I was hearing. The other part was trying desperately not to understand.

  “Macy?” A figure stepped out of one of the rooms down the hall. The person was wearing sweats and an old T-shirt and was pretending to be my dad. He held on to the doorframe and looked at me. I took a few steps toward him. Dr. Eckstein had her hand on the small of my back, guiding me.

  But it wasn’t my dad, after all. No, I decided, it couldn’t be.

  My dad wasn’t that skinny, and my dad didn’t ever forget to shave. My dad didn’t work in anybody’s kitchen, and my dad didn’t live in a redbrick building in a hospital. My dad didn’t have messy hair in the middle of the day and clothes that hung on him and that empty, hollowed-out look in his eyes.

  And my dad definitely, 100 percent for sure didn’t need any stupid damn rehab.

  Hot tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I jumped back before the land mine blew up in my face. I threw myself at the waiting-room door—almost pulled it right off its hinges.

  I ran like my whole life was on fire, and I had to get away—or be eaten alive by it.

  It was seven o’clock straight up at Boomtown Sounds, and no Switch in sight. I checked for messages so many times that the pink-haired girl behind the counter swore she’d personally come find me if he called. I couldn’t sit; I couldn’t stand. I could barely stand to be in my skin. And, mostly, I couldn’t bear to be in my brain.

  I didn’t want to think about what had just happened. I couldn’t think about it. But it was like a computer virus was trying to hack the inside of my mind. I knew if I didn’t fight it, the virus would change everything I knew and everyone I trusted. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, and I would not let it in.

  I walked in spirals through the store, starting with the perimeter, then one row in, then another, until I was one small spiral all alone in the middle. Then I’d start over again.

  C’mon, Switch!

  At fifteen past seven, I went to the pay phone out front to call Twee. Pink Hair wouldn’t let me make a long-distance call on the store’s phone. Mrs. Melting Pot said Twee wasn’t home. Said she was still babysitting over at my house. That didn’t sound right to me, but I wasn’t about to blow her alibi if that was what it was. My mom should be home by now.

  I went and sat down on the curb out front. I couldn’t take any more of Boomtown for a while. The music was so loud, I couldn’t think. It was still plenty light outside. The sidewalk was warm under my shorts, and I wished I were sitting in front of Nana’s with Twee.

  I liked to think that as far as our friendship went, I was the brave one, the strong one. But the truth was, there wasn’t anybody much stronger than Twee. Even though her adopted family was mostly pretty cool and they really loved her, I knew it was still hard for her sometimes. She had to live with so many questions that she couldn’t answer. She had to live with the fact that her own mother had given her away—and she probably would never know why. Despite that, Twee was grateful for what she had, not what she lost. I fought and scrapped for everything I lost. Wouldn’t give up anything without a good fight. Except for today.

  I
’d run right out on my dad. But that skinny guy in rehab wasn’t the dad I’d come to get.

  Now, I was really glad I hadn’t brought Twee with me. What would she think if she knew he was in a place like that? It would have killed me to have her see Dad nearly locked up like some kind of criminal. Like some kind of addict.

  Was that why he couldn’t come home for my birthday? What was he doing there?

  I reached into my pack and pulled out a swaybacked Chunky bar. Ripped the end off and took an enormous bite. I tried to chew it, but it tasted like a stick. Nothing was right today. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. I felt like I’d woken up in the wrong country to the wrong family. I wanted to get back in my old life. I wanted to lie on the floor with my baby brother and watch cartoons.

  I swiped an angry tear away with my forearm. I had to think this through. I was over a hundred miles from home. I only had eleven dollars on me. I couldn’t risk calling my house to talk to Twee, in case my mom was there with her. I had no idea what had happened to Switch. He could be buzzing his way merrily home, or he could be sitting in the slammer charged with grand theft auto—or grand theft motorcycle, I guess.

  If Twee were here, I know she’d tell me to call my mom. But if I did, she’d come get me, and I’d be forced to ride home in the car with her. Trapped with her for a couple of hours. Forced to hear stuff I didn’t want to hear. Stuff that might just make my head explode. Stuff that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true.

  I rubbed Mr. McDougall’s collar that I still wore around my wrist. I looked at Ginger’s phone number on the metal tag. I could call her. At least I’d be able to find out if she’d reported her bike stolen. Then maybe I’d know if Switch was in big trouble.

  “Can I buy you an iced double latte?” A large figure loomed, then squatted next to me.

  “Chuck?” I gasped, my voice full of surprise. “What are you doing here?” I wanted to sound irritated, even though I would have been glad to see anyone I knew right then. But I didn’t want him to know that.

  “Switch called me. He asked me to come meet you here.”

  “Switch? Is he with you?” I jumped up, excited, my head doing a quick 360-degree revolution.

  “’Fraid not. He’s kind of tied up right now.”

  Dread reared up, and I closed my eyes a second. “Did he get arrested?”

  “Yup.”

  “But he’s okay, right?”

  “Well, he’s safe. How about you, though? Are you all right? From what I heard of it, you’ve had quite a day.”

  I wet my lips, studied my shoes. “M’okay.” Liar.

  “Can I give you a lift home? Or did you already call your mom? Is she on her way?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and shivered. There was a hot summer wind blowing, but I was chilled to my core.

  He went on. “After Switch called me, I tried to get your mom on the phone, but she didn’t pick up. I’ve left messages.”

  I looked up at him. “You drove all this way to come get me?”

  “That’s part of it,” he said. “But I also wanted to check on Switch over in juvenile hall. He’s refusing to go back to his foster parents. Again.” Chuck shook his head. “Did you know that he was a runaway? Apparently, he’s been sleeping all week at the bus station.”

  I remembered the brown bag I’d seen him with on the bus. I’d figured it was just food or something, but it must have been his whole life in a sack.

  Chuck raked his fingers through his hair. “After they picked him up at the drive-in, the cops called Ginger. She verified he hadn’t stolen the bike. But when she heard that the two of you had ridden it all the way to Los Robles, she was very concerned. She just thought he was riding it around the neighborhood looking for her dog.”

  “So if she said he didn’t steal it, they’ll let him go, right? Can we go get him?”

  “No, the judge won’t release him unless he goes back to his foster parents or until another foster placement can be located.”

  “Sounds like Switch has been through them all already,” I said.

  “I know,” Chuck said. “So, if you don’t mind, I’m going over there now to check on him. Then I’ll take you home.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “One condition, though,” he said. “You’re calling your mother every five minutes until we reach her. Got it? I’ve got my cell in the van,” he said, motioning behind him.

  I nodded in quiet agreement. I’d agree to anything at this point to avoid becoming a permanent resident of Boomtown. I followed Chuck’s long strides down the sidewalk.

  “Have you eaten anything since lunch?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m not hungry,” I said. I was actually famished and could have eaten the jeep we’d just passed, but I wouldn’t let him know it. He could take me home, but that’s where I drew the line.

  “S’too bad,” he said, fumbling for his keys. “I brought you and Switch some takeout. Thought we could all have a bite over there together. Might be his last decent meal for a while.” He unlocked the passenger door and opened it for me.

  But I stood staring at the side of his van; gaping, really.

  Gaping at the drawing of Buster’s “little lima beans” all over the side panel of Chuck’s van, which weren’t lima beans at all—but big, brown coffee beans, tumbling all over the “fancy and loopy” writing that spelled . . .

  “Caffeine Nana’s.”

  After the day I’d had, it made only perfect sense that I was about to climb into the getaway van with Mr. McDougall’s kidnapper.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I climbed into the front seat holding my breath, like any second I might trigger the Pesky Kid Trap and a giant net would fall over my head. I chanced a quick look over my shoulder in the event that Mr. McDougall was sitting in back, bound and gagged and, hopefully, tail still wagging.

  No such luck. The back was filled with about a dozen giant burlap sacks of coffee. At least I hoped they were sacks of coffee! Maybe Caffeine Nana’s was just a front for his real business—stealing pets from old ladies for ransom! Even worse, maybe he sold the animals to those research hospitals that liked to test makeup and new drugs. Twee said she saw a special about it on TV. They’d put, like, eighty coats of mascara on a cat’s whiskers to see what would happen. Or they’d splash perfume in a rat’s eyes to see if it made it go blind. If not, bottle it up and send it out for sale.

  There was a large picnic basket right behind my seat that was putting out some potent kid-seducing aromas. I smelled barbecue ribs—one of my major weaknesses. I loved ribs so much I could probably eat them raw. Did Chuck know? How? There was only one answer. It wasn’t enough that he took Nana’s restaurant from our family. Now, he was working on getting Mom.

  But what he didn’t know was that I was on to him. He didn’t know that I now knew he was a dognapper.

  Oh, he was lower than low. He was subterranean despicable. A hairy, infected wart on a tick’s butt!

  My head was swimming with rage, hunger, and exhaustion. And the smell of those ribs was making me crazy. I think they had been marinated in Cajun sauce, which I totally adore.

  Chuck reached into the center console between our seats and popped it open. I caught my breath as he pulled out a small, dark 45-caliber snub-nosed—

  Cell phone.

  “Call your mom.”

  I tried to will my heart still with my mind. Chuck was busy maneuvering into traffic, so I stole a quick look at the numbers he’d recently called. Wanted to see if he’d really been trying to call my mom. That’s when I noticed the number that belonged to this phone. It was a number I’d just studied less than five minutes ago: (555) 555-0190.

  It was Ginger’s number! Weakened with hunger, I blurted before I could stop myself. “This is Ginger’s phone! What are you doing with her phone?”

  Chuck glanced over at me, puzzled. “That’s not Ginger’s phone, it’s mine.”

  I ripped Mr. McDougall’s collar off my wrist and jangled it ne
ar him, like a prosecutor with the smoking gun. “Oh, yeah? Then why is it the same number that is on Mr. McDougall’s collar?” I thrust it under his nose.

  He took it from my hand, looked at it, and then tried to swallow his rather large Adam’s apple. He exhaled and laid the collar across his thigh. Rubbed his thumb across the tag. “Where’d you find this?”

  “It was in the sidecar of Ginger’s bike, under the pillow,” I said, still triumphant. “So, tell me, Mr. I’m Such a Nice Guy, how do you explain that?”

  “Mr. McDougall was my dog,” he said. “Mine and Phillip’s.”

  “Who the heck is Phillip?” I yelled.

  Chuck looked over at me, gauging me a bit.

  “Phillip,” he said, his voice straining over the name, “was my life partner.” He flicked on the headlights in the dusk. “And Ginger’s son.”

  Silence struck me, and I circled over all this shiny new information, like a crow trying to decide which piece to pick up.

  I kept trying to pass over the “was” in “was my life partner.” I tried to ignore the deep sadness that was suddenly thick as fog inside the van. But I couldn’t.

  I knew sad. It had taken up residence in me the day Nana died. And I knew when it was real. Like I knew Ginger’s sadness the day I first met her. And now, was I getting to know . . . Chuck’s?

  “He’s dead,” Chuck said, answering the question I didn’t want to ask. He stopped for a red light and then looked out the window, away from me. “Phillip died about three years ago.”

  I knew what “life partner” meant. Mom explained it to me a while back. I knew it meant two people who were the same sex who loved each other enough to get married.

  “I’m sorry,” I said in a small, confused voice.

  He picked up Mr. McDougall’s collar and studied it a second. “Phillip and I adopted Mr. McDougall from the shelter when he was just a pup. He was our baby. We were crazy about him.”

  “Why’d you name him Mr. McDougall?” I asked dumbly, because I didn’t know what else to say.

  He smiled with one corner of his mouth. “It was just a funny name Phillip and I used to call each other when one of us would do something goofy or clumsy. The first day we had our puppy, everything he did was a ‘McDougall.’ He kept stepping right smack into his food and water bowls, or he would run up to them and send them flying across the room. It seemed a perfect name for him.”