“Try to understand, Carley. You and I both know that you’ll have to go someday and I just—”
I interrupt. “But what about that book? That book about adoption? I thought I was going to stay here.” I spiral and she deflates.
“Oh, honey…”
I step back. Honey?
Her shoulders slump. “It just isn’t in the cards. Your mother is doing better and better and Mrs. MacAvoy has said that the court will rule to grant her custody of you when she’s ready.”
How can I go back after what she did?
She steps toward me, and I step back into the door, putting my hands up in front of me, palms facing her. “When you do go, Carley, it will be excruciating”—she clears her throat—“for this family because, in many ways, you’re one of us now. I think leaving would be harder for me and for you if you called me Mom. Not to mention…”
I can tell this is something I don’t want to hear.
“. . . My boys.”
I hate how she says “my.”
“Carley, I…”
I cut her off. “Fine.” I step back again. “Then I have just one more question.”
“What’s that?” Her voice cracks.
“Will you just leave me alone, then? Leave me alone until I leave.”
I bolt before she can answer.
I want to hate her, but I can’t.
I feel so sad I can hardly stomach it. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mean to, but she’s taught me what I’ll never have. Brought me to the candy store and given me just a taste—just enough that I’ll always know what I’m missing. And those kids—always watching them live here. The knowledge that I’m not loved like her kids are. Not by her and not by my own mother.
I have to remember.
I must.
Don’t forget your place.
Don’t forget who you really are.
CHAPTER 41
Mind Over Matter
The “can I call you Mom” execution was yesterday; it plays over and over in my head. Last night, I claimed sickness so I could skip helping with or eating dinner. Even when she resorted to making an apple pie, I refused. Killed me, but I did.
Before leaving for school today, I stuffed the Mother’s Day card for Mrs. Murphy into my backpack. On the bus, I ripped it into pieces and then dropped a few pieces in the trash at the beginning of each class. It was my routine and about the only thing I thought of all day. I didn’t want anyone piecing them together. Not even me.
I think that M-O-M must stand for “mind over matter”—like if I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Problem is, I do mind.
I know that Mrs. Murphy feels bad. The air is thick whenever we’re in the same room, so I avoid her. I almost bump into her, though, as she comes out of her bedroom. “Oh, Carley!” she says like I haven’t seen her for weeks. “How are you doing?” she asks.
“Okay,” I say, turning to leave.
“You want to help me with dinner?” she asks, which is code for just hanging out.
“Naw. I’m gonna read.”
“Sure you don’t want to help? I would really like your company!”
“I have a lot to do.”
“Okay then.” She turns to go, takes two steps down the stairs, stops, and turns back around. “Carley, I’m just heartsick about what happened Sunday morning.”
“I haven’t even thought about it,” I lie.
She comes back up two steps and her talking speeds up again. “What concerns me is that you know I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.”
I turn to go.
“Carley. You know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, because I don’t want to talk about it. The part that keeps me safe would rather stay mad at her.
I hear her voice crack. I turn around, clutching my book, and am ready to tell her she cries way too much.
I open my mouth, but she interrupts me. “I love you, Carley. You know, I just do.”
I turn away. That’s the last thing I wanted to hear.
CHAPTER 42
Back Against the Wall
The tally on the back of the hero sign is sixty. It has already been a long day and it’s only lunch. Mostly because it’s Mother’s Day.
Not like Mother’s Day has ever been my favorite holiday, but this has to be the worst. I have to sit around while Mrs. Murphy reads cards from everyone else. I feel terrible that I tore up that Mother’s Day card and don’t have one to give her.
I wish more than anything that I had a mother I could give a sappy card to. That my mother could be my mother. Or that Mrs. Murphy wanted to be my mother. That anyone wanted to be my mother. A Labrador retriever maybe. Anyone.
Mrs. Murphy comes by my room after we’ve cleaned up. “Mind if I come in?”
I shrug.
She walks over and sits on the bed beside me. “Today is a tough day, huh?”
I shrug.
“You want to talk?”
“Nah. I’m fine.” All I can hear are the things I can’t say.
“Fine, huh?” she says. “You don’t lie very well.”
It’s funny how she knows me. I so wish I had the card to give her now. She deserves a card from me.
“I’m just tired,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eye.
“Okay.” She pauses. “Hey, listen, I have something to tell you.”
Uh-oh.
“Remember how I told you that your mom wants to see you, Carley? And that you would be going to visit her?”
“Do I have to go?” I blurt out.
She puts her hand on my back, and I am instantly on my feet. I am surprised at how quick my breathing is. “When?” I ask. “When do I have to go?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine.” I am so worried about how my mother will act toward me.
“Carley.” Her tone reminds me of when she’s talking to her boys. “It’s been a tough day being Mother’s Day, I know. And this visit is a difficult thing. No one would ever say you’re not strong, but you know you don’t have to be all the time.”
My eyelids come down like window shades. I count my breaths.
“It’s okay, Carley. Whatever it is, we can talk it out.”
Her eyes are moist, and she looks like something hurts. I stare at her shoulder.
I know that if I tried to rest my head on her shoulder, it would be okay. But I know I can’t. Hearing the boys laughing downstairs reminds me that she isn’t mine.
Mrs. Murphy picks up a pen on the side table and plays with it. “Well, I’ve had an interesting day. I was in town with the boys.”
I let my breath back out. Slowly.
“We were walking by a bench where an older lady was smoking a cigarette. Michael Eric looked up at me and said, ‘Hey, Mom! Check out this fool smoking a cigarette!’ And he was loud. And she was right there.”
I crack up because I can see it so clearly in my head. God, I just love that kid.
Mrs. Murphy points at me. “Yeah, sure! Easy for you to laugh! I was horrified. She looked at me like I was the worst mother this side of the planet.”
“Well, she must have been a fool then.”
Her expression softens again, so I kill the moment quickly. “Hey! You were a teacher. I have a question. You know that book The Giving Tree?”
“Sure. I’ve read it to my classes and to all of my sons. Many times.”
“Why would you want to teach anyone a lesson like that?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, that you should just give people whatever they ask for and never expect anything in return? Like if a friend just kept coming and asking for stuff and never even said thank you. It just seems like a book about a selfish jerk and a sucker. Who’d have friends like that?”
“Well, Carley.” I can see she measures her words. “That book is about unconditional love. You know, loving no matter what. Giving completely of yourself because it makes you happy to give, not because you expect anything in return. It�
�s about loving someone more than yourself. And you’ll notice that the tree doesn’t mind.”
“The tree is just dumb.”
“Well, not really. But it isn’t so much about friendship; I agree with you on that.”
“What do you mean? You agree with me, but you don’t agree with me? I don’t get it.”
“Carley, honey. It’s about unconditional love.” She hesitates before finishing. “The Giving Tree is about a mother’s love for her child.”
I step back against the wall again.
CHAPTER 43
Pals Spelled Backwards
My mother’s room smells like a mixture of rubbing alcohol and floor cleaner. The walls have cheery yellow and blue stripes and, I guess, are supposed to convince you that you’re happy to be here.
My mother’s face is so white that it seems dusted with powdered sugar. It is also thin and, as I walk up to her bed, I am afraid to touch her. I bend over to see if her chest rises and falls with each breath. I open my mouth to say her name, but all I get is a squeak. She opens her eyes.
“Carley Cake,” she whispers.
“Hi, Mom. How do you feel?” The irony of the question winds through my head.
She reaches out to me with an open hand. Just like she did that night. The night I thought she was reaching for help.
My chest aches when she begins to sing. Raspy. Slow.
“We’re pals together
Rootin’ pals, tootin’ pals
Birds of a feather.”
I see the words as she sings them. I realize that pals spelled backward is slap.
“How’s my girl?” she says with a voice that reminds me of Mrs. Murphy.
There’s a feeling, deep down, that shoots up through the middle of me. I try to shove it down, but it wants to come no matter what I think of it. The way she talks all nice and calls me “Carley Cake.” It sounds the way it should, but it doesn’t feel the way it should.
I want to tell her never to call me that again. That she doesn’t deserve it. But instead, I sit down, put my palms together and stuff them in between my knees. We’re both quiet for a while. I can feel it. Two broken hearts and neither one knows how to fix anything.
She stares. I can’t sit still.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You. You look so different. Your hair. It looks nice fixed that way. And those clothes. I hardly recognize you.”
I know I look different. I feel different too.
“Do you remember the first day of kindergarten?” she asks me.
This catches me off guard.
“You were so cute that day, thinking you were all grown up. Your teacher had that wild red hair. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I liked her. She had a huge stash of Play-Doh.”
“You told her that her hair was nutso but it looked good on her.”
“I said that?”
“Yeah, you did. Full of fire from the very beginning.”
I think she is describing herself more than me. I remember the end of that day—when my mother wasn’t at the front of the apartment building to meet the bus, and they wouldn’t let me get off. I had to ride the whole route back to the school, and then they couldn’t get my mother to answer the phone. One of the secretaries stayed late.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks me.
“Kindergarten.”
“What about it?”
“The secretary was nice.”
“What about what you said to your third-grade teacher? Do you remember that?”
“Oh, how I said he looked like the butt of a wombat? Yeah, he didn’t like that much.” In the past, I would have laughed, and she would have told me more. Instead, I think how I probably wouldn’t do that now. Make a teacher mad just to make my mother laugh.
“So, anyway… ,” she says, “what’s this couple like that have you? Are they being good to my baby girl? Do you like them?”
“Yeah, I really do. The mother is wicked nice.”
My mother’s eyes get squinty and I know this look. The clouds are rolling in. There’s a storm coming. But she surprises me instead. She smiles in a way I haven’t seen before. “But you’re my Carley Cake, right?”
I think back to when I was. Then I remember Dennis. My mouth spits out, “Don’t call me Carley Cake anymore.”
Her smile fades. “I have the right to do anything I want. You are my daughter.”
“Well, it would be nice if maybe you acted like I was.”
“I’ve been plenty good to you. But sometimes you’re just a brat who expects too much.”
“Yeah. Like not landing in a hospital. Or a foster home? But that’s all right—if this had never happened, I would never have known what I was missing.”
“What do you mean? Missing what?”
“I know what a happy family is like now. I know what it’s like not to worry all the time. And I don’t shop for clothes in Dumpsters.”
“Oh, so you’re all high-class now? It’s all about money?”
“No, it’s not. It’s about feeling like someone cares if I’m okay.”
“Can you see me in this bed? Nothing like kicking a person when she’s down.”
“Better than holding a foot.” As soon as it comes out, I wish I had not said this. “Sorry,” I say, and I am. Yet I do want her to know that what she did was awful. I want her to know so much—that I love her anyway and hate her at the same time. I want her to know that I want to live with the Murphys forever, but that I’d die without her.
There’s a lump in my throat.
She’s angry. “You crying now, Carley? They turned you into a sucker, didn’t they?”
I think about how Mrs. Murphy cries, and she’s one of the strongest people I know.
There’s a welling up inside of me like a glass that’s filled too much. I have to ask. “Why did you do that? With Dennis, I mean. Why did you… hold me like that? Didn’t you know what he would do?”
“No, I didn’t. At first I was just thinking I’m his wife. I swore to be loyal, for better or worse. But I didn’t know—”
“Are you kidding me?” I interrupt. “That’s the best you can come up with?” I feel like I’m going to puke.
“Look, Carley. Life is complicated.” She straightens the sheet across her lap. “But fine. I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Heartwarming.”
“Well, maybe instead of coming here to the hospital and upsetting me while I’m in pain, you could keep quiet long enough for me to explain what happened.”
How I wish she could. But how could she possibly explain holding me down?
“Carley, when I met Dennis—”
I interrupt. Yelling. “No! I don’t want to hear about Dennis or your dumb excuses! You said he would take care of us. You promised. You said he’d be my dad.”
I step toward her, remembering the disappointment of finding out who he really was, and knowing she was going to marry him anyway. “I knew what he was like. I tried to tell you!”
“Carley, I don’t have to answer to you. I’m the mother here. Besides, I tried to help you.”
“Help me? Are you kidding?” My nails dig into my palms. “Do you know what a mother is?” I blurt out. “A mother is Julie Murphy. Her kids don’t sleep in the bathtub when her friends are staying over for a party, and they’re not the only kid who can’t sign up for anything because they can’t get a ride home. Julie Murphy is a better mother than you could ever hope…”
A shade comes down over my mother’s face. “Visiting hours are over,” she says coldly. “Why don’t you run along with your… new mother.” She waves me out.
But I can’t leave yet. I think of The Little Mermaid. I think of how my mother made mustaches for me out of whipped cream. How we’d eat frozen pizza and watch reruns. How, when I was much younger, she’d talk in funny cartoon voices when I was scared of the dark. I remember that in good times, she could make my stomach ache from laughing.
“I don’t want a new mother,” I say. “I just want you to…” I can’t say any more. I want to ask why she didn’t love me enough, but I’m afraid of her answer.
“Well, isn’t it a shame that I’m just not good enough for you, Carley.”
I’m angry and confused. I think only of running. So I do. I run. While my mother pounds in the final nail. “That family can have you!”
CHAPTER 44
Playing with Fire
Mr. Murphy sits on the couch watching the Red Sox, wearing his Dropkick Murphys T-shirt. I know that to disturb him in the eighth inning is a sin and I would, undoubtedly upon my death, be sent to that great dugout underground. But I probably have a ticket in that direction anyway.
“Mr. Murphy?” I ask.
“Yes, Carley?”
“Do you ever have to leave some people behind? You know, in a fire?”
His face darkens, and he glances back at the game. I know that I shouldn’t have asked. But something inside me just has to know.
“One child, two women, one man.”
“Huh?”
“That’s who I’ve had to leave behind.”
Four people. “Oh.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah.”
I feel courageous and continue. “Well, how do you decide? I mean, how do you decide who to save and who to leave?”
He glances at me but answers while watching the TV. “Well, Carley, I don’t really decide. The fire does. She always wins when she wants to. The first rule is that your own safety is paramount. I try to remember that I’m no good to anyone dead.”
“Do you think of your family when you’re in a fire?”
“Will you get the pitcher out of there!” he yells at the TV. He looks at me. “You know, you’d think for eight million a year, he could throw a ball over a plate.”
The doorbell rings, so I get up. I am almost out of the room when he says, “I don’t think of the boys in the middle of a fire because I’m trying to save lives—including my own.” He clears his throat. “But on every trip, you know, as we’re on the engine going to the call, when I’m suited up and everything, I pull out a picture of Julie and the boys, and I remember why I need to come home.”
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