The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  “Hmmm.” The woman taps her foot. “That doesn’t give us much time. You’ll dispose of the furnishings?”

  “Yes, at an estate sale. After Lucy moves out, of course. We don’t want to disrupt her environment prematurely.”

  Their voices are getting louder. My heart is thudding again. They’re going to sell our apartment. And all our furniture. My stomach elevator is plunging, and I slide to the floor, a cry escaping. Lexie meows, too.

  “What’s that?” The lady’s voice.

  “Is someone home? Deirdre?” It’s Mr. Langley, getting closer. Who cares if I get caught now? “Deirdre?”

  They’re both in the foyer. The lady’s carrying a legal pad and writing notes. Mr. Langley strides across the shiny tile. “Lucy! What are you doing home from school? Are you sick?”

  I shake my head, crying now as he crouches down next to me.

  “Where’s Deirdre?”

  I shrug.

  “They let you just come home from school by yourself?” He’s reaching for his phone. Who is he calling? Deirdre or school?

  The lady clears her throat. “Perhaps we should arrange to complete the walk-through later, then, Bill?”

  He looks up, the phone already at his ear. “Yes, sorry, Vicki. This is unexpected, obviously. I’ll call you later.”

  “Fine.” But she’s looking past us, down the hall, toward the open bedroom doors. She doesn’t want to leave. I run down the hall, banging Mom and Daddy’s bedroom door shut, then my own. Deirdre’s is already closed.

  “Go away! Get out of my house!”

  “Lucy!” Mr. Langley sounds reproachful. How dare he?

  “You, too!” I turn on him. Lexie meows and jumps out of my arms.

  “Oh dear.” The lady looks shocked and backs away. Her heels slide, and she teeters, dropping her notebook before she catches her balance. I can read some of her notes: “Kitchen: Cabinets OK. New counters? Living room: Buff floors, remove drapes. CAT ODOR!!”

  Mr. Langley puts away his phone. He never talked to anyone. He picks up her notebook and opens the front door. “Again, I apologize, Vicki. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” He closes it almost in her face, then turns to me. His face is sad now.

  “I’m sorry you saw that, Lucy. I expected you would be at school, so—”

  My chest is heaving again. “You’re going to sell it? My house?”

  “After you move, what would be the point of keeping it?”

  “It’s my house!”

  Mr. Langley sighs. “Lucy—”

  His phone rings. He looks at the screen. “Thank God.” He pushes a button. “Deirdre? It’s Bill Langley. I’m at the apartment. Lucy’s here, too.”

  Even over the phone, I hear Deirdre’s screech. “Lucy? She’s supposed to be at school!”

  “Yes, she surprised me, too. I was here with the agent, doing a prelisting walk-through. She overheard us, and now she’s quite upset. How soon can you be here?”

  He listens, then nods. “All right. I’ll stay until then.” He hangs up. “Deirdre’s on her way.”

  I figured that out already. I don’t say anything, just stare at him, my fists balled up. I hate him. First he makes me go live with Aunt Jane in Michigan. Now he’s selling my apartment. And Deirdre was in on it.

  “Lucy, I’m sorry. I wish I could change things.”

  “Then don’t sell it!”

  He sighs again. “It doesn’t make any sense to keep it.”

  “I don’t care!” I stamp my foot. “Go away. Just go away and leave me alone!” I run down the hall to my bedroom, slam the door, and reach under the pillow for Mom’s Venice Beach hoodie. I scrub the sleeve against my hot, wet face and flop down on my bed, reaching for my phone and earbuds. I swipe Hello Kitty’s paws. The screen looks different. On top of the blue Facebook square is a little red number one. I touch the square. One new message. “¡Hola, prima!”

  Graciela has written back!

  Chapter 18

  JANE

  I pace in front of the fireplace that serves as the airport passenger rendezvous, glancing at my watch every ten seconds. Lucy’s plane is late, and my biggest plot of strawberries needed to be picked yesterday. I tried to check the flight information online but gave up because the computer was so slow. Could have picked at least another row. Well, Lucy can help. She’ll settle in faster if she’s busy. Not much beats a Michigan strawberry, either. I’ll make some shortcake later. A welcome-to-Michigan treat.

  It’s still hard to believe that this is it, I’m taking her home today, although the specter of her arrival has encroached closer and closer since Langley’s phone call about the furniture a week ago.

  “Lucy has some items she’d like to keep from the apartment. I’ve arranged to have them shipped.”

  “What kind of items?”

  “Smaller furniture pieces. A chair from her bedroom. Some electronics—her video-game system.”

  “A video-game system? I don’t even have a TV.”

  “Deirdre tells me she rarely actually plays it. I think it’s a symbolic statement. The school social worker says it’s entirely normal to want to preserve things that are sentimental or familiar.”

  I got that, though from the opposite purpose, like the new quilt to excise Jim from the bedroom. Hmm. I surveyed my small living room, wondering how much symbolism could fit. Rather than Matt’s room, I’ve decided Lucy’s going to sleep upstairs, in what would have been the guest room if we’d ever had guests. There’s a bed and dresser and enough space for her chair and a desk, for homework. Whatever doesn’t fit, we can always store in the barn.

  “There’s more you should know, Jane.” Langley’s tone got more serious. “Lucy’s been acting out lately.”

  “Acting out how?”

  “She recently left school on her own, without permission. When she discovered that the apartment was to be sold, there was a rather heated encounter with the real estate agent.”

  If I found out I was losing my home, I’d respond heatedly, too. In fact, I did, though Langley’s probably forgotten the conversation when he suggested I move to New York.

  “While they’re not typical of her behavior, both incidents are within the bounds of normal grieving for a child, the school social worker says. They may even be evidence that she’s moving forward, from the denial stage to anger.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, out loud this time. Was I still angry at Gloria and Luis? What comes after anger, for both of us?

  “I’m telling you so you can be prepared. He’s suggested that arranging a counselor may be helpful.”

  “All right.”

  “Would there be a professional in your area that can handle pediatric counseling?”

  There it was again. The condescension. Traverse City is not New York City, but it’s not the back forty, either.

  “I’ll ask around.”

  “Good. On legal matters, I’ve received the official police report on the car accident. The limo driver’s been found culpable, which gives you grounds to make a claim on Lucy’s behalf.”

  “What grounds?” Just then a blue car had pulled into my driveway. My work-share customers, the Livingston family, here for their first day.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go now. Do whatever you think best.” He was the attorney, after all.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. Flight Four Forty-Two from Detroit is now approaching gate two. Passengers will be disembarking momentarily.”

  Here we go with the rest of our lives. I stare down the hallway, heart thumping, searching for the dark-haired, moved-beyond-denial-to-anger child with the glittery high-tops.

  No. She wears flip-flops, and a hooded sweatshirt that looks huge on her, the sleeves covering up her hands. White earbuds form a Y under her chin. She’s looking all over except at me. Trailing her is a uniformed flight attendant, carrying something that looks like a cage. What in the world? I step into their path.

  “Hi, Lucy. Welcome to Michigan.” Awkwardl
y I wave, and then reach out to hug her. I catch a snatch of music from the earbuds. I feel a tremor—is that the music, or anxiety? She steps back before I can decide.

  “Jane McArdle?” The flight attendant sets down the cage and glances at a paper. “ID? All right, then, we’re all set,” she says as I show her my license. “You two have a nice day!” She flashes a blank smile and disappears.

  Lucy’s still not looking at me. Other passengers stream around our trio, like water around river rapids.

  “Um, what’s in the cage?” It’s draped, but looks just like Sarge’s.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Lucy?” I say it louder. “Can you take the earbuds out, please?”

  With a sigh, she pulls one out.

  “What’s in the cage?”

  She looks at it like she’s never seen it before. “This is Lexie. My kitten.”

  “You didn’t have a kitten before.”

  She shakes her head. “Daddy was allergic, so I couldn’t.”

  “So you got her—after?”

  “From the Humane Society.” She pushes up the too-long sleeve, then picks up the cage. “Mr. Meinert thought it would be a good idea for me to have a pet.”

  “Who’s Mr. Meinert?”

  “The school social worker.”

  First shipping five hundred pounds of furniture, then bringing a cat halfway across the country. What other suggestions did Mr. Meinert offer?

  “Your crate arrived yesterday.” It was quite a bit bigger than Langley had implied, a five by eight that arrived on a semi. But there was plenty of room in the barn. They lifted it off with a forklift.

  “You didn’t unpack it, did you?” She sounds anxious.

  “Not yet. It’s in the barn, ready and waiting for you. Now, did you check anything?”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re each wheeling a suitcase through the terminal doors, into the parking lot. Lucy’s kept her earbuds out, but barely said a word. I’ve heard some scrabbling inside the cage, but the kitten’s been quiet, too. It’s a tense quiet, though, not peaceful. We’re both walking on eggshells.

  At my farm truck I wince. I’d planned to stop at the car wash but ran out of time. It’s pretty filthy, mud caking the back tires and the underpanel.

  She’s got to get used to it. Why not start now? retorts my anticonscience, the voice clamoring to go finish the strawberries. I heft the suitcases into the back.

  Lucy doesn’t say anything, just opens the door on her side. She ducks her head into the back, but there isn’t much to see—junk mail, a beat-up just-in-case blanket I keep there, jumper cables. She glances at me.

  “Uh, where do I sit?”

  I point at the passenger seat. “Right here.”

  “The front?”

  “Mm-hm.” What’s the problem?

  “OK. It’s just—I’ve never sat in the front seat before.”

  “Never?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Belatedly, I wonder if she’s tall enough to sit in the front seat. They’re supposed to be some age or height or weight. Frustration rises as I try to remember. I never thought I’d need to remember.

  I leave my window halfway down after I pay at the exit booth. It’s a beautiful summer day, and equilibrium, if only geographic, is just forty minutes away. I glance over the cage between us, trying to remember the script I followed when Matt sat on the passenger side.

  “How was the rest of the school year?”

  “Fine.”

  “Mr. Langley sent me your report card. You did well, especially considering—”

  “Considering what?”

  “Well, the accident and all.”

  “My parents died. Why can’t anyone just say that?”

  Her voice is flat, no tremble or break.

  “Sorry. You’re right.” So she is past the denial stage. “Before school starts here we’ll go and take a tour. Meet with the teachers. Help you ease into the new year.”

  She shrugs. “They must have had a new kid before. It’s no big deal.”

  “Yes, but the point is for them to learn about you. What you’ve studied already. It sounds like some kind of video or film class would be good for you.”

  “It’s called New Media.” She snorts. “Like they’d have that at a school for farm kids.”

  I let it pass. Defensiveness, I understand. “Not everybody farms here.”

  She looks at me.

  “Most don’t, actually.” I wave my hand out the window. Exhibit A, Traverse City’s sprawl. A mall, car dealerships, a Burger King, gas stations, quickie oil-change places. “They just like to live in the country.”

  “Why?”

  I can’t help laughing. “For the peace and quiet.”

  “Really?” She shakes her head.

  The sprawl extends only a couple of miles, thankfully. After several more miles of silence, we come to the gateway view. It’s the point where peninsula folks feel truly at home. Up a small hill, over the top, and voilà. East Bay comes into view first, on the right. Then West Bay on the left, the land undulating down to the water. It’s beautiful in all seasons, but this early summer time, new green leaves with all their promise, is when it’s most serene.

  “This is the place where I always feel I’ve come home,” I tell Lucy, rolling down my window the rest of the way.

  No reply. Fair enough. If someone tried to convince me that the Brooklyn Bridge signaled home, I’d be skeptical, too.

  I continue north, through the twisting turns, each mile punctuated by a sign proclaiming the business that’s “adopted” it, cleaning up the roadside litter a couple of times a year in exchange for their name on a sign. That was another one of the Extension agent’s recommendations for Plain Jane’s at the marketing workshop last fall. “Free, year-round exposure that will resonate with the environmentally, socially conscious people who are your most likely customers—and happen to be driving right toward your farm. It’s a win-win-win!”

  She was probably right, but I never signed up. Just as well. With all the new customers this season, plus Lucy, when would I have time to actually clean up the highway?

  “How much farther?” Lucy says after ten miles of silence. Her voice is small now, the affected defensiveness vanished.

  “Another few miles.”

  “I haven’t seen any stores. Or restaurants. Or offices.”

  “There aren’t many. The peninsula is mostly residential.”

  “The people who want to live in the country.”

  “Right.”

  “Plus one who doesn’t,” she says, almost to herself, settling her earbuds in again.

  Chapter 19

  LUCY

  Beyond the window is nothing but green. OK, some blue, on the edges. The sky and the water. But in between, all green. Rows of trees with dark-green leaves. Huge fields with rows and rows of what look like fences, with something a lighter shade of green climbing up. Houses with giant green squares in front of them. Grass.

  It runs along both sides of the road, too. Aunt Jane feels most at home here—and now it’s supposed to be mine? My stomach elevator is dropping, like from the twentieth floor. The wind rushing in the window is loud and cold. I put my earbuds back in and pull up the hood and pull on the strings of Mom’s Venice Beach hoodie, cocooning my head.

  Aunt Jane drives on and on. It seems like hours since we left the airport. Inside her cage, Lexie starts meowing. She gets that I’m scared. I’m sure she is, too. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on the grass, make her car crash. Lexie’s all I have left. What could happen to her if I do the wrong thing again?

  I knew a farm would be bad, but not this bad. How am I going to stand it until July, when Graciela’s boarding school gets out and she can talk to Aunt Bonita about me moving there? She only can go online on weekends because her school is really strict about the Internet. That’s why it took her so long to write back on Facebook.

  Aunt Jane slows down. Are we getting close, finally?
She’s turning left, onto a rocky kind of driveway cut through more grass. It’s bumpy and dusty, little clouds puffing out from under the tires as we roll along. There’s a white house up ahead, on my side. It has a stone porch and a big tree in front, the branches reaching toward her house.

  My house. Our house. That I can never go in. Between the truck and the side door is all grass. A mile or a block or the length of the school hallway. It doesn’t matter. It’s grass.

  “So, here we are.” Aunt Jane opens her door and jumps down onto it! She turns back to me and pastes on a smile. “We’ll get you settled in upstairs, then I’ll show you around outside. I bet you never picked strawberries before!”

  Nope. Won’t today, either. She’s rolled both suitcases up to the side door when she notices I’m not behind her.

  “Lucy?”

  I slide down, my fingers curling tight around the bars on Lexie’s cage.

  “Lucy? What’s the matter?” Through the closed window her voice is muffled.

  “I can’t get out.” I shake my head.

  “Why not? Is that door stuck?” She yanks on the handle on her side. When it swings open I can see the grass just one long step away. There are even some taller, weedy-looking things brushing the step up to the door. I suck in my breath and scoot away, toward the steering wheel.

  “There. Sometimes it sticks. We’ll be using it more now, though. It’ll loosen up.” She turns around. As if that’s that.

  I wait until she’s inside, then reach over and slam the door shut again, pushing down the lock. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. She reappears, hands on her hips this time.

  “What in the world is going on?” The door is muffling her voice again, making her sound like she’s underwater, like Mr. Meinert and Deirdre did in the school office. I wish one of them were here. Anyone to help me.

  I clutch Lexie’s cage. “I can’t get out,” I say again.

  “Look, I know it’s hard. It’s different. But you have to give it a chance here—”

  “It’s not that,” I interrupt.

  “Eventually, though—” She pauses. “Then what?”

  “The grass.”