If You Find Me

by Emily Murdoch

  Again, her eyes shouted. Again!

  I run my shower, the water lacking the fishy creek smell I’d grown used to and even liked after a while. Cupping my hands under the stream, I splash water onto my face. Once I double-check that I’m locked in, I strip naked, squaring off with the full-length mirror on the back of the shower door. I’ve never seen my whole self all at once before.

  I see lots of angles connected to bones. I turn around and strain over my shoulder, my eyes traceing the white lines left by the switch, and the two purplish red upraised circular scars from Mama’s cigarettes, just below my left shoulder. All that’s fresh is a bruise on my upper arm, where I’d slipped down some rocks while chasing a quail.

  I stand under the stream of hot water. I could stand here forever. The peachy-pink bottle on the shelf squirts liquid soap onto a puffy scrubby thing hanging from the showerhead. The shampoo has black letters written on it: Scrub hair. And another bottle, called conditioner, has more black words: After shampoo, put on hair. Wait a few minutes. Rinse off.

  So I do both, lingering in the heat and steam until I’m clean from the inside out. I think of Saint Joseph and thank him for all of it—plentiful amounts of food, the miracle of electricity, inside flush toilets, clean, running water, bubbles for Jenessa, heat and blankets and the thick, plush towel that wraps around my body nearly twice, hanging down to my bony ankles.

  There’s a soft rap on the door, and Melissa’s voice floats like a ghost through the wood.

  “Your sister is squeaky-clean. She’s picking out some clothes. We have half an hour, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s a brush and a comb for you, Carey, in the top drawer.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I hear her pass, and I turn to the sink, opening the drawer below the basin. Looking inside, I find an antique silver brush and comb set with my initials engraved into the metal: C. V. B.

  Carey Violet Blackburn named after my gran.

  “Let me comb your hair, cookie.”

  “Okay, Gran.”

  “Come sit here on the footstool. That’s a good child. A cookie for my cookie, when we’re through.”

  “I love you, Gran“

  “And I love you, cookie- girl“

  Gran had a set just like this. Jenessa, a real girlie girl, is going to go nuts when she sees it.

  I think of the old horse brush we’d been using the past few years and the comb with more gaps than teeth left. I’d wither and die if Delaney or Melissa saw them. Not wasting a minute, I stride into my bedroom and pull out the brush and comb hidden under my T-shirts and bury the items at the bottom of the bin in the bathroom. I go to Jenessa’s room, grab the two garbage bags from the bottom drawer of her bureau, and arrange them on top of the rest brush and comb, for good measure.

  I stand there, staring at the garbage. Once again, the heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks.

  “You’re a square peg“ Mama says, none too kindly, “bent on shovin yourself into a knothole“

  Like silver brushes would make me fit.

  “Fake it through until you make it true,” Mama also said, for all of the one month she went into town for meetings. She’d been one of many who looked old before their years.

  “For the first time, I wasn’t the only woman missin teethI” she says, her cackle leechin into a long, hackin’ cough.

  “Was it a good meetin’?”

  “We chain-smoked, drank free tea, and exchanged hard-knock tales, if that’s what you mean. I even made me a new meth connection.”

  I vow to follow Mama’s slogan, which sounds very smart to me. Jenessa will have to do the same. Fake it through until we make it true. Be modern girls, normal girls, girls with a second chance.

  “Fifteen minutes!” says Melissa with another rap on the door. I hear a softer, lower rap, and I know she has Nessa in tow.

  I brush my hair down my back, pulling it over my shoulder to brush the furry ends. I fold my towel in half, sad to see it go, and hang it neatly over the bar on the bathroom wall.

  If I don’t want to use a length of rope for a belt, then I only have one viable pair of jeans, the ones I’ve been wearing three days now. Melissa’s already washed our other clothes, but I haven’t been able to part with these jeans, not even for a twelve-minute wash cycle, and even if the clothesline is viewable from my bedroom window.

  I sniff the material, the familiar wood smoke filling my nose. But then again, I don’t want to stink. Unsure, I pour a handful of baby powder into my hand and rub it into the crotch, inside, where no one can see.

  My only other T-shirt has a peace sign on the front, like the sixties, Mama said, although I don’t know what that means. Sixty apples? Sixty elephants? Sixty peace signs?

  On further thought, I grab up my undershirts in a big ball and throw those in the garbage, too. They tower on top of the rest, but I don’t care. I pull on a tank top instead and pull my T-shirt over that, which smells okay—like pine scent and fake sunshine. “Fabric softener,” Melissa called it. I pull on clean socks and exit my room with my cowboy boots in tow, careful not to jostle mud onto the clean floor.

  In the hallway, I applaud Ness in her pink-and-yellow T-shirt with an orange puppet on the front. Mama called the puppet “Elmo.” On her feet are blue Keds, an old pair of Delaney’s. They fit perfectly, and almost look new. My sister’s blond curls shine, gathered off her forehead with a pink ribbon Melissa tied into a bow at one side.

  “You look beautiful,” I say, my eyes welling.

  Jenessa runs over and hugs my legs, and we stand there for a moment, clutching each other. I take her hand and follow Melissa downstairs.

  “Thanks, Mel. The girls looks great,” my father says, grinning. “Everyone ready?”

  He reaches out and touches one of Jenessa’s curls. She burrows her head into his hand, and my father blinks, his voice gruff.

  “You’re a little lovebug, aren’t you?”

  Ness breaks away and runs out the door when she sees Shorty chewing a bone on the front porch. He abandons it for her, and she hugs him close, her face buried in his fur.

  “I still can’t get over it. Two peas in a pod, those two,” my father says, shaking his head.

  “The only animals we had were for dinner,” I tell him, and he stares at me, his grin receding like the mountains during some of the worst storms, the ones where the roof leaked into rusty metal pots while we huddled together on the cot for warmth, our toes and lips blue.

  Jenessa reappears and tugs on my father’s hand, pulling him out the door. I note the emotions that play across his face—happiness, sadness, shock, regret—before he tears his eyes from mine.

  Gravel crunches under the tires as we bounce down the driveway. Nessa kneels backward on the seat, waving at Melissa on the porch until we can no longer see her.

  “Turn around, Ness, so I can do the seat belt.”

  First, I plop each of her feet on my thigh and tie her shoes— the laces are always coming loose—making bunny ears with the laces.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” my father asks, astonishment in his voice.

  “You,” I say quietly as another memory slips into place, like a puzzle piece that knows where it belongs even before I do.

  I see myself, a little girl from another world, riding in the truck with her daddy.

  “Oh no. My soos are bwoken.”

  I pout, wavin my feet in the air from my car seat in the back.

  “Want me to make you bunny ears?”

  “Bunny eawrs! Bunny eawrs!”

  My father keeps his eyes on the road, his knuckles yellow-white as he grips the wheel.

  Mama’s voice scratches through my mind, too.

  “That son of a bitch left us to fend for ourselves.”

  “But you said we left him.”

  Her swift backhand knocks me off my feet.

  “Don’t you sass me.”

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  My
nine-year-old voice is tinier than a chipmunk’s chirp as I clutch my cheek, tears stingin’ my eyes.

  “Damn right we left him. I had to save my girl.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  “And don’t you be tellin no strangers our b’ness. Family b’ness don’t leave this family.”

  I nod vigorously, her viselike grip dentin’ my upper arm.

  “If you see anyone in these woods,” she says, lettin go only to cup my cheeks so tightly, my eyes bug out, “hide. Don’t let yourself be seen, girl, and whatever you do, don’t give your name.”

  “What would happen, Mama?” I ask, my face achin.

  Nessa wails, wantin’ me to go to her. But Mama won’t let go.

  “They’ll take you away from me and make you live with him. And then I won’t be there to protect you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now go see to your sister, before I slap that cryin right outta her.”

  The Children’s Services parking lot teems with cars, thick as ants on spilled beans. My father has to circle around back to find an empty parking space.

  “Take your sister’s hand,” he says as we jump out.

  I lift our arms into a V, sister fingers entwined. “I’ve already got it, sir.”

  “Of course you do. I keep forgetting—”

  “It’s okay, sir.”

  “Maybe it’s good I keep forgetting, huh?”

  I know what he means.

  I’m a girl, just a girl, who never should’ve had to be in charge in the first place.

  Jenessa tilts her head back. Her large eyes worry me with questions.

  “Melissa said it’s just some puzzles or something, remember? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

  Nessa’s grip relaxes. I wouldn’t tell her something that wasn’t so. I lean in and gather her backpack from the seat, a gift from Melissa before we left the house. It contains two sandwiches, a clean pair of underpants, and a few children’s magazines.

  “That’s Snow White on the back,” Melissa says, turning the backpack over.

  We look at her blankly.

  “Don’t you know Snow White? She’s a princess. You know, the Disney princesses?”

  “She knows Cinderella, ma’am. From her shirt.”

  “Right! Cinderella is one of the princesses. I’ll have to dig out Delly’s princess books for you, Jenessa.”

  Nessa claps her hands and does a silly dance.

  We smile, Cinderella building a bridge between our woods and civilization. For a moment, we all stand on it equally, comfortably. For a moment, we belong.

  Ness reaches for my father’s hand, and we make an awkward train, zigging up the building’s steps and zagging down the polished hallways. I picture him in my mind, pushing open the beige door with the MRS. HASKELL nameplate glued to the front, discussing the letter and our case while I cooked beans and washed clothes in the creek and smushed cochroaches scurrying across the tiny countertop, oblivious to the coming end of our world.

  Mrs. Haskell looks awfully happy to see us.

  “Awww,” she says as Ness flies into her arms.

  Familiar faces are priceless for my sister. In a sea of trees turned into a sea of total strangers, familiar means everything.

  “Hi there, sweetie. Hi, Carey. Won’t you come in?”

  My father motions me in front of him with a sweep of his hand. We all settle into chairs opposite Mrs. Haskell.

  “How’s it working out so far, Mr. Benskin?”

  Folders are piled high on every surface but her desk. Even an empty chair boasts a rising tower of paperwork stretching toward the ceiling, steadied by the wall the chair leans against.

  “We’re doing well, I think. Right, girls?”

  Jenessa leaves Mrs. Haskell’s arms and sidles over to my father, climbing into his lap. Mrs. Haskell turns to me, waiting.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re doing right fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “That’s good to hear. I dare say we may have a happy ending in the making. And they lived happily ever after.’ Who doesn’t love a happy ending?”

  I think of Jenessa. We have to stay together. That’s our happy ending.

  “Let’s get down to business. I’ll be working with Jenessa today, and you’ll be in a room on your own,” she says, motioning toward a few loose pages on her desk. “These are written tests. Answer what you can.”

  She hesitates, and I wait, watching the struggle play across her face.

  “Excuse me for asking, but you can read and write, can’t you?”

  My cheeks burn.

  “Yes, ma’am. We both can. I taught Ness through books. I also taught her her sums. Mama found a chalkboard at a yard sale, and we used that. We had some old schoolbooks, lots of Winnie-the-Pooh books, and the poetry of Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Wordsworth, Lord Tennyson, Mr. Tagore, and Miss Dickinson, to name a few.”

  Mrs. Haskell exhales, looking relieved.

  “That’s really good, Carey. Jenessa’s lucky to have a sister like you. It’s much easier to teach reading, writing, and numbers to children when they’re younger.”

  Nessa grins, like she’s so smart and it’s all her own doing.

  “All I ask,” I say, the mama bear rising, “is that you don’t make her talk if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Are you sure she can talk?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she talks to me.”

  I shift in my seat, feeling like I’m betraying Nessa’s trust. But the fact of the matter is, her choice to remain mute concerns me, too. As if it isn’t bad enough we’re poor, backward folk; Jenessa’s lack of speech is enough to cast her as a freak. She’s so trusting, so innocent. That’s what worries me the most.

  “She talks to you? When was the last time?”

  I look over at Jenessa, who’s thumbing through a Highlights magazine fished from her backpack. She stares at the page, transfixed by a dog that bears a clear resemblance to Shorty.

  “Yesterday.”

  My father looks from me to Jenessa. Surprise and relief flood his eyes. He exhales loudly as he fiddles with the ball cap on his head.

  He doesn’t want her to be a freak, either.

  “What did she say?”

  I look over at Nessa again, who seems relaxed, paying no nevermind.

  “She said Shorty was hers.”

  My father laughs until his eyes tear up and his face turns kidney-bean red. When he finally gets hold of himself, he sputters out the words.

  “That’s right, honey. That old hound dog was half-dead when we found him in the woods. I bet she’d understand the feeling more than most. He’s hers all right.”

  And that’s the thing about little kids. Even when they’re not listening, they’re listening.

  Nessa flies to my father and weaves her arms around his neck. She looks like a twig that’d snap on the first bend, wrapped up in his tree-trunk arms.

  I’m overcome by a feeling I don’t know how to hold. It’s the opposite of hardship and worry. The opposite of cigarette burns, dwindling camp supplies, and creek-cold bones.

  Mrs. Haskell, her eyes bright, clears her throat. “Okay, folks. Carey, you can see yourself to the room next door. That’s right, the one to the right. Mr. Benskin, you can sit in the waiting room. I’ll be working with Jenessa at the table here. Carey, take these with you.”

  She holds out pages. I lean forward in my chair and take them from her hand.

  “Please print your name and age on the top right, and answer as many questions as you can. There’s no passing or failing—we just want to see where you are.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My palms sweat and my jeans stick to my legs. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Now, Jenessa, your tests are like games. Do you like games?”

  Nessa’s eyes grow wide and she nods.

  “Good. You sit in the chair right there.”

  We drag ourselves out the door, bo
th of us hesitant about leaving her.

  “Jenessa will be fine with me. I promise. Now, shoo, you two.”

  My father makes his way toward the waiting room, but I linger.

  “It’s okay, Carey. Really.” Mrs. Haskell looks me straight in the eye. “She’ll have fun.”

  “If she needs me, you’ll send her right next door, ma’am?”

  “I will. And I almost forgot.”

  Her heels click over to me, and she holds out a long yellow stick with a sharp black tip on one end and a brownish orange cylinder on the other.

  “This is a pencil. I know you know what a pen is, right? I saw some in the camper.”

  I nod. Black ink, called a Bic. My mom hoarded them in an empty tea can.

  “Well, a pencil is the same sort of thing—a writing instrument. You write with the sharp end, and see this hard, spongy thing here? That’s an eraser. If you make a mistake, you can erase the markings you made with the eraser.”

  I marvel at it. “We could’ve used one of those when Jenessa was learning to write.” I take it from her outstretched hand.

  “Well, you can keep it, if you want. See what it says on the side?”

  I read it out loud. “ ‘Children and Family Services of TN.’ ”

  “TN is the abbreviation for Tennessee.”

  “Where we live,” I say softly.

  “Right. Now, off you go.”

  Me and my pencil enter the assigned room, and I lay out the pages on the long table. I can’t see tables now without thinking of a plate of bacon. I wish there was bacon, too.

  The first part is easy:

  Carey Violet Blackburn

  Age: 15

  It could be worse, I tell myself as I struggle over the first few questions. You could not know how to read or write. You could’ve had no books, no schoolbooks, or, even worse, no motivation to teach Ness or yourself.

  To my surprise, once I get started, I know most of the answers, and the math is even easier. I think of the algebra and trigonometry texts Mama brought home from the yard sale, and those endless hours we filled with history and science, poetry and Pooh.