Flavors don’t matter. Birthdays don’t matter.
Grace said, “Chocolate is good.”
—
Fosters moved in and out of the ranch like cars at a shopping center parking lot. Many were whisked away soon, still scared. When new kids asked Grace questions, she made sure to be helpful; when you had knowledge you were considered bigger than you actually were. She also made sure to feed and change the little kids when there were too many for Ramona to handle at one time and she learned how to hum and coo in a way that calmed babies down.
All that was just the job she’d taken on for herself. There was no point getting to know anyone; the more time she had to herself, the better.
Mostly, she read and walked. The desert turned all sorts of colors when the sun began to fade. Her favorite was a light purple that glowed. The color chart in her science curriculum said it was magenta.
The only constant was Bobby Canova. He couldn’t eat cake or ice cream, so during what Mrs. Stage called the “birthday bashes” she propped his chair up against the table and belted him in and fixed one of his nutritional shakes. He’d give one of his hard-to-read smiles and roll his head and make his noises and Mrs. Stage would say, “He loves his parties.”
Birthday girl or not, Grace took charge and fed him through a straw. Because the birthday thing was really for Mrs. Stage, not her.
There was another reason she wanted to help, something she’d noticed between her ninth and tenth birthdays: Mrs. Stage was walking and talking slower, standing kind of bent over and also sleeping more. Some mornings, Grace would come down and find the kitchen empty. Get to sit by herself and enjoy the quiet, drinking milk and juice and waiting.
It was as if Ramona had gotten much older, all of a sudden. Grace hoped if she could stop her from wearing out completely, like a rusty machine, the ranch could stay like it was for a while. She began cleaning rooms other than her own, started helping with laundry. Even calling the new pest man, Jorge, when she saw too many big spiders or beetles or white ants.
Ramona said, “Grace, you don’t need to be such a worker bee. You’re growing up too fast.”
But she never stopped Grace from pitching in.
—
As her eleventh birthday approached, Grace noticed that her work didn’t seem to be helping as much; Mrs. Stage was slowing even more and sometimes she placed her hand on her chest as if it hurt to breathe.
That made Grace stop thinking of the ranch as her home and more like just another foster.
One day, she knew, some caseworker would show up and tell her to pack her things.
In the meantime, she’d walk and read and learn as much as she could.
—
During bashes, Ramona made a big show of bringing the cake to the table, studded with blazing candles, announcing that Grace should stand up while everyone sang her “Happy Birthday” because Grace was the “honoree.”
Fosters who were old enough were asked to join in on Ramona’s screechy “Happy Birthday” followed by her call for “Many more!” Mostly there were humming and uncomfortable looks around the table, no meaningful supplement to Ramona’s tone-deaf delivery.
A few days before Grace’s eleventh birthday, Ramona said, “How about lemon frosting instead of chocolate?”
Grace pretended to consider that. “Sure. Thank you.”
Opening a drawer, Ramona held up a box of frosting mix she’d already bought. Mediterranean Lemon. “This year, he might be able to make it—Professor Bluestone. That’d be nice, huh?”
“Yes.”
“He thinks you’re a genius.”
Grace nodded.
“He told you he thought you were smart?” said Ramona.
Many times. “Kind of.”
“Well…I invited him, if he can show up, he will.”
He couldn’t. Didn’t.
—
Once in a while the caseworker bringing or taking a foster was Wayne Knutsen. When he saw Grace, he’d look away, embarrassed, and Grace wondered why. Then she figured it out: He’d told her he was quitting social services to become a lawyer, hadn’t kept his word, and didn’t want to be reminded of his failure.
That was the thing about knowing people’s secrets: It could make them not like you.
But one evening, after settling in a terrified little black-Asian girl named Saraquina, Wayne headed straight for Grace, who was looking at the desert and pretending not to know he was there.
“Hey, there. Remember me?”
“You brought me.”
“There you go,” he said, smiling. “Wayne. They tell me you’re plowing your way through advanced educational materials. So everything’s working out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You get a kick out of hitting the books—out of studying, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” he said, fooling with his ponytail. “Gonna have to start calling you Amazing Grace.” His eyes fluttered and he reached out a hand, as if to pat her head, drew it back quickly. “Well, that’s great. The fact that you love to study, I mean. I could probably use your help.”
“With what?”
Wayne laughed. “Just kidding.”
Grace said, “Law school?”
He faced the desert, turned serious, finally shrugged. “You are a sharp one…yup, law school, getting through is a challenge. I work all day, go to classes at night, the books aren’t interesting like the stuff you’re learning.”
He sighed. “At your age, I was just like you. Got a kick out of gaining new knowledge. But now? I’m forty-seven, Grace. If I could devote full time to my studies, I could probably do better. But being as it’s only part-time, I’m stuck with an unaccredited school. That means not the best school, Grace, so good luck passing the bar—the lawyer’s exam.”
He kept looking at magenta sand. “It’s going to take me a while to finish. If I finish.”
“You will,” said Grace.
He scratched his nose, turned, and gave Grace a long, thoughtful look. “That’s your prediction, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s what you want.”
“Hmm. Well, sometimes I’m not sure about that—anyway, continue to amaze us, Ms. Grace. You’ve sure got the raw material—brains, I mean. That gives you an advantage in this crazy world even though…” He shook his head. “Bottom line, you’re in good shape, kid.”
Grace said nothing.
Wayne said, “That was what we call a compliment.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, well…so you really do like it here?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a good person, Ramona. Can’t say no to a kid in need, not many like her. That’s why I thought she’d be good for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I felt you deserved it,” he said. “After everything you went through.”
No such thing as deserve.
Grace said “Thank you” again.
“Anyway,” said Wayne, “I’m glad we could chat…listen, here’s my card, if you ever need something. Not that you’re likely to, Ramona tells me you’re pretty darn self-sufficient—know how to take care of yourself.”
He kept translating phrases Grace already understood like most grown-ups did. The only one who didn’t think she was stupid was Malcolm Bluestone. Except in the beginning, when he also explained too much. But somehow he figured out what Grace understood.
Wayne’s pudgy fingers dangled the card. Grace took it and thanked him a fourth time, hoping that would end the conversation and she could go inside and get back to a book on butterflies and moths.
Danaus plexippus. The monarch. Seeing pictures of them swarming a rooftop, a cloud of orange and black, made Grace look up “monarch” in her dictionary.
A sovereign ruler. A king or queen.
Grace couldn’t see anything kingy or queeny about the butterflies. She’d have called them pumpkin fliers. Or flame bugs, somethin
g like that. Maybe the scientist who named them was feeling like a big shot when he—
Wayne was saying, “No need to thank me, just doing my job.”
But he was smiling and looking relaxed.
Make people happy about themselves, they won’t bother you.
Grace smiled back. Winking at her, Wayne turned and trudged to his car.
After he drove away, Grace looked at the card.
Wayne J. Knutsen, B.A.
Social Service Coordinator
The first wastebasket she found was in the corner of the living room and that’s where the card ended up.
—
Malcolm Bluestone’s appearances were irregular events that Grace looked forward to because he always brought her something interesting: new curriculum materials, books, and best of all, old magazines. Grace found the advertisements the most intriguing features, all those photos and paintings that taught her about the way things used to be.
There were all kinds of magazines. Malcolm was a big reader, too, maybe that’s why he understood her.
Réalités seemed to be for people who wanted to live in France and had a lot of money and ate strange things.
House and Garden was about making your house fancy so people would like you.
Popular Mechanics and Popular Science showed you how to build things you probably wouldn’t use and talked about fantastic things that were supposed to happen but so far hadn’t, like flying cars and movies with smells coming out of holes in the wall of the theater.
Once, after reading four copies of Popular Science cover to cover, Grace had a night of nice dreams imagining herself flying in a car above the desert.
The Saturday Evening Post had bright, colorful paintings of smiling people with shiny hair, and big families, and birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving parties so crowded you could barely fit into the room. Turkey, too, there was always a huge roast turkey about to be cut up by a clean-looking man with a big knife. Sometimes a ham, with black things sticking out of it and pineapple slices on top.
The smiling people seemed like space aliens. Grace enjoyed the paintings the same way she liked reading about astronomy.
Time and Newsweek wrote about sad, angry, and boring things and gave opinions about books and movies. Grace couldn’t see any difference between the two of them and she couldn’t understand why anyone would use someone else’s opinion rather than their own.
The most interesting magazine was Psychology Today. Malcolm began bringing those when Grace turned ten, as if she’d finally earned something. Right away she got interested in experiments you could do with people, things that made them act smart or stupid, hate or like or ignore each other.
She especially enjoyed the ones where people acted differently when they were alone or in groups.
Also, experiments that showed how you could lead people the way you wanted if you made them feel really good or really bad.
Once, after Malcolm hadn’t shown up in a long time, he asked if he could give Grace a few more tests—“nothing time consuming, just more stories about pictures.” She said, “Sure,” but also waved a copy of Psychology Today. “Do you have more of these?”
“I wondered what you’d think. Piqued your interest?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, Grace, you can have any back copies I can scare up—you know, I think there might be some in the car.”
Grace tagged along as they left the house and walked to his brown Buick station wagon. A woman sat in the front passenger seat, thin-faced with what looked like snow-white hair.
Grace had never thought of Malcolm riding around with anyone.
Then she told herself that was stupid. He was a friendly person, probably had all sorts of friends. A whole world outside the ranch and magazines and psychological tests for fosters.
For some reason, that made Grace’s tummy hurt, right under the middle of her rib cage. She looked away from the woman.
The passenger window lowered. A soft, kind of whispery voice said, “Hey, there.”
Grace, forced to turn and face the woman, noticed her eyebrows first. Perfectly shaped little half circles. The mouth smiling at her was coated with purple-red lipstick.
Straight white teeth. Pointy chin. A dimple on the left cheek. A really attractive woman; she looked like someone in Réalités, wearing haute couture, eating escargots, and drinking Bordeaux in Paris or Cannes or in a grand château in the Loire Valley.
Grace said, “Hi,” so softly she barely heard herself. The white-haired woman got out of the station wagon. She was about Malcolm’s age and tall—nothing like Malcolm’s skyscraper height but still one of the tallest women Grace had ever seen—and thin as a crane. She wore a gray sweater, black pants, and flat silver shoes with gold buckles. Her hair wasn’t white; sunlight transformed it to really light blond, kind of gold at the same time it was kind of silver.
What Réalités called “ash blond.”
Bangs that looked as if they’d been cut with the aid of a ruler reached halfway down a smooth, pale forehead. The eyes beneath the bangs were kind of squinty, widely spaced, with tiny lines at the corners. Deep-blue eyes that settled easily on Grace, and even though the woman was still smiling, Grace felt there was sadness in her.
Malcolm said, “Ms. Grace Blades, this is Professor Sophia Muller. Professor, Grace.”
The blond woman held out her hand to Grace. “Ignore all that foofaraw, I’m his wife. Call me Sophie.”
Her fingers were long, smooth, cool, with pearly nails that shone like chrome on a car. She looked like a queen in a picture book. Like a monarch.
Malcolm was big but he wasn’t really monarch-y. More like Little John in Robin Hood. A kindly giant. Not like the one up the beanstalk…
Professor Sophia Muller said, “Grace is a pretty name.” Wider smile. “For a pretty girl.”
Grace felt her face go hot.
Professor Sophia Muller sensed she’d done something wrong because she looked briefly at her husband.
She’s his wife, be nice to her.
Grace said, “Thank you for the compliment. Pleased to meet you, Professor Muller.”
She’s his wife but she doesn’t use his name?
No one talked for a moment then Malcolm said, “Oh, yeah, Psych Today,” and unlatched the station wagon’s rear door, emerging with an armload of magazines.
Professor Sophia Muller said, “So he found a way to unload his collection. Grace, I should pay you for making next spring cleaning easier.”
Grace knew she was expected to smile and did.
Malcolm Bluestone said, “I’ll bring these to your room.”
Grace said, “I can do it.”
“Kind of heavy, Grace.”
Sophia Muller said, “Let’s all do it, three people will make it a snap.”
—
Dividing the magazines, they beelined to the house with Grace leading, Malcolm and Sophie trailing as they curtailed their strides to avoid trampling Grace’s heels.
Grace had no idea what they were thinking but she was thinking: He introduced us. So she didn’t know my name before.
So he never told her about me.
Was that because he didn’t talk about fosters?
Or Grace wasn’t that important to him?
—
It was like he’d read her mind because the next time he showed up, a week later, he said, “Enjoying the psych stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Sophie really enjoyed meeting you.”
Grace lied. “I enjoyed meeting her, too.” She had nothing against new people but didn’t think much about them.
When she and Malcolm had settled in the living room to complete the second part of the new picture-story test, he said, “You probably figured this out: I never told Sophie about you because of confidentiality—your privacy. Beyond that, I take what we do seriously, it’s not a topic for casual conversation. Anyway, it’s not about me, you’re the star.”
“Star of w
hat?” said Grace, even though she had a pretty good idea of what he meant. For some reason, she wanted him to talk more.
“Of what we do together, Grace. My goal is to optimize your education.”
Not explaining “optimize.” He was the only person who treated her like she wasn’t stupid.
“I explained—about not discussing you, because I didn’t want you to think you weren’t important. On the contrary, you are, and that’s precisely why I need to guard your privacy. Even though you have no legal right to confidentiality. Know why not?”
“Because I’m a foster?”
Soft brown eyes drooped sadly. “No, but that’s a logical answer. The actual reason is no kids under eighteen have a right to confidentiality, even things they tell psychologists. I think that’s absurd and terribly wrong, Grace. I think we need to respect children a lot more than we do. So I ignore the rules and keep secrets a hundred percent and don’t write things down that kids wouldn’t want written down.”
His words were tumbling out fast. Dots of pink colored his generous cheeks and one hand was a fist the size of a baseball glove.
Grace said, “Respect your elders but also respect your youngers.”
Malcolm stared at her. Broke out laughing. The fist bumped against the tabletop. “That’s brilliant, Grace. May I borrow it so I can sound brilliant?”
“Sure.”
“You’re exactly right. We need to look at all people as if they’re respectable and intelligent. Even infants. There was a psychologist—a famous one named William James, he lived a long time ago, was considered important, anything he said people listened to. He was convinced babies lived in a ‘blooming, buzzing confusion.’ Like they were insects, like there was no pattern to how they felt or thought or acted. In William James’s day, that sounded pretty reasonable. Know why?”
“People didn’t know any better.”
“Precisely, Grace, and the reason they didn’t know any better was because they had no idea how to measure what babies were feeling or thinking. Then psychologists got smarter and developed tests and poof!”—he snapped his fingers—“wouldn’t you know it, babies got smarter. And that trend continues, Grace. It’s what makes psychology exciting, at least to me. We’re learning so much all the time. Not just about human infants. Higher animals, too—whales, dolphins, monkeys, even birds—turns out crows are super clever. The smarter we get about understanding them, the smarter they get. So maybe we should start out assuming everyone’s smart.”
The Murderer's Daughter Page 16