Back on the Map

by Lisa Ann Scott

  “That’s not a good idea. I’m just going to look around the place, and then I’ll be on my way.” He stepped inside the building.

  Mr. Smith came over to me. “I wouldn’t mind tinkering with those bikes, if you don’t have a plan for them. Think I can get them working again.”

  “That’d be great!” I said.

  “Used to fix up bikes when I was a kid.” He scratched his head. “Guess I can understand why they all ended up back here, after what happened to poor Mary. But I can’t bear to see them all rusty and broken.”

  I froze. “What do you mean about what happened to Mary? Mary Carlson?”

  He nodded, and his eyes darted over to Mr. Carlson, who was standing on the other side of the yard, looking up at the trees. “She was riding her bike and got hit by a car coming out of the orphanage. This was right after it closed.”

  I felt like the breath was sucked out of me, and a swirl of sadness settled inside my lungs. I never knew how Mary died. Never had the heart to ask the Carlsons. “That’s terrible.” No wonder Mrs. Carlson hated this place.

  “I think the bikes were the first things that got dumped back here.” Mr. Smith rubbed the back of his neck. “Seems like some of the sorrow might be lifted if they weren’t lying around.”

  “I think so, too. Thanks, Mr. Smith. I’ll pay you back, somehow.”

  “No need. You’re doing me a favor, letting me do this.” He looped his hands together and stretched them out. “Makes me feel young again to have a big project ahead of me. Something I enjoyed as a kid.”

  I noticed other people picking through the stuff in the yard. I headed over to Chase and Parker as they sorted through more boxes. “We’ve got mounds of plastic soda bottles,” Chase said. “Should we just leave them out for the trash?”

  “Keep them.” Those bottles would become something new. I could feel it, the same way I could feel my toes scrunching up against my old sneakers.

  I noticed Joe heading for his truck and felt disappointed. I was hoping he’d stay a while, take a look around. I hurried over to him. “Thanks again for coming to get me. You don’t have to leave so soon. There are a lot of neat things we could do around here with that truck.”

  He hung his head. “No one in town wants to see me near this place.”

  “But you’re here now,” I pointed out.

  “It was an emergency. I won’t be welcome again. Everyone blames me for the Finest falling through all those years ago.”

  “That’s nonsense. It’s not your fault.”

  “I left the doom painting here, didn’t I?” Joe raised an eyebrow. “A person’s creations hold power. Everything you make carries a little bit of you with it. Takes some of your intention.”

  A tingly feeling shot through me. “Never thought of it that way.” I pictured the things I’d made. Was a little bit of me in them? All those tin can critters?

  “Some say this land’s been cursed ever since they closed the orphanage and forced the kids out,” Joe said.

  I never knew why it closed, just that it did. “Why did they close it, anyway?” I asked.

  “Budget cuts.” He closed his eyes. “All those kids. All those special kids, forced into homes, or sent off to live with relatives who didn’t want them. Who didn’t understand them.”

  My heart felt like someone was squeezing it with two hands. “How were they special?”

  Joe looked up at the sky. “They had gifts. Special things they could do.”

  My insides went cold. “Like what?”

  “Some had dreams that came true. Some claimed they could see the future. I remember one girl said she could talk to animals. Stuff most people couldn’t do. Most of ’em were real creative. Incredible artists.”

  It took a few moments before I could say anything. “Could any of them see people … in shades of colors?” Maybe if I’d lived here ten years ago, I would have been sent here.

  He shrugged. “Wasn’t sure what each kid could do. Some didn’t like to talk about it.” He rubbed the side of his head, like maybe all these memories coming out hurt. “It wasn’t a big home. Not more than forty kids. One floor for the boys, one for the girls.”

  “Why did they all end up here?”

  Joe looked down, fumbling with something in his pocket. “Folks are scared of that kind of thing. They thought the kids were crazy, so they shipped them off. Gave up their own children, or backed out of adoptions. So this place was set up for the ‘challenging’ cases, as they called us.”

  “Us?” My voice cracked.

  He settled his watery blue eyes on me. “Yes. I lived here when I was a child.”

  CHAPTER 11

  As soon as he said it, Joe hurried to his truck, like he could run away from his words.

  I chased him, my sneakers crunching against the stones and my mind stirring up a million questions. “Wait! Tell me about the other kids! What was your talent?”

  He hopped into the seat of his truck, shaking his head. “Don’t want to talk about it.” He slammed the door.

  I caught up to him and gripped the edge of his open window. “Fine. But will you come back and help here? You can have anything from my trading cart in exchange for using your truck.”

  A hurt look split his face. “Feels strange being back here, after everything that’s happened. It’s best for everyone if I keep to myself at home.” He held up a hand. “Please, I have to go.”

  I stepped away and he backed out of the driveway, sending up a plume of dust. I stood in the middle of it, my mind feeling just as cloudy.

  Mr. Carlson walked over and set his hand on my arm. “Some scary moments back there, Penny. I’m sure glad you’re okay.” He blew out a breath. “Do you think you could head over to the diner and talk to Mrs. Carlson? She’s worried sick about you. Pains me so when she’s upset.”

  “I’ll go right away.” I hated knowing that I’d upset her, especially now that I knew the terrible thing that had happened right in front of here.

  I ran down the driveway, skidding on the stones, and dashed across the street to the diner. I burst through the front door, and Mrs. Carlson was sitting on a stool in front of the counter, gazing off.

  The place was empty.

  She noticed me, then pressed a hand over her mouth and ran to me. “You’re okay!” She wrapped her arms around me in a hug, and I didn’t wiggle away. Finally she stepped back. “What were you thinking, climbing that tree?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t realize how high it was. But I was fine until the wind chime got wrapped around my ankle.”

  “You should have asked for help.”

  I just shrugged. “I don’t need help.”

  Her wide eyes softened. “Everyone needs to ask for help, now and again.”

  I was not going to be sassy and tell her she was wrong. But my mama had told me otherwise.

  She sighed. “But, Penny. I told you that place was cursed.”

  “I know that’s what you said, but I don’t think it is. Not anymore. I’m okay, aren’t I? And we’re going to turn the building into something wonderful.” I paused. “I know a lot of bad things happened over there. I’m sorry about your daughter.”

  She sucked in a breath, but she nodded.

  I softened my voice. “But the Finest will stay a sad, sad thing until we make it something good again.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold. “It would be nice to believe that. But we heard words an awful lot like that from the businessmen when they convinced us to try the first time.”

  “But I’m not asking anyone for money. I’m not even asking anyone for help. I can do this on my own. I just want people to give me a chance.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long while. So long, I started wondering if I should leave. Then she walked over to the window and stared down the street toward the Finest. She placed her hand on the window, like she was reaching out to touch the past. “It was going to be the loveliest salon.”

  “A beaut
y shop?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “A salon is a place to discuss ideas. Art.” She closed her eyes. “It was going to have the most beautiful gardens, and a big drawing room inside for meetings and lectures. They’d serve tea and goodies. I came up with a few delectable scone recipes while the investors were working. I thought I might be able to sell them to the owners to put on their menu.” She sighed, and the sound was so sad it took some of the breath out of my lungs, too. “After Mary died, I poured my heart into making plans for that place, thinking it could distract me from the pain.”

  Mrs. Carlson’s color was fading. I hated seeing her like that. “Maybe it could still be that wonderful thing. There’s lots of room over there. A great big yard.”

  Mrs. Carlson let out a long sigh. “I just don’t know if I could ever put my faith in that place again. Or if I could spend time so close to the place where … it happened.”

  I wanted to tell her that working over at the Finest would make her happy. That everyone’s color had started glowing stronger once they got to work over there. But that’s not something you can really explain, now is it?

  Before bed, I sat down next to Grauntie on the couch, trying to figure out how to ask her all my questions. I wanted to know more about the kids from the orphanage. If she was having a good night, she might remember something.

  She narrowed her eyes at me, leaning back like she was checking to be sure I was really there. We weren’t one for sitting next to each other much. Grauntie liked her space, and so did I. Parker was curled up in a chair, reading a book.

  “Something wrong?” Grauntie asked.

  “Nope.” I shrugged. “Just wondering if you ever met any of the kids who used to live at the orphanage.”

  She looked up at the ceiling, thinking. I wondered if that helped the memories spill out. “Can’t say that I did,” she said. “But Gert went to school with a few of them. One boy had a weird name, like a bird. Goose? Robin, maybe.”

  I froze. “Do you mean Wren? Wren, with the freckles?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Yes, that’s right. Wren. Told me he was speckled with freckles. Said he was brown like a little wren, too. Don’t see kids like that around here too often. You know, besides you two.”

  Wren with the freckles had brown skin like mine? I looked at Parker, my eyes big and round, but he just looked confused.

  Grauntie worked her lips back and forth like she was figuring what words should come out next. “Not sure if your mother ever met any of them, that summer she was here.”

  My eyes popped wide open. I’m surprised I didn’t fall right off the couch. “Mama was here?”

  Parker closed his book and came over to sit next to us.

  Grauntie nodded. “Came to stay with me right after she graduated high school. Thought the name of the town was a good sign for her future.”

  “My mama, Darlene Parker, with hair like mine?”

  “Yes, she’s my older sister’s granddaughter.” Frowning, she patted her lap and looked down at her feet. “Where’s my pocketbook? I need my pocketbook.”

  “Right next to you on the couch,” I said.

  She turned and grabbed it. “Of course. There it is.”

  “No one ever told me Mama lived with you, Grauntie.” This was a huge piece of information. How could I not know this? Why had Mama never mentioned it? Or anyone else, for that matter? “You’re sure?”

  Grauntie rubbed her hands up and down her thighs. “Of course I am. Said she was going to find a job here, but never did get work. I don’t know how she spent her time. She never was home. And she wasn’t here long. Just up and left one day. No goodbye, no thank-you note.”

  “Where did she go?” I asked.

  Grauntie turned up a hand. “Don’t know.”

  “Mama was here. Right here in New Hope. Right in this house.” As far as I knew, while Grauntie didn’t remember everything, she didn’t make stuff up. And maybe this had happened long enough ago that it was still stuck in her mind like a movie clip. “Are you really, really sure?”

  “Am I sure your mother lived with me for two months? Of course I am. Ate all my cookies. Loved my cat.” She stood up and scanned the room. “Where is that darn cat?”

  I looked at Parker. His eyes were wide.

  “It’s been a long day, children. We should get to bed,” Grauntie said.

  I kept doing the math: Mama graduated high school when she was eighteen. She had us the next year in April, when she was nineteen. I knew it took nine months for a baby to come.

  It all added up. Did Mama meet our Daddy right here in New Hope? A boy with brown skin and freckles?

  Before bed, I locked myself in the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, then sat in front of the big, long mirror on the back of the door. I stared in it, looking for a clue as to who I might be. My eyes were green, like Mama’s. No mystery there. Same hair color as Mama’s, too, but hers hadn’t been quite so wild. My puff of hair didn’t look like Mrs. Carlson’s tight curls, either. No, people liked to ask me if I’d been electrocuted, that’s how wild it was, so I couldn’t say I was part black for sure. Nothing in my face answered my questions about who I was.

  Once, before Mama died, an old lady at the grocery store had crinkled up her nose and called us mutts. I laughed and barked ’cause I thought it was funny, but Mama slapped my face—the one and only time she ever did that. I didn’t remember much about Mama, but I sure remembered that moment.

  “That’s not funny,” Mama had hissed at me, with tears in her eyes. I was so shocked by her hitting me, I didn’t even ask why it wasn’t funny. Parker and I pretended we were puppies all the time—kitties, too. But when I was a little older, I heard someone else call us mixed, and I figured out what that old lady had meant. Mutts were a mix of different dogs. And Parker and me weren’t one thing, either: not just white, not just black, or Hispanic, or Indian, or whatever my daddy was.

  Never saw many other people who were mixed like me. So it seemed like a special thing, not bad. Mama even said so once. “Why is mixed bad?” I had asked her one day, after seeing someone pointing at us at McDonald’s.

  She cupped her hand under my chin and looked me right in the eye. “Mixed isn’t bad. It’s magnificent. There is no one quite like you. Be proud of that.”

  And I was. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have questions.

  I pressed my nose against the mirror and stared until my eyes crossed. Who was I? Now that I knew about Mama’s visit, and Wren with the freckles, I might be able to get some answers.

  First thing the next morning, Parker and I walked to Joe’s. I had to find out if Wren had known a girl with red hair like mine. I rang the bell and rapped on the door, but there was no answer. Was he going to hide inside for the rest of his life? Made me so sad the way people treated him, the way he thought he was no good.

  “I think he wants to be left alone,” Parker said.

  “We’re not going to give up on him. We’ll try again later. Let’s go to the Finest,” I said.

  When we got there, Mr. Smith was back, working on the bikes, humming a tune. His color was growing brighter. Mr. Tyler was collecting old gas cans and other bits of metal. A few other people from town poked through junk piles nearby or wandered around the site. I was surprised folks had come back. Thought they’d just dashed over the day before to sneak a peek of me in the tree so they could gab about it later.

  Parker ran over to Chase, and I joined Carly, who was sorting bottles into piles of the same color. “What are we going to do with these?” she asked. “There are so many.”

  There were hundreds. How could we find a use for all of them? Then I remembered the story of George Washington Carver from my Notable People book. He found three hundred different uses for peanuts. Peanuts! Certainly I could find a few uses for plastic bottles. I wondered if there were any inventors on my family tree. My daddy? Or maybe George Washington Carver himself was on my tree. It was possible. He was going on the list when I got home. I am
the descendant of a brilliant inventor.

  “Three hundred ways to use peanuts,” I whispered to myself. “Okay, George Washington Carver, I can do it with bottles.” I picked up a bottle, but instead of an empty plastic container, this time I saw possibilities. If I cut off the top, the bottom could be used to grow flowers, like in a pot, or we could paint it like a vase for cut flowers. My mind was swirling with ideas, like a merry-go-round on hyperdrive.

  Then I noticed all the different colored caps still on the bottles, like splotches of paint. “Take all the caps off and put them in a pile,” I told Carly. “Sort them by color.” I picked up a clear, empty soda bottle and turned it around in my hands. “Do we have scissors?”

  Carly nodded. “I saw some in an old toolbox by the metal scraps.”

  I found the scissors, then settled in among the mountain of bottles. I used scissors to poke a hole above the black base of one bottle, then cut shapes out of the sides. I held it up for Carly.

  She tilted her head and smiled. “That looks like a flower.”

  I cut out a few more while Carly twisted a cap off a bottle and tossed it into a pile. “I think we have more colors of caps than we do paint,” she said.

  My fingers tingled. “What to do with those caps …” I snapped my fingers. “We could make a collage out of them.”

  “Yeah!” Carly said. “On the fence.”

  “That will look amazing!” I said. “I’m so glad you decided to work here. You really have a lot of great ideas.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “No one’s ever said that to me before. That I’m great at anything, I mean.”

  “Well, you are.”

  “Thanks,” Carly said. “I wish I could get Mama to come work down here. I think she’d like it. Better than just sitting home.”

  “Bring her along!” Just then, I heard a chugging noise coming up the driveway. My head snapped up. I’d heard that sound before! Sure enough, a big white truck was making its way onto the site.