The Sound of Us

by Sarah Willis

  “Alice. I just wanted you to know that my mom died. About an hour ago. We were all there with her. I’m calling from the hospital. We’re taking a few moments to make some phone calls, then we have to meet with someone from the funeral home. It’s the same place that did Dad’s funeral. I’m okay. We had some warning, so we were all in her room. You can try reaching me on my cell phone if you want.” She pauses. “Well, that’s it. Good-bye.”

  I push 3 and hold it down, my preset for Polly’s cell phone. I get the busy signal. I try again every five minutes for over a half hour, pacing back and forth from the living room to the kitchen. My mother gets up and asks what I’m doing.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” she says when I explain. “I know you liked her. Didn’t you go there with Polly that time?”

  “Twice. And every time she came to Cleveland, we went to dinner together. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “At least she went before her children,” my mother says.

  I don’t know what to say to that; I don’t even know why it makes me angry, but it does. “I’m going to just keep trying her, okay?” I say. She goes back to the living room.

  This time, Polly answers. She whispers a hello.

  “God, Polly, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you, but your phone’s been busy. Was it another stroke?”

  “A blood clot,” Polly whispers. “Listen, we’re in this meeting. There’s so much to do. The funeral will be Wednesday, that’s all I know. Can I call you back later? Maybe I’ll call tomorrow. I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m in Columbus, at my parents’. We’ll be leaving tomorrow sometime. I have Larissa.”

  She doesn’t say anything, and I think we’ve lost contact, then she says. “You have her? You mean she’s with you, now? In Columbus?”

  “Yes, it happened quickly.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Listen, I better go. I’ll call you tomorrow night, when things settle down.”

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m okay,” she says, but her voice hitches. “A little numb. I’ll call you,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, Polly. I liked her so much.”

  “She liked you too. Bye.”

  I stand in the kitchen, staring at nothing. The funeral’s Wednesday. There’s no way I can make it. Not with Larissa. If it weren’t for Larissa, I’d be making plane reservations right now. It takes most of the day Monday to finish building the cat house, and then we have to take it apart so I can get it into my trunk. It’s large enough for a small dog, and the pillow’s made out of pink satin. Larissa’s entranced. She wanders into the dining room several times, where the pink pillow lies on the table, just to touch it. I notice her thumb is hardly ever in her mouth. When I mention this to my mother—Larissa outside playing a final game of hide-and-seek with Bruce and Dylan—my mother tells me that she casually mentioned to Larissa that wet things, like water, pop, or a wet thumb, would stain the pink satin. I smile; how many ways did she manipulate me when I was a child?

  “Any chance we can get the boys for Thanksgiving?” I ask, spreading peanut butter on Wonder bread for a snack in the car.

  My mother presses her lips together and shakes her head no. “We’d like to fly them in sometime during their Christmas break, but I don’t think she’ll let us. We get the minor holidays, like Labor Day. Your father and I are thinking about driving out there this spring.”

  “That’s a long drive,” I say.

  “Yes, it is.” She takes the sandwiches I’ve made and wraps them like presents in wax paper, using paper tape to keep them closed, just as she packed my sandwiches when I went to school. “Take some pops, too,” she says.

  “Maybe we can come back soon,” I offer.

  “That would be nice.” She folds the top of the brown paper bag over three times, creasing the folds with her fingertips. “You will call us, and let us know what happens,” she says, as if now that I have Larissa, I might ignore them.

  Bruce and Dylan will fly back early tomorrow morning. Their school doesn’t start until Wednesday, either. Standing out in the backyard, our car packed, I hug Bruce good-bye and tousle his hair with my hand. When I bend down to hug Dylan, he reaches up and tousles my hair first. Maybe Larissa and I can drive to Arizona for Christmas break.

  My father shakes Larissa’s hand. “It’s been mighty nice meeting you, Larissa. You did some very good work on that cat house. You should be quite proud of yourself there. If Alice needs something fixed at home, she should ask you first. Here. You take this with you, just in case.” He hands her a wrench.

  “Thank you,” she says softly with her head tilted down to the ground, then looks up at him with those big wide eyes, and I know tonight will be a bad night for him. He wanted a granddaughter. I’m too old to provide one now, and Vince too dead. Larissa will be it, if I get to “keep” her. He hasn’t asked me about any of the details; he’s enjoying the pretense that Larissa will be coming back with me next time, until tonight, when he’ll ask my mother for the details.

  My mother, holding a small brightly colored gift bag, gets down on her knees on the grass, which is not easy for her and makes me nervous. Crooking a finger, she beckons Larissa over. “I have something to give you, too,” she says.

  Larissa goes over to my mother and stands just out of arm’s reach. This morning I braided Larissa’s hair and tied it with a red velvet ribbon that I found in my mother’s collection of ribbons. The late-afternoon sunlight comes through the leaves, dappling their faces with gold. I wish I had brought a camera. Next time I will.

  “Here,” my mother says, handing Larissa the bag. “I made an extra cover for the pillow out of flannel, for the winter.”

  As Larissa stands there, Lucy in one arm, the bag in the other, my mother leans over and gives her a quick hug.

  It takes both the boys to help my mother back to her feet. Bruce and Dylan say good-bye to Larissa when she gets into the car. Larissa waves to them. I give the boys one last big hug.

  As we drive off, I ask Larissa if she liked our visit, and she nods slowly, thoughtfully. I ask if she liked Bruce and Dylan, and she nods with a smile. “What color is the new pillow?” I ask, and she opens up the bag and peeks inside.

  “Red,” she said.

  My mother has taught me well. “Yeah, she probably would make it red, for Christmas,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. Ten minutes of silence later, Larissa asks if she can call her mommy.

  “Can it wait till we get home?” I ask. “My cell phone’s running pretty low.”

  She nods sadly. Halfway home, Larissa falls asleep in the car. We never eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  I leave Larissa sleeping in the car when we get home and walk around the house, looking for broken windows. I can’t help it. Inside, I check the messages. One phone solicitor, and Michelle. “I called the police on you,” she says. “I told them you kidnapped my daughter. How’s that feel, huh? Having the police called on you? You better call me back.”

  I erase the message. My hand spells shit.

  I take the phone outside and check on Larissa. She’s still sleeping. I sit on my back porch, the sun just setting, and call this woman I want to kill.

  “Listen,” I say, as soon as she answers. “We went to my parents’ house in Columbus. Family Services knew about it. It’s perfectly legal. Larissa had a very nice time. Don’t you dare ruin it. She’s talking again. Don’t fuck that up. She’s sleeping in the car right now. I’ll have her call you when she wakes up. Do not upset her, do you hear me? You do want her talking, so she can go to school, don’t you?”

  “You can’t just be taking my child to Columbus and tell me—”

  “Yes, I can. I certainly can. The police had better not show up here, Goddamn it, and terrify her all over again. Call them right now, and get the story straight. They probably already called Family Services and know you’re full of shit, but you call them now. Can you imagine what it would do to her, if
the police came?”

  “Hey, you called them first, bitch. You should know.”

  “Call them now,” I say, and hang up the phone.

  She called me a bitch. If I knew Yolanda Walker’s home number, I’d call and report the little dyed-blond cunt.

  I can’t believe I even thought that word. Thank God I’m sitting down on the steps or my legs would give out. Every brain cell in my head is shouting at me to get into the car and drive back to Columbus. I don’t feel safe in my house. I think to call Polly, then remember where she is.

  I bow my head. Polly, I’m so sorry, I think. I’m so sorry.

  I know I can’t leave Larissa in the car much longer. I open her door and softly call her name.

  “Mommy?” she says sleepily. Then she rubs her eyes, sees me. “Can I call my mommy now?”

  “Sure, honey,” I say. “Come on inside and we’ll try her.” I honestly think about misdialing the number, saying she isn’t there.

  I hand her the phone. She’s old enough to dial it herself. She’ll probably get it right. “You can go up to your room,” I say. “If you want.” She heads toward the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, she stops and presses the buttons. I can hear the faint melody from where I stand. Then she walks up the steps. “Mommy! Hi, it’s me! We went away. We went to visit her mom and dad and these boys. The boys were Dylan and Bruce and I liked Bruce best because he . . .” Her door shuts.

  She can talk when she wants to. I didn’t miss, either, that she called me her, no name. I sit on the couch and breathe. It’s harder than I thought.

  I put Larissa to bed at nine. Sampson jumps up and curls at her feet, so glad we’re home. I left the cat house in the trunk. It’s been a long day.

  “We never went shopping for school clothes,” I say. “You were too busy building things and playing with Dylan and Bruce, but tomorrow we’ll go shopping and get some new clothes, okay?”

  She nods.

  “Good night, sweetie,” I say.

  She nods. I don’t press it.

  Back downstairs, I call Polly’s mom’s house. Her sister Bev answers, and I tell her how sorry I am. “Thanks,” she says. “Do you want to talk to Polly?”

  “Please,” I say, although I’m dreading this phone call.

  “How are you?” I ask Polly when she comes to the phone.

  “Not so good,” she says, her voice hoarse, on the verge of tears.

  “You’ve been crying?” I say. I’m saying everything softly, trying so hard to be comforting with my voice since I’m not there to hug her.

  “Yeah. Guess so. Just had a bad spell there, sorry.”

  “Oh, God, don’t be sorry. You should be crying. This sucks, Polly. It’s just not fair.”

  “Yeah, it sucks,” she says.

  “You know I’d be there if I could. I just can’t. God, I’m so sorry. Larissa starts school Wednesday. I just can’t come there right now.”

  She says she knows, that it’s okay, Patrick’s there, and Rachel and Nora are flying in tomorrow. All her sisters’ kids are already there. “It’s a big family. I’m lucky,” she says.

  She’s crying now. This is so hard. I think I’ll just go—drive there with Larissa, be there for the funeral, do what a best friend should do. I wonder if they’d take Larissa away from me if I didn’t get her to school the first week. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “I know,” Polly says. “Look, I gotta go. I’m sorry. It’s just a bad time. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Please do. Love you, Polly.”

  “Thanks,” she says, and hangs up.

  No sooner do I put the phone down, than it rings. I think it’s her calling me back, begging me to come, telling me she needs me to come. It’s Michelle Benton.

  “So, you’re doing all this fancy stuff with my daughter? Take her on trips? Give her a cat? Teach her stuff? Buy her clothes? What you think you’re doing? I’m going to get her back, you know.”

  The first thing I think to say is I didn’t give her a cat. Sampson’s mine, but I don’t. Next I want to defend myself, tell her off. But I’m too exhausted. I hang up the phone. The phone rings again. I’m so stupid, I actually think it might be Polly again.

  “Hey, lady,” Michelle says. I hang up on her. Then I take it off the hook. I sit there and listen to the high-pitched wail, telling me my phone is off the hook.

  Tomorrow I’ll call Yolanda Walker, see what she thinks I should do.

  Tomorrow seems like a day too full to even consider. I have to take Larissa shopping, take her to the day care place for a visit so she’ll be familiar with it when she really has to go, and we have an appointment at her school to meet her teacher, who’s going to give us a tour. We need groceries. I need to get to the bank. And I need to sit by the phone in case Polly calls. And I need to leave the phone off the hook.

  Wednesday, if it ever comes, I have to take Larissa to school and start working again. I have two college classes to interpret and a meeting at a bank for a deaf man who wants to buy a house, but I have to get Larissa down to the Metzenbaum Center at the same time as the job at the bank, which I never changed. Maybe I can drop Larissa off at Metzenbaum and still make the meeting? Maybe if I tell Family Services what Michelle Benton’s been doing, they’ll cut off her visits, and I won’t have to take Larissa after all—but, still, I have to take Larissa there for her counseling. Maybe she doesn’t need counseling now because she had such a great time at my parents’. Maybe I need counseling if I think she doesn’t need counseling.

  Then I remember I need to get back to the foster parenting classes.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream I’m stuck in a building of hallways with no doors, the nightmare of my teenage years. My heart pounding, I’m awakened at seven A.M. by someone ringing my doorbell.

  It’s a policeman. I’m almost relieved it isn’t Michelle Benton.

  I interrupt him as soon as he begins speaking.

  “Look, I’m her foster mother. It’s all legal. Children and Family Services knew we were going to Columbus.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says, holding up one hand. He’s young, pale-eyed, and smooth skinned. I’m tired of everyone in charge being younger than me. Jesus, I’m only forty-eight.

  “They don’t have you on record as the foster mother, ma’am. The Benton child is on record as living with a Mrs. Hunt.”

  “What? No. I’m her foster mother. I have all the paperwork. There’s a ton of paperwork. I’ll show you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Could you wait out here?” I’m still standing in the doorway. I haven’t invited him in. “Larissa’s sleeping. I don’t want her to wake up. This would be very scary to her.”

  “I’ll wait here, ma’am,” he says, but he still regards me suspiciously, as if I might lock the door and run out the back with my stolen child.

  “Please don’t call me ma’am,” I say a little too tersely, and go into the house. God damn Michelle Benton. I want to kill her. Only metaphorically, I tell myself. Metaphorically with a long sharp knife.

  “Look,” I say, when I come back, shaking a sheaf of papers in the police officer’s face. “Here it is. It’s all official. Her mother called you because she’s crazy. I don’t know why Family Services told you what they did. I have a new social worker, just switched to my case. Maybe because of the holiday she didn’t get it in the computer?”

  “Possibly,” the cop says, reading a sheet of paper and then another. “This does look valid.” He points to something near the bottom of a page. “Here’s the transfer from Mrs. Hunt’s.”

  “Thank God. Look, this woman, this girl’s mother is driving me crazy. Maybe you should be—” I feel something soft and furry slip by my bare ankle. “Shit!” I’ve been holding the door open, not wanting to stand outside on my front porch in my bathrobe. The policeman looks up at me.

  “My cat got out,” I explain. “He’s an indoor cat. Goddamn it, now I have to go find hi
m.” Then I blush. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am,” he says, handing me back my papers.

  “Please don’t call me ma’am,” I say again. My voice has that pre-weepy sound, and he apologizes, tipping his hat. Do they train them to do that?

  “I’ll check with County again later today, see if they’ve caught up on their paperwork. You should too.”

  “Oh, I will,” I say.

  “Good day.”

  I nod. I don’t feel like saying good day to anyone.

  Sampson went off to the right of the house and I can’t see him anywhere. I call his name a few times, then realize I have to get dressed and go search for him. What a lousy day, and it’s only seven-fifteen in the morning.

  Larissa comes out of her room as I walk down the hall to my bedroom.

  “Is someone here?” she says. “My mommy? Is she here?”

  “Sampson got out, that’s all. I need to get dressed and go look for him.”

  Larissa’s eyes widen. “I’ll come,” she says. Then, “Who was here?”

  “Just the paper boy,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. I need a shower. So does Larissa. I can smell urine. She didn’t wet the sheets at my parents’. It must be me, I must be doing something wrong.

  “Will Sampson come back?”

  Now she’s talking, and I’m wishing she weren’t. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m sure he will.”

  The last time, years ago, that Sampson got out, he was gone three days. I walked around the neighborhood for hours, calling out his name, hung photos on trees and utility poles. Finally I heard him mewing, locked in a neighbor’s garage, and I couldn’t get him out until they came home from work. But I’m not as worried this time. I have bigger fish to fry, as my mother would say. I need to take kung fu lessons so I can beat the crap out of Michelle Benton.