“You look worried,” Madeline said as she brewed a pot of coffee.
“This is it?” Melinda knew she shouldn’t sound so shocked, but she couldn’t help it. She’d spent time in some pretty run-down community centers in Columbus—places where ‘urban blight’ wasn’t a phrase that sounded like a bad case of the flu but a real thing where people died in the street and kids were left to fend for themselves—or worse.
But the White Sandy Clinic took the cake. Maybe it was that it was a building out of context—it didn’t blend in with other run-down buildings. It stood alone with nothing to distract from the grubbiness of the building.
“Hey.” Whoops. Madeline’s voice carried a strict warning in it—criticizing the Clinic wouldn’t go over real well. “This is the rez. We do the best we can with what we’ve got, and we’ve got a lot more than we had when I first showed up.”
“Sorry.” It came out as a mumble, which made Madeline give her a hard look.
Melinda hated that look. Always had, always would. It was the exact same look that their father had been giving her since the very first time Melinda had drawn all over her arms, legs and bedroom walls with permanent marker. It was a look that said Melinda would never live up to the fine example that was Madeline Mitchell.
Then everything about Madeline softened and she went from looking like their dad to looking more like their mom. “The first week is the hardest,” she said, pulling Melinda into an awkward hug. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”
Melinda wasn’t so sure as she looked around the dilapidated office. “Just seems like a lot to get used to.”
Madeline had the nerve to laugh as she gave Melinda another squeeze. “It is. Come see the good side!”
Madeline led her outside and around to the new looking steel door. There were no windows in the front of the building, but at least all the cinder blocks were stacked neatly. However, the gray made the place look more like a prison than anything else.
Maybe the inside would be better? Dear God, please let the inside be better. Please.
Madeline unlocked the door and pushed it open. “This,” she said with obvious pride as she flipped on a light, “is the White Sandy Child Care Center.”
Oh, hell. Melinda managed not to say it, but she sure thought it. The inside wasn’t any better than the outside. In fact, it was worse—there wasn’t a single window in the place. The only light came from the bare florescent bulbs overhead and the front door.
The place was empty. It had walls, a ceiling, a floor of poured concrete, and the lights. There was a door in the far wall, but she couldn’t tell if that led outside or to a back room. That was it. The place was a giant gray box.
“This isn’t a Child Care Center—this is a bomb shelter!”
Madeline heaved an impressive sigh. “Yes, I know that—actually, it’s a tornado shelter.”
“You can’t have kids in here—it’s too damn depressing!” Hell, she was becoming suicidal and she’d only been in here for two minutes.
Madeline clearly did not appreciate the drama. “Mellie—don’t see what it is right now. See what you can do with it, okay? That’s why you’re here. You can make it a Child Care Center better than anyone I know.”
Melinda had several choice things she’d love to say but Madeline was giving her that look again. So instead she swallowed down her shock and said, “Um, well, at least it’s all clean.” It was the only nice thing she could come up with.
“Nobody does a great job.”
Melinda froze. Was that small-‘n’ nobody, or capital-‘N’ Nobody who barged in on dinners and tried to glare her to death? “The guy from last night?”
Madeline nodded as she walked through the rectangular space. “He’s very thorough.”
“Is he …” Hell, she didn’t know what to ask. “Dangerous?” That had to be the most relevant question.
Madeline turned and faced her. Even from halfway across the gray space, Melinda could see that her normally decisive sister was at a loss for words. “He’s … Rebel says he’s trustworthy. He’s never done anything to threaten me and he does a good job keeping this place from falling apart. But some of those scars are new. A lot of them, actually.”
Melinda thought back to the patchwork of skin she’d seen on his arms. What had been under the shirt?
Jesus. This was insane. “Are you telling me the guy who looks like a cage fighter is your janitor?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied, her tone crisp. “I am.”
Just then, a male voice shouted, “Doc? Sorry I’m late,” from out in the parking lot.
“Time to meet everyone.” Madeline led Melinda up to the front, where a huge man in hospital scrubs and a bandana was propping the door of the Clinic open with a box fan. “Clarence, this is my sister Melinda Mitchell. Mellie, this is Clarence Thunder, the best damn nurse I’ve ever worked with.”
Clarence had to be six-five, but he still blushed. “I do my best,” he said with a nervous smile as he held out a mammoth hand to Melinda.
Melinda practically had to crane her neck up to meet Clarence’s gaze. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same to you.” Clarence tilted his head toward the barren box next to the Clinic. “It’s a good thing you’re doing.”
Now it was Melinda’s turn to blush. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Are you kidding? A day care is huge.”
Behind Clarence, a pair of young women who had to be sisters—or at least very close cousins—were getting out of a car, along with some small children. “Oh, that’s Tara and Tammy,” said Madeline, pulling Melinda past Clarence. “I got the coffee started,” she called back to Clarence.
“We’re here!” the taller of the two women said. She had big permed hair and her clothes were a tad too tight for her Rubenesque figure, but her smile was warm. She ushered a young girl in with her “Hi, I’m Tara Tall Trees.” Before Melinda knew what was happening, Tara had her by the hand and was shaking vigorously. “I’m the receptionist. This is my daughter, Nellie.”
Okay, so Melinda didn’t always know what to say around adults. Kids were another matter entirely. She crouched down to Nellie’s level. The little girl was probably in kindergarten. “So you’re Nellie! I’ve heard so much about you. Do you like to color and paint?”
Although the little girl was half hidden behind her mother’s legs, Melinda didn’t miss the way she nodded her head yes.
“Good—then you’re going to help me decorate the center!”
Still safely behind her mom, the little girl started clapping. “Can I, Mommy?”
Tara gave her a sweet pat on the head. “Only if you don’t make Miss Melinda mad, honey.”
“Not possible,” Melinda assured her.
“You don’t look like Dr. Mitchell,” Nellie suddenly announced. “Your hair isn’t as bouncy and it’s all different colors.”
“Nellie!” her mother hissed. “I’m sorry, Miss Melinda—she’s only five.”
“Five going on six!” Nellie was clearly insulted by this slight.
Melinda could only laugh even as she caught the uncomfortable way Madeline tried to smile. Her sister had never liked her naturally curly hair, no matter how fabulous Melinda tried to tell her all those curls were. Apparently, it had taken one hot Indian on horseback to convince her to wear it curly. “It’s true,” she told Nellie. “My mom said I looked more like her mom and Madeline looked more like our dad.”
“I look like my dad. He’s got some white in him,” Nellie said, in complete innocence. “But I’m still an Indian. Uncle Rebel’s even teaching me to speak Lakota!”
“That’s enough, honey,” Tara hissed again. “I’m sorry, Miss Melinda.”
“Please, just call me Melinda. We’re practically family.” She turned her attention to the other woman, who was holding a toddler. “Hello.”
“This is my sister, Tammy,” Tara said as she shooed Nellie to a chair and headed for the now-ringing phone.
“Oh—the Tammy who’ll be helping me?” Tammy was clearly the shyer of the two women. She kept her head ducked down, as if she were afraid to actually look at Melinda. She was a little shorter than her sister, maybe a little more generously proportioned, but she had the same big hair and the same nose.
“Yes. I got my associate’s degree in child care.” She looked embarrassed by this, but Melinda couldn’t guess as to why.
“That’s great,” she said, trying to sound encouraging.
Tammy still didn’t look at her, but Melinda thought she saw a faint smile. “This is my son, Mikey.” The little boy, probably about two years old, showed none of his mother’s shyness.
He took one look at Melinda and stretched out his arms. “Pwetty!” He said, reaching for her hair.
Tammy looked mortified, but Melinda took the little boy in her arms. “No pulling, okay?” she said as he petted her hair as if she were a new puppy.
“Red!” Mikey announced, clearly pleased with this observation.
“I’m sorry,” Tammy started to say, but Melinda waved her off.
“Melinda has a way with kids,” Madeline said in such a way that Melinda had to look at her. Was that a note of jealousy in her big sister’s voice?
Not possible. Aside from Madeline’s total helplessness when it came to style—which had, by and large, remained unchanged since she’d decamped to South Dakota a year ago—she’d never been jealous of Melinda. Why would she be? She was smarter and obviously did better in school. Their parents had always been more proud of Madeline, the straight-A student who brought home awards and honors. Melinda had just brought home strange boyfriends and weird art. Well, maybe Madeline had been jealous of the boyfriend part, but she’d never shown it.
She shouldn’t try to read too much into what Madeline said. At face value, her bossy big sister was being incredibly complimentary this morning. That was actually really nice—and somewhat rare. Of course, Melinda knew that Madeline was just trying to psych her up for the big, empty box that was her new job. But still.
She untangled one of Mikey’s hands from her hair. “Do you like to finger paint, big guy?”
“Yes!” Mikey screeched at top volume. “Paint paint paint paint!”
“He paints with mud,” Tammy added, looking ashamed. “On the wall.”
The way Tammy said it verged on heartbreaking. It wasn’t that the boy messed up the walls—heavens, Melinda had done the same thing. It was that, unless she guessed wrong, mud was the only paint Tammy had.
Although she was a flake compared to her sister, Melinda had still gone to college and gotten a degree—two, in fact. One in art and one in psychology. The psychology degree had made her father happy, but instead of following it up with a doctorate, Melinda had focused on art. She’d found the perfect way to combine them—art therapy. She’d trucked boxes of art supplies into inner-city schools—places where the ceilings leaked and the textbooks were twenty years old—and sat down with kids who normally wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her—or worse. Kids who’d spent their whole lives struggling against poverty and crime, against abuse and molestation—against a pervasive sense of failure.
Those kids—kids who joined gangs and brawled over everything—those kids had needed art the most. She’d refused to give up on them and instead, helped them channel their hopeless rage at the life they were stuck in into drawings and paintings and even sculpture. Some of those kids had never played with clay or dough. The supplies had never cost that much—paper and pencils weren’t expensive—but it had been more than some of them had ever had.
She hadn’t been able to save them all. No matter how hard she tried, not all of them could be saved. She’d gone to funerals and cried with mothers over lost children.
But she’d also written twenty-three letters of recommendation for college applications. Those kids were her victories—they’d latched onto art and used it to make something better of themselves.
That was why she’d come out to this strange place so far from Ohio. Madeline had said the kids didn’t have anything. Melinda hadn’t realized that meant babies were using mud for paint. That was less than nothing.
She had a box without windows. Time to make the most of it.
“We’re going to put handprints all over the wall,” she told the little boy. “And you won’t get in trouble at all!”
“Yah! Paint!” He wriggled out of her arms and bolted back to his mom, jumping up and down. “Paint, Mommy! Paint!”
At that point, a beautiful young woman walked in. She was thin and had long black hair that was woven back into a simple braid. If it weren’t for the medical scrubs, she could have been a model. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Mitchell.”
“We’re just getting started,” Madeline said. “Melinda, this is Jenna Inila.”
“Oh—the scholarship winner!” Melinda rushed forward and shook her hand. “Congratulations—your essay was outstanding.” Jenna Inila had won the Mitchell Foundation scholarship that Madeline had set up for Native American students who were interested in pursuing a career in medicine.
“Oh. Yes.” The young woman looked torn, like she couldn’t decide if she was going to shake Melinda’s hand back or stare at the ground. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
Huh. On Tammy, it had just seemed like shyness, but on Jenna, this no-looking thing felt a lot closer to what Madeline had warned her about—that some people wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t talk to her. She was an outsider and it might be a little while before she existed to them.
She let go of the girl’s hand. “Keep up the good work.” If Jenna wasn’t going to look at her, she wasn’t going to force the issue.
Then the parking lot filled up and a bunch of really sick people walked in. Sure, medicine was Melinda’s birthright, but she’d never done well with blood or barf. Or worse.
No one looked at her, actually—not head-on, anyway. She caught a lot of people giving her the side-eye, but for the first time she could remember, Melinda was essentially invisible while everyone greeted Madeline with warm smiles and a mix of Lakota and English.
She hadn’t thought being ignored would bother her, but she was surprised to realize it did.
Then Nellie slid over to her side. “Miss Melinda, what are we going to paint?”
Oh, right. She didn’t have time to stand around and be melodramatic—she had work to do. “Why don’t we go talk about it?”
The four of them—Melinda, Tammy, Nellie and Mikey—walked next door. Nellie began skipping around the room in big circles, Mikey chasing her as fast as his chunky little legs could carry him.
Tammy showed her that the door in back actually lead to boys’ and girls’ bathrooms and a small kitchen, with an additional storage area behind that. Everything was utilitarian. And ugly. But very clean. Not a spot of construction dust to be seen.
Madeline was right. Nobody did a damn fine job.
“Okay,” Melinda said after she tested the faucets. At least the water was running. “This place is depressing. How are we going to make it fun?”
“Cars!” Mikey shouted. He began making vroom noises and squealing his tires as he kept chasing Nellie around.
The sound of just two kids bouncing off the concrete got louder with every echo. Man, what would this place sound like if they had twenty kids in here?
She’d been in a day care once in Columbus that had foam padding on the walls and ceiling. They needed some of that. A lot of it, actually.
Melinda looked down at the floor. The poured concrete was finished smooth. They could paint it … although carpet would absorb the noise better. Maybe she could make something road-like out of carpet squares? There had to be a solution. “What else do we need?”
Tammy started a list. Tables and chairs were at the top of the list, followed by toys. What fun was a Child Care Center without toys? Nellie and Mikey helpfully suggested their favorites—dolls and cars. Books, shelves to keep them on. Food. The center would serve a hot
lunch and two snacks a day. Madeline had already told her that they needed to be ‘heavy’ snacks because a lot of the kids weren’t getting three square meals a day at home, and that they’d need to serve as many fruits and vegetables as possible.
And of course, art supplies. Paper, boxes of crayons, finger paints, enough play clay to build another center—she needed all of it.
There was so much to do—and somehow, she was in charge of it all. A whiff of panic curled at the edge of her mind, but she pushed it back. This was nothing but a really, really blank canvas. Madeline was right—the space had a lot of potential.
She and Tammy spent the rest of the day making lists. The funny thing was, even though the center hadn’t officially opened its doors, there were still somewhere between three and seven kids in there all day, all running around or spinning in circles. Most had come with their parents who had appointments at the Clinic.
The kids didn’t have any problem with her. Sure, not all of them said hi or introduced themselves, but they all looked at her and smiled big when she asked them if they’d like to have a train set to play with or if they wanted to help paint the walls. The answer was yes, over and over.
The list of things they needed grew. Hand soap and toilet paper. Mops and paper towels. Bleach. Cots for kids to take a nap on—or at least blankets or something, Melinda noted after Mikey collapsed in a corner, his little baby butt up in the air. Things like racetracks on the floor would have to wait. They needed snacks and necessities first.
By the time Madeline stuck her head in and announced they were leaving in fifteen minutes, Melinda was beat. Her feet ached from standing on the concrete all day and she had no idea if there was enough money to get half of the things they needed. Hell, she should probably be happy she had that much money at all. God bless being from a rich family—all the more after seeing this place.
Nobody (Men of the White Sandy) (Volume 3) Page 3