But what Jessie did remember—very clearly, in fact—was Mr. Staples’ shocked expression as he sat there on the ground, his hand rubbing at his ugly gruff face; his hat on the ground next to him, and his bald head glowing like a red-hot furnace. He was too shocked to speak. But his wife, Mrs. Staples, oh she had said plenty! The woman bolted out of the car to help her wounded husband to his feet. She squawked and screeched a whole slew of threats and obscenities at Jessie—some quite colorful in fact. Then, in the next instant, the enraged duo had grabbed Sam up and shoved him in their car.
Jessie had been unable to move. She just stood frozen, watching that terrible expression on her brother’s face . . .
Jessie shuttered suddenly, just thinking about it. Those pleading, wounded eyes. She would be haunted by that gaze; haunted until she could see Sam’s face again. No. Until she could see his smiling face again. And she would.
It was after the car door slammed that Mr. Staples had growled those final words: You just forfeited your visiting privileges! Missy! And I’m filing charges! That’s when Jessie realized both Mr. and Mrs. Barton had a vise-grip hold on her. She had stood there, watching as they sped off, her own tears welling up behind shocked eyes.
Afterwards, the Barton’s had initially been sympathetic enough to not freak out, having witnessed everything firsthand. Also, Mr. Staples had agreed not to press charges—it would have looked really bad if he had, pressing charges against a teenage girl who punched him in defense of her brother? And besides, a legal issue involving the DCFS would have hurt his continued association: the man needed the money he got from foster-care. So things did worked out . . . sort of. But in the end the questions had to be asked: What was going on in that family? What was happening to make Sam so desperate, so miserable?
Jessie later found out why the empathy from the Bartons. It turned out it was only because they had no love for the Staples. Evidently, some past circumstance between the two families had caused a rift. Mr. Barton had scornfully mentioned it on the drive back home, but quickly grew silent the moment Jessie appeared interested. From what she was able to briefly gather, the Staples had spread some slander within the agency regarding the Barton’s fostering methodology—Mr. Staples getting punched in the face, then, probably had given the two of them warm-fuzzies. But whatever bitterness existed between the two families, it had at least helped Jessie on two vital levels: it helped keep her out of court, and it gave her the fuel she needed to advocate a phone call to the DCFS.
Jessie had demanded that they move Sam to another family, stating her concerns as grown up and adamant as a sixteen-year old could. But it seemed she now had a reputation with the agency, and that didn’t help matters. The organization’s representative had uncaringly stated that the Staples have been foster parents for years. We’ve never had any concerns or problems . . . The lecture had finished with something like, Sam just needs more time to acclimate to the Staple’s rules without your influence.
Ooh! Those last words had burned her! She’d influence them! In fact, Jessie was so furious that she had vowed to take matters into her own hands. And she had . . . well, sort of. Things hadn’t turned out quite as she planned. Actually, it was a disaster!
She had snuck out after dark the very next day. Using the school computers to locate the Staple’s address, she had put together a plan, a sketchy plan, one which she now wished she had spent more time preparing—hindsight . . . as they say—because it failed miserably. She hadn’t even gotten out of the driveway. Who knew that reaching in and unlocking a car door with the window down, and then opening the door would set off the alarm? She had the stupid keys and FOB in her hand, but hadn’t even thought about using them because the window was already down, and the latch easily accessible—you better bet that since then, she’d added that little mental check to her list of things to know when sneaking away in someone’s car—stupid, stupid!
Now, besides her separation from Sam, the DCFS had officially placed her on probation. She was on watch for runaway, and what was worse, the Staples had been notified and told to keep an eye on Sam. Great! And all this rotten mess had happened in just seven days . . . one horrible week!
This week, however, had been very different. This week, was an insightful, clever week. It had been a week of focus, mental preparation, scheming and scrupulous planning. And it was going to end with another adventure. But with a very different outcome. She had articulated another plan, but this one—unlike the last—would not fail . . . could not fail. In this game, she already had her two strikes. One more, and she was out.
Jessie had just finished another mental step-by-step review of her plan when her watch timer went off. She jumped slightly. It was time: seven p.m. on the nose. Now she just needed her accomplice, Amy Bassenger, to appear on time.
Amy was Jessie’s only real friend at school. The two hadn’t known each other very long, but Amy was super sympathetic to the cause, and a bit of a rebel herself, a perfect combination for a covert mission. Besides, there had been a bribe . . . kind of. It came in the form of a pair of concert tickets Jessie had gotten her hands on. A local upstart band, a cost which she was happy to pay. Amy would have helped her out either way, but the added incentive was a sure clench to the deal—the girl was crazy about the lead singer of the group, and tickets had been first-come, first-serve.
Jessie moved to her window and looked out. The street lights had just blinked on. The leaves on the large Aspen outside her window had turned copper, mimicking the west ski’s amber hue. It would soon be dark. Downstairs, Jessie could hear the television set blasting: laughter, clapping . . . more laughter. Yeah, they were zoned in like usual, she noted. “A family of zombies,” she heard herself mutter. The Bartons never missed their favorite Monday night sitcom. It was as if their lives depended on this one show. They even changed their weekly schedules to accommodate the hour. Whatever, she thought. She was actually glad. It fit right into her plan.
Suddenly, two beaming headlights turned onto Marble Circle. The car slowed then pulled against the curb just two houses down. It turned off its lights, then shut off its motor. “Amy,” Jessie whispered. She glanced at her watch. “Good girl. She’s right on time.” Jessie felt her heart rate jump and her stomach lurch. “Show time,” she managed with a hard swallow.
In the next instant, she had pushed out the screen and crawled out her window onto the second story roof level. She sat then slid her buttocks carefully toward the edge. The pleaded shingles were hard and ruff on her bottom, but she didn’t care. The large oak in the front yard had grown in such a way as to conveniently provide a branch near the edge of the roof on one side. But still, Jessie had to traverse the edge very, very carefully, then step across a three-foot span and onto the oak’s thick wood arm. One slip and she would fall at least thirty-feet straight down onto the cement driveway below, ending her adventure—and likely her life—before she even got started. Jessie had no fear of heights, and prior to her parents accident, she had been on the high-school gymnastics team—she was in excellent shape. She could do this! She had to do this! And in fact, she had navigated every step over and over in her mind. Standing at her window, she had mentally negotiated this roof: stepped out and onto the branch; balanced herself along its length, then dropped, swung, let go and landed on both feet, just like the bars at school—piece of cake.
But now, seated at the roof’s periphery, the drop looked far more ominous than it had from behind the safety of her window; her stomach let her know that. But at least the angle in the roof’s gale was not too sharp, and the shingles were pretty good friction.
Jessie took in a large gulp of air, then carefully stood, just as she had rehearsed in her mind, and slowly stepped outward into air. She stretched until she thought she couldn’t stretch any more. Then with great relief, touched the branch with her foot. But her exhilaration was short lived. Suddenly, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her steadying leg—the one still on the roof—slid just s
lightly. Jessie felt her breath leave her in a horrid rush of fear. There was a tremendous bang as her foot caught the rain gutter, wrenching the metal catch from its frame. The clang seemed cruel in its reverberation, as if wanting her to be caught. It popped in a screeching scrape of metal to metal before finally silencing again. Jessie froze. They just had to hear that! she thought, sickly. She waited, her lungs begging for large gulps of air. But there were no shouts from windows or bellows from the grass below. They hadn’t heard her.
Jessie could not have known that below on the street, her friend and accomplice, Amy, was glaring in utter dread, watching this circus act unfold before her eyes. This had not been part of the deal! No concert was worth seeing a friend fall to her death! Twice now, Amy had nearly bolted from the car and shouted for Jessie to get off the roof and forget this stupid idea! But she had refrained. Possibly because her hands were now glued to the steering wheel. “Don’t fall! Don’t fall!” She heard herself repeat between short gasps of breath.
On the roof, Jessie’s steadiness had run out. Just jump! she shouted to herself. Do it now you coward! Then, with teeth clenched, she leaped.
From within the car, Amy screamed out and jerked her head downward.
Jessie felt the pressure of the branch beneath her feet. It was solid. But then the firm placement suddenly betrayed her. The moist pithy surface slipped, and as if in slow motion, she felt her equilibrium shift, forcing her center of gravity far to one side. Now, like the swing of the pendulum from zenith to nadir, she saw the ground; felt the indifference of the gravitation force which took her. Sam would be left alone—she would never see him again.
Below, Amy was still too frightened to raise her head. She knew by now, if Jessie had made it, she was on her way toward the car. But if she had not . . . if her friend had fallen, then it would not be the sprint of a young girl racing toward her, face full of excitement and adrenalin, but a broken body lying on the cement pavement. It was this image which had caused her to scream with tensed eyes and face down in the first place. I’ll count to ten, then look, Amy made a final decision. But she only got to the count of five before she heard someone running. Her eyes shot up. It was Jessie! She had made it! And to both girl’s astonishment, no one had responded to the clang of the rain gutter, the snap of the tree limb, or any other disturbance. Thank you, sitcom! thought Jessie, gratefully.
Amy jumped out of her car. She had an ear full for Jessie and was shaking all over, but she was so relieved to see her friend alive that she quickly collected herself, remembering that this was a rushed, covert mission. She needed to get back with the plan. Amy threw open the back door and drew out her old work uniform, the one from Peppi’s Perfect Pizza delivery. It was a ridiculous outfit; one which she had worn for nearly a year while making deliveries for Peppi’s. Now she was about to happily unload it on Jessie . . . it and an old dark wig she once bought for a Halloween party.
“Thanks for coming!” Jessie said on the intake. She gave Amy a quick hug. She was panting like a gazelle on the run.
“You scared the crap out of me!” Amy moaned, then added a friendly punch to Jessie’s shoulder. “I nearly wet myself!”
“I scared you! Girl, I left half my fingernails embedded in the trunk of that tree, thirty feet up!” Jessie gulped, laughing. She could chuckle now, but her heart still thumped in the back of her throat and her body continued to tremble. Jessie took the clothes and wig from Amy, then with one last hug, jumped into the girl’s car and sped off.
As soon as the car disappeared around the street corner, Amy reached in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She called her boyfriend. “Hey. Can you come pick me up? I let Jessie borrow my car for an errand she had to run. We’ll need to pick it up later. I’ll tell you where when you get here . . .”
Chapter 29:
“I just don’t see how this is going to work.” Eli shook his head, dubiously. True, he was the skeptic of the group, but he was also a very logical thinker, and this was not logical! It was ridiculous!
Ellen sighed, ominously. She didn’t really say anything, not that she needed to. Her expression spoke volumes. She rubbed her chin and looked very distant.
Jacob could see where the conversation was heading. “Look,” he spoke, infusing what optimism he could, “we can put Hank and Emma Sue in hibernation mode and settle them in one of the storage areas—that’s not an issue. Ruthanne and Ellen can rotate shifts here in the estate. Eli and I can cover for any necessary responsibilities in the complex. It’s only for a few weeks, remember,” he emphasized, as if that would sweeten the sauce.
“’Rotate shifts?’ And who do we say we are?” questioned Ellen. “Cleaning ladies? Live-in servants? What?”
“Well,” Jacob thought for a moment, tapping his chin nervously. “I thought you and Ruthanne might pretend to be relatives . . . nieces perhaps? You know, two sisters who have come in from out of town to help out their Aunt Gracie for a few weeks.”
“Sisters!” Ellen grunted with a roll of her eyes. “Aunt Gracie? You’re serious? Oh my. This sounds like so much fun. I can hardly wait. How about you, Ruthy?”
“Hey I’m just throwing out ideas here,” defended Jacob in exasperation.
“I think it’s a good idea,” spoke Ruthanne. “I don’t mind being your sister for a week or two?” She looked in the direction of Ellen and smiled. “And I certainly don’t have a problem with any contrivance which would attach me to Gracie,” then she smiled warmly, and indicated toward the wheelchair opposite, knowing Gracie would warm to this comment. And she did.
Ellen’s surprise was obviously. Her eyebrows rose and she was visibly taken back. “My goodness. I suppose if Ruthy is game . . .”
“Let me remind you girls that we are talking day shift,” countered Eli. “None of us can be in direct sunlight for more than seconds. Are you both willing to take that risk? To spend time above ground during the day?” He posed the question as he would a loaded gun.
“I will take the day shift,” volunteered Ruthanne. “I can sense lighted areas better than anyone else. I will stay in rooms which either have no windows, or where the blinds are drawn. It is not that difficult. We all know the estate layout nearly as well as our own Avalon apartments.”
“We will spilt the shift equally, and take equal risk,” Ellen stated, indicating toward Ruthanne in an marked tone. “There are people all over the world who are sunlight intolerant. The children will not necessary consider this an oddity in us.”
“Sunlight intolerant?” mimicked Eli, sarcastically. “Sunlight intolerance is a rare, but naturally occurring genetic deficiency and very different from what the Nazis engendered in us. We are sunlight toxic, effective in seconds! Am I the only one to see the danger in this?” he glared wearily from one person to the other.
“Eli is right,” Gracie acceded. “I won’t risk any of you being injured, or worse. You have forgotten that the children will be here. They will be my helpers by day. School was out as of Friday—that was part of the reason the DCFS agreed to arrange their transfer as quickly as they did. They can help me out with chores, cleaning, cooking; I can easily keep them happily busy for a week or two.” She paused unexpectedly and gave Jacob a revealing eye. “Should we tell them now, Jake?”
Jacob smirked a little uncomfortably, then shrugged his shoulders. “Might as well,” then leaned over his chair.
“Tell us,”—Eli accentuated the question—“what?” He had stopped his pacing, sat, and now crossed his legs and latched his hands. He looked hard at Jacob as he tapped his fingers—not a good sign.
“It was my idea,” Gracie broke in on cue. “I was thinking of doing some renovating, a healthy upgrade.”
“We have Avalon—it has gardens, ponds, rivers, hills—not to mention the technology to create whatever environment we choose. We live in a veritable Garden of Eden. And you want to add a ‘healthy upgrade’?’” Eli grumbled.
“Avalon is in your world,” reminded Gracie, “below gr
ound. And yes, Eli, it is a marvel of technology, a miracle to behold, for sure. But it is untouchable to all but you four, Jimmy and myself.”
“But—” he started.
“And,” she continued, “you know all too well of its provisional existence. It, like all of the HOPE underground, will one day be gone. Sandcastle, on the other hand, will be here for an age . . . at least I’d like to think. Any improvements I make here, will be permanent.”
The room grew silent. They all knew what Gracie was getting at. She just wanted the children to be comfortable during their short stay; to feel—perhaps for the first time since their parent’s death—as if someone really cared for them, loved them, and genuinely concerned for their well-being.
Eli sighed a trampled exchange and cleared his throat rather noisily. There was no getting around it. If given the opportunity, Gracie would be up for nomination for Grandmother of the year—every year for the rest of her life. He leveled at Jacob. “Okay. I give. What do you have in mind?”
The boy shrugged, eyeing Gracie, his collaborator, for support. “Well, just a gym . . . and maybe a game room.”
“A game room?” Eli echoed. He made a canvassed motion of the library. “Here in the estate. A game room,” he repeated.
“Why not?” Jacob reasoned. “It will take the construction droids less than an hour to complete. I’ve already downloaded the schematics and layout into their memory, and—” he pointed at Gracie as if shifting the focus, “Gracie has already ordered the gaming equipment . . .online. Haven’t you, Gracie.”
She hesitated a second, then grinned. “Yes. Yes I have as a matter of fact.”
Again, silence crept in where conversation had stopped to breathe.
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