All Things Different
Page 21
I looked down at a pair of her shoes on the closet floor. They were tiny little pink and white Converse shoes. She wore those to school on pink-shirt days with either pink or white headbands or hair clips, because in her mind, every day should have a theme, or at least a little flair. For a second I smiled at the contrast of her shoes beside a pair of my old boots, and I wasn’t quite so miserable anymore. Then I forced myself from the room. I went downstairs and watched TV until Dad returned late that afternoon.
“Heard anything?” I asked.
“You’ll know as soon as I do.” With the phone in hand, he went down the hall to his room and closed the door. It was over an hour before he came out. No good news.
So we waited. The speed at which the earlier changes descended on us was in terrible contrast to this new slowing. The days would not pass. I had no energy, little appetite, no interest in anything other than distraction. Of course, there were no distractions strong enough to fully distract me. I understood that the process was meant to help otherwise helpless children. But then, I hated the state, the court, the police, the guidance counselor that had failed her, the doctor that believed she’d broken her wrist on stairs—all of them. What had they ever done for her? Fail? They managed that quite well. And what about all the others currently being kicked around, with no one like my old man to stick up for them? What would become of them? Maybe get out of our business and go help some of them, before their Missing pictures stare back at us from Walmart’s entryway and those little white cards in the mail each week.
Sunday my old man worked again while I stayed home, and Monday I went back to school to field questions and absorb well-intended but unhelpful sympathy. It wasn’t their fault, and at least they cared. But I was much worse than my usual, already poor school self. I spoke only when obligated to, and usually with as much friendliness as a bear disturbed mid-winter. It wasn’t on purpose, and I didn’t really mean it; it was only a reaction. I forced down small amounts of terrible cafeteria food while I tried to read Nick. It worked fine for survival’s sake, but really it was no good at all. I felt a million miles from the places Nick was describing.
Friday afternoon, Mrs. Johnson stopped me in the hall. She told me that Sara’s assignments had already been picked up at the office.
“That’s good news,” she said in a secretive tone. “They’re in no rush to ship her out of the district.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“I’ve seen it happen before in extreme cases. But in this case, I don’t believe that’s best for her. Her grades are high here, with zero discipline problems. That looks good to a judge.”
I nodded as if I had a clue what judges saw or thought.
“Well, I thought you should know. Take some comfort in it.”
“I appreciate it, Mrs. J.”
“How’s your dad?”
My old man had built her a small gardening shed the year before.
“Holding steady,” I said. “Misses her like crazy.”
“She’s such a sweet kid.”
I thanked her as best as I could and walked to the bus. Moving through the halls, I swore if anyone so much as touched me wrong …
At home I took a walk through the woods. It was a clear day and the leaves were mostly down, burnt orange and crunching under my feet. The sun was shining through the mostly bare limbs. It was good to see the sun, to feel its warmth, and good to be out in the fresh air. I ended up walking out to the tree I’d killed, though not on purpose, and I stood looking on at the scene for a long time. My old man would be disappointed in me. He held great respect for trees, the number of years in which they grew and the tall, straight strength they acquired in age. He only cut them out of necessity, and usually only cut those that were on the verge of dying anyway, those that had taken storm or snow damage, or had some disease or showed dying limbs and would soon begin rotting where they stood. It was a strange thing to feel ashamed of, but that was how I was raised.
That night I told my old man I wanted to get back to work. I was still without energy and interest, but by then I was terribly restless on top of it.
“Sure that’s a good idea?”
“I need to do something.”
“I planned on doing more wood,” he said. “But we can get a few things done at the job.”
When the time came, it was a disaster. I’d lost a few pounds already and a lot of strength. I moved slowly and more clumsily on my feet. I couldn’t keep up with the old man and couldn’t do much right. I made it through till lunch on Saturday without messing anything up too badly, and then we quit and went home. We got some wood done after a feeble lunch.
Saturday evening the phone rang. My old man started down to his room as he answered. Then he stopped abruptly and I heard his tone instantly soften. “Yes, it’s me. I’m doing just fine. How are you?”
I flew up off the couch with my heart thump-thumping, the first shot of energy I’d had in too many days. I waited quietly, listening.
“I know. I’m sorry. We miss you too. Yes, of course we do. We’re fine. We’re both fine. Hopefully we’ll have a court date scheduled any day now. Yes. Oh, yes. Are they treating you okay? All right, good. Very good. You’re eating okay, I hope. I know. Try. Just try. Marshmallows?” He laughed lightly. “Oh goodness. I know. Just hold on. Be strong. Okay. Jake’s about to tear the phone away from me. Here he is.”
I took the phone and my hand was shaking a little. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.” Her voice was distant but sweet.
“You’re okay?” I said in the stupidity of my excitement.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Everyone’s been good to me. I just miss you guys is all.”
“We miss you too.”
“Are you taking care of yourself?”
“Yes,” I said. “Did I hear something about marshmallows?”
“Yeah,” she giggled. “I have a big bag all to myself.”
“You’re a silly girl,” I said. I nearly choked. It was so good just to hear that tiny laugh.
“Do you have a pen and paper nearby?”
“Yes.”
“Write this down.”
It was an email address and password she’d made for me, because I didn’t have one, and I was to check it daily.
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll check it every single day.”
“There was a small service for my mom,” she said next, more seriously.
“Where?”
“In Massachusetts, near my uncle’s house. My uncle took care of it for my grandparents.” Her voice was weakening. “I barely know him, so—”
“Don’t talk about it. Just don’t think about it.”
“I’m trying.”
“We’ll do something for her when you’re back home.”
“Okay.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Some. Are you?”
“I’m fine. Just worry about you.”
“Okay.” She waited. “I don’t think I have much longer to talk.”
“Just a minute,” I said.
“That’s all.”
“Are you reading your books?”
“I am. A lot.”
“That’s good.”
“They help me.”
“I’m glad.”
“I have to go,” she said quieter. “I’m not supposed to be calling.”
“Wait,” I said.
“I love you.”
“Wait. Just one more minute.”
“I need to go,” she whispered.
“One more minute.”
The line buzzed dead. I shut off the phone, slunk back to the couch, and waited, hoping it would ring again. The number had been blocked on the ID. It never ring again that night. I understood that the foster family couldn’t have people showing up at their house, especially if someone was a threat to Sara, but I could not understand why we couldn’t at least talk on the phone.
41
The next news we received c
ame two days after, on a Monday well into October. I’d developed a hair-trigger thumb for answering the phone, but each time it rang, I was disappointed by a man’s voice—the lawyer—looking for the old man.
“We’ve got a court date,” Dad said with a relieved smile.
“When?”
“Soon. Next Wednesday.”
“Nice,” I said. My birthday was the Thursday after. Although time had been crawling awfully slowly, Wednesday—about a week—wasn’t too far off. It was a milestone at least rather than a dark road with no markers.
“It won’t be easy,” my old man said next.
“You mean the court stuff?”
“That too. But I’m talking about if we end up with her. She must be functioning on survival mode right now. She can’t continue that way forever.”
“No,” I agreed. “But at least she’ll be home where she’s comfortable.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“That’s all I care about. She can drive me crazy day and night if she wants. I just want her here.”
“Without Kate,” Dad said, “we’ll need help to balance things out.”
The next day my old man came home with a couple of self-help books. I looked at the cover flaps and could barely believe he’d buy such books. It was psychobabble and examples of personality disorders with names I couldn’t pronounce. Under normal circumstances, I would have busted out laughing. He stayed up late several nights reading and highlighting lines of advice, and I’d look over the highlights each morning before school.
Saturday we set ourselves to an act of faith, moving everything from Sara’s room in the old camp into the spare room upstairs across from my room. It was good because it kept us busy, lightened our heavy moods, and brought us an odd sort of hope at the same time. It was good to see things that reminded us of her, good to think of her as someone still a part of our lives rather than someone gone and potentially lost.
“She’ll have to rearrange it all,” I said in the doorway, looking in at it all.
“Yeah,” Dad laughed. “We’re no decorators.”
“Don’t you know about color schemes?” I felt myself almost smiling.
“You could arrange those stuffed animals more orderly, Jake. There’s a theme to consider, you know.”
“These curtains aren’t nearly bright enough.”
“I’ll gladly take her to pick out her own.”
“My room will have more space again.”
“This room will be a glorified walk-in closet. You watch.”
“If she has her way, yeah.”
“Her taste in style might put me in the poorhouse.”
I laughed. “She can use it for an art room too.”
“That too. Maybe we’ll pick up a few supplies this weekend.”
“It can be fun and practical.”
“We’ve got to stay practical,” Dad said.
“Do you think they’ll really let her come back?”
“I’d like to think so. Maybe I just hope so. But there’s more to it than that. We have to think of her.”
“I am thinking of her.”
“Jake, we can do all this, sure. But if she comes back here, understand that I haven’t a clue how to raise a teenage girl.”
“Can’t be that hard,” I shrugged.
My old man smiled at my joke. It was good to see him smile. “I’m just saying without her mother, things could get very difficult for her. And what do we know? We can’t treat her like a riddle to be solved, can’t fix her like she’s broke when she’s having a bad time. You can be sure she’ll have some bad times. It’ll be a day-to-day job looking after her, I’m guessing.”
“I think she’ll be fine with us. Look how much better she was doing. She was sleeping almost every night, getting good grades at school, making friends. She was happy, not all loopy like when she first got here.”
“That’s all true, and I’m glad for it.” My old man nodded. “But her mother was here.”
“I know,” I said. “I just don’t want to see it another way. I can’t.”
“I think we’ll have her,” he said after a moment. “Let’s focus on that.” Then he smiled.
“What?”
“I was just thinking about this room, sitting empty all these years.”
“Yeah?”
“Your mother designated it to be your sister’s room, after she got yours ready for you. Now it’s all furnished and ready.”
Later that night, after sending off an email, I remember standing in the doorway of the spare room, looking in at the array of Sara’s colorful belongings. I was tired and my mind was working against me. Unpleasant images passed through my head of state officials coming in and hauling everything out again. I shook off those thoughts and tried to just picture Sara instead. I remembered her email. They were always filtered, less mushy than I knew she would normally be, I assumed because they were checked by the foster parents. She was content, though, patiently waiting to get back home. I tried to picture her that way, happy, settling in comfortably with us again, as she’d done so easily before. It wouldn’t be the same without Kate, but whatever we had to go through, it would be far better than filtered emails.
Monday we had a state inspector visit the house. He carried a clipboard and looked through the entire house, jotting notes and making check marks. He was a nice-enough guy and said he was not allowed to disclose any information, but that his being sent there could be taken as a potentially positive sign. We accepted it as that.
Halloween came and passed for us with typical disinterest. We never even bought any candy for ourselves. All we cared about was the Wednesday after. I thought about Sara and hoped she’d been able to enjoy it somehow. The foster family had an elementary school–aged child, according to the emails, and Sara was excited to see him dressed in his costume. But knowing little else of her situation, as the days ticked by, I found it harder to imagine anything more about her day-to-day living situation.
“How did you deal with it?” I said one night. It was more of a thought put to words than a question. We were in the living room with the TV on, but neither of us was paying any attention.
“Deal with what?” my old man said, coming back from wherever he was.
“You know,” I said. “Mom. Being gone after all that time with her.”
“I had you,” he said simply.
“But how did you keep from thinking about her?”
“I didn’t.”
“So, say with Sara …”
“You mean if she doesn’t come back?”
“Yeah. How are we supposed to deal with it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “This is a little different.”
I leaned back on the couch. “It would be easier not to care, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be easier, yes. It’s not better.”
42
I was up early Wednesday. I dressed in the best clothes I had and went down for coffee. Food had no appeal. I picked at some toast to keep from feeling sick. The morning dragged. I remember pacing around in circles in the drive, waiting for it to be time to go, feeling the partially frozen pine needles crackling under my shoes. It was November now, and there had been a frost overnight. I paced and waited, paced and waited, breathing the chilly air, looking across the lake at the sad leaflessness of the trees. I could not hold still. One way or the other, I knew I would see her soon. The uncertainty was killing me.
It was a nervous drive down to the courthouse. Neither of us said much; we were both off in our own heads going through potential outcomes. The walk inside was even more nerve-racking. Our steps echoed widely and blended with the other echoes of other steps. The ceilings were high inside and gave a false sensation of space, and the sound bounced strangely and gave everything a hollowed tone that made each noise more metallic, each voice less lifelike. Within minutes of my first visit, I determined that I did not care much for the courthouse, and hoped not to return again anytime soon.