Counting by 7s

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

  I know it sounds crazy, but as I work to control my wheezing breathing pattern, something happens.

  I go from light-headed to feeling grateful for the gift of life.

  It must be some kind of blood pressure phenomenon.

  Dell and Mai walk with me back to the Gardens of Glenwood.

  I want one of them to tell me that I’ll get better at this. But they don’t.

  As we enter the apartment complex I say:

  “I’m going to try again tomorrow.”

  I see Mai and Dell exchange looks of concern.

  In that instant I decide that I will exercise (time permitting) each afternoon for the rest of my life.

  Maybe I’m more competitive than I thought.

  I’m very sore from jogging every day this week.

  Except for day four, when I suffered some kind of setback and had to walk the whole mile, almost on my hands and knees, I know that I’ve made progress.

  But I believe it is fair to say that I will never be very good at running.

  Here is an even larger truth: I am not in any way a natural when it comes to body movement.

  It is in this moment of clarity that I understand that I have never danced.

  I know that I was forced to do some kind of folk steps to music in fourth grade, and I now realize that I was tragically uncoordinated even at that.

  It’s funny how I’d blocked the experience out of my mind.

  In order to successfully transition from twelve years old to being a teenager and then to an adult, will I need to be able to move my hips to a song?

  I’m sweating just thinking about that.

  That’s why this running matters.

  I think that the effort put forward in matters of physical exertion is more important than the outcome.

  And I’m not just saying that because gym teachers have told me this in the past.

  A new reality is emerging.

  I actually like my pink-and-purple flamingo shoes.

  So maybe the jarring movement of jogging is clouding my judgment.

  Even though my exercise regime only takes sixteen minutes, I find that I’m thinking about it when I’m not doing it.

  I know that vigorous exercise changes brain chemistry.

  In my current situation, there is nothing more I could ask for.

  Chapter 46

  I’m on my way to the laundry room when I look under the lava rock in the courtyard.

  I push away a small section of the heap of surprisingly dirty red stones and then peel back a corner of the torn plastic liner.

  As suspected (because of the appearance of the weeds), there is dirt under there.

  For the briefest of moments I imagine clearing away the rock and digging a pond to grow water lilies and red bog flowers.

  I would plant timber bamboo along the north side to jut up into the open space and shade the roof. I suddenly see vines and lush plants clumped together, and the air is pungent with the smell of life.

  But then in an instant that vision is gone.

  I’m left staring at the red rock and the thistles.

  A piece of black plastic that is close to the dryer vent appears to be waving at me like a black flag.

  I go upstairs to report my findings.

  Dell is on the couch with Quang-ha. Mai is reading a book on her bunk bed. Pattie is at the salon. I say:

  “I have an idea. I want to plant the sunflowers downstairs.”

  Mai is listening, because she shouts from our room:

  “Downstairs where?”

  I forge ahead:

  “We could remove the red lava rock heap. There’s dirt under there. I checked. Think of it—-a courtyard with sunflowers.”

  Dell looks instantly concerned.

  “No way. We’re not removing anything. This place is bank-owned.”

  Mai comes into the room.

  “The red rocks are pretty gross.”

  Quang-ha hits a button on the remote and increases the volume.

  Dell has to talk louder now:

  “No one touches the red rocks.”

  I say:

  “Maybe just one section.”

  Quang-ha, despite his lack of interest, says:

  “My sunflower is bigger than the others. It should go into the ground.”

  Dell waves his arms.

  “Nothing’s going anywhere. They can stay where they are and be dwarfs. Or whatever happens to things that don’t have enough space.”

  Mai doesn’t like the way that sounds.

  “In my ‘at risk’ afternoon program we had a whole session on seeking permission for community projects.”

  Dell gives her a crazy look.

  “This isn’t a community project.”

  Mai shoots back:

  “Of course it is.”

  Dell changes his argument with:

  “I’m too busy right now to get anyone’s permission for anything.”

  He’s just sitting on the couch with Quang-ha and neither of them appears to be doing much. Ever.

  I then say:

  “I’ll take the initiative. I can get approval from the bank.”

  It comes out like a threat, but I didn’t mean it that way.

  Dell looks more than confused. He says:

  “How are you going to do that?”

  I send Jairo at Mexicano Taxi an e-mail and he answers right away.

  He will pick me up from the salon and take me to Bakersfield City Hall tomorrow at ten in the morning.

  His message says he has news. He’s been waiting to hear from me.

  In the morning, once we are at work, I wait by the front door of the salon for Jairo. I’m usually in the back, so just being up here makes the day feel different.

  Pattie says:

  “I’m happy that you have a project.”

  I nod.

  She’s always trying to get me to go back to school, without making it seem like she just wants me out of here.

  There’s a fine line between encouraging someone and telling them to get lost.

  I understand that.

  I don’t say that the idea of leaving the salon for someplace new makes me light-headed.

  I’m not good with change right now. I can’t even yet make a variation in my mile running course.

  Mai suggested that we jog the opposite way yesterday.

  That feels like the most radical idea in the world.

  I can’t risk heading in what feels like the wrong direction.

  Jairo gets out of the taxi and comes inside so that Pattie can meet him.

  She doesn’t like me going off in a car with a strange man. I explain that at this point the taxi driver and I aren’t strangers, but I understand her concern.

  I can see that Jairo’s wearing a Bakersfield College T-shirt.

  I’m very happy about this.

  I didn’t know that Pattie spoke Spanish, but right away they start talking in that language.

  I speak Spanish, so I understand as she says what translates to:

  “This little girl has been through a lot.”

  Jairo tells her:

  “This little girl changed my life.”

  Pattie nods, but he doesn’t say more. She then gives Jairo her cell phone number and says to call if there are any problems.

  This strikes me as strange because I’m thinking that I should be the one calling to report the problems, not him.

  But I’m looking out the window and trying to let them have their moment.

  Or whatever it is that they are doing.

  I realize that Jairo is the first person I’ve seen talk to Pattie who she hasn’t tried to order around.

  Interesting.

  In the car, d
riving to City Hall, Jairo asks:

  “Did you see my picture in the news?”

  I have not paid attention in the last few months to news of any kind.

  “No, I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”

  Jairo is very excited now. Almost jumpy. I hope that he’s watching the traffic and the rules of the road. He says:

  “I won twenty thousand dollars. I’m using it to go to college.”

  I gasp. This is news.

  He talks nonstop for the rest of the way about my being his angel, and I have to say that by the time I step out of the taxi at City Hall, I’m feeling pretty good about his life.

  Jairo says that he will wait outside, and I explain that this could be a long process.

  I promise to call him and he finally gives in.

  I don’t want to tell him that I’m not his angel.

  I’m not anyone’s angel.

  But I do say that I think he will make a fine medical technician. It’s an expanding field.

  Jairo wants to call Pattie and let her know that I arrived safely.

  I don’t think that it’s necessary, but I say:

  “Yes, I’m sure she expects you to call.”

  I didn’t realize that this statement would make him smile, but it does.

  The City Hall looks interesting from the outside.

  As a rule, I find public architecture stimulating.

  I go inside to the information desk and wait until the woman there is off the phone. She finally hangs up, and I begin my quest:

  “I’d like to review the documents on file for building projects that come before the city council.”

  My request seemed simple. But the woman behind the counter obviously doesn’t think so. She says:

  “Excuse me?”

  I repeat:

  “I’d like to review the documents on file for building projects that come before the city council.”

  The woman still looks confused. She says:

  “How old are you?”

  I answer:

  “Twelve.”

  I can see that I’m about to be the victim of age discrimination. This woman seems to love repetition.

  “Twelve?”

  I repeat:

  “Twelve.”

  She says:

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  I have an answer, even if it isn’t one hundred percent truthful:

  “I’m homeschooled right now.”

  I want to add that I’m obviously getting an education in bureaucracy every time she moves her mouth, but instead I say:

  “I’m interested in seeing what a presentation looks like, and it’s my understanding that these things would be part of the public record.”

  The woman remains suspicious. And not very accommodating. She opens her mouth and this time says:

  “Where are your parents?”

  Everything stops. I stare. My eyes get drippy and I hear a voice inside.

  I repeat it aloud, saying it to the world, which includes her:

  “A world lost,

  a world unsuspected

  beckons to new places

  and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory of whiteness.”

  And then I add:

  “William Carlos Williams. ‘The Descent.’”

  I don’t explain how much I like this poem, which is, I think, about aging, not death. But right away I’m directed to the Office of Building and Safety.

  I end up talking to a lot of different people.

  Finally I’m introduced to a man with a large right ear and an almost nonexistent left ear.

  Just a nub, really.

  The man has a scar on his neck on the nub side.

  He doesn’t look like a fighter, so my guess is he was in an accident.

  Human ears have successfully been grown on the back of rats and then attached to the head of a human by grafting.

  Obviously, I don’t bring this up.

  But I want to.

  The man with the ear issue goes into a back area and returns with a book filled with the notes from hearings.

  For a second I find the connection interesting. He’s in charge of the hearings—and something happened to the outer covering of what he uses to hear.

  But I don’t obsess on that.

  The man watches me with real intensity as I leaf through the documents.

  The garden in the center of our apartment complex does not need the approval of elected officials to be transformed, but I want whatever I submit to the bank to appear very professional.

  I spend a good chunk of time for the next two days writing a proposal for an interior garden at our building.

  I include drawings (done by Quang-ha under my direction in exchange for biology flash cards).

  I include research on the climate of our area, the ideal plants that can be grown here, and a study of the benefits of green areas in living spaces.

  I also pull the building permit for the Gardens of Glenwood to show that the interior space has the proper drainage, and that in the original plans, they didn’t show rocks, but plants.

  It’s my first project since Before.

  After two days, I have a full three-ring notebook to submit to the bank board.

  I believe that I may have provided too much information.

  That can be as big a mistake as too little knowledge.

  But I can’t stop myself from amassing more and more material.

  I’m making the request in Dell’s name, because he is the person on the lease, and also because getting this kind of detailed plan from a kid would no doubt raise the flag of alarm.

  I present Dell with the black binder.

  “Here it is. I think you should go into North South Bank. Ask to see the manager. Introduce yourself, and then leave this with him.”

  Dell is silent as he opens the notebook and begins to look. It doesn’t take long for him to say:

  “I can’t do this.”

  He shuts the binder and tries to hand it back to me.

  Dell Duke is not a bad person. He is just bad at being a person.

  And he has issues with authority.

  Or at the very least, he seems very easily intimidated by anyone who has some. I say:

  “We’re not asking for money. We’re not asking for anything but permission to remove an eyesore and transform a communal place. It would be an improvement.”

  I’ve barely gotten the words out of my mouth when Mai comes through the front door. She’s been at her friend Kalina’s house.

  “What’s going on?”

  I look from Dell back to her.

  “I’ve made a proposal and Dell needs to take it into North South Bank.”

  Mai has crazy power over people. It only takes one word from her.

  “Dell . . .”

  He changes course like the wind in a dust storm.

  “I’ll drop it off tomorrow on my lunch break. Does that work for you two?”

  We nod.

  From the couch Quang-ha says:

  “I did the drawings.”

  The garden project is under way.

  At least on paper.

  Chapter 47

  The new court date was set.

  Pattie held the document in her hands.

  The system was responsible for children until the day they turned eighteen years old. So Willow Chance had six years to navigate these waters.

  Pattie remembered the note that Willow had written the first day she met her social worker at the nail salon. She couldn’t imagine that any other kid had presented something as precise.

  Willow had a high-functioning brain. That much was clear.

  So what does the world do with a twelve-year-old girl wit
hout family and a network of close friends? What were the choices?

  In the big envelope the social worker had sent, Pattie now found a pamphlet for the next state-sponsored Adoption Fair.

  From what she could see, the process looked like speed dating.

  The fairs were held in a park. Prospective parents arrived and mingled with the busloads of kids, who came with social workers.

  Hot dogs and hamburgers were served. A softball game was usually organized. The idea was to just be natural and give people a chance to get to know each other.

  According to the statistics on the last page of the informational brochure, there were matches made. And of course, sometimes they worked out.

  Pattie felt certain that the little kids, especially the cute ones, got all the attention, since they were featured in the pamphlet.

  The older kids, even the more outgoing ones who were trying to sell themselves, no doubt ended up the snakes at the petting zoo. People probably kept their distance.

  It was hard to imagine Willow Chance in such a setting, but maybe she would defy the odds.

  Hadn’t she been doing that her whole life?

  Mai liked to shop. So even her mother’s regular trip to the farmer’s market presented an opportunity to browse.

  Pattie always bought chicken feet from the man who sold organic eggs. He saved them for her in a special cooler of ice. She used the yellow fowl feet to make a soup that Mai had to admit was delicious, but it tasted better if you didn’t see the ingredients.

  While her mother went down her shopping list, Mai wandered the aisles of the parking-lot-turned-market, looking at the organic honey and the purple turnips.

  Willow said that she used to grow everything that they sold there in her own backyard.

  Mai looked at the lettuce and the potatoes and the onions and the red cabbage.

  It didn’t seem possible.

  But Willow wasn’t a liar.

  About anything.

  At the far end of the last aisle was a man playing a banjo. Mai moved closer to hear him.

  The sun was shining, but it wasn’t the punishing heat of summer or late spring. The air was still cool.

  Mai took a seat on the edge of the curb and listened.

  She couldn’t help herself from imagining the notes of the plucking strings playing for dancing chickens.