Speaking of Jerry, he has a desk two cubicles down from me, and he was right when he first predicted we’d be seeing each other at the water cooler. We usually eat lunch together, too, and he takes me to the Metrolink stop in the evenings after work. It’s right on his way home. He picks me up there in the mornings, too. A lot of people at work think Jerry and I are together, but it’s not like that at all. We’re just friends.
Here’s how some things are different for us, though. Jerry is getting a brand new car next month. He can easily afford car payments. He doesn’t have to pay a big day care hunk from each paycheck, and he doesn’t give his mom rent money because he still helps in her Amway business.
It’s hard working full time and being the kind of mom I want to be for Cheyenne. I don’t get to see her during the day as much as I did when I was at Hamilton High and she was at the Infant Center. For one thing, I wasn’t in classes forty hours a week, like I’m at work forty hours a week now. And for another, when I spent time as an aide at the Infant Center, I got to see her there, too. I’m still the first one she sees in the morning, and the last one she sees at night, though. And, truthfully, I think I miss her more than she misses me.
She loves the new day care place. It’s at a church near where we live. We walk there early each morning, and from there I walk to the Metrolink stop.
As soon as we open the door at the Play Factory, she yells “bye,” and runs straight to the animals. They’ve got rabbits, turtles, and hamsters, and she checks right away to be sure they all have food and water.
Once a week the kids have a cooking day. They cook real food, not pretend food. Yesterday when I picked her up she gave me a cookie that she’d made herself.
“They like to put a lot of effort into working and reworking the dough,” her teacher said, smiling as she watched me bite down hard on the tough little cookie. “We use molasses because it doesn’t show the dirt so much.”
“Yum,” I said.
It’s funny, Cheyenne hardly ever mentions Rudy or Irma anymore, not like when we went to the shelter in the desert and she’d say how she missed them, or she’d think she saw one of them and take off running, yelling “Daddy, Daddy,” or “Gramma.” Now when she sees a guy who looks a little like Rudy she gets all worried and says, “Daddy ’care me.” And I say, “Yes, Daddy can be scary sometimes, can’t he?”
I’ve made up my mind I’m not going to lie to her. When she’s older, and starts asking questions, I’ll tell her the truth, straight out. None of this “That’s water under the bridge” stuff.
And . . . speaking of water under the bridge, my mom hasn’t used that phrase once since the day of our picnic. She even dug out a box of pictures that she’d been keeping on her closet shelf. The string that held it together was so old it crumbled to pieces when she untied it.
“You might like to see these,” she said, handing me the box.
There was a wedding picture of my grandparents which I studied for a long time, trying to find some resemblance. I think maybe Cheyenne looks a little bit like her great-grandmother, but I can’t be sure.
There was a snapshot of Mom and Benson all dressed up. And lots of baby pictures of me. Nothing after I was four, though. And no pictures of any of my possible fathers.
It’s hard for me to explain, but seeing even those few pictures and hearing a little more about my early years helps me feel more connected in the world, or like I have more substance. I know that doesn’t exactly make sense, but somehow it’s important to me to see the pictures and hear the stories. I want to take plenty of pictures, so Cheyenne will know a lot about her life.
The chemo stuff is bad. Mom’s hair is coming out in big globs now, and she’s lost a lot of weight. Sometimes, when Cheyenne and I get home in the evenings, Mom’s in bed with a bucket beside her. She can’t even get to the bathroom to throw up, and right after chemotherapy she has to throw up all the time. I try to help out when things are bad for her, clean up after her, sponge her face with cool water, bring her diluted lemonade to take the nasty taste from her mouth. It’s awful to see her like that.
“Gramma June sick,” Cheyenne says, pulling her mouth
down, when she sees Mom in bed with the bucket beside her.
Then, a few days later, when the effects of chemo have worn off, Mom’s bustling around like any other healthy person.
When Cheyenne sees that, she says, “Gramma June better,” flashing a big smile at Mom and holding her arms out to her. Mom picks Cheyenne up and smothers her with kisses.
I don’t know how it’s going to end up. Some days I think my mom could die any minute, and other days I think she could go on forever. The doctors say her “cancer indicators” are down, but I’m not sure what that means in real life.
I’m really sorry she got cancer, and I hope this doesn’t sound too selfish, but I’m glad something made her review her life. I’ve had more of a mom these past few months than any other time I can remember. I know that’s important to her, too. I can tell.
It’s amazing to me, when I think about it, all the changes in my life just during the past six months. I love working at Graphic Design Services, having a real job and having the independence a paycheck can bring. And I love being able to talk with my mom, and learn more about my past. And God, how I love having friends, and being able to talk with them on the phone, or go to the park with them, or have them drop by to see me. All the time I was with Rudy, he’d go nuts if anyone called. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone but him—he was even jealous of girls. The strange thing is, I didn’t know how much I was missing. All I was doing was trying not to get Rudy mad. That’s no kind of life.
Now, coming home in the evening, walking hand in hand with Cheyenne, I know Teresa will be happy to see us, and Mom, too, if she’s up. It’s easy to walk into our apartment. Anger doesn’t hang from the ceiling and lurk in the comers, waiting to pounce.
At first, when I started at Graphic Design Services, I thought I might just always work there—someday be a supervisor, make a little more money year by year. But I’m not so sure now. As much as I like the safe predictability of it all, I notice that people who’ve been there for five or six years have really boring conversations in the lounge.
I keep thinking about what Woodsie said, that I should take evening college classes. I might do that in the spring. First I’ve got to get used to this new life. And I don’t want to take any more time away from Cheyenne. But I’ll keep the college idea tucked away for later. Right now, I’ve got my hands full. It’s a good full, though. It’s not hands full of meanness and trouble.
There are some things . . .
In the middle of the night, when my brain is asleep, my heart still reaches for Rudy. I turn to his side of the bed and the emptiness there floods through me. Then I’ve got to get my brain awake, remember the words, bitch, whore, slut, remember the killing force of the narrowly missed magazine rack, the raw shin, the bruised face, the scared baby. Then the emptiness fills with anticipation of seeing Cheyenne happy, running to the day care animals, of the smooth quiet ride on the Metrolink, the predictability of Jerry and work, the evening at home with pleasant talk, and laughter, and even if we argue, it’s not bitch, slut, whore, hit, kick, smash.
Rudy was, after all, my first, my only, love. And even though I understand now that my love for him was totally misguided, and his love for me wasn’t love at all but some kind of sick need to own me, there is still a pull that sneaks up on me and frightens me with its force.
When Cheyenne and I walk down the church hallway to the Play Factory, I usually pause at a bulletin board that has fliers about various meetings. They have AA meetings, youth groups, prayer groups, English classes, study groups, basketball, all kinds of things. Yesterday I saw a flier for a support group for victims of domestic violence. I don’t think of myself as a victim, but sometimes, for no apparent reason, I get all shaky. It starts with an inside fluttery feeling, and then my hands sweat, an
d sweat pours off my face and I tremble all over.
If I get one of those spells at work, I have to put my head down on my desk and do the deep cleansing breath thing, just to get steady enough that I can walk to the rest room. Once I had to lie down on the cot in there for about ten minutes before I could go back to work.
Ms. Lopez noticed and wanted to know what was wrong. I told her I didn’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t know what’s wrong. But I think it may have to do with all I’ve been through with Rudy.
I’m worried, too, about Rudy’s hearing. No date’s been set yet, but it’ll probably be pretty soon. I’ll have to go to that, and testify. I really don’t want to see him, or Irma, but there’s no way out of it.
And, speaking of Irma, I’m pretty sure she has no idea where we live, or where Cheyenne goes to day care, but her threats still hang over my head. I hope she’s given up any ideas about getting Cheyenne, but I have an uneasy feeling about her.
Besides all the Rudy/Irma mess, I still have such a heavy sadness for Daphne that sometimes it’s like a physical pain in my chest. I guess you could say my life’s not perfect, but it’s sure a lot better than it was a few months ago.
I know Peer Counseling and the group meetings at the shelter really helped me figure some things out. Writing here in my journal helps, too. But maybe I need other people to talk with about some feelings I still don’t understand—people who’ve been through some of the same stuff. So I suppose the group that meets at the church might help.
Now, the increasing sounds of traffic outside the apartment tell me that morning is about to begin. My butt is numb from sitting here so long. I will not let more than a week pass before writing again. I will not let more than a week pass before writing again. I should make myself write that one hundred times, but I hear noises in the kitchen that probably need my attention.
“Cheyenne!” I whisper, trying not to wake Mom or Teresa.
She has pushed the kitchen table over to the counter, climbed from that to the top of the counter, and is perched on the very edge, trying to reach the cereal on the top cupboard shelf.
I walk quickly to her and pick her up.
“Cheyenne help! Cheyenne help!” she cries, pounding my chest.
“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing. “But I don’t want you to fall.”
“Cheyenne help!”
I lift her high, but she can’t quite reach the cereal. I pull a stool over to the counter, stand on it, and then she can reach the box of Cheerios. I put her down. She carries the Cheerios to the table, goes to the refrigerator for milk, and carries that to the table. She gets a bowl from the lower cupboard and a spoon from the drawer, straightens the telephone books on her chair and climbs on top. She dumps too much cereal in her bowl, carefully pours milk on top, picks up her spoon and takes a giant bite.
“Cheyenne help!” she says, beaming at me, milk running down her chin.
“I know, you’re not a baby anymore, are you?”
“No baby help! Cheyenne help!”
“You make me laugh,” I tell her.
I pour us both some orange juice and check the time. I’m anxious to get ready for work this morning because finally I’ve got something new to wear. It’s a lime green skirt with a green and white top. It’s from the everything under $9.00 store. And I’ve got the white sandals from last payday.
“Morning,” Teresa calls from the couch turned bed.
“Are you fully awake?” I call back.
She laughs. “Fully awake is right. ‘Cheyenne help,’” she quotes.
“Come on, then, Chey-Chey. We’ll take your breakfast in to the coffee table and you can watch ‘Sesame Street’ with Teresa while Mommy takes her shower. Okay?”
“Okay,” they both say at once.
I get Cheyenne set up, then quick grab my stuff and head for the bathroom. When I come back out I parade myself in front of them to show off my new outfit.
“Wow!” Cheyenne says.
“Very nice,” Teresa says, then goes to take her turn in the shower.
I bring Cheyenne’s clothes out and change her while the count identifies numbers as they flash across the screen. There’s Big Bird, and Elmo, and Bert and Ernie, and Prairie Dawn, and they don’t all have to have dads, or moms even, to get along in the world. “Sunny day, sweepin’ the clouds away, on our way to where the air is sweet . . .” Cheyenne and I sing along.
So many people have helped us move from an awful spot to a pretty good one—Bergie and Woodsie and the hotline people who first got me thinking about the mess I was in. And Carla and Vicky and Daphne and all the others at the shelter. And Mr. Raley—if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have my job. And Leticia, and my mom and Teresa. Jerry, too. And Sean.
I think about what Bergie said, that she hoped I was getting all of my bad luck out of the way during the first nineteen years of my life, and I remember how I always used to think my thirteen letter name was a bad luck name. But it’s not so much luck that makes life what it is, it’s choices, and people helping one another, and learning to lean toward the good.
“Here,” I say, handing Cheyenne the rolled up, smelly, urine soaked diaper from last night.
She throws it into the trash, gets the stool, drags it up to the
sink and reaches for the soap. I hand it to her. She hands it back.
“Cheyenne help!” she says, like how many times do I have to tell you that, Mom?
I put the soap back, she stands on the stool on tippy-toes, reaches it, turns on the water and scrubs her hands.
“Cheyenne help,” she smiles.
“Backpack time,” I say.
She stuffs Mary and extra diapers into her pack and slips it over her shoulders.
“Bye, Teresa!” she yells outside the bathroom door.
“Bye, Sweetie,” Teresa yells back.
She walks softly into Mom’s room. Mom opens her eyes and smiles.
“Bye, Gramma June,” Cheyenne says, running to her and kissing her bald head.
“Good luck with the tests today, Mom,” I say, knowing if these tests turn out well she can let up on the chemotherapy for a while.
“Thanks,” she says. “Thank you both.”
On our way to the Play Factory, morning light reflects brightly from the lake at the park.
“Look, Cheyenne, see how the sun shines off the water?”
“Sunny day, sweepin’ the clouds away . . .”she starts singing, and I join in.
Of all the help we’ve had, it was baby help, and now Cheyenne help, that keeps me moving toward where the air is sweet.
The Complete True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High
BY MARILYN REYNOLDS
1–TELLING When twelve-year-old Cassie is accosted and fondled by the father of the children for whom she babysits, she feels dirty and confused.
2–DETOUR FOR EMMY Classic novel about Emmy, pregnant at 15. Read by tens of thousands of teens. American Library Association Best Books for Young Adults List; South Carolina Young Adult Book Award.
3–TOO SOON FOR JEFF Jeff is a senior, a nationally ranked debater, and reluctant father of Christy’s unborn baby. Best Books for Young Adults; Quick Pick for Young Adult Reluctant Readers; ABC After-School TV Special.
4–BEYOND DREAMS Six short stories dealing with situations faced by teenagers - drinking and driving, racism, school failure, abortion, partner abuse, aging relative. “...believable, likeable, and appropriately thoughtful.” —Booklist
5–BUT WHAT ABOUT ME? Erica pours more and more of her life into helping boyfriend Danny get back on track. But the more she tries to help him, the more she loses sight of her own dreams. It takes a tragic turn of events to show Erica that she can’t “save” Danny, and that she is losing herself in the process of trying.
6–BABY HELP Melissa doesn’t consider herself abused - after all, Rudy only hits her occasionally when he’s drinking . . . until she realizes the effect his abuse is having on her child.
8–LOVE RULES A testament to the power of love - in family, in friendships, and in teen couples, whether gay or straight, of the same ethnicity or not. It is a testament to the power of gay/straight alliances in working toward the safety of all students.
9–NO MORE SAD GOODBYES “For all the sadness in it, Autumn and her baby’s story is ultimately one of love and hope. It’s a very positive presentation of adoption, especially open adoption.” —Kliatt
10–SHUT UP Mario (17) and Eddie (9) move in with their aunt after their mother is sent to Iraq with her National Guard unit. Months later, Mario discovers their aunt’s boyfriend in the act of sexually molesting Eddie. Mario’s sole purpose is now to protect his little brother. He takes extreme measures.
Praise for the Hamilton High Series
“Reynolds’ treatment of youth and their challenges, from sexual abstinence to mixed-race parentage, is compassionate, never condescending; the dialogue, situations, emotions, and behavior of the well-defined teen characters ring true. [If You Loved Me is] an engaging, thought-provoking read . . .”
—Shelle Rosenfeld, Booklist
“Out of all the books I’ve read (and trust me, I’ve read tons of books), yours have impacted me the most. They are filled with reality and hope and strength, and make me feel stronger.”
—Gillian, Georgia
“For all the sadness in [No More Sad Goodbyes], Autumn and her baby’s story is ultimately one of love and hope.”
—Claire Rosser, Kliatt
“I have just finished reading Detour for Emmy. I wanted you to know that in all my years of school that book is the first book that I have honestly read from cover to cover. I can’t wait to read more of yours.”
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