If You Find Me

by Emily Murdoch

“She asked us to intervene,” she continues, ignorin’ my outburst. “We would’ve been here sooner, but we couldn’t find you girls. She really had you hidden away pretty good.”

  “No!”

  But it’s a strangled cry, a hollow cry, floatin’ away on the air like dandelion fluff and wishes that don’t come true. And then, as quick as the emotion escapes, it freezes over. I stand up straight. I am ice, slippery and cool, impenetrable and in control.

  “You must have it wrong, ma’am. Mama wouldn’t leave us permanent like. You must’ve misunderstood.”

  The three of us jump back, but not fast enough. Nessa’s stomach contents spatter Mrs. Haskell’s fancy shoes. This, I can tell, is somethin’ she ain’t used to. Mrs. Haskell throws up her hands, and without thinkin’, I fling my arms in front of my face.

  “Oh, God, honey, no—”

  “Just leave us alone,” I snap. “I wish you’d never found us!”

  Without a word, she knows another one of my secrets, and I hate her for it. I hate them both.

  Her eyes burn into my back as I lead Jenessa over to a pail. I dip a clean rag into the water and dab at my sister’s mouth, her eyes glazed over and dartin’ from me to them like a cornered rabbit. The man walks away, his shoulders saggin’. He pulls a cigarette pack from his coat pocket, the cellophane crinklin’ like a butterscotch wrapper.

  Get a hold of yourself this instant, Carey Violet Blackburn! Fix this!

  “You’re scarin’ my little sister,” I say, my voice close to a hiss. “Look, Mama will be home tomorrow. Why don’t you come back and we can discuss it then?”

  I sound just like an adult. Pretty convincin’, if you ask me.

  “I’m sorry, Carey, but I can’t do that. Under the laws of the state of Tennessee, I can’t leave two minor children unattended in the middle of the woods.”

  I soak another rag in the water and hand it to Mrs. Haskell, lowerin’ myself onto the rough bark of a downed tree. I pull Ness onto my lap, my arm around her waist, not even carin’ about the acrid smell that replaces the sweet, sunbaked one from just an hour ago. Her body is limp, like a rag doll in my arms. She’s already gone.

  “Can I see the letter, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Haskell picks her way over to the table, riffles through more papers, and returns with a sheet of my own notebook paper containin’ a handful of lines that, even from a distance, I recognize as Mama’s scratchy penmanship. I pluck the page from her fingers, turn from her, and begin readin’.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I’m writing in regards to my daughters, Carey and Jenessa Blackburn . . .

  It’s as far as I get before the waterfall blinds me. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, pretendin’ I don’t care that everyone sees.

  “Can I keep it, ma’am?”

  Without waitin’ for an answer, I fold the paper into smaller and smaller squares before shovin’ it into my jeans pocket.

  Mrs. Haskell nods. “That’s just a copy. The original is in your official records. We need it for the hearing, when your case goes before the judge.”

  I jut my chin at the man on the bench, who’s watchin’ us, squintin’ through the latticework of cigarette smoke, his form spotlighted by the wanin’ sunlight.

  “I know who he is, and we’re not goin’ with him.”

  “I have permission from Child Services to release you into his custody.”

  “So we have no choice?”

  Mrs. Haskell sits down next to me, lowerin’ her voice.

  “You have a choice, Carey. If you refuse to go with him, we can place you in foster care. Two foster homes. Our families are pretty full right now, and we can’t find one that can take both of you at present. In light of your sister’s condition—”

  “She’s not retarded or nothin’. She just don’t talk.”

  “Even so, her, um, issue requires special placement. We found a home for Jenessa, but they’re just not equipped to take two children right now.”

  Nessa’s thumb finds her mouth, and her hair, soaked with sweat, falls in a curtain across her eyes. She makes no move to smooth it away. She’s hidin’ in plain sight.

  “I can’t leave my sister alone with strangers.”

  “I don’t think it’s the best idea, either. We like to place children with relatives whenever possible. Taking into account Jenessa’s bond with you, I think it would be detrimental to her emotional wellbeing to separate the two of you. It’s already going to be a big adjustment as it is.”

  I glare in the direction of the man on the bench, this man I don’t know and barely recognize. I think of runnin’ away, like maybe we should’ve done as soon as we saw them comin’. But we have no money, no place to go. There’s no car to pull the camper, since Mama drove off with it, and we can’t stay here. They know where we are now. They know everythin’.

  I think of tellin’ her what Mama told me about him, because there’s no way she’d make us go with him, if she knew. But I look down at Ness, disappearin’ before our eyes.

  I can’t leave my sister.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Enough time to pack up your things. You’ll need to pack a bag for your sister also.”

  She leaves us sittin’ there, with the late-afternoon sun dapplin’ the forest floor as if it’s any other day. I watch her reach into the bin by the foldin’ table, then walk back over. She hands me two of the shiny black garbage bags folded up like Mama’s letter. I slip out from under Jenessa, balance her on the tree, and proceed to shake each bag into its full size. We all stop and watch the birds scatter into jagged flight at the unnatural sound of plastic slappin’ the air.

  “Just take the necessities. We’ll send someone back to pack up the rest.”

  I nod, glad to turn my gaze toward the camper before my face melts again. How could Mama do this to us? How could she leave us to fend for ourselves—leave us at all—without explainin’ or sa-yin’ good-bye?

  I hate her with the fury of gasoline set on fire. I burn for Jenessa, who deserves better than this, better than some screwed-up, drug-addicted mother, better than this chaos that always seems to find us, rubbin’ off on us like some horrible rash.

  Ness is my shadow as the trailer door creaks on its hinges, this old piece-of-crap ve-hic-le we’ve called home for almost as long as I can remember—definitely as long as Ness can remember.

  I glance around, absorb the mess, the clothes strewn about, the plates dribblin’ crumbs or caked with dried bean glue, and begin to pack Ness’s bag first. She sits on the cot, unmovin’, not even jumpin’ when I grab the nearest book, one of her Winnie-the-Poohs, and slam it down on a cockroach scuttlin’ across the tiny stainless-steel sink; without runnin’ water, it was as useless as a dollhouse sink, until I’d turned it into a place to store plates and cups. Mama never hooked the camper up to water because water sources meant campgrounds, sites out in the open, and judgmental strangers with pr-yin’ eyes.

  Almost everythin’ of Nessa’s is some shade of pink. I pack a pair of Mary Janes and her pale pink sneakers, her neon pink long-sleeve T-shirt, a dark pink-and-red-striped T-shirt, and another T-shirt with a peelin’-off Cinderella iron-on on the front. I pack her spare undershirt and underpants; “one on and one off,” as Mama says when we complain. Ness’s two pairs of jeans look small and vulnerable stretched between my hands, and my heart wrenches.

  When her bag is full, I use mine to gather up her rag doll, her onearmed teddy bear, and her stuffed dog. Her Pooh books. The brush and elastics. On top, I place my own pair ofjeans (one on, one off), a newer T-shirt, two tank tops, my spare underpants, and the only shoes I own besides the ratty sneakers on my feet: a scuffed pair of cowboy boots from a garage sale in town, the toes stuffed with tissue paper to force a fit.

  Not much fits me clotheswise, after a growth spurt last year. Now I’m glad, because it means more room for Jenessa’s stuff. I don’t need much anyhow. I don’t have toys from childhood or any stuffed animals. I left m
y childhood behind when Mama dragged us off in the middle of the night. My belongin’s consist of a sketch pad I place on top of the pile, while I make a mental note not to forget my most prized possession: the violin that Mama taught me to play the year we moved to the Hundred Acre Wood.

  Mama played in a symphony before she met my father. I grab the scrapbook crammed with clippin’s from her performances and place it on top of the sketch pad, then draw the yellow plastic strings tight. The bag looks close to burstin’ by the time I’m through. But it’s good, because I bet the bag holds more than any suitcase would, if we had one.

  Before I can call for her, Mrs. Haskell appears, and I hand her down the bag, which she struggles beneath. The man gets up to help, lockin’ on my eyes while takin’ the bag from her and slingin’ it over his back. He does the same with the second bag.

  “May I have one more bag, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Haskell obliges. I fill it with our schoolbooks, with my Emily Dickinson, my Tagore, my Tennyson and Wordsworth, making the bag impossibly heavy. Lookin’ at the man, I’d have giggled in different circumstances. He looks like a reverse sort of Santa Claus. A Santa Claus of garbage.

  No one speaks as the man plunks the lightest bag down in front of Mrs. Haskell.

  I go back inside and gather Ness from the bed. Reachin’ out, I pluck her thumb gently from her mouth. Her lips remain in an O shape, and the thumb pops right back in.

  “You’re gonna make your teeth crooked, you know it.”

  She stares right through me, droolin’ a little, and I give her a hug before helpin’ her stand up and walk to the door.

  “How about a piggyback?”

  I squat in front of her, and she slowly climbs on.

  “Hold on tight, ’k?”

  The sun is meltin’, poolin’ behind the trees, and still Mama don’t come. I scan the Hundred Acre Wood, somehow expectin’ her to show up with a greasy brown bag and save the day, but she don’t.

  The man takes the lead, with Mrs. Haskell strugglin’ behind him, trippin’ over roots and sinkin’ into the mud, cursin’ under her breath as Ness and I follow. It’s a long ways to the road, and if we go the way they’re headin’, it’ll be twice as long.

  “This way, ma’am,” I say, poppin’ Nessa farther up my back and takin’ the lead, refusin’ to meet the man’s eyes as he steps aside so we can pass.

  I focus on the endless treetops scrapin’ the sunset into gooey colors, the birds trillin’ and fussin’ at our departure. I close my eyes for a second, breathin’ in deep to make serious memories, the kind that stick forever. I’d locked up the camper on my way out, but I don’t know who has a key, since Ness and I don’t, and we’d only ever locked up when we were inside.

  Mama has a key, and the least she could’ve done, if she wasn’t comin’ back, would’ve been to leave it for us. And then I remember: the old hollow hickory, the one a few hundred feet past the clearin’. I’m eight years old, watchin’ Mama slide a sweaty white string off her neck with a brass key danglin’ from it, glintin’ in the sunlight.

  “This is our spare, and if you ever need it, it’ll be right here in the tree. See?”

  She places it into the hollow, where it disappears like a magic trick.

  I feel safer, somehow, knowin’ the key is there.

  My secret.

  If I ever need it, if Ness and I come back, it’ll be right there waitin’ for us.

  2

  My head buzzes like bees around Pooh’s honey pot, the farther we get from the camper.

  I know they think we look funny. Talk funny. Mama’s right: I have to remember my g’s.

  I, Carey Violet Blackburn, vow, from this second forward, no more dropped g’s. No more ain’ts or don’ts. I’m going to do Mama and Jen-essa right proud.

  No one talks as we crunch our way through the forest. I try to follow what trails I can for their sake, but in these woods, there aren’t enough feet to beat back the overgrowth on a continuous basis.

  “Dammit!”

  I turn and see the man help Mrs. Haskell to her feet, her panty hose ripped just below each knee, with one knee bloodied. She continues on, limping along as if one leg is longer than the other. I reckon she’s broken off the heel of one of those fancy shoes.

  Nessa shifts her weight, her twiggy arms linked around my neck. Against my back, she shakes like a leaf. Her thumb would calm her, but she needs to hold on with both hands.

  “It’s going to be okay, Ness,” I chirp softly, summoning up some cheer. “You’ll have a bed, a real bed—do you ever remember sleeping in a real bed?”

  She shakes her head no against my shoulder.

  “That’s right. The bed in the camper is actually a cot. It’s not the same. There are a lot of things you’ve never had—biscuits with Pooh honey, as much as you can eat. Ice cream—wait till you taste all the different kinds of ice cream—I reckon there must be two hundred different flavors, at least.”

  Nessa leans her head against my shoulder, lulled by my voice.

  “There’s this thing called TV—it’s like your storybooks come to life, but on a screen, in a box that sits on a stand. You’re going to love that. There are machines that keep food cold and wash clothes and do so many things that save city folk lots of time.”

  Nessa’s breath is slow and even, tickling my ear. I whisper the rest, knowing sleep right now would be best for her.

  “I don’t remember most things, but some things you don’t forget. And you know what else?”

  Nessa shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and it’s a good sign, her playing along.

  “If you don’t want to, you’ll never have to eat another bean in your life.”

  The sun disappears and dusk covers the forest like the weathered tarp covering our firewood, casting the trees into unfamiliar shapes unless you’re right on top of them.

  “Is it much farther?”

  Mrs. Haskell is huffing now, and the man walks behind her, as if to help her along if she needs it. Short of carrying her, there’s not much he can do. I imagine him piggybacking her the rest of the way, and I crack a secret smile.

  “Not much farther. Just over the hill,” I say, stretching the truth a wee bit.

  Mrs. Haskell stops in her tracks, distressed, glaring at me.

  “It’s not a big hill, ma’am. More like a hump, I swear.”

  She shakes her head, mutters under her breath, but at least we’re back on the move.

  An hour later, we reach the blacktopped turn off on the main road, a scenic overlook of the forest and the mountains beyond. It was here, years ago, that Mama clicked on the right-turn signal and pulled off the road, headlights bouncing down a dirt trail barely wide enough for the car and camper. I look back, trying to catch sight of where that dirt road used to be, but all that’s left is the faint foot trail we’ve walked up.

  Mrs. Haskell breathes a sigh of relief with paved ground beneath her shoes. She drops the garbage bag and stops to catch her breath, and as she does, tucks the loose hairs back into her bun. But it only makes it look worse, if you ask me, which no one does.

  I know, because I’m a master at hairstyles, having practiced on Jenessa all these years—and believe me, curly hair is harder. A hairdressing magazine showed me how to braid, roll, pin up, part hair into all different dos. If Mrs. Haskell would just sit on the car bumper, I could work my magic in a jiffy.

  At least I could if there weren’t so many bats swooping after bugs.

  Mrs. Haskell lets loose a high-pitched squeal and ducks, and I want to tell her the bats don’t swoop that low, that it’s an optical illusion, but she’s already running. She wastes no time pulling a key ring from her briefcase and limping over to a Lexus, it says on the back, its silver paint glowing under the pumpkin moon just beginning its climb. She unlocks the driver’s side and clicks the back door open for me and Jenessa.

  “Let me.”

  His voice is tender, startling me with its nearness. He lifts Nessa from my back a
nd carries her in his arms to the car, depositing her on the far side, her head leaning against the window glass.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I look down when I say it, but it seems like I should say something, so I do. Peering through my lashes, I watch him turn away and motion toward the back of the car.

  “Could you kindly pop the trunk?”

  Mrs. Haskell fiddles with something, and the trunk pops open. He deposits the three garbage bags inside.

  I slide in beside Nessa and pull the door shut with a click. Mrs. Haskell inserts a key into the slot beside the wheel, and different-colored lights flash on. The man slides into the seat next to her. As if making it final, Mrs. Haskell pushes a button, locking us all in, for better or for worse. She’s barefoot, her wrecked shoes lying in the space between the two front seats.

  “Put your seat belts on,” she says.

  I lean over and fasten Nessa’s, and then my own—it only takes a minute to remember. The car lurches forward and the headlights sweep the forest I love, bringing it into focus one last time. I wipe the wetness from my cheeks, my chest expanding with an ache I can’t swallow down. If it weren’t for Nessa ...

  The lights of oncoming cars flash past, and in their strobe I study the back of the man’s head, and his profile, too, when he turns to nod at the lowly chattering Mrs. Haskell.

  Eventually, I get bored, though, listening to grown-up talk about the weather and the news and other such things I know nothing about. Tornadoes and hurricanes. People killed, nations I’ve never heard of fighting holy wars. I hold on to Nessa’s hand as if it’s for her sake, but it’s for my own. The warmth of her palm against mine spins a familiar cocoon around us, and that’s the last thing I remember before I, too, doze off.

  The dashboard clock reads 10:15 as I blink my eyes, careful not to move anything else. At some point, Ness has slipped from the seat to curl like a Cheez Doodle on the floor mat. She isn’t wearing her seat belt, but I don’t have the heart to wake her.

  “The girls don’t seem much worse for wear and tear, considering how they were living,” Mrs. Haskell says.