Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  I jumped back into the car and headed for West Seattle. At first, she didn’t recognize me—I guess she was too upset—but I recognized her at once: It was Thomas’ fifteen-year-old foster sister. She looked so different with her long brown hair down and with a coat of heavy black eye makeup almost weighing her lids down, but it was definitely her. She had been sitting there for almost two hours without saying a single word.

  The store manager, a little bald guy with high blood pressure, took me aside and said that this was very unusual. “They always come around within the first ten minutes, but not this girl. Nooooo, she’s a tough cookie,” he said, shaking his head. I told him to bring two cold Cokes and then just wait outside. “Aha,” he said with a knowing smile.

  “Aha, what?” I asked. He was really starting to get on my nerves. No wonder she wasn’t talking to this jerk. “Good cop, bad cop?” He leaned up against the wall with his arms crossed.

  “Just leave. Please,” I added, looking at the girl through the window. I closed the door behind me and sat down next to her on the bench and offered her a Coke.

  “No thanks,” she said very politely, shaking her head. At least she was talking now, I thought. I told her that I knew who she was and that I also knew her parents. She looked up at me and nodded. “Yeah, I remember you. Thomas always talks about you. All the time, Teacher Martha says this and that. It’s all he ever talks about,” she said with an almost hateful voice.

  I smiled and told her that, yes, Thomas and I are very close, but that this wasn’t about Thomas. It was about her and the shoplifting and her refusing to give out her name. I told her that we had to call her parents. When I mentioned her parents, she looked at me and said, without a doubt in her voice, that she preferred we called the police and that she would rather go to jail than to go back to “him.”

  “To him,” I asked? Was she talking about Thomas? Was all this about Thomas—about having to deal with a new sibling in the house? About jealousy and getting less attention? If it was, I told her, it was a very normal reaction; it can be really hard on the biological kid, who’s already there, and I told her that it was absolutely okay to feel this way.

  “No,” she said, clearly getting even more upset. She didn’t want to go back to her stepdad, she said, now crying.

  Right then, of course, the little bald manager decided to barge in and started asking me whether I had “cracked the girl” (like she was some hard-boiled drug dealer and I was some tough undercover agent making an off-the-record interrogation). I told him that this was not a nice way to talk about the girl, and that I would take her with me and make sure she got home to her parents.

  And then, just a few minutes later, I found myself in my car with this girl not knowing what the hell I was doing. But I figured she had to be hungry (I sure was. It was close to eight at this point), so we picked up some food at McDonald’s before we headed for my office.

  Frederick, I tell you, the whole time driving there, my heart was pounding. Remember I told you that I had this bad feeling about Thomas’ foster dad? Well, I have to learn to trust my female intuition. But I’m afraid it’s even worse than I expected. Oh lord! Right before we got out of the car, she turned and stared at me with big streaks of mascara under her eyes. “Please, please don’t tell my parents,” she said, and sobbed. The poor girl almost begged me to take her to the police station instead.

  I told her to calm down, and that we would figure it all out, and that we were not going to any police station. It was not like she had robbed a bank or anything; she had stolen a mascara and an eyeliner, and I told her that even though her parents had every right to be angry with her, everything would be all right.

  I even offered to come home with her and be there with her as she told her parents. But she didn’t want to hear any of it. She simply refused to go home. I asked her to explain why, and that I would help her—no matter what—but she had to tell me, so I could help her.

  For a long time, she just sat there with a strong grip on the seatbelt, staring at the parking lot in front of us. “He said I couldn’t tell anyone,” she finally whispered, “or Mom would end up in jail.” She didn’t have to say another word. In my world (with my experience with kids like her) I know all too well what that means ninety-nine percent of the times. Yes, that’s what they say to these poor girls to shut them up.

  “I know,” I said, reaching for her cold little hand. And yes, Frederick, you might have guessed too; her stepfather has been molesting her ever since her mother remarried, ten years ago, she told me later. Oh, the cruelty in this world.

  I stopped reading and looked up at Mom. “Mom,” I whispered, feeling a shiver down my spine. “I thought this was supposed to be a fun girls’ night!” I looked down at the word “molesting” and read it again. It was real. It did happen.

  “I know,” she said, sobbing. “It’s devastating. Oh, come here, baby.” She sat up and moved closer to me. “I know it’s a lot, but please go on,” she whispered, “we need to know what happens next. I want to know if they ever got that bastard.” She leaned back against me and kicked off her slippers.

  I looked down at the word again. My hands were still shaking. I didn’t really feel like going on, but I guess Mom was right; we had to know. I took a deep breath and continued:

  Next thing I know she is pouring everything out—her dad coming to her bed, the terrible nightmares, the anxiety attacks, the shoplifting, the shame, and the guilt. It all came to light in the darkness of my car as we both sat there sharing a bag of cold fries.

  And you should have seen the look of relief on her face when she finally stopped. It was like she once again looked like that carefree little girl I imagined she once had been, and I couldn’t hold back my tears any more when she finally looked at me and asked if there were any more “Mickey D’s fries left.” We grabbed the last bag of cold fries, locked up the car, and took the elevator up to the third floor.

  When we got to my office, I decided it was okay to ask. I know it’s a little selfish, but the whole time I couldn’t help thinking about Thomas. I didn’t want it to be about him, so I was trying to find the right way to ask her. She beat me to it. We had just sat down on the couch in my office when she told me.

  “No, he hasn’t done anything to Thomas. Yet. I told him not to. He’s only five, you know, so I told him that he should come to my room instead.”

  Once again, I had to stop. This was too much. I looked at Mom and shook my head. “I can’t,” I think I said.

  “Oh, baby,” Mom gasped. She wrapped her arm around me and squeezed. “Oh, honey. It’s just heartbreaking. It’s, it’s...” She stopped and looked at me. A tear settled in the fine lines around her mouth. “Cruel, like Martha writes. It’s simply cruel,” she repeated, staring at the coffee table.

  I nodded and looked down at the words again. A girl even younger than me had used her own sacred body to protect a stepbrother she hardly even knew. How do you survive something like that? Do you? I looked up at Mom. “How could anyone be so unselfish? How could anyone have such courage? She was like two years younger than me!”

  “And a lot younger when it all started,” Mom said, still staring at the coffee table. “It’s heartbreaking. Oh, baby, who are these people?” She leaned forward and buried her face in her sleeping bag and shook her head. “Maybe we should just call it a day, pumpkin?” she said, speaking into the sleeping bag.

  “No.” I shook my head. “As you said, we need to know.”

  She nodded. “I know. We do.” She spoke softly. She leaned against me and covered us both with her sleeping bag. “You want me to read?” she whispered in my ear.

  I nodded and handed her the letter. She sat up straight, took a deep breath and started reading from where we had left Martha and Louise-Monique.

  Oh, Frederick, I tell you, my heart just broke in two that very moment. After all the things she had been through in her life, she somehow found the strength and heart to sacrifice herself to protect he
r new little brother. What a girl. What a big heart. I leaned over and made a clumsy attempt to put my arms around her. At first, she wouldn’t let me, but when she finally gave in, we hugged and hugged like there was no tomorrow and of course we both cried.

  She felt so tiny and fragile, and I couldn’t help picturing how that son of a bitch would come to her bed every night for ten years. How could he? How can anybody hurt their own child that way? How can anybody hurt a child? Period! I know I’ve been working with these kids for years now, but it’s not like you ever get used to it. It breaks my heart every single time.

  I told her it would be okay, that everything would be okay, but somehow it just made her cry even harder. When she tried to speak, but failed, I told her to take all time she needed and that we had all the time in the world.

  Suddenly, she pushed me away and glared at me. “But you just don’t get it, do you?” she cried. “I don’t have more time. Time’s running out. Time’s running out,” she kept crying. Once again, I assured her that we had all the time in the world and that I wasn’t going anywhere, but it only seemed to make her even more upset.

  Then she stopped crying altogether. She looked straight at me and told me. “I’m pregnant. Don’t you get it! I’m knocked up, and no one can help me now. Not even you,” she said, looking more angry than sad. I swear to God, when she told me, I could feel my blood turn cold, and I’m a little embarrassed to say this out loud, but for a moment there I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself.

  Oh, Frederick, the irony of the world, of my world; a teenage girl crying on my shoulder for being pregnant, me crying on the inside for not being pregnant.

  But this wasn’t about me, and I feel so ashamed even thinking like that in the middle of all of this. “It’s okay,” I said, even though it was a lie. It was far from okay. “With him? Your stepdad?” I whispered, already knowing what she would say, of course. She nodded and once again the poor little girl was back in my arms—crying.

  “Man,” Mom dropped the letter on top of the sleeping bag and took in a deep breath. “Man,” she exhaled. “This just gets worse and worse with every word, and we still have a few pages to go.” She took another deep breath and shook her head.

  I looked down at Martha’s handwriting. “This must be the longest letter ever. And the most heartbreaking, and sad, and cruel—”

  “—And real—”

  “—And yet unreal.”

  “And sad,” she added.

  “And too close to home with the whole teen pregnancy theme,” I added, but not out loud.

  Mom propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me. She had pain written all over her soft and freckled face. “The things some kids have to go through,” she said and then sighed. “It’s unbearable and unbelievable.” She reached for her cup of lukewarm tea and shook her head. “Sometimes I think we forget how lucky we are; how easy-peasy life is compared to those who go through a life of constant struggle. Remind me, when I whine about doing Dad’s taxes next year.” She smiled and looked into the cup.

  I nodded and looked down at the letter again. The words “pregnant” and “irony of the world” stood out, almost blinding me. I took in a deep breath and looked at Mom.

  How could I tell her now? How could I tell her after this? I had had sex with Hans because I wanted to, in the name of love. This girl, two years younger than me, had been raped by her own fucking father and had ended up pregnant. As Miss T had said in the car, I was old enough to know that nothing is bulletproof. Not even a condom—especially one attached to a loaded teenage boy.

  “Ella?” Mom put down her cup and looked at me with tired, red eyes. “I know it’s a lot, and I know it’s a long letter, but shouldn’t we finish?” She tapped her finger on the letter.

  I closed my eyes and started counting backwards from ten. At one, I told myself, I had to tell her.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she said when I had made it to five.

  Four, three, two, and one.

  “It’s just, it’s just,” I tried, slowly opening my eyes. “It’s just...” I tried again. Why couldn’t I just come out and say it?

  “I know. I know,” she whispered as she leaned back on the couch. “It’s a lot to take in, but I’m sure Martha will sort everything out. She’s such a smart and loving woman. A true hero, huh?” Mom grabbed the sleeping bag and covered us both up again.

  I nodded. She was right: Martha was a strong and vigorous woman. I, on the other hand, had the will power of a gummy bear. “Okay,” I said, “let’s read then. I’ll read.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants, grabbed the longest and most heartbreaking letter in the world and finished the three last pages.

  I don’t how long we stayed like this on the couch, but it now seems like hours before Marion came and knocked on the door. Marion is our legal adviser, and she deals with the foster home issues and also with the police. I had called her right away when we got to my office. She is the one who has the authority to act in situations like this. I have none.

  At that point, knowing what I knew, I was so happy that I had called her for help. Thankfully, Marion and Louise-Monique made friends instantly. I hugged her one last time and wrote down my private phone number on a little slip of paper and told her that she could call me any time, but that Marion was the one who could help her from here. I promised her that everything would be all right and that Thomas would be safe too.

  Right now, at this late hour, I don’t know exactly where she is, but I do know she is being taken good care of. I know she’s safe and so is Thomas. Oh, Frederick, I have done something I shouldn’t have done, or, more correctly something I’m not really authorized to do. See, when I explained everything to Marion, I also told her about Thomas and my concerns that he was still staying there. She promised that she would call first thing tomorrow and get Elisabeth Levinson, some social worker on the fifth floor, to look into it.

  But when I got home, I couldn’t find peace. I kept imagining little Thomas lying in his bed in his little blue elephant room, listening to footsteps coming down the hallway. And before I knew it, I was in my car driving all the way to West Seattle once again.

  It was close to midnight when I knocked on the door. There was still a light on in one of the rooms facing the street, and I could hear loud voices from the TV. Carefully, I knocked on the door again. No one answered, but someone had turned down the volume. So I knocked again. Finally, I heard someone from behind the door. “Is that you, Matthew?” a woman asked. “Did you lose your key again?” she said in a rather patronizing tone of voice. I told her (I presumed it had to be the mom) that it was me—Martha from Thomas’ old school—and that I had learned that there had been an incident, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.

  She said, still not opening the door, that they knew all about the incident and that her husband had just left to get Louise-Monique. I tell you, my heart literally stopped for a second. This couldn’t be true. Had they called him? Had they called the one person Louise-Monique had not wanted to see? The one person she shouldn’t see? Something was not right.

  I asked her if I could come in. She didn’t answer, but after a few minutes I heard the click, then the chain, and then the door opened. She was in her PJs. She said that it could only be for a few minutes before her husband got back home. She showed me into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for me. She sat down right across from me with her arms crossed.

  I knew I was way out of line here, but I couldn’t help asking her how much she knew. She narrowed her eyes at me and asked me what on earth I meant by that. I pretended I didn’t know anything and asked her what had happened to Louise-Monique? (I said that all I knew was that there had been an incident and that someone had called me.) The mom lit a cigarette and blew smoke right in my face and asked me why on earth they had called me. I lied (again) and said that, on paper, I was still the emergency contact for Thomas, a common mistake.

  The mom took a long puff on her cigar
ette and looked at me with flickering eyes. After another long puff she told me, choosing her words very carefully, that Louise-Monique had got into a fight with another girl at a school event. They had called Matthew, and he had told her not to worry. He would take care of it, he had assured her. And then he had left.

  I couldn’t tell whether she was lying or whether this was what Matthew had actually told her. (My best guess was a little bit of both; in cases like this, the husband always lies to the wife, even though she—in most cases—knows that something is going on. That way it makes it easier for both of them to cope with the guilt of living in a family with an abusive husband).

  But either way, I had to ask where he was. She said he was at the principal’s office. Obviously, I knew that wasn’t true, but what was I supposed to say? Thank God, I was saved by the phone. We both jumped in our seats at the first ring. She got up, grabbed the phone, took her cigarette case, and leaned against the kitchen table. By the vigorous smoking and look on her face, I could tell that this wasn’t a friendly call from Matthew at the principal’s office, calling to say everything was all right. She glanced down at me, then turned her back to me and whispered into the phone. After a few more whispers she hung up, even though I could hear someone still talking on the other end of the line.

  Clearly trying to compose herself, she walked over to the dining table, grabbed another cigarette, and managed to light it with a pair of shaking hands. “My husband is not coming home tonight,” she said, staring into the table. “He’s not at the school at all. He’s downtown talking to some social worker or something. Louise-Monique is down there too. They say...” She stopped and looked straight at me. “You knew all about this, didn’t you? That’s why you came here, right?” She took a big drag and exhaled, shaking her head. I nodded.