“I’ve got an idea, Meg.” I stand, and Meg pops up beside me.
“We’re going back to the library?”
“Not yet,” I say. “First, I’ve got to ask the lady at the desk more questions, and maybe she can make some phone calls for us.”
I turn toward the desk, but freeze. The receptionist is watching us. There are several other people in the area, but the woman is zeroed in on Meg and me. I told the woman our dad was parking the car, so if I go back to her now, she’ll be suspicious of me.
I put my arm around Meg’s shoulders and steer her back down the hallway to the ER. Meg pulls away and crosses her arms. “Where are we going?”
Her face is set in a deep frown, and her voice is so loud it rattles through the hallway. “Why aren’t we getting on the bus?”
I lean down and whisper. “Shhh. Don’t look, but the lady at the desk is watching us, so we can’t go back and talk to her.”
Meg spins her head around so she can see the receptionist, even though I just told her not to. I sigh and glance over to see the woman still intent on every move we make.
“See?” I rest my hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. “We need to go back to the emergency room for just a little while.” My squeeze turns into a pat. “I know the waiting is hard, Meg, but hang on a little longer, okay?”
Meg lets her arms drop to her sides, but her face doesn’t let go of its pouty frown. We walk back to the ER and get in line. There are more people ahead of us this time, so it takes longer to get to the receptionist.
When we finally step in front of her, the woman gives us a questioning look. “Hi again. Was the woman your mother?”
“No,” I say. “That person was already identified by somebody else, but now we’re really scared Mom died in a car accident and was taken directly to the city morgue.” I don’t have to fake the terror eating away at my self-control. “How do we check?”
Meg hears me say the word “died” and tightens her grip on my hand so much my fingers hurt from the pressure.
The woman leans across the desk. “The city morgue is housed in this building, but you girls need to call an adult. If your mom was killed last night, you need to have a family member or an adult friend with you.”
“Meg and I just need to know if there is a possibility that Mom is there, and if there is, Dad will leave work.”
The receptionist studies us for a long time before she reaches for her phone. She taps in a number and says, “Hi. This is ER. Do you have an unidentified woman that has expired in the last twenty-four hours?”
I say, “Ask for a Rita Rollins too, just in case she had her name with her, but no contact information.”
The woman adds, “And can you check for a young woman by the name of Rita Rollins as well?”
The receptionist listens to the answer and hangs up her phone. “No Rita Rollins and no unidentified woman.” The woman’s face is kind, but lined with worry. “Why don’t you girls stay here until your dad comes? His boss will understand this is an emergency.”
I nod, as relief rushes through me. Mom isn’t dead, lying on a cold slab in the bowels of the building. “Thanks for your help. I’ll call Dad right now.” I pull my phone out of my pack, tap the screen, and put it to my ear.
I turn to go, pretending I’m talking to my dad on the phone, instead of wondering where to go and what to do next.
Chapter Eighteen
I should be happy. Giddy, even. Mom is not in a drawer at the city morgue or unconscious in the hospital. But all I feel is empty.
Meg and I walk out of the building through the emergency room entrance. We step through the doors, but instead of heading straight for the bus stop, I pull Meg over to a bench where we are out of sight of the reception areas. I slide onto it, feeling as old and sick as the woman in the wheelchair. For no reason I can think of, I’m not ready to leave the hospital.
All my ideas of people to call or places to go are gone. Mom is out there somewhere, but I’m no closer to finding her. Am I overlooking something important—some clue that should be obvious, but I’m too tired and scared to find it?
Meg pokes me in the arm. “Aren’t we going to the library, Mattie?”
When I don’t respond right away, she pokes me over and over again until I know I’ve got a whopper of a bruise blossoming on my side.
“Mommy won’t find us here.” Meg steps in front of me, gripping the backpack on her shoulders with both hands. “She’ll go to the library, and when we’re not there, she’ll get scared and won’t know what to do.”
I pull myself to my feet. Why not go back to the library? Meg will be happy, and that will give me time to think. “We should go to the bathroom and get a drink before we start back.”
Meg grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bus stop. “I can wait till the library and so can you.”
Meg drags me across the street. I sink onto the bench by the bus stop, but Meg stands and watches the road. She wiggles her knees back and forth, willing our ride to hurry. In a couple of minutes, the EmX bus drives up, and Meg pulls me toward the door. I dig the transfer ticket out of my jeans pocket, grateful I remembered to ask for one when we arrived.
My actions have no more life than a robot or a machine programmed to walk and talk but not to think. Meg is the opposite, brimming with energy. She wiggles and squirms on the bus seat while she stares out the side window. We pass through the Springfield station and continue on to Eugene.
Meg explodes off the seat as soon as the bus gets close enough for her to see the library. She grabs my hand and drags us to the front so we can hop out the minute the doors open. Meg and I step onto the sidewalk and start for the building.
“Mom isn’t waiting for us, Meg.” Telling her that we’re alone makes me want to throw up. “She would text or call if she could, so that means she can’t get to us.”
Meg keeps dragging me along until we cross the street and are right in front of the library. “I know that, Mattie, but when she can look for us, this is where she’ll come.”
We enter the building and head straight for the bathrooms and drinking fountain. I drink a ton of water and hope that filling up my stomach will make me feel less hungry. It doesn’t work.
I help Meg pick out new books and spread her things out on the little table where that cute monster of a boy nearly got us kicked out. I am numb to it all.
When Meg is settled, I drop onto the couch and watch my baby sister read through her stack of books. She’s calm and content. All the early morning anxiety is gone, and she’s back to her sweet little self. To Meg, the library has turned into our house, a place she feels safe and protected; as long as I’m with her, she could stay forever.
I sit on the couch and stare off into space. There must be places I could look, things I could do, or clues I’ve missed that would lead me to Mom. Bits and pieces of our lives flit through my mind, but nothing gels into an idea or a plan.
I glance over at the clock and realize almost an hour has gone by. I blink at the numbers, thinking I’m not reading it right. I never just veg out like some spaced-out pothead. People in class do it all the time, but not me. I pay attention and soak up every little scrap of knowledge the teachers throw out to me.
My brain is fuzzy, full of empty air and meaningless thoughts that don’t connect. It doesn’t feel like my mind at all. I grab my backpack and pull out a notebook and pencil. Maybe if I write everything down, I’ll be able to concentrate enough to make sense of it all. I open my notebook and stare at the blank paper. It takes me forever to write the word hospital. I cross it out and write car accident. I start to draw a line through that too, but stop halfway across the word.
The police. Should I contact them? Mom isn’t in the hospital or the city morgue. She could still have been in a car accident, but if the accident wasn’t bad enough to go to the hospital, she would’ve called us.
I finish scratching car accident off my list. If I can’t find Mom by myself, I’ll call the cops, but right now, they’ll ask questions I don’t want to answer.
My pencil rests against the paper while seconds tick off the clock. I finally add freaks from Friday night to my list and put a giant question mark beside the words. I’m tempted to cross them out, but what if Mom got nabbed before she picked Ruby up at the garage? What if they didn’t run her off the road or smash up the car, but kidnapped her?
The idea makes sense, except the parking lot guys wouldn’t recognize Mom without Ruby. It was too dark and our windows were all fogged. But they could have run Mom off the road and kidnapped her when she crashed Ruby. For that matter, anyone could have done the same thing. To find out if Ruby was in a car wreck, I’m back to talking to the police.
I write down kidnapped and put a question mark by it, but the idea that Mom wasn’t with Ruby hangs with me. If I knew the name of the garage where Mom went for repairs, I could call them to see if she picked up the car. The problem is that it’s Sunday, and no one would be working. Bits of thoughts flit back and forth through my head, prickling my senses. I should be close to the answer, but I’m too slow and groggy to think of it.
My stomach cramps. Yesterday’s Big Mac was a year ago. That’s probably why my brain is functioning so slow I might as well be in a coma. Thinking about food makes my stomach knot up even more. I root around in the bottom of my backpack for any scrap of food I can find but only come up with bent paper clips and scraggly hair bands.
Meg sets her book on the little table. “I’ve got to go potty.”
“We need to move anyway.” I stuff my notebook in my backpack, zip it shut, and push myself to my feet. The room spins. I grab the couch arm and take a deep breath. Food. I need to eat, but we’ve only got a few cents left from the money Mom gave us. I’ve still got a key to Darren’s apartment. I should stake out his place, wait until he leaves, and raid his refrigerator.
Energy surges through my veins. Darren. My head pops up. My hands clench. He knows Mom works at the 7-Eleven, so he could have waited outside and nabbed her when she got off work. Would he kidnap Mom? Commit an actual crime like that? He hit her—I never thought he’d do that, and Mom didn’t either, or she wouldn’t have stuck with him for two and a half years.
“Mattie?”
I glance at Meg. She has her backpack on and is looking at me with her eyebrows pulled together and her nose all squished up.
“Are you okay?”
I’m too busy thinking of Darren to focus on my sister. “Yeah. I’m okay.” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
To find Mom, we’ve got to go back to Darren’s apartment, and the few cents I have in my pocket aren’t enough. Somehow, I’ve got to earn some money. We finish up in the bathroom and get another drink. I steer Meg out the front door.
“Can’t we stay in the library, Mattie?”
“I’ve got an idea.” I stand on the sidewalk and look down the street toward the corner grocery. I could ask the clerk if he needs someone to do chores, like sweeping and stocking shelves. That would be honest work, but the sales clerk already suspects Meg and I are homeless or on the run. Asking for a job might push him right into calling the cops.
Stealing somebody’s purse or wallet is out of the question. It’s totally wrong; plus, I’d get caught, end up in jail, and Meg would be put in foster care anyway. That leaves begging for money. Asking people on the street if they’ll give me the change in their pockets. Street kids panhandle all the time, so I’ve got to swallow my pride and try it.
People drift by, and I decide I can’t have Meg with me. Even if she helps reel in people with big, soft hearts, it wouldn’t be right to use her like that. I glance over at the bench. Meg could sit where she’d be right in front of me, and I could keep a close eye on her—but I’d feel like such a lowlife, corrupting my sweet sister with the scuzzy need to beg. I look at the kiosk by the front door. The coffee shop is all windows, floor to ceiling. Meg could sit at one of the little tables reading her books, so I could see her and she could see me.
“Come on.” I lead her back through the door and over to a table. “You’re going to sit here where it’s warm and watch me, and I’m going to be out there on the sidewalk.”
Meg’s eyes get big and round, and she shakes her head back and forth so fast her hair flies. “No, Mattie, no.”
I ignore the fear stamped all over her face, pull out a chair, and help her slide out of her backpack. I sit her down and squat beside her. “Look.” I point outside. “You’ll be able to see me every minute, and I can see you.” I pull a book out of her pack and lay it on the table in front of her. “We need bus fare, and that means I have to ask people for the money.” I run my hand over her head and smooth her hair. “Mommy may be at Darren’s, and we don’t have enough money to get there.”
“Can’t we call Mommy?”
“She’s not answering, sweetie.” I pick up Meg’s hand and kiss it. “We’ve got to go to Darren’s place and get her.” I lay her hand back in her lap and study her sweet little face. “If anyone comes near you, bang on the glass and scream. Okay?”
Meg nods. Leaving her terrifies me, but I stand and walk out the door, never taking my eyes from her. As I get out to the sidewalk, I keep glancing back through the windows, checking to make sure she’s safe. I position myself so I’m directly across from her with my back to the street. Meg stares out at me with big eyes. I wave, and she waves back.
I turn my attention to the people walking by. How do I choose? Women? Men? Young people? Old people? I pick out an older woman. “Ma’am?” I say, but she’s already past me and heading into the library.
Lesson one: talk fast. A young man with baggy jeans and long greasy hair saunters by. I let him go. He doesn’t look like he has any more money than I do. I spot a middle-aged man in a suit. “Sir?” I shove out my hand and talk as fast as I can. “Could you spare a—”
The man curls his lip and sneers, “Get a job, you lazy punk.”
I yank back my hand and grit my teeth. The guy is a first-class moron, but his comment still stings. I glance over at Meg. She sees me looking at her and waves both hands in that fluttery little-girl way she has. I take a deep breath, blow it out in a rush, and get back to work.
The next person I try is a young woman, but she totally ignores me. I try not to think, just stick my hand out and ask anyone who walks by if they could spare some change. My pitch gets faster, but it doesn’t seem to help.
“You’re pitiful.”
I swing around, expecting the put-down to come from some well-dressed lady with a designer purse stuffed full of cash. It’s Ebony. Her spiky black hair sticks out around the same gray hoodie she had on the night I met her. Ripped jeans, too faded and baggy to be in style, hang loose on her thin frame. Black boots with heavy soles cover her feet.
Ebony shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
I stick my chin in the air. “I’m managing.”
“How much money have you raked in?”
When I don’t answer, Ebony laughs. “Thought so.” She glances around. “Where’s your little sister?”
I nod toward the coffee shop. “Watching me through the window.”
Ebony gives me a sideways smile. “Smart. Using her could bring the cops.”
That’s not the reason I set Meg in the coffee shop, but I don’t tell Ebony that.
Ebony’s face turns serious. “You’re standing too far away. You’ve got to be close enough so people can’t ignore you, but not so close you make them nervous.” Ebony points to a place on the sidewalk closer to the front door. “Stand over there. People will have to walk right by you to get into the library.”
She turns back to me. “And give them a sob story. Don’t just ask for change. They thin
k you’re buying drugs. Even if you are, give them a reason to feel good.”
Ebony points her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll stand back and give you pointers.”
“Wait. I’m not ready.” The words fly out of my mouth sounding weak and whiny, even to me.
Ebony rolls her eyes, steps back, and leans on a parking meter.
Meg’s still sitting right by the window, watching me. I wave and turn my attention back to my job. I need a sad story. One that will pull at people’s hearts but that I can spit out in a hurry. The truth is way too complicated.
People keep passing. I take a deep breath to work up my courage and step closer to the front door of the library. People have to pass close by me, but I’m not blocking their way. A young guy in a University of Oregon sweatshirt heads across the sidewalk. I pick him out as my best chance, and the minute he gets close, I spew out my story as fast as I can.
“Bus fare to get home?” The guy doesn’t look at me, but he hesitates enough for me to blurt out, “Please, mister. I’m trying real hard to get off the street. I just need a little more money, and I can go home.”
It works. The guy comes to a stop, pulls his wallet out of his jeans, and hands me a dollar. I’m so overcome with the money in my hand, I can hardly stammer, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Confidence. That’s what surges through me. I try everyone. Old people. Young people. Rich. Poor. In a way, my story is true. I am trying to get home, and I am trying to get off the street. Most people don’t stop, but enough of them dig into their pockets that I make bus fare and am on my way to buying Meg and me some food.
I am so focused on panhandling that a police officer is only a couple of steps away before I spot him. His body is tall and blocky, giving him a sense of authority and control. The navy blue of his uniform stretches tight over the vest he wears, and his face is lined with a scowl that makes me drop my hand and hold my breath to keep from crying.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He clips every word off at the end like he wants to make certain I don’t miss a single one.
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