Hope blinked and turned to her mother. “What’s going on?”
Her mother gestured toward the whisk and the pot of bubbling milk. As Hope hurriedly began to stir again, her mother sighed. “Well, obviously, Dess has had some bad news. When you’ve finished, take her some cocoa and see if she’s all right, okay?”
“And have her bite off my head?” Hope protested as she gave the cocoa a final whisk. “Thank you, no. You’re the mom. You go see what’s wrong.”
“I already know,” her mother said, pushing an extra mug in Hope’s direction.
Hope poured cocoa into both mugs, but her mother turned to tuck a tea bag into her own mug and doused it in boiling water. The spoon clicked against the mug as her mother stirred. Hope waited.
“You’re not going to tell me,” she said, finally catching on. “You think if you don’t tell me, I’m so nosy I’m going to go upstairs and ask Dess myself.”
Her mother just made a noncommittal humming noise and rubbed Jamaira’s back.
With a grunt of irritation, Hope carried the cocoa down the hall to her room. Of course she was going to go upstairs. Her curiosity—nosiness—had won again.
She kicked the door. “Dess?”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Fine. Take your chocolate, though.”
In a moment, the door slid open. Dess, stiff-faced, her makeup smudged, reached with both hands for the mug with a grudging mutter of “Thanks.”
Hope, questions pressing against her tongue, just nodded and took her mug over to Dess’s bedside table. Tucking her leg beneath her, she faced her foster sister, and found herself…waiting, her stomach in nervous coils.
Dess sipped her drink, then sighed. Abruptly she leaned against the wall, as if she was too tired to stand anymore. “I’m going down south.”
“What?” Hope’s mug wobbled, and cocoa splashed her hand. She absentmindedly wiped the back of her hand on her jeans as her stomach clenched. “Where? Why?”
For how long? Would she come back?
Dess carefully sat on the floor and exhaled, seeming to fold in on herself. “The old lady broke her hip. I have to go see her.”
“Your grandma?” Hope’s stomach lurched as she imagined Grandma Amelie’s big, tall body falling. “Jeez, Dess, I’m sorry. Is she all right? Do they know what happened?”
Dess shrugged and shook her head. “Nope.”
Hope’s lips parted in dismay. “Is she— She can’t tell them?”
Dess shrugged shortly and glared at the floor over the rim of her mug. “They’re looking around, I guess. Social services is involved, ’cause the neighbors found her outside and she was loopy. They’re not listening to me, though. Bradbrook says old people fall and break their hips all the time. But somebody probably pushed her.” Dess shook her head.
“I heard you say that,” Hope said without thinking. “This sucks. I wish you didn’t have to go.”
Dess’s expression went blank and sullen. “I wasn’t going to stay here forever.”
Hope recoiled. “Well, I know, but…”
“It’s not like anyone can control when psycho motorcycle thugs attack people.”
“Motorcycle thugs?” Hope looked confused.
Dess set her jaw. “It’s what happened. I know it, even if nobody believes me. It was one of the Felon’s Notorious Brotherhood guys. Eddie always got away with this crap. But this time, Trish is going to make sure he gets nailed forever.” Her voice rang with conviction.
“Well…good. I guess,” Hope said lamely. She picked at a bubble in the mug’s glaze, a mess of confusion. Dess was a pain, but Hope had finally gotten used to her. And now she wasn’t going to be around to hang with her at the Anguianos’ party, or complain about the fluff from Hope’s faux fur bathrobe, or use all of her crackle-coat nail polishes. She glanced at Dess’s nails, and sure enough: red with yellow crackle glaze. Hope shook her head. Just when she’d gotten used to things, everything changed. Again.
It would be weird to have access to the laptop anytime she wanted it, and she’d have to start watching Jeopardy! with Dad again or he’d be all depressed. And Austin—
“Wait, what about Austin?” Hope asked, her pulse fluttering in her throat. “That’s his grandma, too, right? Does he remember her? Will he be upset?”
Dess froze. “I—” She shook her head wordlessly.
“Well, good he won’t be upset, but…Austin’s going to miss you.” Hope decided not to mention again that she’d miss Dess a little, too. A little.
Dess hunched as if she’d been slugged in the gut. “That— It’s—” She cleared her throat, and her voice splintered as she said, “Baby doesn’t need me. Y’all take good care of him. He’ll be all right. I’ve got to see about Granny Doris.”
Hope sipped her cocoa, then licked her lips. “Look, Dess. You could tell Mr. Bradbrook to bring you back. It’s not fair you have to be with only your grandma and you don’t get to be with Austin. You just got him back.”
“I don’t want to talk about Bradbrook,” Dess said, rubbing her arms. “And Baby doesn’t need to be mixed up in Trish’s drama,” she added. “Farris shouldn’t have moved me here with him, anyway.”
Hope gave her a shocked look. “But Austin loves you. You love him—and he should get to know his own sister, don’t you think? Your social worker should think about that—moving you might do psychological damage or something. I mean, Austin’s only four. He can’t keep losing his sister. People—people can’t keep losing people.” Hope rose, brimming with determination. “I’m going to talk to him. The two of you should stay together.”
Dess looked up, her eyes filled with something Hope couldn’t name. “No,” she said quickly. “Look, Hope—just leave it. Bradbrook won’t listen.”
“Yeah, he will,” Hope said, firming her jaw.
—
“I’m glad to hear Dess has an advocate,” Mr. Bradbrook said a few minutes later. He smiled over his coffee at Hope, but his eyes were tired. “This placement is working far better than expected. Of course Dess and Austin should be together. They’re family.”
Hope was confused. Didn’t Mr. Bradbrook disagree? Wasn’t that what Dess had said? “Yeah. They should be together. And if you think any motorcycle guys are going to come here now that they beat up Dess’s grandma, they won’t. They don’t know where Dess lives.”
“Hope—” her mother murmured. She’d put Jamaira down and was leaning against the wall in the dining room, her arms clasped around her waist. She looked—worried.
Hope turned. “What? Mrs. Matthews didn’t tell where Dess lived, did she?”
“That’s not it—” Mr. Bradbrook’s mouth tightened, and he glanced at Hope’s mother. Hope turned to her as well.
“Mrs. Matthews was unconscious when she was found, Hope.” Her mother looked hesitant. “She was able to say Trish’s name when the EMTs brought her out of the house, but she hasn’t said anything more.”
Hope’s stomach lurched. “Oh.”
If Mrs. Matthews had known where Dess was, then she could have told, Hope realized. A shiver skittered up her back. The old lady could have given her attackers a hint, or even told them everything. The social worker and Mom had no way of knowing.
“We have to get Dess out of here,” Hope blurted, panic racing through her nerves.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
Dess’s voice startled Hope, and she turned. Dess was in the hallway behind her. She pushed past Hope and stood in front of Mr. Bradbrook.
“The Felon always found us. Trish moved us to three different houses in Houston. We moved to Arizona, then to a trailer park in San Diego. He found us anyway.”
“Stop, Dess,” Mr. Bradbrook said, his voice firm. “First, Hope, Mrs. Matthews simply fell—we have no evidence that she was pushed. Second, yes, your father followed your mother, Dess, but let’s not give Eddie Griffiths power he doesn’t have. She remained in contact with him. This time, he and members of his gang are
in prison, where he cannot hurt you. I don’t have concerns about the rest of his motorcycle club finding you—”
“They will.” Dess’s voice was lifeless. “They found Granny Doris, didn’t they?”
“Dess, you’re not listening, babe,” Mom interrupted, moving to put an arm around Dess’s shoulders. “No one knows how she fell. It was very likely something like a slick sidewalk or a cat twining around her legs when she was getting the paper or picking up the mail. Older bones sometimes break when people fall. People slow down and become fragile as they age. It happens.”
“Your grandmother hasn’t had much contact with your mother in the last five years,” Mr. Bradbrook added. “When there were threats made against your mother, Mrs. Matthews wasn’t concerned for her own safety, and she felt she didn’t need to change where she was living.”
“You guys asked her?” Hope worried that Mr. Bradbrook wouldn’t answer her, but he gave a slight nod.
“Mrs. Matthews wasn’t concerned about anything, that I can promise you.”
Hope looked back at Dess, who stood stiffly next to Mom, staring at the floor. Dess’s face was a funny grayish shade, the same color as Jamaira’s powdered formula. “I need some privacy,” she muttered hoarsely.
Hope blinked, then realized her mother was gesturing to her. “Oh, okay.” She glanced at Mr. Bradbrook and tried to smile. “Thanks for talking with me.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Hope glanced back at Dess. It’s going to be all right, she wanted to say, but the little polite, bogus words of comfort were worthless, and held the bitter taste of a lie.
Four years. For four years I told them to shred every letter. For four years she kept trying to talk to me, and for four years Farris, now Bradbrook, has kept every one. A letter a month.
I stare in silence at the folder full of letters as Bradbrook blah-blahs on at me about something. Why the hell did she keep writing?
She’s always hated Eddie. When Trish got sick of Eddie or one of her other men beating her up and came crying to her mom, Granny Doris used to say that the Felon was like those nasty roaches, the kind that survive even after you spray everything at them, the kind that will be here just fine when they bomb us and end the world. Roaches never die. He knew Granny hated him, and if you mess with him, Eddie Griffiths always gets you back. If he found Granny Doris once, he’ll find her in the hospital.
I’m not going to have that old lady’s dying be on me. I told them somebody’s got to look out for her.
As soon as I can, I leave the table. The couches in the family room are rough against my face, but I like sitting here in the dark, pressed into the fat, scratchy pillows. It feels like I’m sitting on a thick old woman wearing an ugly housecoat.
In the dim afternoon light, I pretend that I’m still little, sitting on Granny Doris’s lap. I pretend that she’s here, and not laid up, broken and bruised in some hospital. I pretend that I’m small and sweet like Baby, and still believe everything she says.
“Your daddy loves you all, but he’s got things to do,” she used to tell me when he would leave Trish and me on our own in the little house. At first, we’d be fine, but then he’d stay gone. Trish would run out of drugs and cry for days, and then she’d pack us up and we’d go stay with Granny Doris in her trailer park for a while.
Your mama and daddy love you, but they need some time to work this thing out. Trish would go to find him, and I would wait with Granny Doris. And wait. And wait.
Your mama loves you, and she’s going to get herself straightened out this time.
Like Bradbrook said, Trish stayed in contact with the Felon. Sometimes Trish went looking for him, and we found a motel close to where he was. Sometimes when she needed crank and she didn’t find him, we moved and we moved, and she kept looking. Sometimes, she left me to look for him, and didn’t come back. Sometimes, after she found him, Trish was so messed up on crank that she didn’t think about coming back for me until she was broke and sick, or he’d beaten her up, and she was in jail. I’d call Granny Doris to come get me, and months later, after Trish did her time, she would find some tatted-up loser to drop her off, looking like a human skeleton, on Granny’s front porch.
And it would all start over. No matter how many times he beat her up, no matter how many times she ran from him and hid, he’d hunt her down or she’d go back. Again and again Trish would choose my father, the Felon, over Granny Doris and me. Until it stopped.
Until the day I called Granny Doris to get me, and instead a social worker came.
I don’t know why I wish for the days when I used to believe anything. I don’t think a lie would help, even though that’s what I want to hear right now. I just want somebody to say they can fix this, that I don’t have to.
“Family is important,” Bradbrook keeps telling me. I hear that, but Granny Doris sure didn’t. She left me and Baby hanging, the racist hag, and now, when she needs somebody, there’s nobody. Trish is in lockup again, and other than Baby, Granny’s all I’ve got. I’m all she’s got.
Damn.
After the first few, the envelopes aren’t even open. I pick up the one with the oldest postmark, tilt the yellowy notepad paper toward the light, and read the spidery script.
Dear Odessa,
I am so sorry that I couldn’t take care of you this time. When you left up out of here mad today, I know you didn’t believe it when I said it was best you stay with that lady from the state. Thing is, doctors told me I had no business trying to raise nobody’s baby anymore, not with my blood pressure like it is. You’re a big girl now, Odessa. Look after your brother. When you get over your mad, you write me and tell me how you’re doing.
Your grandma,
Doris Lee Matthews
Some of the letters are just cards—for holidays; for my birthday, with a limp five-dollar bill enclosed; for Valentine’s Day, showing a cross-eyed poodle with a glitter-covered bow; for my graduation from the eighth grade—and that one has a whole ten dollars inside. Some are just notes scrawled briefly on her little yellow notepad, and most repeat the same last line, Tell me how you and your brother are doing.
I read quickly, grabbing the next letter and then the next letter in the stack, the pressure mounting in my head. The spidery handwriting has, over the past several letters, grown loopier and larger, the swooping capitals not as steady anymore.
Dear Odessa,
Today I am seventy. Your mama has been my only child now for just under forty years, and you have been my firstborn grandbaby for fourteen years.
I got a call from your social worker, telling me how proud she is of how you’re doing at that high school. I am proud of you, too, no doubt about it. You keep it up, girl. When you got nothing else, you’ve got your brain to keep you going.
You come see me sometime, and let me know how you are doing.
Your grandma,
Doris Lee Matthews
I scrub my face across the tweedy fabric, my stomach twisting. I promised when I was eleven I’d never run away again. But Bradbrook isn’t listening, and I’ve got to see Granny Doris. I owe her.
On the bus, it’s about eight hours to Rosedale; I checked the first week I got here. With the money from Granny Doris and my allowance, I have enough to get me on a city bus to Arden, and I can walk from there to Granny Doris’s trailer park. In my sewing kit, I still have my key. Farris will know where to look for me once Bradbrook tells her I’m gone, but I’m hoping Mr. Carter will think I met somebody at Rob’s party or something. If she wouldn’t run her mouth, I’d tell Hope the truth, but that girl’s Hopeless for real. She couldn’t keep a secret from Foster Lady or Mr. Carter to save her life.
I won’t miss anything—except Baby. But it’s not like this place is home, so walking away doesn’t matter. I walked in this house with one bag, and that’s what I’ll leave with. You can’t lose what you never had.
I’m lying, but it helps.
—
It doesn’t take
too long to make my plans. I have two pieces of picture ID, and time to myself online. It’s easy—too easy—to point, click, and leave.
My stomach boils with nerves, so I set up Foster Lady’s sewing machine. I’m not feeling it, knowing Hope is going to hate me for everything the day after she wears it, but there’s no point not finishing her dress now that I’ve got it this far.
I center the bulky fabric across the machine and line up the needle carefully. The only thing I can really do with a sewing machine is sew a straight line, but that doesn’t matter—all I need is a line right now, to tighten up the seams I’ve already sewn. I’ve got fabric glue for everything else.
By the time Hope’s grandmother comes in, the shoulder seams have two lines of stitches—just don’t look too close at the threads hanging out all over the place—and I’m cutting the dress loose from the machine. All I have to do is fold down the cowl part and maybe glue some leftover fabric on some big buttons or something to make a cool neckline. One big, ugly cowl-necked sweater plus time, thread, and glue equals one cute off-the-shoulder mini–sweater dress. I didn’t even have to shorten the sleeves that much.
“Well, look at that!” Ms. Amelie crows, holding it up. She prods the seams, and turns it carefully right side out, examining it closely. “Girl, you are an artist! Is this what you’re going to school for? You’re going to be a dress designer?”
I give a half smile. Ms. Amelie is funny, how she acts like everything I do is such a big deal. “Nah—I just make stuff like this for fun,” I say, picking up a piece of thread off the floor. “People who design dresses have to be able to draw. I can only do stick figures.”
Ms. Amelie clicks her tongue. “Just for fun—pfft. You don’t need to draw if you can see the design in the clothes already. You could make good money opening a dress shop with clothes like this, Dess. Don’t sell yourself short, now.”
I try smiling, but my face feels mannequin-stiff. Yeah, I’m sure all the big-shot designers have their moms doing time for using meth and their daddies doing time for selling meth and guns while riding with the Notorious Brotherhood. I can’t imagine myself, in any kind of “someday,” growing up to open a dress shop. How can I, when I can’t even imagine myself past this week?
Peas and Carrots Page 17
