If You Find Me(16)

I watch the cars whiz past, everyone in a hurry, all those different lives. A daughter and father pop up in the car beside us, the girl’s head resting solidly on the man’s shoulder. Each vehicle is like its own bubble world hurtling toward realities so unknowable, yet so personal, it hurts to look at them.

Even if I were to like him, which I’m not saying I do—I can’t, after what he did to Mama and me—still, I’m thankful not to feel so afraid.

“Is she okay now?”

[page]He ducks his head in Ness’s direction. She’s a warm thing carved into my lap.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t know how to ask this, but—”

I wait, not knowing what to say.

“Do you know who her father is, Carey?”

I squirm, my face burning.

“Mama called her a ‘trick baby, a one-hit wonder. . . .’ ” My voice trails off.

His face turns red, and I look away, like you do at other people’s private things.

“Your mama still doing those drugs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighs a long, sad sigh, the kind that comes from the belly.

“Did you girls get to eat every day?”

I sneak a look at him. His eyes remain glued to the road, like our words are no big deal.

“No, sir,” I reply truthfully. “Nessa cried when I killed the rabbits and birds, and it took a miracle to get her to eat them. The canned goods had to stretch. Mama didn’t always come back when she said she would, and those times I gave my share to Nessa. When you found us, we were running right low. Ness wouldn’t eat any more beans. Even with her stomach rumblin’—rumbling—like an earthquake.”

“It’s an awful lot of changes, from that to this, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll never want for food when you’re with me, okay? That’s my solemn promise. So eat all you want.”

I don’t tell him I couldn’t have gorged if I’d tried, my stomach stuffed full of butterflies and grown-up worries. I also don’t tell him I ache something fierce for the river, the trees, the flecks of robin’s egg blue playing hide-and-seek through the heavy boughs. That’s the kind of filling I crave.

I jerk forward at the downward shift of gears. The truck slows as he turns onto an old road crisscrossed with tar patches.

“This road will take us to the farm. I think you’ll like it there. There’s plenty of room for you girls to run around. Just like your woods.”

The road soon turns into dirt, bumpy and loud.

“We’re in Tennessee, USA?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just farther west from where you girls were living.”

The strangest noise, a baying whoop, grows in volume. Ness sits up, excited, searching for the thing making the noise. She climbs into my lap to see better, staring out the windshield, the light soft but not yet dusk.

Wooooooool Woo woo woo woo!

She turns to me, but I don’t have an answer.

Wooooooo! Wooooooool

Nessa bounces, her face splitting into a huge grin as we catch sight of an animal we know from her picture books.

“That’s my hound dog, Shorty. Got ears like radar. He probably heard the truck coming before we’d even left the blacktop.”

I press back into the seat, holding Ness tighter.

“He’s a bluetick coonhound. What, don’t you like dogs?”

“I don’t know, sir. We’ve never seen one outside of Ness’s picture books.”

His eyes widen in disbelief. I wish I’d just said yes.

“He’s right big,” I say, my voice quivering. “Why do you call him Shorty?”

His eyes crinkle with affection.

“Because he’s short one leg.”

I look harder, and it’s true: The hound is missing his left hind leg, yet he runs alongside the truck like no one’s business.

“I found him as a stray, skinny as you and Jenessa, snapped up in a bear trap. Doc Samuels couldn’t save his leg, so it had to go. But he learned real fast how to make it work—see how he slides the one leg underneath him?”

I watch Shorty use his back leg like he was born that way, positioned under the center of his body, more than compensating for the lack.

“Smart critter,” I agree, my eyes on Jenessa, who leans in toward me when my father isn’t looking, her breath curling into my ear.

“My dog,” she whispers, too low for our father to hear. “Mine,” she adds, no changing her mind.

I squeeze her tight and smile into her hair, the bubble moment lasting all of about two seconds before the weathered farmhouse rushes into view, larger than any house I’ve ever seen, clad in a cheerful coat of yellow paint. There’s a porch that wraps around the house and lots of rocking chairs, but that’s not what causes my jaw to drop.

On the stairs is a pretty woman in an apron, her raven hair woven into a braid that snakes over her shoulder and hangs clear down to her elbow. Next to her is a girl, face dark as a thunderstorm, arms crossed over her chest, her mind made up, like Jenessa with Shorty.

Nessa’s eyes are wide enough to pop out.

“Maybe I should’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you girls. That’s my wife, Melissa, and her daughter—my stepdaughter— Delaney.”