“Want Gramma Irma!” Cheyenne screams.
“She’s tired, and hungry. Mind if I give her a bite to eat and try to put her down for a nap?”
“I haven’t been grocery shopping.”
“I’ve brought some lunch stuff for her, just if there’s a quiet place I can lay down with her . . .”
“Use my bed,” she says, pointing in the direction of a bedroom.
After I give Cheyenne some vegetables and rice, and a glass of juice, I take her into Mom’s bedroom and lie down with her. There’s not much in the way of furnishings or decorations—a bed and small dresser, no lamps, just a light overhead, no bedside tables. It has the minimum necessities, as suits a person who never stays long in one place.
On the dresser is a picture of me at around four, on top of a horse in the winner’s circle. My mom and the horse’s trainer are standing together. The trainer is holding the horse’s reins. We are all smiling broadly, as if it’s a happy time. I know about pictures though, how they can lie, like the Sunday church picture of Daphne and her family. I wonder what the truth is of this picture. For as long as I can remember, that picture has been on Mom’s dresser, from track to track, the only picture ever on display anywhere she briefly calls home. I’ve always been curious about it, but every time I’d ask, her answer was the same—“That’s water under the bridge.”
I wonder if it’s there because of the trainer? Or the horse? Or me? Maybe it’s there because of my mom. I think she looks pretty in that picture, prettier than I can remember ever seeing her in person.
When I’m sure Cheyenne is asleep, I tiptoe out to the living room where my mom is still on the couch, head leaning back, eyes closed. I sit in the chair opposite her.
“Mom?”
She half-opens her eyes.
“I’m sorry the baby doesn’t know me. My fault,” she says.
“Well, maybe she can get to know you now.”
“I called because I know it’s been too long. I see how things are with Sean and Teresa, how they enjoy each other, and I know I’ve missed some things.”
Her eyes are open now, watching me. It feels as if we’re two boxers, circling, jabbing, trying to figure out what’s next.
“How is Sean?” I ask.
“Good. He’s doing good,” she says. “Getting his diploma through CCC and starting college in September.”
“Where is he?”
“Some national park. Sequoia, maybe,” she says.
She seems tired, beaten down, and I wonder if she has a hangover.
“Mom, Cheyenne and I need a place to stay, just for a little
while.”
“It’s not a very good time for me, Melissa.”
“Just a month, or even a couple of weeks . . .”
I notice a picture in the paper, half hidden by the Sports section. I pick it up, my heart pounding. It is a picture of Kevin, still holding a grubby banana, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Next to his picture is the hospital picture of Daphne’s brutalized back, and next to that is the Sunday church-day family picture. Daphne smiles at me, as if she were alive. Cleansing breaths, one, two, three . . . The paper rattles in my shaking hands and I sob with the silent question of Why? Why? Why?
Mom sits watching, puzzled.
“My friend. My good friend,” I tell her, pointing to Daphne’s picture. I take the other pictures from my backpack, the ones from the freedom time at the park, and show them to my mother. She looks carefully, comparing them, reading a bit, shaking her head over the hospital picture.
“My God,” she says in a whisper.
I tell her about getting to know Daphne, and the shelter, and the pictures Daphne carried with her—the ones not in the newspaper. I explain, as best I can, why I decided to go to the shelter, and why I decided to leave. Always in the past, when I’ve tried to talk to my mom, she’s had to get up and do something else, or go back to work, or meet the “girls” somewhere. But today she sits very still, listening. Finally, I show her the picture Bergie took of my leg yesterday. And then I show her my leg. She shakes her head, but says nothing.
“So Cheyenne and I had to get away, and I didn’t know where else to go . . . just for a while,” I say, wiping tears. “I’m sorry it’s a bad time, but there’s a chance I’ll be getting a job, so I can help out with expenses, and . . .”
“I didn’t mean a bad time with money, though that’s never easy. But it’s a bad time because I’m sick.”
“More than a hangover?”
She laughs a short, sad laugh. “Breast cancer,” she says.
I don’t know what to say, how to act. It’s not like we’ve ever been close, or all that lovey-dovey mother-daughter stuff, but still . . .
“I’ve got a pretty good chance of beating it, but it means heavy-duty chemotherapy, which has a mean nasty side to it.”
I look at her carefully now. Her skin looks dry and papery, her eyes dull. Is that the disease, or the treatment, or depression?
“Mom . . .”
“Stay. It’ll be crowded but we’ll manage.”
“It won’t be for too long . . .”
“I know I haven’t been what you’d call a prize-winning mom. I can do this much, for a while. We’ll have to work it out with Teresa, but she’s the one’s been bugging me to get in touch with you, anyway.”
I go into the kitchen and get a drink of water. This has not exactly been what you’d call an overwhelming welcome, or a joyful reunion, but it’s a place to stay and I didn’t have to beg. I’m relieved about that, even in the midst of wondering what’s in store for my mom.
School’s on my mind, and the job, and graduation. How can it all work? I go back to the living room where my mom is sitting with her eyes closed again. I take the section of the paper that has Daphne and Kevin’s pictures and put it up on a high shelf, where Cheyenne won’t see it. I want her memory of Daphne and Kevin to stay pure. It is too soon for her to have to carry such a heaviness in her innocent heart.
CHAPTER
16
While Mom and Cheyenne sleep, I make a list of things to do. I want that job. Just the thought of getting off welfare is a dream come true. Ever since I was four months pregnant with Cheyenne, I’ve been getting welfare checks. When I hear people complain about high taxes and welfare moms, it’s like they’re calling me a thief. And whenever I have to go to the office, or talk with my social worker, I feel like I’m nothing—less than nothing. So a chance for a real job is something I don’t want to miss. I need to call Mr. Raley and find out more about the interview. Which is tomorrow. What can I wear?
My list:
Call Mr. Raley about job interview (plus figure out clothes and babysitter).
Call Bergie about school in general.
Call each of my teachers about how to turn in work and get full credit for the semester.
Change address at welfare office (again! yuck!)
Try somehow to get clothes and toys from Irma’s house?
Call other shelters in case this doesn’t work out with Mom.
I’ve got a lot to figure out, and my leg hurts, and I think about Daphne a lot, and I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t want us here. Also, I can’t help noticing that my list is probably very different than any list Leticia would be making right now. Like, it doesn’t include picking up a cap and gown, or getting tickets to the Senior Breakfast, or buying a new outfit for Grad Nite at Disneyland, or checking to be sure I’ve got the right dorm assignment for college in September, or any of the things senior girls without babies are doing at this time of the year. Not to complain, but I can’t help noticing.
I go into the bedroom and lie down next to Cheyenne. She’s been asleep a long time. I rub her back, gently, and she stirs, then opens her eyes.
“I need company,” I tell her.
She jumps up and starts bouncing on the bed.
“Five monkeys jumpin’ on the bed,” she says, bouncing and
bouncing.
This is not what I had in mind. I grab her and put her back down on the bed, leaning over her, trapping her. I skip to the punch line.
“No more monkeys jumpin’ on the bed,” I say, wagging my finger at her and laughing.
“Yes!”
She jumps up again and continues. “One fell off and hit her head.”
I grab her again. “No more monkeys jumpin’ on the bed.”
We laugh and laugh until we finally get through all five monkeys. I change her and take her out in the living room. Mom half-opens her eyes, and half-smiles. Cheyenne looks at her.
“Gramma June?” she asks.
Mom’s smile broadens. She searches in her pockets and pulls out a set of keys, dangling them toward Cheyenne.
“Want to play with Gramma June’s keys?” she asks, still smiling.
I put Cheyenne on the floor and watch as she takes slow steps toward my mother. Without getting any closer than she has to, Cheyenne reaches for the keys and Mom hands them to her.
“You liked to play with keys at that age, too,” Mom says.
“Was I like Cheyenne?” I ask, hungry to hear anything about my pre-memory past.
Mom leans her head back again and closes her eyes. My question goes unanswered.
I hope the keys and a few pots and pans will keep Cheyenne occupied while I start on my list of phone calls. There are no toys for her here, of course, and no little yard for her to play outside. I wish I could sneak back to Irma’s and get some things. I sure can’t afford to buy all new toys and clothes. But I’ve got to think everything through carefully, not just act on impulse, the way I did when I left the shelter and went back to Rudy.
I call Hamilton High and leave messages for all of my teachers, hoping they’ll call me back and we can work things out. I can mail my English paper in, and the last chapter’s biology work, but then, there are finals.
When I talk to Bergie she asks if I’m in a safe place, asks how my leg is, asks about Cheyenne. I tell her I’m worried about the interview. Mr. Raley said we should look professional, and all I’ve got are jeans and Reeboks and three really casual tops.
“Could you borrow something from your mother?”
“It’d be too big . . . and I don’t have anyone to babysit while I’m at the interview tomorrow, either. I wish we could put it off a day, so I’d have time to get some things worked out.”
“Ummm. I’m afraid that wouldn’t make a very good first impression. They’re likely to think that if you can’t get to an interview on the appointed day, you’ll probably not be very dependable about getting to work.”
I talk on, going through my list, telling Bergie how I’m trying to get things worked out.
“How are things with your mother?” she asks.
“She has cancer,” I tell her.
There is a long pause. Then she says, “I think you’re getting all of your bad luck out of the way during the first nineteen years of your life, and after that, it’ll be smooth sailing until you’re eighty-nine. Then you’ll die a painless, peaceful death and be whisked away to heaven on the wings of snow white angels.”
We both laugh. Then I tell her, seriously, “I want to believe that.”
“I do, too, Melissa. In the meantime, don’t give up. I think you’re headed in the right direction.”
When I talk to Mr. Raley, he says to meet him at Sojourner High School at four in the afternoon.
“I’ve arranged for a late interview, so I can take you out there. I missed you in class today, though.”
“I’m having problems,” I tell him, not knowing where to start. I wish we had one of those phones that transmit a picture. Sometimes it’s easier to get started if I just show my raw and bruised leg.
“Ms. Bergstrom called today. She didn’t give me a lot of details, but she said it might not be safe for you to come to school for a few days. Plus . . . I noticed the list you had on your computer the other day—you know, reasons for your boyfriend to hit you?”
“Oh.”
“So anyway, you’ve essentially earned the credit you need in
my class. It’s not a problem if you miss the last week of classes.” “Thanks.”
“I hope you can make it for the interview, though. This is a job that could give you some independence.”
“I don’t have anything to wear that looks professional, and I don’t have a babysitter,” I tell him.
“How old is your baby?”
“A little over two.”
“Well . . . if you can’t find anyone to watch her, maybe you could bring her . . . ”
“To the interview?”
“Well, the interview part probably won’t last more than half an hour or so. She could stay with me for that short time. There’s a fountain in a courtyard out there. My kids like to go there and throw leaves and twigs into the fountain. Would she be okay to stay with me?”
“Probably, if there’s a fountain. She loves playing around in water.”
“Okay. If you’re still desperate for a sitter tomorrow, bring her along. I don’t know what to tell you about clothes, except that it’s important to look businesslike.”
When I talk to Ms. Lee, she says I can mail my I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings paper to her. She’s talked with Ms. Bergstrom, and she understands I have good reason not to be in school right now. Absolutely no way can I miss the final, though. No way. That would mean summer school make up.
“Well, I’ve got nearly two weeks to figure that part out, right?”
“Yes. And if it would be more convenient for you to take the final on a different day than scheduled, with another class, I’m flexible in that way. But you must complete the final and you must complete it in my presence.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll put my paper in the mail to you on Thursday.”
“All right, Melissa,” she says. Then, “I hope you get your life straightened out soon.”
“Me, too,” I tell her, wondering if she’s ever had any real problems.
“Missy!” Teresa says as she opens the door and sees me sitting on the floor playing with Cheyenne. “Stand up and let me get a good look at you.”
She reaches out a hand. I take it and she pulls me up. We stand, eye to eye, almost exactly the same height.
“You’re still just as pretty as ever. Isn’t she, June?”
Mom opens her eyes and nods, smiling.
Teresa’s hair is red, though the last time I saw her it was blonde. She’s wearing a black skirt and white blouse, with a plastic name tag that says “Los Angeles Convention Center,” and has her name and picture on it. I notice crow’s feet at the edge of her eyes, and deeper wrinkles in her forehead, but she looks as energetic and full of life as ever.
“And look at this beautiful little girl. You’re beautiful, you know it?” Teresa says, leaning close to Cheyenne.
Cheyenne runs behind my legs, trying to hide. Teresa and Mom both laugh.
“I thought you were coming on Saturday. We were going to fix a big picnic and take you and the baby to the park.”
“Well . . .”
“We need to talk about that, Teresa,” Mom says, making it sound like there’s bad news to be delivered.
“Saturday, or Wednesday, or any day, it’s a treat to see you two kids,” Teresa says, giving me a quick hug.
She goes to the couch and sits down beside Mom. “What is it we have to talk about?”
“Melissa and the baby need a place to stay for a few weeks. I said we’d work something out, but that I’d have to talk it over with you . . .”
“June, you knew I’d be okay with that, didn’t you?”
My mother bursts into tears, something I’ve never seen her do before. Teresa puts her arms around Mom and comforts her, like you would a child.
“Shhh. You’re tired now. Everything will seem easier in the morning . . . Missy, go into the refrigerator and get the plastic bottle that’s labeled ‘Wednesday #2.’ Shake it up real goo
d and pour it into a glass, over ice, and bring it to your mom. Okay?”
In the kitchen I hear them arguing.
“I’m not hungry, Teresa.”
“But you need to keep up your strength. You know what the doctor said.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want it.”
I bring the concoction back into the living room and hand it to mom.
“Just little sips,” Teresa says.
I watch while my mother takes baby sips, and I wonder how bad the cancer is. She really doesn’t look any worse than I’ve seen her look with a bad hangover. But I don’t know. I’ve never been around anyone who has cancer.
It takes Mom about an hour to finish her glass of—whatever it is. Teresa helps her into bed.
“What about Missy and the baby?” Mom says, as they walk into her bedroom.
“We’ll figure it all out. Don’t worry.”
After a few minutes, Teresa comes back out. Cheyenne is fussing, wanting to play with a glass bowl that’s sitting on the coffee table. After the third time I tell her no, she hits me.
“No, Cheyenne. No hitting. Do you need time out?” I ask, immediately realizing there’s no crib here, no place to make time out work.
“No time out,” she says.
“Then no hitting,” I say.
Teresa says, “We’ve got more than an hour of daylight. Do you want to walk to the park and let her run around a bit?”
“That’d be great,” I say. “She’s used to being outside part of the day, and having plenty of toys to play with.”
“The park’s a pretty safe place until ten or so, then sometimes the crowd gets rather seedy.”
We walk a couple of city blocks, filled mostly with apartment buildings, and then there’s this huge park. I was expecting a little playground place, but this place has a big lake, with people fishing all around the edges of it, and giant trees that must have been here forever.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Yeah, must have been really something in its heyday. But the lake is clean again—for a while it was all scum.”
“Water!” Cheyenne says, pointing at the lake. “See ’em?” She takes off running and I run after her, grabbing her just as she’s about to plunge into the lake.
Baby Help Page 15