If You Find Me(15)

Their words float back and forth over our heads as I watch Jenessa eat her last fry and slurp her milk shake clean.

As for me, I’ve eaten almost half my burger. A pink-cheeked girl whisks off the remains (my father calls her a “waitress”) along with most of my fries, returning minutes later and handing me a spongy white box I reckon is made from the same material as my father’s and Mrs. Haskell’s steaming cups of (what I now know to be) coffee. She winks.

“There you go. If you don’t want it, I’m sure your dog will love it.”

I slurp the dregs of my milk shake, and she shakes her head uh uh. I stop, my ears burning. Don’t act backwoods. I want to ask the man, my father, for another glass, but the thought of asking, of the connection it implies, is so uncomfortable, I don’t.

The waitress hands my dad a slip of paper on a little black tray, and a pen.

“I’ll take it whenever you’re ready.”

[page]He raises his hand in answer, and she waits while he scribbles on the paper, then hands it back to her.

“You girls ready?”

Jenessa looks to me for an answer, and I nod. I dip my napkin in my water glass, lean across the table, and scrub my sister’s mouth. She scrunches up her face and swats my hand away.

“We’re ready, sir.”

“Then let’s go home.”

Home. Four letters heavier than twenty thousand elephants. It’s like he’s saying a word bursting with a bunch of other words not yet ready for saying. His expression shifts, reminding me of the twists of colored glass in Nessa’s garage-sale kaleidoscope.

“Let’s go.”

Nessa takes the lead, smiling back at the patrons we pass, who can’t take their eyes off her. I bring up the rear with our “Styrofoam” boxes. But Nessa’s steps grow heavy, her feet dragging as she ducks beneath our father’s arm, which holds the door wide. Her peachy complexion takes on a greenish tinge, like the time I made her try chickpeas.

I don’t waste a second as I shove her toward the bushes lining the walkway to the parking lot. She stumbles and I catch her by the forearm. I have a moment to drop the food boxes and grab her hair into a ponytail before her lunch lands in the grass.

My father watches, dumbfounded.

“She’s all right, sir. You saw I tried to slow her down. She’s just not used to having—”

“Real food, I know,” my father says, finishing for me, his eyes flashing. Anger. It’s a face I know better than any other.

“Please don’t be angry with her, sir. Please?”

“Angry? Why would I be angry? Poor thing. So hungry. I should’ve ordered her something lighter. Like a grilled cheese. It’s my fault, not hers.”

I rub Nessa’s back in small circles.

“How about you? Your stomach okay?”

He reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, and I flinch. I don’t mean to keep doing that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. His hand freezes midway, then drops to his side.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Truth is, my stomach’s not so great, either.

Nessa’s crying now, either because she threw up, which she hates, or because she lost all that tasty food.

“Don’t cry, baby. You can have the rest of my handburger later.”

My father goes back into the restaurant and returns with a roll of paper towels. I know paper towels. He hands me a Styrofoam cup filled with water.

“Do you need any help?”

I shake my head no, so used to caring for Jenessa, it’s like caring for myself. I pour water on a handful of paper towels and swab off her mouth, then her chin.

“Breathe through your nose and stick out your tongue.”

She obeys, and I wipe her tongue, too. But her normally sweet breath still reeks.

I rip off a fresh sheet and dry her tears as she hiccups and sniffles, her eyes droopy and red by the end.

“She’s flat tuckered out, sir,” I say.

We watch her. She’s weaving where she stands, her face pinched. I tuck her under my arm and pull her close.

This time, I sit in the middle and Ness sits by the window, where I can quickly lean over and roll down the glass if need be.

I barely breathe, although I’m aware of every breath she takes. He takes. I try not to touch arms, his tan one leaning on his leg when he’s not shifting gears, the hairs honeyed up by the sun. His hands are large and work-roughened, but his fingernails are clean. The radio’s on low. I remember radios. The haunting strains of a violin piece I can play by heart—Violin Concerto in E Minor by Mendelssohn—rise through the cab and cradle us all.

His words are casual but careful, like when something’s a big deal but you don’t want to sound it like it is.

“That’s a violin case you got there,” he says, nodding his head toward the backseat.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you play?”

I wait for Jenessa to shift position, her head finding my lap, her breathing slow and even.

“Yes, sir.”

“Joelle taught you, did she?”

I nod, not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.

“Your mama made those strings sing like a bird.”

I think of Mama playing, my head stuffed with years of sound. Thing is, the violin reminds me too much of Mama now. It reminds me of the worst parts . . . the hungry parts, and not just for food. And the white-star night . . . I’m not sure I ever want to play again.