Where No Gods Came

by Sheila O'Connor

  In front of Cathedral, I slump down in the car seat. “Do you have to park here?” I ask. I'm sure in minutes Emmy, Carolyn, Tom Payne and Dave Fadden will circle the squad car to jeer at me. “I'll hurry,” he says, locking the doors.

  I take a last look at Cathedral. This school I hate. I think about Mrs. Lajoy saying I wouldn't always feel this way, how one day I'd look back from a distance and see it differently. But I won't. It's burned in my mind forever, and someday, I'm going to tell the whole story. To anyone who will listen.

  When Officer Williams comes out of the building, Mrs. Lajoy is with him. He unlocks the squad car, lets her slide into the back seat. “Faina,” she says, “I'm so sorry about your mother. We all are. You should have told us she was sick. If only you'd told us, things would have been different for you. It's all been a terrible mistake.”

  “I need someone to take my cat. Just for a few days. I know you like them. I couldn't think of anyone else.” I don't want Mrs. Lajoy to see me here, in this squad car, my face wet, my eyes puffy and pink.

  “Yes, of course,” she says. “I'd be happy to. And I'll take good care of her, I promise. What else can I do?”

  “Fina can get the cat if her dad comes for her.”

  “He's coming,” I insist.

  “Sure,” he nods. “But you know how it is,” he says to Mrs. Lajoy.

  “I'll watch her indefinitely. I'll even let her sleep with me. Okay?”

  Mrs. Lajoy opens up the basket to take a peek. “Faina, she's beautiful,” she says, petting the top of Per's head. “What's her name?”

  “Per,” I say. “Persephone.”

  Cammy - What Was Ahead

  Faina? Of course I went back for her, but when I saw her trapped in the squad car, I knew our days together were done. There was no San Diego without her, no ocean, no beach, no chance to escape this sad city. I waited until she saw me, until she knew for sure I'd never desert her. Faina. My baby sister. The dark girl I'd grown to love. I lifted my fingers to my lips to blow her a kiss. I wanted to hold her, to crawl into the squad car next to her, to press her small face to my chest. But I left.

  Tony's basement place was dark and musty, just the way I remembered it. I needed a break from the heat, the steam that was rising off the wet sidewalks. My head was throbbing, my stomach a boiling pit. I grabbed a Budweiser from his little refrigerator, the box of Cheese Nips off the card table, and crawled into his bed. Our bed, the sheets dank and sticky. It still smelled like Tony. Sweat. Cigarettes. Sex. I knew he'd keep me. Knew it that morning at Wentworth's. At least while I was worth something, at least while I could work a good scam.

  When I closed my eyes, the bed was spinning. I was spent from running, spent from the drain of the day. I laid my hand against the cool cement wall, but I couldn't stop twirling. Stale crackers and beer turned in my stomach. But there was something else in there, something eating me alive from the inside. Not Tony's. Not anybody's. Just a dark-eyed dream like Faina or Jimmy. A pink plastic baby pinned to Faina's chest. And who would help me? Cammy McCoy? No mother. No father. No sister. Who would save me from what was ahead?

  Lenore - Intensive Care

  There were tubes everywhere, nurses waking me to check my temperature, my blood pressure, measure the fluids in the clear plastic bags. The constant beep of machines, a needle through my back to drain out the lung. Pneumonia, they said. Maybe liver. Cirrhosis. Like Mother. But I was too young to die. When I asked about Faina and Cammy, no one would answer me. “You need to run that past the doctor,” they said, scribbling secrets about me in their chart.

  “I'm going home as soon as I feel better,” I told them. “I have daughters. I can't stay away too long.” I wanted to leave, to sneak a cab home, but I couldn't. I knew they were stealing my money while I was under their spell of sleep. “I want to see my girls,” I insisted, but they never let me.

  “Okay, Mrs. McCoy,” the doctor said, straddling the chair like a cowboy. “I'll give it to you straight. Your lungs are shot, your liver is shot. It's going to take a long-term solution to turn that around.” It was the first I'd seen of him, some kind of bearded young hippie with a ponytail. Earth shoes. A turquoise eagle medallion. A Mexican smock. A false sense of familiarity. A typical county doctor. Too low to have his own practice. “You need to get out from under this problem. You'll be dead in a year if you don't. I'm sending a counselor from detox intake. The first open bed will be yours.”

  “I can't stay,” I said. In a day or two I'd regain my strength, go home to Faina and Cammy, home to our little apartment, and Per sleeping on the pillow beside me. My girls would watch over me; the two of them would help me get well. “I have children.”

  “Not for long,” he frowned. “The county can't let you keep them in this condition. They're going to look at your stability. Your history. This is it. Your drinking days are done.” He clicked the top of his pen, slipped it behind his ear. “You clean up. Heal. Kick the booze. It might take a few months, even a year to get you back on your feet. The real work is up to you.” He winked at me, patted my leg through the blankets. “First things first. Kick the booze. Then you can go back home.”

  Faina - Shelter

  My social worker, Therese, has good news for me. The doctors at Hennepin County have given me permission to see my mother. My mother. That's what I call her now.

  “As it stands, we'll go after dinner,” Therese says. We're sitting on the lawn in the Good Shepherd courtyard for a special counseling session Therese has requested. “But remember, it's a first visit. Don't expect too much.”

  “After dinner? Why so late?” I want to skip this day I know will drag on forever. Morning studies, where we work in small groups according to our ability. Midday Mass, where the pregnant girls waddle in and slouch in the back pews. Lunch. Always meat, mashed potatoes and gravy the wrinkled nuns scoop onto our trays. Social responsibility. Sponging down the tables in the dining room, emptying wastebaskets, mopping the tile floors. Afternoon rec. Softball out in the hot spring sun. Canteen. Mail call and candy. Study hall. Counseling. Dinner. More meat and mashed potatoes. Food I'm too sad to swallow. Evening free time. Ping-pong or old movies flickering out of focus.

  “I've already gotten you out of morning studies,” Therese says, leaning back on the grass, tilting her face toward the sun. “What more do you want from me?”

  “My dad?”

  “Your dad,” she laughs. “Haven't I already told you I'm doing my best?” I like Therese, her white cotton-candy hair, her hoarse voice, her short denim skirts. She's promised to bring my dad home.

  “So my mother must be better,” I say. “If she can have visitors. She'll be out in a few days.” I can't wait to get out of Good Shepherd, go home to the apartment and nurse Lenore back to health. I don't want to end up like Jimmy, living in a halfway house without Per, or Lenore, or Cammy.

  “Better?” Therese repeats. She has a habit of always repeating my words before she answers me. As if she didn't quite get it straight the first time. “I only know what they've told us. She has a rough road ahead of her, Faina. These things take time. But there's good people willing to help her, she won't have to do it alone.”

  “Like me. I can help her as soon as they let her come home.”

  “Like you?” Therese says gently. “You know that really isn't your job. As much as you might want it to be. You're a twelve-year-old. Someone should take care of you.”

  “Almost thirteen.”

  “All right,” she laughs, closing her eyes. “Almost thirteen.”

  “What about Per? Can I visit her, too?”

  Mrs. Lajoy sent a letter from Per. She made believe it was Per writing to me, telling stories about Mrs. Lajoy's cats, Shadow and Kitty, how they lick her ears in the morning, how they've made room for her at the foot of Mrs. Lajoy's bed. Per said Mrs. Lajoy feeds her little fish treats to fatten her up. “I miss you Faina. Meow,” she wrote. At the end of the letter, Mrs. Lajoy drew a picture of Per with her orange crayo
n fur tufting out of her little duck head.

  “You and that cat,” Therese says. “You have so many requests. Let's tackle one thing at a time. Today, you have a full plate.”

  “Tomorrow?” I say. “Tomorrow could I go see Per?”

  “Tomorrow?” Therese sits up, folds her legs beneath her little skirt, concentrates on the plaster statue of Jesus holding a lamb. “Faina, Mrs. Lajoy called this morning. I didn't realize your confirmation ceremony was tomorrow. She said you worked hard to prepare for the day; she said she'd be happy to be your sponsor. Trouble is, I'm not sure if I can make that happen.”

  “No,” I say. “Please. It doesn't mean anything to me.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes. Just don't mention it to the sisters.” If the sisters find out there's a sacrament, they'll force me back to Cathedral.

  “Okay,” Therese sighs, clapping her hands together. “No confirmation. Anyway, we have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Is our session finished?”

  “Anxious to get back to morning studies?” Therese asks suspiciously.

  “No. I just thought, maybe, if we were done talking, I could pick some lilacs to bring to Lenore. My mother.”

  “Your mother,” Therese repeats. “You do that.” She gives the toe of my tennis shoe a little pinch. “I'll just grab some sun while I supervise.” She stretches back out on the grass. “Don't run away now,” she calls to me. “I'm just inches from getting you out.”

  Jesus stands in front of the lilac shrubs, one delicate hand hooked under the lamb's wooly belly. I tear off a few stalks, imagine how happy the lilacs will make Lenore. I have so much to tell her. I need to say how sorry I am I wasn't there when the ambulance took her, how sorry I am she's been alone in the hospital so many days. I want to tell her I have the family Bible, and not to worry about Per, who seems happy at Mrs. Lajoy's. I want to know if there's been any word from Cammy, a phone call maybe.

  “Don't wander off, Faina,” Therese shouts. “Remember, you're going to be one of the lucky ones.”

  When afternoon rec is finished, we haul the sacks of softball equipment back to the storeroom. “Excellent exercise, girls,” Sister Marie says. Then she announces, “Canteen,” and everyone rushes off for candy. Today I don't care about mail call, or banana taffy, or syrupy bottles of strawberry soda we yank out of an old machine. Instead, I sneak off to the dormitory—a field of bunkbeds twenty girls share. Today I need privacy, a chance to be alone before dinner, to think out the things I need to say to Lenore.

  I pull my diary out from under my mattress. Press in a few lilac petals to save for a memory.

  I wish I had something nice to wear tonight so Lenore could see me dressed decent for once. My first day here, Therese took me “shopping” at the Agape Store, a room in the basement where kids can pick any clothes they want for free. Most of it was junk, stained and worn out by the kids before us. I chose an old pair of Levis with shabby knees, a couple of baseball jerseys, a pilly pair of stretchy red shorts. Nothing Lenore would like.

  “What about it, Faina? You think you're ready?” It's Therese grinning in the doorway, her tan arms folded across her chest.

  “Now? I thought you were taking me after dinner.”

  “Me too,” she says. “But there's been a change in plans.”

  “I just want to do my hair before we leave.”

  “Now?” Therese says. “Forget about your hair, you look great.”

  “It'll only take a minute.” Quickly, I weave it into the single braid Lenore begged me to wear to school every day, the tidy look she liked best on me.

  “You've got beautiful hair,” Therese says, putting her arm around me.

  I hide my diary back between the mattress and the sharp metal springs. “You're the first person who ever said that to me.”

  “Well, I won't be the last,” Therese laughs. “Now let's hurry. There's someone waiting to see you who's already waited too long.”

  I reach for the clump of wilted lilacs. “I should have put them in water.”

  “Faina,” Therese says. “None of this matters.” She takes my hand and pulls me out into the hallway. “Come on.”

  “Sweetheart,” he roars. “What the hell's happening?”

  When I hear his voice I can hardly believe it. It's him. My dad. Right here in the Good Shepherd lobby. My dad, his skin brown and leathery, his hair shaved down to his scalp, his body bigger than I remember. Solid and sturdy.

  “Were you two going to make me wait forever? What kind of operation you got going here anyway?”

  “Dad,” I shout, running to grab him. “I can't believe it. You came.”

  “Who else?” he says, throwing his arms open and swallowing me up in a bear hug. “Jesus Christ, Faina. This is the last place I thought you'd end up.” I bury my face in his stomach, stay still while he kisses the top of my head again and again. A hundred kisses. He's really here. My dad is home.

  “Honey, honey,” he mumbles into my hair. “What the hell happened?”

  I wish I could tell him the whole story, but I'm not sure I know it myself.

  “I told you I'd bring him home,” Therese says. “I just wasn't quite sure how long it would take, and I wanted to save the surprise.”

  “So is she free?” he asks Therese. “Do I need to post bail or something?” He keeps his arms around me, squeezes my neck while he talks.

  “No,” Therese laughs. “You've signed everything. I'll process the paperwork. The county will be happy to be done with one, believe me. We're always glad when we can make a relative placement, let alone a custodial parent. Unfortunately, there are plenty of girls waiting for her bed. Faina's one of the lucky ones; I just told her that this morning.”

  “Lucky?” my dad says, ruffling my head. “That's one way to put it. Let's pack up and get moving. I'm sure you've had enough.”

  “What now, stranger?” he asks, pulling a cigar from his shirt pocket. We're in the Good Shepherd parking lot, the rental car map spread open on my lap, my paper bag of belongings in the back seat. “I think I can make it without pictures,” he says. “Don't forget I just traveled across the goddamn world. Besides, I did my own short stint here; Minneapolis isn't exactly the big city.”

  “What about the oil rig? Do you have to go back? What about the two-year contract? The money?”

  “Money,” he grunts, spitting the tip of his cigar out the window. “I've done enough for money. And look where it got us. Broke and broken.” He pulls me across the hot vinyl seat until I'm nestled in the cave just under his damp arm. “Sweetheart, how long is it going to take for us to set this all straight? To turn it around? A lifetime?”

  “I don't know,” I say. How long will it take?

  He blows the sweet smoke out into the spring breeze. “Pretty nice wheels,” he says. “You think they'd miss it if we drove it home to San Diego?”

  “San Diego? We're going back to San Diego?”

  “What else, honey?”

  “When?”

  “Today. We sure as hell can't stay here.”

  “But we have to stay. For a while at least. Just until Lenore gets well.”

  “Sweetheart,” he says. “We can't. We need to go back. I've made a dent in my debts. Not what I hoped for, but I did my best. I can line up work; the marina will probably take me. At least we'll find a place to crash. We're out on the red-eye at midnight. The tickets are bought. I blew my wad on them. It cost a bundle to bust out of Australia.”

  “But Lenore,” I beg. “I'm supposed to see her today. She's waiting; Therese was taking me after dinner. Dad, I can't go without saying good-bye. And Per, we have to pick her up at my teacher's place.”

  “You got a lot of demands for an ex-con. It's up to the airline if we can fly that cat. And Lenore,” he huffs, with a heavy short breath. “You can send her a line.”

  “No, no. I have to see her. I can't just leave her like this.”

  “Suit yourself,” my dad says, driving past
the tall iron gates of Good Shepherd. “But leave me out of it. I couldn't stand to see her on a good day.”

  “I'll hang right here,” my dad says, holding open the hospital door. He pats me once on the butt. “Have at it, honey. Go write your last chapter. And then we'll hit the road.”

  At the front desk, the secretary jots down Lenore's room number on a small scrap of paper. “Fourth floor.” She points to the elevators. “I hope you're twelve,” she says. “I know they don't allow children.”

  The hospital stinks like the janitor's closet at Cathedral, disinfectant mixed with sweat and sickness, the same smell that followed Lenore. I've never been in a hospital before, and the bare walls, the waxy floors, the people in white uniforms, the cart with the sheet-covered body, all of it terrifies me. No wonder Lenore was afraid to come.

  When I step off the elevator on the fourth floor, I'm stopped by a stern nurse in a white cap. “May I help you, young lady?”

  “I have permission to see Lenore McCoy today. I'm her daughter.”

  “Yes,” she says, studying me. “And you're twelve?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you certainly don't look it. Didn't somebody bring you? Someone from the county?” She cranes her neck to look behind me. “I understood you'd be supervised.”

  “My social worker is downstairs,” I say. “She needed to stop at the bathroom. She'll be up any minute. Can I just go in alone?”

  The lilac stems droop in my hand.

  “Your mother shouldn't really have flowers. Why don't you give those to me? If they last beyond tomorrow, your mother can come out and see them when she feels stronger.”

  “Okay,” I agree, handing them over. Therese was right: None of it matters. I just want to see Lenore.

  “It's the third door on the left. Remember, you can't stay long.”

  Lenore is propped up, her hospital bed at a slant, a starchy pillow under her head. Her eyes are closed; she's sleeping. One tube snakes out of her arm, another ropes out from under her sheet. Her skin is a tawny clay color I don't remember. I listen to her breathe: There's still a faint trace of gurgle, but nothing like the last morning I saw her.