Sara Lost and Found

by Virginia Castleman

  When she leaves, Anna’s eyes widen. “Soup lady?”

  She crawls out of bed, and I laugh.

  “Worker here tomorrow?”

  I pull the dress Rachel has picked out for me over my head and help Anna with hers, then nod.

  For both of us, tomorrow will come too soon.

  “Look good?” Anna twirls and models her dress. I study my sister from the top of her head to the clear plastic sandals on her feet. The shiny gold half-heart necklace that hangs around her neck matches the half heart I wear around mine.

  It was a present from Mama. Never take it off, she said. Look after each other. You’re sisters. Sisters stick together. We didn’t know she’d be gone the next day. I’m wondering if she did.

  “Look good?” Anna repeats a little impatiently. She stops twirling and puts her hands on her hips.

  “All I can say is, with all those flowers on that dress, you better hope there aren’t any bees out there.” That got a smile. But Anna’s smiles never last long, and this one is gone almost as fast as it came.

  “You look like Mama,” I add. She does look like Mama, I think. Same burnt-red hair. Same sad, faraway look in her sea-green eyes. But that is about all I can remember of Mama. Not a day goes by that we don’t study the face of every stranger, looking for some sign of her. Will we know her if she walks by?

  It’s been so long now since I’ve seen her that the memory of her face is starting to fade. I know Anna misses her so bad that it probably hurts to look in a mirror and be reminded over and over of who we lost.

  “You look like Daddy.” Anna gives each word equal weight. Another small smile comes and goes.

  I raise my eyebrows. “You think so?” I brush back my long bangs with fanned fingers and look hard at the face in the mirror. I count ten new freckles that I haven’t seen before. They must have been hiding under the dirt that washed off in last night’s bath. The hot water felt so good. Even the toothbrush on my teeth felt good.

  Rachel saved our toothbrushes from the last time we stayed, like she knew we’d be back.

  “I do have his nose.” I lean close for a better look. “And his blue eyes, maybe. But other than that, I don’t think I look like him.” When I look at you, I see him. Mama’s words still ring in my ears.

  “Or smell,” Anna adds, pinching her nose. I know she’s talking about how Daddy smells after he’s been drinking. And the smoke that settles in his hair and on his clothes and breath. Much as I got scared when he thundered home smelling mean, I miss the smell now. At least he came with it.

  “Don’t want to go.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, when we finish dressing, I drop the soiled sheets into the washer downstairs and lead the way into the kitchen for breakfast. Rachel is humming as she cooks. It’s as if she forgot all about the sheets. I love that about old people. They can forget things that need to be forgotten.

  Down the hall, Ben is hammering at something. I can’t see him, but I know that if there’s a hammer or a wrench nearby, he’s close, if not attached to it.

  And just as if my thoughts led him, he steps into the kitchen. “My two favorite girls!” His eyes sparkle. Funny about smiles, how one always seems connected to another. It’s that way with Ben, anyway. His smiles always make me smile.

  He sets his hammer on the table and stretches out his arms. First Anna gets a big bear hug, then me. His hearing aid makes a high beeping noise with each squeeze.

  “Mm-mm, mmm, mm!” he says, like we are a bowl of Ms. Thistleberry’s soup. “Did I tell you yet how good it is to see you both again?”

  “You just told us last night!” I remind him.

  “Was that you under all that dirt? And here I thought it was some other little girl I hadn’t met yet.”

  I laugh. He’s so funny. And he talks with a thick accent, like Rachel, only his voice is grumblier and he doesn’t mix up his words as much.

  “You will join me for breakfast?” The light in his eyes dances as he settles into a chair and scoots up to the table. The legs of the chair make little burp noises when they scrape against the floor.

  To answer, I sit beside him, where Rachel has already set a place for me. Anna sits across from him, smiling shyly.

  “What are you fixing?” I ask him.

  “The tub. The drain, it doesn’t drain so good. So I fix. There isn’t much in life that can’t be fixed. You just have to have the right tools.” He picks up a hammer beside his plate and sets it down gingerly, as if it’s the one tool needed most in life.

  “After breakfast, you will maybe help me fix the plug in the tub?”

  I smile and nod at the same time. Ben always has fun things to do, and he always let me take out a screw with his screwdriver, or hammer in a nail.

  He can’t stand up straight anymore. He says old age is weighing him down. His hair is old and gray. His teeth are old, too. But his raisin-brown eyes, flecked with gold, sparkle under a fluff of bushy gray eyebrows.

  Every now and then a stormy look blows over Ben—usually after he’s listened to the news on the radio—but for the most part, he’s a gentle, quiet old man who can fix just about anything. Except our family.

  Rachel plops a plate of steaming French toast sprinkled with cinnamon and smothered in maple syrup at my place.

  “Put on your lap your napkin,” she reminds us.

  I take tiny bites of French toast and chew each one slowly, letting the maple syrup get all over my tongue. I want the flavor to last as long as possible. When I finish the last of the toast, I pick up my plate and lick off some syrup.

  “Ah, kia!” Rachel cries, throwing her hand to her chest. “Sara! What are you doing?”

  She says the word “doing” like it ends with a k, and swooshes over to reach for my plate. “You are not a cat drinking milk, yes? We don’t lick plates.”

  “But it gets all the syrup off,” I grumble, not wanting to give up the dish just yet.

  “Yes, but it is not doink the polite think,” she answers, putting the plate in the sink and running hot water over it.

  Following my plate to the sink, I lean over and watch the hot water lick the last of the syrup away. “Polite to who? The plate?” I ask.

  Ben laughs and answers, “To the plate. To the people around you at the table. To—”

  “And you!” Rachel scolds, reaching for his hammer. “This does not on the breakfast table go.”

  Ben raises his bushy eyebrows and pouts. “First she takes my hammer,” he says. “What next? My hands to hammer with? My arms to hold my hands with? My—”

  “Enough is enough!” Rachel throws her hands over her head, shooing all of us from the table after we’ve finished our meal. “Hands to hammer with! I’ll show you hands to hammer with!”

  I grin at Anna. Too bad all people can’t argue like this. No hitting. No throwing things. Just playful words bouncing back and forth.

  CHAPTER 7

  ALL MORNING I HELP BEN fix things, hang pictures, and move furniture. Rachel likes to redecorate.

  “It gives a new look to the place!” she says, pointing to where a chair should go.

  “And a new something to trip over,” Ben grumbles, moving it. Anna and I look at each other and grin. While I help Ben, Anna helps Rachel bake.

  “Are those cookies done yet?” Ben hollers. I know the smell is driving him crazy. Me, too.

  “Not yet! Hold on your horses!”

  We barely finish moving things and snacking on cookies when the doorbell rings. I instantly recognize Mrs. Craig’s voice. She waltzes into the kitchen, bringing with her a scent of flowery perfume. “Look at how pretty you two look! All scrubbed and clean.” She gives us both a quick, scolding look, then checks her watch. “I think you know that what you did last night was not right. Thank goodness you’re both safe.

  “There’s been a change of plans. I know you had hoped to stay longer with the Silvermans, but some other children are scheduled to stay here for a couple of days.”

 
I stare at the floor, listening to the drip of the kitchen faucet. My feet are puffy and still hurt from the scratches. After a long, empty silence, I look up.

  “Are you all ready for your new adventure?” Mrs. Craig asks, glancing out the window like she’s afraid her car might drive off without her.

  I look sideways at Anna. How, I wonder, do other kids get ready for these “new adventures,” as Mrs. Craig calls them? Sleeping in strange houses with strange people who call us clever names like “pumpkin”—something Anna always got stuck with because of her red hair—“peaches,” or any number of other food names. Never knowing if we are staying, moving to another placement, or finally going home.

  Mrs. Craig smiles hurriedly at the Silvermans and not at us. “Cheer up, now. There’s a nice family that’s taking you in, and I want to take you over to meet them.”

  I stare out the window at leaves swirling together on the grass. Not that long ago, Anna and I had played like that, twirling around. Then everything started twisting out of control.

  Mrs. Craig hooks an arm around Anna’s shoulder. I look at Anna, hoping she won’t spit at her or bite her, which is something she does when grown-ups get too close, but it doesn’t look like Anna is even paying attention. Instead, she pulls out of Mrs. Craig’s grasp and curls up in a chair, hugging her knees, like she’s trying to hold herself together. At least this time she’s on the chair instead of under it. I know what she’s feeling. I want to crawl under something and hide.

  Anna looks up suddenly, as if coming back from some lost thought. She senses things, like when someone or something is approaching. A giant cloud-shadow covers the house, turning it suddenly dark—so dark, the light-sensitive kitchen lights flick on, then off, and then on again.

  It can only mean something bad is going to happen.

  Saying good-bye to Ben and Rachel is always hard. I try not to hold on too tight to them or to anyone. It hurts too much to let go. I stare out the window at the clouds that have turned the whole city dark.

  Two seconds after we climb into Mrs. Craig’s station wagon, the sky splits open, dumping water by the bucket-load onto the car, the street, the houses. Everything.

  Huge raindrops smack against the windshield, drowning out the soft popping sounds of Anna pulling the arms and legs off of Abby.

  “We’re in for a wet one,” Mrs. Craig says, fastening her seat belt. She looks past a stack of forms and papers strewn on the passenger side and cranks her neck around to check that Anna and I have fastened our seat belts. Parts of Anna’s doll are all over the seat. Mrs. Craig frowns slightly, turns back, and starts the engine.

  Anna’s face is as wet as the sky. I can’t look at her for fear that I’ll start crying too. Instead I stare at the trees, wind whipping through them. Rain drums hard against the top of the car, making it too loud for anyone to talk—almost too loud to even think, which is fine with me. I don’t feel like thinking.

  All I want to do is sleep, then wake up and find out this is all a bad dream and we are on our way to our real house, where Daddy, or maybe even Mama, is waiting for us.

  The drive is long and slow. Water shoots up in fanlike sprays on either side of the car, like the parting of a great sea. And then it’s over. Flash floods are like that. Clouds burst open so suddenly that there’s no time to think. Then, poof! Just like that, they’re gone.

  “You’ll like the MacMillans,” Mrs. Craig says, peering up at the sky like she’s talking to the clouds. “They’re good people. The dad, Dan, is a doctor. Barbara, his wife, is a teacher. She teaches nurses how to nurse,” she adds.

  I glance over at a plastic arm lying on the seat, thinking that Anna’s doll could sure use a nurse.

  “They’re really looking forward to having you stay with them,” Mrs. Craig adds, turning a corner.

  I know we should say something like, “That’s nice,” or “We are too,” but we don’t. We just sit there. Nothing we say changes things. I finger the necklace Mama gave me. Look after your sister. Her words slip like a leash around my neck.

  By the time we reach the new people’s house, the rain has nearly stopped. Still, water gushes down the gutter like a raging river.

  I stare at it, awed by how strong it is. Everything in its path is carried away, no matter how little or big. A red rubber ball floats past, along with garbage cans with no lids and leaves ripped from the trees. If we had a boat, Anna and I would float as far as the water would take us.

  “Now, remember. This is just a temporary stop until I can find you girls a more permanent home. Be careful getting out. I don’t want the water to knock you down. What a mess.”

  I scramble out of the car onto the driveway, then off the curb into the gutter. The strong current rushes over my shoes, soaking my feet. It’s wonderfully cold and sends an exciting chill through me.

  “Anna! Sara! Come away from there! What are you doing? Girls!”

  In the rush of water, I can barely hear Mrs. Craig’s voice. The cold liquid feels good on my sore, hot feet. A movement, not like water gushing, catches my eye. Two houses up the street, something—an animal, maybe—is struggling to hold on to the curb.

  What is it? A rat? I think about Hope buried back home. No, too big.

  I try to walk toward whatever it is for a closer look, but the water fights to hold me back. When I try to lift my feet, it feels like I have iron shoes on. Suddenly, the animal loses its grip and is torn from the curb.

  “A kitten!” I shout over my shoulder to Anna, who is right behind me. I watch the kitten struggle to stay alive. When I try to walk toward it, the water pushes me back, just like Anna pushes people away with all her biting and spitting. I’m sure this kitty didn’t know how powerful a storm could be before she got swept up in it.

  She does now.

  “Leave it, Sara!” Mrs. Craig shouts from the porch. She has started down the sidewalk toward us. “The water’s too fast. Come over here where it’s safe!”

  Leave it? I watch the tiny kitten fighting to stay above water. I can’t just leave it. The kitten is coming toward me so fast, I know I have to brace myself against the rushing water to try to catch it before it’s swept away.

  Oh please, please let me catch it. I can see the animal clearly now. I am right. It’s a small black-and-white kitten, crying out every time its little head comes above water. Mew, mew.

  “Over here, little fella!” I bend over, stretching my arms. Three, two, one—thoop!

  The minute the soggy kitten thumps against my legs, I clamp my hands around its soaked little body. I can feel it trembling through my fingers and know that it’s shaking from more than just being cold and wet. I look down the road. For a split second, I want to just sit right down with the kitten in that gutter and ride the water wherever it will take me. Instead, I hug the kitten close as Anna and I slosh across the grass and to the door.

  We shiver and drip on the front porch while a woman I would guess to be Mrs. MacMillan runs inside for towels.

  “Of all the days for a freak storm!” Mrs. MacMillan cries, handing first me, then Anna, a towel. I wrap it around the kitten.

  “Oh no, honey. Not around the cat. It’ll get hair all over the towel, not to mention fleas. Oh dear. Just wrap it around yourself.” Mrs. MacMillan tries to wrap the towel around me as she talks.

  “You watch,” she says over my head to Mrs. Craig. “In an hour, there won’t be a trace of water on the street. I don’t even want to look at the garden out back,” she moans. “I just know the storm ruined the pumpkins.”

  I know her talk is nervous talk. New foster parents are always nervous when we arrive.

  “The pumpkins will be fine,” a man’s voice says. “Are you girls all right?” I peer up at someone who I guess is Dr. MacMillan. He’s a tall, tanned man with almost no hair. He has blue eyes like Daddy’s, only the skin around his eyes is smooth.

  The three grown-ups look at Anna and me dripping. Anna bends over, trying to take off her wet shoes. I grip the cat, shiv
ering.

  “Poor things. Let’s get you inside.” Mrs. MacMillan starts for the door.

  “Dad!” A wail comes from upstairs. “The roof is leaking in the bathroom.”

  Dr. MacMillan shakes his head. “Never a dull moment. I’ll look in a minute, Pablo,” he calls. “Come meet your new sisters!” He hesitates, looking from the sky to the car and back to us, then adds, “And bring some dry clothes!”

  Pablo? What a strange name. Shorts and T-shirts fall onto the floor from somewhere above. I hand the kitten to Mrs. Craig, asking her to please hold it until Anna and I come back from changing.

  Mrs. Craig makes a face and dangles the cat away from her. I grin, hoping she won’t let the cat go.

  Mrs. MacMillan shows us to the downstairs bathroom, where Anna and I change. Anna is soon swallowed up by a large white T-shirt that comes clear down to her knees. The arms stop at the bend in her elbows, hiding those spots. Under the T-shirt, she’s put on a pair of yellow shorts.

  As for me, I put on a pink T-shirt that has children dancing around a drum, and shorts that are so big and hang so low, they feel like they might fall off.

  When we return to the front porch, Mrs. Craig hands me the wet, meowing kitten.

  “That’s better!” Mrs. MacMillan exclaims, smiling broadly. “Look!” She points to the sky. “The sun! What did I tell you? You watch. The pumpkins will be ruined.”

  More nervous talk. I decide to make her feel better.

  “Nice house,” I say.

  “Well, now!” Mrs. Craig sings out, smiling approvingly at me. “Let’s make this official. Sara, Anna, I’d like you to meet your new temporary foster family, the MacMillans.”