I’ve been by every day this week but you’re never here. So maybe he lied about where you are. Or maybe he was mistaken. Or maybe you’re just away during the day like anybody else.
In case it’s that last thing, I’ve decided to leave you this letter. I’m going to write my address and phone number at the end of it. If you ever want to call or come by, you can. And I’ll tell you in person what I really need to say.
In the meantime, the short version is this:
I acted badly on the night I met you. I really didn’t understand the situation yet. I thought you were too slow to get her back to me because I didn’t know what you went through that night. Now I do, and I’d like to try again to say thank you.
The reason I thought you might want to come to my house instead of calling on the phone is this: Remember that policeman? One of the uniformed ones who drove you and Etta back to West LA? He drove us to the hospital that night to get Etta checked out. (She’s fine, by the way.) He said something that seemed strange to me at the time. He said you love Etta. He seemed very sure of that.
I don’t know if you think he’s right about that or not. But if so, I thought you might want to see her again.
But I also know you might not. Might not call or come by, either one. After the way I treated you that night, I wouldn’t blame you.
If that’s the way this works out, then at least I can say this in writing and hope you find this letter and read what I’m about to say.
When Etta was gone and I was waiting to see if I would ever get her back, I said a couple of prayers out into the night. It was a kind of pleading. That whoever had her please be comforting to her, and help her not be too scared.
Now I see that you were the answer to those prayers.
Etta is doing well, by the way. We have a therapist now, and she’s very impressed with the way Etta handled that terrible night. She thinks it’s because you helped her. She thinks you were very mothering with her, and that even though she didn’t have her mother, she had a mother figure to see her through.
So I really owe you one for that.
I hope I get to tell you any and all of this in person. But if not, it’s nobody’s fault but my own.
Etta says your name all the time. And sometimes in her sleep she says, “Brave girl, quiet girl,” and I wonder if she heard that from you.
Thank you,
Etta’s mom, Brooke Hollister
And then underneath she had written her address and her phone number, just like she said she would.
The light was starting to fade and I knew it would get dark soon, so I folded up the letter and stuck it in my pocket and tried not to be scared. But the combination of running into those boys and then somebody finding me here, somebody who knew who I was, well . . . it just kind of had me rattled.
I lay awake for a long time and decided it was nice of her to write me that letter, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to go over there or even call her on the phone. They were lots of pretty words, but I saw what she thought of me that night when I looked into her eyes, and I knew she probably had pretty much the same opinion of me now, even though I think she didn’t know it herself. But I still knew.
I think we all more or less know where we stand with people, whether we like to admit it to ourselves or not.
I guess it was around two nights later, but also maybe it could have been three. Sometimes all the days seem to melt into all the other days, you know? And then who remembers?
Anyway, I’d gotten back with almost nothing to eat, because I hadn’t found enough recycling to buy anything more than a candy bar. I should never eat a candy bar on an empty stomach, because it makes me jumpy and makes it harder to sleep, but then I went and did it anyway.
The plan was to get back, get a little money out of Bodhi’s wallet, and then go out and get some real food. But then when I got there I just crawled into the crate and flopped.
I guess I told myself I was just too tired to go out again, and I’m not saying that’s entirely not true. But also it was dark—not really late, just winter-dark—and after running into those boys, and everything that happened when I had the baby, I might’ve been a little bit afraid but just not talking to myself about it.
And then, speaking of afraid, I started hearing the noises of somebody coming through the vacant lot, and I just knew I was about to be robbed, or worse. I figured all the people on the street knew Bodhi wasn’t here with me, and so it was just a matter of time until they found out where I slept.
I could see a little bit of light, but not a big light like a flashlight would throw off. Maybe just somebody’s cell phone or those little lights you put on your keychain so you can see to stick the key in your front door at night. If you’re lucky enough to have a front door at night.
Bodhi’s wallet wasn’t in the crate with me—it was still in the packing paper at the bottom of that plastic barrel. Because I’m not stupid, and I know that when somebody finds the place where they can see you’ve been sleeping, that’s the place they toss for anything you might actually own.
The only thing that was in the crate with me, except for a couple of raggedy blankets, was the black plastic squirt gun Bodhi used to keep around. He told me never to point it at anybody in the daylight, because they’d right away see what it was and what it wasn’t. It wasn’t going to fool anybody in the middle of the day, but he said hardly anybody’s going to rob you in the middle of the day anyway, so maybe it might come in handy.
The noises were getting closer, so I took hold of the squirt gun and jumped out. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew I had to, because once somebody actually got to the front end of the crate, which was the only end that opened up, they’d have me pretty well trapped.
I could make out a person, but it was just a shape in the dark, and the only thing I could really see was a glowing phone making just a little bit of light to walk by. It was down near the person’s hip. My heart was banging and I could feel the blood in my ears doing this pounding thing, and when I called out, my voice sounded squeaky and high and not scary like I wanted it to be.
“Don’t come any closer! I’ve got a gun!”
“It’s only me,” a voice said, and it was a lady voice. Which I guess was a little bit better, but who knows?
“Who?”
“Brooke. It’s only Brooke.”
Then I laughed, but I think it was mostly all that fear rushing out of me. I don’t think I really thought it was very funny how she scared me like that.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked her.
She said, “Could you please put the gun down and then I’ll tell you?”
“Oh, this?” I said. “This’s not even a gun, it’s a squirt gun. I was just trying to fool you.” I showed her by squirting it against my hand, even though she couldn’t see it in the dark, most likely, but I figured she could hear it. “Now what are you doing here? I thought you said you were going to sort of leave it up to me whether I wanted to see you or not.”
Then I tossed the squirt gun back into the open crate, and it made a noise when it landed, and she jumped.
For a minute nobody said anything. We just stood there in the dark, not even really seeing each other, and it felt stupid. I just felt like we were both being stupid somehow, but I can’t really explain how.
Then she said, “So you did get my note.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure if you did. If you would. That’s why I came by. Because I knew I would always wonder if you saw the note but didn’t want to talk to me, or if you just hadn’t seen it. And then I’d never know if I said sorry properly.”
We stood quiet for another stupid minute.
I was thinking about how sometimes when people want to tell you how sorry they are, it feels a little bit like they want to make themselves feel better. You know. More than you. But I don’t even know for a fact if they can tell that’s what they’re doing or not.
I didn’t say any of tha
t.
After a while I just said, “Where’s the baby?”
“Home sleeping.”
“You left her alone?”
I was shocked. Seriously shocked that she would do a thing like that.
“My mother is home with her,” she said.
“Oh.”
Then we had no idea what to say.
I shouldn’t speak for her, because I can’t really say for a fact what was going on in her head, but there was this big awkward thing hanging between us and you could just feel it. It felt like you could take a fork and poke holes in it, it was that real. You know, if you had a fork.
“Maybe I could just say a little more before I go,” she said.
And I said, “No.”
I think it surprised us both.
“Any special reason?”
“Because I can’t see you. I can’t see your face or your eyes, so I can’t tell what you’re thinking about me. So I won’t know what to think about anything you say to me, because I won’t know if you’re still looking down on me or not.”
“Oh,” she said.
She sounded . . . I can’t quite get the right word for it. Like life was more complicated than she expected. Maybe even like I was more complicated than she expected. Like she was discouraged or depressed by that, or something, and didn’t feel up to handling whatever came next.
The phone had gone dark, but she held it up near her head and touched the screen, and it put a glow on her face. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t see much of anything.
“That won’t do it,” I said.
She let the hand with the phone drop down, and we stood there not talking, and after a while the screen went dark again.
“Have you eaten?” she asked me after a while.
“Not so much,” I said.
“You want to go out and get something?”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know there was more than one meaning to a thing like that.”
But there was. She could’ve meant walk to a store or a restaurant and we each buy something, but maybe she’d choose a place where everything cost more than I wanted to spend.
“Are you . . . ,” I started out, and then I wasn’t sure if I should ask, “. . . offering to, like . . . buy me something to eat or something like that?”
“I am,” she said.
“Like where?”
“Anywhere you want.”
“You’re telling me you’ll take me to any kind of restaurant I want and I can order whatever sounds good to me and you’ll pay for it, and all I have to do is listen to you talk about whatever you’re still wanting to say about that night?”
“Exactly.”
I thought about pizza places, and restaurants that sell burgers and fries. Maybe we could even go to the kind of place that has food like your mother makes at home. You know, like meat loaf and mashed potatoes, or fried chicken with okra. I couldn’t decide what I wanted, but I definitely wanted something, and I couldn’t really see what I had to lose.
“I guess . . . ,” I said, “. . . why not?”
Chapter Fifteen
Brooke: Maybe
“Ooh,” Molly said. But she drew it out a lot longer than that. It was a syllable that just kept going. “I know what I want.”
“What looks good?”
“This open-face hot turkey sandwich with gravy. And mashed potatoes and gravy on the side. I haven’t had that for so long. I bet you can guess how long it’s been since I had it.”
“Last Thanksgiving?”
“Right. But it wasn’t a sandwich, just turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes. But I had rolls with it, so that’s pretty close, right?”
I opened my mouth to ask her a question I probably had no right to ask. Or maybe that’s redundant. Maybe every question was a question I had no right to ask.
Before I could, the waitress showed up.
She took one look at Molly and then backed up a step. Which I thought was rude.
Molly had used the restroom to wash her hands and face, which is at least decent before you eat. But her hair was filthy, and her clothes were filthy. And she smelled as though she hadn’t had a bath or shower for a while. Which I suppose she hadn’t.
I watched the waitress’s face and wished she would look at me. So I could ask her with my eyes to downplay her reaction. But she was staring at Molly. When she finally caught my eye, she was giving me this “You’re a saint” look.
I didn’t like that, either.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have some of those same feelings about Molly. I’d noticed the odor. I’d felt a little embarrassed bringing her into a restaurant in that condition. But at least I’d had the good grace to keep those reactions a secret. At least, I hoped I had.
“What’ll it be, ladies?” she asked.
While Molly ordered the open-faced turkey sandwich, I changed my mind about my own food. I’d planned to have either a chef salad with no cheese or an egg-white omelet. Then I thought, Why am I obsessing about weight? For whom?
“I’ll have the same,” I said.
And the waitress, fortunately, left.
I sipped at my coffee for a minute, and Molly stared out the window and said nothing.
“Sounds like you’re nostalgic for home,” I said after a time.
“Sometimes.”
“If you miss it, you could always go back.”
“Nope,” she said, still staring out the window. “Not an option.”
“Did your parents abuse you?”
“No.”
“Then you could go back.”
“Not really.”
“I know you think they’re terrible. A lot of kids go through a stage where they think their parents are terrible. But you could try to work it out with them. I mean, my mother is the worst. Has been as long as I’ve known her. I didn’t just decide that because I was going through a stage. She’s a very unpleasant person. So if I can work out my stuff with her . . .”
“She’s not the worst,” Molly said.
She had ordered a glass of milk but she wasn’t drinking it yet. Wasn’t even looking at it. She was still just staring out the window.
“Well, you don’t really know that,” I said. Trying to sound patient. But instead of sounding patient I just ended up sounding like I was trying to be. “You haven’t met her.”
“Did you live with her till you were eighteen?”
“I did, yes. Nineteen, actually.”
“So she never told you to go away and never darken her doorstep again. And she never said you couldn’t ever see your little sisters again as long as you all lived. So she’s not the worst.”
I realized then that I had been told this already. I had known she’d been thrown out of the house, rather than running away. And then I’d forgotten it. That time had been such an emotional whirlwind for me. Nothing got in. Or maybe everything fell right back out again. I felt deeply ashamed for bringing it up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I see your point. I’ll have to think about that.”
We said nothing more until the food came. It was awkward. I’d been the one who felt I had so much to say to her. And suddenly I wasn’t sure what it was. All those thoughts had flown away, but to where?
I wondered again what she’d done to get herself thrown out of the house. Must’ve been something big. Mothers don’t put their kids out on the street for nothing.
She looked at her food, and then at mine. It seemed to please her that I had chosen the same meal.
“Do you really love my daughter?” I asked.
She had just taken her first big bite. She took a moment to savor the food. Then she answered with her mouth full.
“I really do.” She finished chewing. Swallowed. Fixed me with an almost curious look. “Not as much as you do, of course, because I just knew her that one night, and she didn’t come out of my own body or anything like that. But she’s just an amazing little kid.”
I stil
l wasn’t eating. For some reason just listening to her was occupying all my faculties.
“What do you think is amazing about her?”
“You don’t think she’s amazing?”
“Of course I do. I just wondered what you noticed most.”
“She’s only two,” Molly said. And took another enormous bite. Talked with her mouth full again. “But she was quiet when I told her we needed to be. I mean, sometimes she couldn’t stop crying completely. She’s a baby. But she understood, and she really tried to do what I asked, and she barely knew me. At first, I mean. And she’s so little.”
“She cares for you, too,” I said.
She stopped chewing and just stared at me. “How do you know that?”
“She says your name over and over.”
I watched her eyes go soft. I realized something about Molly in that moment. She had been searching for somebody who would love her as she currently stood. Who wouldn’t judge her. And she had found that person. But it wasn’t me.
“Didn’t I say that in my note?” I asked her. “I thought I did.”
“Yeah, I guess you did, but I didn’t know you meant she said it like she loved me. Or . . . cared for me, or whatever you just said.”
“Sometimes in her sleep,” I added, “she’ll say something that I’m guessing she heard from you. She’ll whisper, ‘Brave girl, quiet girl.’ Did I say that in the note, too?”
“I think you did, yeah. Yeah, I said that to her. Kind of sang it to her. I think it helped.”
“Obviously.”
“Oh!” she said. So loudly I jumped. “I just remembered! The most amazing thing she did! Right before the police drove by, when I was trying to flag down a car and nobody would stop for me and I sort of gave up and walked back over to the curb with her and sat down. I guess I was having this meltdown, because it was too much responsibility for me, and so she said it to me. She said ‘Brave girl, quiet girl’ back to me, because she knew it’s what you say when somebody needs comforting, and she knew I needed it right about then. And she remembered. I mean, isn’t that amazing? And she’s only two!”
I opened my mouth to speak. To say that it was amazing. Even to me, and I adored her. But surprise tears spilled over, and my voice quavered too much. Enough that I didn’t try to follow through.
Brave Girl, Quiet Girl: A Novel Page 15