There’s a moment when my heart stops cold. I have the feeling like the whole world is ending. Like I’m going to die, which doesn’t make any sense. Cinda’s the one who’s bleeding. My sneaker slides on the warm blood. All I can think of is getting it off my shoe. I don’t want to touch it. It’s slippery now but will soon turn sticky.
As best I can, dealing with my own cuffs and Cinda’s, I grab hold of Cinda’s wrist and clamp my hand down over the wound. She doesn’t seem to notice and continues to stare blankly out the window. I choke back tears and try to sound calm, but my voice is panicked, screeching. “Cyrus, Cinda’s bleeding. We gotta go to the hospital. It’s bad.”
Without hesitating, Cyrus pulls over to have a look. The other guard is useless. Cyrus takes off his jacket and stuffs it through the gap between the top of the cage and the van’s roof. It gets stuck and I have trouble pulling it the rest of the way through because my hands are shaking so bad. Cyrus says, “Wrap it as tight as you can around the cut and then squeeze it hard with both your hands. Don’t let go until we get to the hospital and the doctors tell you to back off. Talk to her, Shavonne. Tell her nice things and don’t stop talking.”
Then he says to the other guard, “Get your ass back there and help.” The guard asks what to do. “I don’t give a shit!” Cyrus says. “Just get back there and help in some way. Talk to the girls, tell them it’ll be okay. Take off your goddamn jacket and put it around Cinda. She’s probably in shock.” Cyrus is clearly losing his temper, but he’s still in control. I’ve never seen him like this, but I’m glad he’s the one in charge.
My hands are squeezing the jacket around the wound. I feel sick, like I might throw up. This girl’s life, her blood, is soaking through the jacket and coating my hands. It’s warm and slick. I feel the rhythm and also the pressure of the flow. It’s my job to keep that force from spilling completely out of her.
“Cyrus, my hands are covered in blood. There’s so much blood. I can’t do this.” I have to get out of here. I can’t do this. It’s too fucked up. It reminds me of something bad, but I can’t remember what. Don’t want to remember.
“That’s okay, Shavonne. You’re doing a good job. Just keep squeezing. She’ll be okay.”
I pray for the second time this month. Please God, don’t let this girl die. Don’t let her die. I also pray to be taken away from this.
Then this last thought takes hold. It’s a selfish thought, but I can’t drive it away. Run. First chance I get, I will run and get the fuck away. This is what I think, because I am a schemer; I am a selfish, heartless taker.
At the hospital I will go to the bathroom to wash off the blood. It has to be a bathroom on the perimeter, one with a window. Climb out and run. Break into a nearby house that’s empty and get some real clothes. Hitch a ride out of town. Get away from all this. It’s too much.
But then the impulse to run fades as quickly as it came. There is no way I’m letting go of Cinda until the doctors are on the scene. And then I will want to know her condition. If it looks like she’s going to die, then I’ll run. This is a better plan.
The other guard, Grinnel, gets into the back. He looks scared and nervous and is no help at all. He keeps looking at the blood on my hands, my clothes, and the floor. Then he looks at Cinda and he gags, but at least he doesn’t vomit. The other girls watch in horror.
36
After the nightmare of Cinda’s suicide attempt, I crash in my bed for twelve hours straight. But instead of feeling refreshed, I awaken with a sense of dread … like the med trip is just the beginning of a series of bad things, like the dam’s broken and there’s no holding it back.
Sure enough, when I press my face against the windowpane, I can see that the nest is littered with downy feathers and shards of eggshells. It looks like it’s been ransacked or trampled. And I can’t help but think that it’s somehow connected to Cinda, like her watchfulness at the window is what really kept the predators at bay. I should probably feel sad or something, but I’m just numb because too much crazy stuff is happening. Cinda almost killed herself. The goslings are dead. The only question is, What, or who, is next?
Delpopolo knocks on my door and asks if we can talk in the unit lounge. This is kind of strange since I always see him in his office.
“Shavonne, I heard about Cinda. I’m sorry you had to go through that, but I understand you did a remarkable job.”
“Yeah. Have you heard anything about her? Is she okay?”
“Well, she’s not okay, but she’ll survive, if that’s what you mean.”
“Mr. D, do you know why she did that?”
“Yes. There are rules about situations like this, but you’ve become as involved as anybody else. And for that you deserve to know why.”
Delpopolo tells me Cinda’s story. The parts he leaves out I fill in with guesses and some things Cinda told me before. Cinda is local. Most of the girls here are from big cities, hundreds of miles away. But Cinda’s from a shitty little farmhouse not twenty miles east.
Her father was a child molester. He molested kids in the neighborhood and also his two daughters. The family kept the secret until the eighth grade, when Cinda made a suicide attempt and was sent away to a psychiatric hospital. The hospital called Child Protective Services, and a restraining order was filed against the father, ordering him away from his house and his daughters. That night, he snuck into his old neighborhood, poured gas all around the perimeter of the house, and torched it while his wife and one daughter slept. Then he shot himself in the front yard. Only Cinda survived.
Incredibly, the guards at the Center didn’t know the story. Maybe they never read the newspaper. I don’t know. But Cyrus drove Cinda right through her hometown and past the burned-out house where her family died. That’s what set her off. Can you imagine seeing that?
Delpopolo says I saved her life. I snap back, “I saved her life for what? So she can spend it in mental hospitals without a family? I’m not so sure I did her a favor.”
“Maybe, but that’s not for you to decide.”
I know Mr. D is trying to be decent, and I’m sorry I answered in such a sarcastic way, but it’s how I feel. The whole thing is so horrible I can’t talk to anyone about it. Cyrus is still at the hospital and the other guard quit. So no one really knows what happened or what it was like for me.
At one point, before I wrapped Cyrus’s jacket around the wound, I felt something like one of Cinda’s tendons pop up through the opening. How do I make that memory go away?
Then Delpopolo hits me with a question out of left field.
“Since we’re talking about suicide, why haven’t you killed yourself?”
I just stare at him. “Whose side are you on, Mr. D? If you want to get rid of me, just say so.”
“I don’t mean that. What I mean is that you’ve got a good point. Some people have lives that are so bad death seems like a good way out. You ever think that way?”
“Yes.”
“And how is it that you’re still here? Why didn’t you go through with it?”
“I tried, a bunch of times, but I always screwed it up.”
“Yes, but you’re very smart and very determined. I’ll bet that if you really wanted to, no one could stop you. You’d find a way.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. I know lots of ways.”
“So answer the question, Shavonne. Why do you choose to stick around? Do you have some plans for yourself?”
37
Mr. Slater, the director, comes to see me today during dinner. I know he doesn’t like me, but today he’s all smiles and shakes my hand.
“We’re very proud of you, Shavonne. You did a good thing, and we’re in your debt.”
“Thanks.” The silence between us is uncomfortable.
“I’ll get right to the point, Shavonne. Your record here is terrible. Before that incident with Cinda, you were working on a one-way pass to adult corrections on your eighteenth birthday. Did you know that? It doesn’t matt
er, though, because things are different now.”
Then he tells me the deal. I have to keep my nose clean for one month. That means no fights, no restraints, no stealing sandwiches, etc. And—this is the important part—if outsiders come in to ask questions about “the incident,” I have to “emphasize the safety precautions that were already in place, as well as the positive manner in which the guards responded.” In other words, I have to downplay some of the fuck-ups that occurred. Slater is very careful with his words.
“Mr. Slater, I want to say something, if it’s okay.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Shifting on his feet, looking at his watch, wanting to leave.
“I know how my record looks to other people. I can’t convince you that I’ve changed, but I want you to know I’m tired of fighting everything and everybody, and I want to leave. I want to get my life back. I want to see my daughter again.”
Mr. Slater gets up and straightens his suit, offers his hand once again. “We’ll see what we can do, young lady. I expect some people will be coming by to talk to you about the incident later this week. You comfortable with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gooood.” He flashes that incredible smile as he drags the word “good” out a second too long. He’s basically saying, “I’ll be watching you, kid. Don’t fuck this up or it’ll be bad for you.” And I believe him.
38
Back with Delpopolo, I tell him about my plan. I want to get out of here and go to a mother-daughter group home. I’ll get Jasmine back, and work on a job and an apartment. With luck, Slater will keep his deal and send word to set me loose.
What I don’t tell Mr. D is that Slater will never keep his word and I’ll have to force the whole damn thing in court: refuse to sign the petition for an extension of placement, tell the judge all about Cinda’s “accident,” Kowalski screwing one of the girls, other stuff. The judge will call Slater to investigate and he’ll say, “Cut her loose. Too much trouble.”
Delpopolo says, “I admire your plan, Shavonne. But if it’s going to work, it’s got to seem real to you. Right now it’s too far away, and I’m afraid you’re caught up in schemes and plots and drama. I’m afraid that you’re trying to control things that are really outside of your control.”
It’s like he can read my mind.
“How do you know I’m scheming?”
“Because it’s your job. You’re supposed to try to avoid doing the hard work. It’s what I’d do if I were in your shoes.”
“But then what’s wrong with it?”
“It won’t work. You can’t control it. Haven’t you noticed that this place is part of a system? And you can’t go up against a system. It won’t budge for you.”
39
Today after dinner Ms. Stokes, the cottage leader, calls me into her office. I think maybe I’m in trouble. Ms. Stokes is a small black woman with short hair. She wears African robes and jewelry: jade, turquoise, bone, silver. She is really beautiful and carries herself with what I can only think of as grace.
I haven’t mentioned her till now because she’s scarce. She’s hardly ever at the cottage. I think she spends her time at meetings. And she supervises the guards. I hear them mumbling about her sometimes. But it is never anything real bad, because Ms. Stokes is what you’d call professional. She is fair and strict and has the respect of almost everybody, kids and guards alike.
“Have a seat, Shavonne.”
My gut instinct is to stay standing and say something smart like “No thanks.” But I sit and fold my hands in my lap. Ms. Stokes has on bifocals and is reading some official-looking piece of paper.
Still staring at the paper, she says, “You were a real hero the other day. Whether or not it means anything to you, I’m proud, Shavonne. Not many people can react that way under pressure. It says a lot about your heart.”
“Thanks, Ms. Stokes.”
“Cinda probably won’t be coming back. You know that?”
“I figured.” I continue to look down at my hands.
Ms. Stokes looks up from her paper, staring me in the eye, forcing me to look up at her.
“Shavonne, you know you’ll have to get a new roommate.”
I don’t say anything. I know where this is going. A ton of shit is about to fall right on my head in the form of Mary, the retarded pregnant girl. Mary’s single room is getting turned into a new staff office. She’s going to have to move in with someone. Guess who that’s going to be!
“You’ll be sharing a room with Mary. You know her? Of course you do. Listen, Shavonne, this girl needs someone to help her out a little bit.” Ms. Stokes leans toward me and places a hand on my knee. “I know you want to be left alone to take care of yourself, but you’re the only one on the whole unit right now who I can trust with this.”
“Trust?” I nearly scream. “You trust me? I’m locked up. I have no rights. I could get transferred to adult prison on my birthday. I can’t be trusted, Ms. Stokes. You know that.” I don’t even know if this is sarcastic or true—I just don’t want to be responsible for that girl.
She raises her voice a notch. “Shavonne, you don’t decide who I do and do not trust.”
I feel bone tired. I don’t want to talk or think or feel. I don’t want anyone to raise their voice and look me in the eye. I want to say, “Ms. Stokes, I admire you in a certain way because you’re a strong and competent woman, but you don’t know me! If you did, you wouldn’t be having this conversation with me right now. You’d leave me the fuck alone and stick that kid with someone else.”
Ms. Stokes continues quietly and slowly. “I trust you with this responsibility. You just saved a girl’s life! I’ve never saved anybody’s life. You want to trivialize that, go ahead. But I will not. I am proud of you, Shavonne. And I’m sure you’ll be a good roommate for Mary.”
I remain silent but scream inside. You bitch! Do you have any idea what that simpleminded girl and her baby can do to me? My heart can’t break again. It will kill me. I’d rather room with Ms. Choi!
40
Mary spends a lot of time trying to fold her clothes like they do at the Gap, where everything is neat and organized. She’s not very good at it, but I know just what she’s trying to do. Because I’m the same way. The dirtier the life, the more effort you put into keeping things clean and organized. Just walk into some shitty apartment in the projects with plastic covers on the furniture. It will reek of Carpet Fresh and Lysol. Roach traps everywhere and that blue stuff that goes in the toilet bowl to make it look like a bathroom in a cheap hotel. And all the family members will be frozen forever on the walls in black lacquer picture frames. Their beautiful smiles and fancy clothes almost convince you that they have happy and complete lives. In actuality, though, some are dead, while the rest are in jail for armed robbery, attempted murder, or drugs.
When Mary finishes organizing, she sits on the edge of her bed with her legs dangling over. She puts her hands on her belly. She smiles. It’s a stupid smile, but happy. How can she be happy? She’s fourteen years old and about to have a baby. I could tell her a few things, but what’s the point? If she’s really happy, then who am I to ruin it? She looks my way and starts talking.
“I’m Mary.” Again with the smile. I just stare at her. Is she for real?
“I know.”
“I guess we’re gonna be roommates.”
“Right.”
“Do you—”
I interrupt. “Listen, Mary. I don’t know if I’d be such a good friend for you right now. I’ve got my own problems and I need to keep to myself. Understand?”
She stops talking instantly, nods. Then she puts her hands back on her tummy and kicks her legs back and forth. When I forget about her she talks again.
“Sorry, Shavonne. I won’t bother you no more.” She is crying. Against my better judgment, I go over and sit on the bed next to her. Mary smiles and dries her tears.
“Do you want to feel the baby kick?” she asks. I do.
“His name
is Ramón, after my papa.”
41
Mary moves around a lot in her sleep. She thrashes and kicks the bedding onto the floor. Sometimes, half awake from a bad dream, she clamps her legs shut and covers her privates with her hands shouting out, “No. No. I don’t want to. Please!” It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out what’s going on here.
But in the morning, she’s right as rain, smiling her dumb smile and trying to be so nice and friendly. “Hi, Shavonne,” she says. Hi, Mary.
That’s about the extent of our conversations. Whenever I feel her looking for an opening to talk, I grab a book and bury my face in it. She takes the hint and continues staring out the window.
Then I feel guilty again and I sit by her. We play Uno even though she doesn’t really understand all the rules. Sometimes I let her win. One day she gets a box of homemade cookies in the mail and shares them with me.
“These are from my auntie,” she says. “She’s mad pretty like you. I told her all about you. She says you’re nice for helping me. I know I need help, Shavonne. I ain’t stupid, you know. I’m just a little slow because I don’t know no numbers or how to tell time and stuff. But my auntie says that’s okay, because everyone needs help sometimes, right?”
I tell her that her auntie is a smart lady. I tell her everything is going to be okay with her baby and she’ll get out of here soon. I tell her whatever she wants to hear because it’s not much when you think about it. It doesn’t take a lot of work to reassure a nice person like Mary. Even if no one can do it for me, it’s a small effort and it makes me feel good to see her beautiful innocent smile.
Something Like Hope Page 8