Almost Home

by Joan Bauer

A man in a white coat says, “You will. We have your mom upstairs and we’re going to be talking with her to see how we can help. She’ll need to be here for a few days.”

  He doesn’t understand. Reba and me, we stay together. “I need to see her now.”

  “I’m afraid that can’t happen for a little while.”

  “No, look, wherever her bed is, I can sleep on the floor, I’ve done that before.”

  He shakes his head. “We don’t allow that here. I’m sorry.”

  He’s not sorry.

  He asks me questions.

  Age?

  Twelve going on twenty.

  Address?

  We don’t have one yet.

  Phone?

  We don’t have one of those either.

  Nearest relative?

  That’s Reba.

  In addition to her?

  There’s no more addition in my family. Me plus Reba equals two.

  You have no one to call, Sugar?

  All I have is Mr. Bennett’s e-mail, not his phone.

  I look down at the green bag. I’m sure not telling him about Shush.

  A woman in a green striped shirt, black pants, and star earrings walks up.

  “Sugar,” the white coat man says, “this is Dana Wood. She works with children and family services. She’d like to talk to you.”

  Dana Wood looks at me and I look away.

  “You want to tell me what happened tonight, Sugar?”

  “I just told the other guy.”

  “We like to gather our own information. I can see how it might seem unnecessary.”

  I don’t want to say it all again. I’m tired.

  “Let’s sit down over there and talk.”

  I stand up. I don’t want to sit down and talk. “When can I see my mother?”

  “Tomorrow, probably. We want you to be able to see her very soon. She’s safe, and the staff here knows what they’re doing.”

  I don’t like the sound of this. “What do they do?”

  “It will depend on what they find.”

  That’s a non-answer. “What are they looking for?”

  “Well, to begin with, they want to understand what kind of stress she’s been under.”

  “You tell them she wasn’t scared like this when we had a house. She was so much stronger then.”

  “I’ll make sure they know that, and it would be good for you and me to talk about that some more, but it’s late and you look tired. I think it would be best for you to stay someplace for a little while so your mom can get back on her feet. It’s a group house and—”

  “No!” I bolt away from her. That gets Shush moving around. I knew a kid from St. Louis who got beat up in a group house.

  “What’s in your bag?” she asks.

  Be cute, be really cute.

  I take off my pack and Shush climbs out.

  Dana Wood is shocked. “You have a dog . . .”

  “Just a little one.” Shush wags his tail. “He’s going to be a helper dog, okay? He’s got to be in hospitals so he can practice.”

  Shush looks around at the bright lights and shudders. “He needs a lot of practice.”

  Dana Wood shakes her head. She puts out her hand toward Shush. He sniffs it. I’m studying this lady. She’s got caring eyes, that much I can say. King Cole always said, You want to see what a person’s about? Look them in the eye. So I do.

  She’s petting Shush’s head. “Sugar, I doubt you can bring this dog to—”

  “I have to bring him!”

  Her phone rings. She snaps it open. “. . . I’m with someone right now. . . . No, I can’t take on another . . . I understand that, but, I’m full up as it . . .” She listens awhile and sighs. “All right . . . I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  She looks at me. “My boss is out of town and I’m doing double duty. My colleague Bill Marston will take care of you. I have an emergency at the police station.”

  “I’m an emergency, too!”

  x x x

  I’m sitting at a desk at this hospital for emotions, using the computer to get my e-mail. I type in my address, homewardbound12@hotmail.com.

  You’ve got to carry your dream around with you. You’ve got to make sure it’s in your face so you won’t forget.

  The screen pops up. I’ve got mail from Mr. B!

  Hello, Sugar.

  I’m so glad to hear from you. I saw something today that made me think of you. It was a sign that read,

  MOST PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW IMPORTANT THEY ARE.

  TELL SOMEONE YOU KNOW TODAY.

  So I want to let you know how much I respect you, how much I believe in you, and how much you added to my class when you were here.

  Let me know how you’re doing. I believe in you. I guess I already said it, but I want you to hear it double strength.

  How is your writing coming?

  Claus sends his best, as do I.

  Mr. B

  I picture him leaning against his scratched desk twirling the rubber chicken in the air. I feel like he’s holding out his hand for me to take, so I grab hold of it.

  I don’t know how to tell him how I’m doing.

  I type:

  Mr. B,

  You’re the best! Keep writing to me, okay? I’ve written some poems on what’s been happening to me. Would you like to read them?

  Tell Claus I said he’s a good chicken.

  Sugar

  I press SEND, then I press PRINT and a copy of his e-mail whizzes out of the copier. I fold it neat. I’m going to sleep with this under my pillow, if I get a pillow, that is.

  I feel so tired.

  I wonder if Reba’s sleeping, or if she’s lying there scared. Sometimes she can’t sleep, especially if it’s noisy. She and Shush are alike that way.

  “I think this dog has to go to the bathroom!” Bill Marston lifts Shush up the way I do when it’s okay to pee.

  “That’s not the way to—” I begin, but Shush thinks it’s his signal and he lets loose. “I’m sorry.”

  The lady in the office starts laughing—easy for her, she steered clear of the spray.

  18

  AN OLDER BOY looks at Shush. “I had a dog—it died. It kept barking, so my uncle shot it.”

  A girl looks me up and down and says, “It’s hard here for the first couple days.”

  Another girl laughs. “Then it gets harder.”

  The woman who runs this place, Janine, has a tired smile. I tell her how Shush has a call in life as a helper dog and she says, all right, he can stay here, but if there’s any trouble . . .

  “We won’t be any trouble.” Shush cocks his head.

  This group house I’m at, it has a TV and two old couches. Kids older than me are watching a show about missing people and how the FBI looks for them.

  Reba’s missing.

  I know right where she is, but she’s missing just the same.

  Janine with the tired smile shows me my room. It has a funny smell. I can hear the TV.

  Castilla Farmer was last seen at the grocery store.

  Mitchell Louden was last seen at the garage where he works.

  Reba Cole was last seen, the way she used to be, at her home in Round Lake before the sheriff came to take it.

  “There’s no lock on this door,” Janine mentions. “We’ve been meaning to fix it. You need anything?”

  Just my old life back.

  She pets Shush on the head and leaves. I shove a chair in front of the door, take out Mr. Bennett’s e-mail, and read again about how I’m important and I probably don’t know it.

  “I’m important,” I tell Shush. “You are, too.” He presses into me.


  A girl screams. I rush out holding Shush. Janine is shouting something. The girl is standing on the couch pointing, and the older boy is laughing.

  A rat races across the floor, fat and ugly. Shush goes stiff in my arms.

  The older boy shakes his head.

  Shush is trying to get free.

  “You want to get it?” I put him down. He runs toward the rat, who runs behind a radiator. I’ve never seen him like this, but I’m not telling them that.

  Shush stands there waiting.

  “I want to get me a dog,” the older boy says. “Where’d you get that dog?”

  “At Walgreens in the dog section,” I tell him.

  The group starts laughing. Janine says, “She got you, Ray.”

  “Maybe you’ll give me that dog.”

  “You leave us alone!”

  I grab Shush and go into my room, my heart pounding. I put the chair against the door. It’s so hot in here.

  “That thing you did with the rat was excellent.”

  Shush wags his little tail.

  “If anybody tries to come in here, you do that again. Okay?”

  I open my pack and take out King Cole’s autobiography, Upon These Truths I Stand. I turn to chapter ten, “Keep Marching.”

  When you don’t think you can keep going,

  You might be right,

  But just in case you’re wrong,

  Keep marching.

  When you’re flat out and don’t know what to do,

  It might be a while before you know,

  But don’t give up,

  Keep marching.

  If your feet are sore,

  Keep going.

  If you hear a roar,

  Keep moving.

  When the worst that can happen has come and gone

  And you’re still standing,

  Remember that you won.

  —O. Kingston Cole, written upon the occasion when a tornado hit Plainview, Georgia, and tore up my house, leaving me and my family homeless

  They moved to Savannah after that and life began to turn around for them, that much I know. Reba doesn’t talk about it much, except for how she worked for Miss Amanda Risserwell, her number one role model next to Mother Theresa.

  Reba was always saying, “My goodness, the very first time Miss Amanda met me, she said, ‘Reba Cole, you don’t come from means and you don’t come from heritage, but you’ve got the heart of a Southern belle nonetheless’—well, I near about fainted.”

  I never once thought that homelessness would visit my family again. It’s like a tornado hitting twice in the same place. Isn’t there a rule that’s not supposed to happen?

  I don’t like the noises in this house. I jump at every one.

  I put Mr. B’s e-mail under the pillow.

  I lie back on the bed and hold Upon These Truths I Stand over my heart.

  I wonder if King Cole can see me from heaven.

  I wonder if God is paying attention, or if he’s off helping people who have places to live.

  I take out the card Dana Wood gave me with her phone number and e-mail. I wonder if she’ll forget that I’m here.

  “We need to stay awake,” I tell Shush. “It’s a long time till morning.”

  19

  LAST NIGHT WHEN I didn’t sleep, I wrote this.

  When somebody important says you’re important,

  You’d better believe it,

  Even when everything around you says you’re not.

  You’d better hold on to it.

  You’d better write it across your heart

  So you don’t forget.

  Bad words come at us easy,

  But good words are harder to hold.

  You’ve got to do the work to keep them safe.

  Put them in a box,

  Put the lid on,

  And if you don’t have a box,

  Anything will do.

  I’m in the kitchen of this place. Boxes of cereal are on the counter.

  “How did you sleep?” Janine asks me.

  “Okay.”

  I don’t tell her how I woke up every hour from the noises, I don’t tell her how Shush had an accident but I cleaned it up with soap and apple juice and napkins. I don’t tell her how bad I need to get out of here.

  She says, “There are raisins in the cabinet above the sink. They’re hard, but they plump up.”

  I can’t think about eating. “I’m supposed to call Dana Wood this morning,” I lie, “and I don’t have a phone.”

  Janine stops doing the dishes and looks at me.

  “I won’t stay on long. I promise.”

  She hands me a phone. I walk to the other room, punch in the number.

  “This is Dana Wood. I’m out of the office, but will call you back as soon as I can.”

  That’s not helping me.

  The older boy walks by. He’s not wearing a shirt. I look down.

  “You want to give me that dog?” He reaches out for Shush and I turn away.

  “He bites,” I say.

  The guy starts laughing.

  “In the middle of the night,” I tell him, “he attacks with no warning. He doesn’t look like he would.” Shush starts shaking. “But he does.”

  “Why’s he shaking?”

  I gulp. “He’s got this energy inside, it’s so strong it makes him shake.” The boy looks at Shush, not sure what to think. “He shakes before he bites.”

  The boy steps away. I go into the bathroom and call Dana Wood’s number again. Her voice mail beeps. My head is pounding.

  I need Dana Wood, not a beep.

  “This is Sugar Mae Cole. I want to remind you where I am. Actually, I’m not sure where I am exactly, but it’s not a good place for me. You’ve got better than this, right?” I close my eyes. “Here’s what I want you to think about: if I was your daughter, where would you want me to be?”

  I hang up, then I realize, if I was her daughter, I’d be living with her. I call back.

  “That message I just left? What I meant to say is, if you were me, where would you want to stay? You’ve got to put me and Shush there right away. We’re already packed. And I want to remind you that you said I could see my mother. That’s got to happen soon, too, because she doesn’t do well without me. I’m not kidding.” I clear my throat. “Okay, so have a nice day.”

  I hate leaving life-and-death messages.

  20

  DEAR JANINE,

  Thanks for giving me and my dog a place to sleep when we didn’t have any place to go. If you’d said that Shush couldn’t stay, I would have thrown an ugly fit, but that didn’t have to happen. I can’t say that being with you was the best thirty-six hours of my life, it was actually pretty bad, but I bet you’re used to scared kids showing up and not knowing what to do. You’ve got a good selection of cereal, though, and the raisins weren’t all that hard. I’ve seen worse.

  I would suggest you get the locks on the doors fixed and you take care of the rat right away. About that boy who walks around without his shirt? Watch your back when he’s around.

  I hope you have a good life and that me and Shush weren’t too much trouble.

  Yours very truly,

  Sugar Mae Cole

  x x x

  Two kind faces—a man, a woman.

  “Well,” the woman says, “we’re happy to have you here. Your dog is so cute. He’s a quiet little thing.”

  We walk up a staircase past peeling wallpaper and family pictures; the hall light is bright.

  “You’re right next to the bathroom.”

  I hope it locks. “Thank you.”

  “Here are some towels.
”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would your dog like some water?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “My name’s Lexie, and this is my husband, Mac.”

  Dana Wood had to do some talking to get me here. I don’t know why.

  “Is there anything else you need?” Lexie asks.

  I can’t begin to answer that.

  Lexie is fluffing the pillow in this pink room. I’m going to put Mr. Bennett’s e-mail under that pillow. She says, “You look a little like our daughter when she was your age.”

  Whatever you say.

  “We’re right down the hall if you need anything.”

  I don’t need much.

  “That’s the quietest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  “He has to be quiet or I couldn’t keep him.”

  Lexie smiles. She’s round and pretty; the top she’s wearing has rainbow colors. She pauses at the door. “You’ve been through it, I know, honey. We’re going to do everything we can to help you.”

  Shush is playing on the shaggy rug, rolling over on his back and wiggling. This is a pretty serious moment, so I try not to smile. Lexie laughs at Shush.

  “I like a dog with spirit.”

  “He’s got that.”

  This room I’m in, it has a white bed. I wonder what color Reba’s room is at the hospital.

  “Your mom is safe at that hospital,” Lexie tells me. “They know what they’re doing over there.”

  People keep saying that. “You take kids in all the time?”

  “As often as we can.” She’s got a sad smile. “Try and get some sleep.”

  “Are there other kids here?”

  “Just you. We only take one at a time.”

  “Can I take a shower first?”

  “Of course.” She hands me a cup that has a toothbrush and toothpaste in it.

  I go to the bathroom and Shush trots after me. I let him come in.

  “Sit.” Shush sits on the green rug.

  I lock the door, turn on the water, and take off my clothes. Shush grabs one of my socks and chews it as I step into the shower and feel the good, clean water run over me. I lather up the soap and wash myself again and again, getting the road dirt off. I wash my hair with shampoo that smells like apples. I take a long shower. Nobody is in line waiting for it, like at the shelter.