“It’s rude,” she said loudly enough for a couple to hear as they walked past. Her disapproving stare quickened their steps.
“Well, if it doesn’t bother me, then it shouldn’t bother you.” I pulled my hair back down over my face.
“You don’t get to decide what bothers another person.”
We walked in silence for another block before I took her hand.
“The freckles on your nose get darker when you’re mad,” I said.
Mo rubbed her nose. “Don’t joke.”
I had to joke. Things had been too serious between me and Mo since Mom died. Mo’s mothering had kicked into overdrive. I owed her so much, but it was getting harder and harder to be around her. She stared at me, like all the time, trying to gauge my mood. It was worse than the assholes who gawked at my scar.
“Did you tell Jane about your uncle?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
Mo shook her head. “This isn’t some game. She could help you. Things are going to change when that guy shows up. He’ll be your guardian.”
She didn’t have to state the obvious. When Mom died, rules emerged where rules had never been. A foster family. High school. Therapy. Now, an uncle. I had no idea what to expect from Frank, but I could always make it on my own if things didn’t work out.
“Tammy is driving me to Mom’s funeral,” I said. “She asked for a day off from work. Said it was her responsibility as my foster mother. Plus, we have an appointment at social services later in the day.”
“You don’t want me to go?” Mo’s defensiveness couldn’t hide the hurt behind the question.
“That’s not what I meant. I just know how you feel about funerals. I’d understand if it’s too hard.”
Mo’s sister, Celine, had died from leukemia when she was five years old and Mo was eight. Just a couple of years ago, Mo couldn’t even bring herself to attend her grandmother’s funeral.
“CeeCee died a long time ago. I’ll be fine.”
I knew Mo was lying but didn’t call her on it. Everything in my life was changing, even the way she and I were around each other.
We made our way down the street, hand in hand but not talking. I assumed we were headed to the Book Nook. Mo insisted on buying me a book for each therapy session I attended—sort of like the lollipop a doctor gives kids after a shot. I didn’t need babying. I resisted the initial offer, since the court required me to see Jane twice a week for the foreseeable future because of my “unusual family circumstances.”
We’d finally agreed on one book a week and I’d accepted, especially since her parents probably wouldn’t mind book purchases showing up on their credit card. And Mo usually ended up borrowing the books she’d purchased for me in the first place.
When we reached the bookstore’s entrance, Mo kept walking.
“No Book Nook?” I asked.
“Not today,” she said. “Your mom will need something nice to be buried in. I’ll help you pick something out. My mom gave me money. She didn’t want you to worry.”
Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. I hadn’t thought about a dress for Mom. Of course Mo’s mother would know what had to be done. I experienced an odd panic that there were other important decisions and I’d never even know they had to be made.
I found it strange that with all the instructions Mom had left me, she never mentioned how to handle her funeral. Maybe she hadn’t planned on leaving me after all.
Mo parked in front of JCPenney and suggested we walk the length of the mall until we found a dress. She opened the car door. After a moment she shut it again when she noticed I wasn’t getting out of the car.
“You want to go somewhere else?”
“No … I don’t know.” I leaned back against the headrest. A ferocious headache had been brewing since my therapy session ended.
“Arl?” Mo placed a hand on my thigh.
“I never asked for anything from her. All she had to do was stay alive. And she couldn’t even do that for me.”
Mo turned the key partway in the ignition so that the heater would work. She held both hands in front of the stream of warm air. “You know it’s never been about you, right?”
“Well, it should have been,” I said. “She took the easy way out.”
“You’re right,” Mo said. “You deserved better.”
I stared out the passenger window, which had begun to fog over. I wrote my name in the condensation, then wiped it off with my sleeve.
“I never begged her to be anyone other than who she was, even though I wanted to almost every day. Maybe things could have been different if only she’d tried.”
Mo shook her head. “Did you really think she’d ever turn things around?”
“You didn’t know her.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve known you for five years. Nothing changed in all that time except that she relied on you more and more. Do you know how hard it was for me to see you play the tough girl when she disappointed you over and over again?”
“Mo, stop.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you. I have no idea what it’s like to lose a mother,” she said. “But I did lose a sister. I know what it’s like to beat yourself up with what-ifs.”
Did Mo expect me to give them up so easily? What-ifs had been the mainstay of my daydreams since I was small. What if Lloyd got in a car accident and died? What if the explosion hadn’t happened and my face hadn’t been burned? What if Mom got a job and we could afford a nice apartment? What if my real dad returned one day and forced Mom into rehab?
I reached over and turned the key a half turn more so that the engine came back to life. “Would you mind if we went to Goodwill instead?” I asked.
The dress I finally chose was too lightweight for winter, but Mom would be in a closed casket, not wearing it outside on a snowy day. The fabric was lipstick red with just the slightest sheen, probably someone’s discarded holiday dress. She would have liked the color but would’ve said it wasn’t short enough. She didn’t have a say in the matter. Besides, the dress met my main criterion: it had long sleeves to cover the track marks on her arms.
While I browsed through the crowded racks, Mo found a pair of black patent pumps in a size six and a wide, black leather belt she insisted would look great with the dress. Mom had never worn anything remotely like the items we selected. It felt like picking out a Halloween costume. At the checkout counter, Mo looked through the glass case full of costume jewelry. Before she could even ask, I touched her arm and whispered, “No.”
The cashier stuffed the items in a plastic grocery-store bag. Mo handed over eleven dollars and change while I rushed out of the stuffy store into the brisk air.
Mo suggested seeing a movie or going for milk shakes, but I refused. “It’s okay. Just take me back to Tammy’s.”
My foster mom left me alone for the most part and didn’t pry about Mom’s death. She did insist that all her fosters have breakfast and dinner together because she said it created a sense of family even if we weren’t related by blood. I could tell these meals meant something to the younger kids so I did it more for them than for Tammy.
“Is she expecting you at a certain time?” Mo asked. “I don’t want to leave you when you’re upset like this.”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
We didn’t talk as Mo drove up North Main. The afternoon clouds hung low and pale gray. I’d never known what people meant by “snow clouds,” but I hoped these weren’t that kind. I wanted Mom to be buried on a sunny day. It was hard enough to think about her casket in the rock-hard winter ground.
When we neared the City Market, I asked Mo to pull over. “Just drop me off here. I want to buy some hose to go with Mom’s dress. I can walk the rest of the way home.”
“Arlie, don’t do it.”
“Do what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.
“Don’t go back there.” She looked across the street toward the Animas View Motel where Mom and I had lived off and on
the last few years.
“I haven’t told Dora about the funeral. She’d want to be there.”
Dora was a long-term resident of the motel and probably the closest thing to a friend my mother ever had, although they never did anything socially and Dora was almost sixty years old. In truth, Dora had hung around mostly to check up on me, to see that I was safe and fed. Like Rosa had done years before in the apartment complex in Albuquerque, Dora stepped in when Mom disappeared into a meth binge and forgot she had a daughter.
“You can call her,” Mo said.
“I owe Dora more than that. Please understand.”
There was no reasoning with Mo where Dora was concerned. I’d stopped mentioning her after Mo blew up when I gave Dora the Subaru. Mo thought I should keep it and get my driver’s license, but I didn’t want it. The car reeked of cigarettes and memories I’d rather forget. It was the car we’d used to escape from our life with Lloyd, and I wanted nothing to tie me to him. Plus, Dora would never be able to afford a car. It made me feel good to thank her for what she’d done for me and Mom.
Mo reached across and opened my door. Cold air rushed into the car. “I can’t stop you.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“Here, take my coat,” she said. “You’ll freeze in just your hoodie.”
Mo had been mad at me plenty of times. She just rarely allowed herself to express it for fear it might upset the balance in my precarious world. I shoved my arms into her down coat and kissed her quickly before running across the street toward the motel’s entrance.
Dora wasn’t in her room so I sat on the cement walkway, my back against her door, until she arrived from her shift at the Manna Soup Kitchen. By the time she found me, it was growing dark. I’d lost feeling in my hands and feet.
“Arlene! My sweet girl!” Dora helped me up and I leaned into her bear hug. She brought a hand up to my unscarred cheek. “Saints in heaven! You’re ice cold. Come in right this minute.”
I made a beeline to the heating unit beneath the window. I turned it on high and sat on the vent, grateful for its instant warmth through my jeans.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” I said. “Things got crazy after …”
“I know, girl. I know. I figured you needed time to adjust to your foster family.”
“Won’t be with them much longer,” I said. “Turns out I have an uncle in Texas. He’s coming to Durango.”
Dora retrieved a Tupperware container from her large tote bag and poured the contents into a small pot. She set the pot on a hot plate and turned back to me. “You’re staying for supper. Tell me about this uncle.”
She sat on the edge of the bed closest to the heater. Her graying hair was wound in two braids twisted into a single bun at the nape of her neck. She’d look grandmotherly except that her skin was satiny with only a few lines around her eyes.
Although Dora must have been exhausted after her shift, she gave me her complete attention, as she always had when we talked. It didn’t matter if I was eleven or sixteen. She made me feel that everything coming out of my mouth had to be important.
“Nothing to tell. Haven’t met him yet,” I said. “I’m here because I wanted to tell you about Mom’s funeral. It’s Monday.”
“I figured she was buried by now.” Dora leaned toward me and pushed my hair behind my ears. “There, I can see your beautiful face.”
I blushed even though Dora had always encouraged me to wear my hair off my face. “Why hide your scar? It says you’re a survivor,” she’d said. And in her presence, I could allow myself to feel that.
Her room always made me feel safe, like I didn’t have to be on guard. Dora didn’t use the motel for temporary housing as Mom and I had. She’d been in the same room for years. The manager allowed her to hang pictures and use her own bedding. Her sewing machine occupied the table.
At first, she’d chosen the motel because it made economic sense. There was no way she’d have enough money for first and last months’ rent at an apartment, or for utility deposits. She ended up staying, solidifying her role as fairy godmother to the children whose parents were absent, either physically or emotionally.
When she heard the soup bubbling, Dora got up and spooned some into two paper cups. She handed me one and I slurped it dutifully even though I wasn’t hungry. The liquid scalded the roof of my mouth.
“I always wondered why you called the police after you found your mom,” she said. “You had to have known things would change. We could have figured something out together.”
“I wasn’t really thinking. I just wanted the world to stop.”
“And did it?”
I laughed weakly. “Just the opposite.”
“You could have taken the car and gone anywhere,” she said.
“Where would I have gone? At least here I have you and Mo. And you need the car more than I do.” I couldn’t admit to her that a vehicle would make it easier for authorities to track me, should I decide to leave Durango one day. If I could make it to a large city, being on foot would allow me to slip into the shadows, untraceable.
While Dora ate, I showed her the dress and shoes that Mo and I had chosen for Mom. She approved. I laughed when she confirmed that Mom would have liked something shorter.
It was getting dark outside and the temperature would dip below freezing soon. Not wanting Tammy to worry, I called and said I’d stayed over at Mo’s for dinner. I couldn’t leave just yet. Dora and I snuggled beneath the bedspread and turned on the TV.
It took some time to work up the courage to ask what I’d come to ask. “Did you see anything unusual the night Mom died?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did anyone stop by? Someone you didn’t recognize?” My heart pounded in anticipation of her answer.
“What’s this about?” She cupped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to her. I buried my face in her neck. I hadn’t cried in front of Jane or Mo or Tammy since Mom’s death, but Dora was part of a world they’d never understand. She’d lived with addiction—her own and that of her former partner. She’d been homeless for more years than I’d been alive. Even so, the tears wouldn’t fall.
“What if Mom didn’t kill herself?”
Dora kissed the top of my head. “Ah, sweet child. It was an accident. Don’t read more into it. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“But what if someone else was involved?”
Dora stiffened at my question. “You think someone killed your mother?”
I explained that when I found Mom, so much about the room looked wrong. Too much meth had been left behind, as well as paraphernalia I didn’t recognize. She wouldn’t have had the money to buy it.
And if she’d been with her junkie friends, they’d never have left behind such a stash. But everything I said made me sound more and more pathetic, as if I couldn’t face the truth … that I wasn’t a good enough reason to fight to stay alive.
I got up from the bed and swung my arms back and forth, trying to shake off the emotion overtaking me because I hadn’t gotten the answers I wanted. Dora stood and grabbed both my hands.
“Listen to me. Bad things happen. There doesn’t have to be a reason. She died, but you’re alive. You have all the chances she never got. And more smarts to boot.”
I smiled when she grabbed my chin for emphasis.
A loud rap startled us both. Dora moved toward the door.
“Leave the chain on,” I said.
“Of course.” She shook her head at my obvious caution.
The door opened just three inches, but enough to see a sliver of Mo’s face.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Thought you could use a ride to Tammy’s,” she said. “It’s getting colder.”
I kissed Dora good-bye and followed Mo back to her warm car. We’d met on a day much colder than this one, when I’d let my guard down and begun to think having a friend was possible. She’d become much more.
CHAPTER 3
FI
VE YEARS AGO—MEETING MO
The November wind cut through my jeans. I was too cold to walk to the library so I dropped to the ground and leaned against the dumpster behind the Animas View Motel.
Mom shouldn’t have invited those people into our room. She promised she wouldn’t, but that was yesterday. She changed her mind a lot and yet I still wanted to believe her.
“Doesn’t it stink down there?” The girl’s voice carried above the wind. She sat on top of the cinder-block wall at the back edge of the motel parking lot. In hot-pink sweatpants and a purple down jacket, she looked like a Barbie doll on a ski trip.
“Nah,” I called out. I hadn’t been able to smell anything since the accident, but I didn’t need to tell a stranger that.
Although the wall was at least six feet high, the short girl jumped down like the distance meant nothing, her blond ponytails flying behind her. I stood and brushed the gravel off my jeans.
“You live in the motel?” she asked.
“What’s it to you?”
She shrugged. On tiptoes, she peered into the open dumpster. “You lied. It does stink.”
“I’m not a liar.”
“Didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “Don’t be mad.”
I wondered what she wanted.
“We see you out here a lot,” she said. “But you don’t go to school.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I stuck my hands in my jacket and stepped from side to side to stay warm. She must be freezing in those girlie sweatpants.
“Me and my neighbor, Brittany. She says you’re white trash and I’m stupid for talking to you.”
“Then why are you?”
“She can’t tell me who to be friends with.”
Friends? The girl acted like she already knew me.
“You always have a book, but not today,” she said. “I love reading too.”
Burn Girl Page 2
