If You Find Me(20)

“That’s what my dad said. He said your mother could’ve been famous if she hadn’t gotten mixed up in—”

“I’m really tired,” I say, and this time, Delaney blushes. “I still have to settle me and Nessa in—”

“Oh. Okay.” She pauses. Then: “Do you need any help?”

[page]I think of my stuff, Jenessa’s stuff, right fitting to be stuffed in garbage bags when a person really thinks about it.

“Uh, thanks, but I got it.”

She clicks the door shut and I’m alone in a foreign land, this kingdom called New Bedroom, so clean, it makes my brain squeeze. As I sort through my things, I’m careful not to spill the bag onto the rug. I twirl the stem of a stray leaf between my fingers, then press it against my cheek. Home. Shorty hoists himself over to Nessa and goes back to sleep.

“Good dog,” I say, and he opens one eye to let me know he knows.

The door clicked shut with a sticky sound. I sniff. Paint. They actually painted for us.

It’s easy to unpack. There isn’t much. Soon, my few items shiver together on hangers, while the lower closet shelf remains forlorn and mostly empty, except for Mama’s scrapbook and my sketch pad. I place the violin case on the toppest shelf, wishing no one knew about it.

I cringe as I hang my coat on one of the hooks and catch sight of it in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. It’s a navy blue winter coat patched at the elbows, the color worn out in places, no different from my jeans. I’d found the coat in the woods, the material reeking of wet leaves and cat pee, the latter a scent I couldn’t erase no matter how many times I’d washed it in the creek.

“Don’t pay it no nevermind,” Mama says, her eyes harsh. “You got yourself a coat, a right warm one, just like I prayed for.”

I wish she’d prayed for a store-bought coat, spankin’ new, with the faux-fur linin’fluffed, not matted, and all the buttons still on it. Not four out of six.

“But you have a coat. A store-bought one with a zipper.”

“Watch your tongue, girl. I’m the ah-dult. I’m the one takin care of you girls.”

I don’t say it, but she’s not, not neither one. At least she sure don’t act like it.

“Be grateful for what you got, Carey,” she says, knowin me so well that even hidin’ my eyes don’t help. “That coat hits right to your knees. We have no fancy airs to put on here. Warm is warm, no matter how it looks.”

Or smells, I thought, resigned.

But she was right. When winter set in, when Jenessa and I wore socks for mittens, we both had coats so we could play in the snow instead of remaining cooped up in the camper. We slept in the coats, too, so we didn’t shiver all night and wake each other up.

I glance at Jenessa, breathing through her mouth, and Shorty, his ears squared as if awaiting further instructions, determined to make us a package deal. I don’t mind at all.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I leave the door cracked and pad over to Nessa’s room. I unpack her toys and clothes, clothes that hold the scent of wood smoke from the fire I built the night before. Her own coat came from the Salvation Army, a pale pink cloth of some sort, reaching to her waist. I gather it up and breathe it in, but the ache only pounds harder.

Soon, the closet shelves are lined with her puzzle boxes and games, both Scrabble and Chutes and Ladders. A smudge-nosed, naked Barbie doll sits demurely, her legs dangling over the shelf’s edge. I line up Nessa’s sneakers on the floor below, and set her stuffed dog and one-armed teddy in the child-size rocking chair. They’ll look nice on the bed once they’re put through the washing machine.

I fill an empty shelf across from her bed with her Pooh books, unable to count how many times I’ve read each book to her, the stories worn into my heart as much as hers.

Her socks, underpants, and undershirts go into the bureau drawers. When I’m through, I fold the garbage bags into squares, my mind returning again to Mama’s letter like a tongue to a loose baby tooth. I can feel the paper in my pocket, close as skin when I move. I stuff the bags in the bottom bureau drawer, then go back to my room, closing the door behind me.

There’s a clock on the little table next to my bed that says eight-thirty in spelled-out numbers. A person doesn’t even have to know how to tell time—it tells it for you.

I marvel at the light switches; none worked in our camper, but they work here right fine. I flick the switch downward, and the room goes dark except for a beautiful cream-colored rectangle of porcelain plugged into an outlet. It looks like a sculpture, and I crouch down on the floor to see. Carved into its surface is a beautiful angel assisting two chubby children across a bridge. The angel’s wingspan reminds me of an owl’s, or an eagle’s, it’s so glorious.

I curl up next to Nessa, Shorty on one side and me on the other, making a Jenessa samwich. The blanket Delaney gave me is clean, downy, and warm. It smells like flowers. I feel like a flower.

My eyelids slip shut, lulled by the inhale and exhale of Shorty’s breath. First I say a prayer for Mama, though, that she, too, is safe and warm, her belly full up. And then I let go, a feeling so foreign after all those nights alone in the woods, a shotgun nestled in the crook of my arm. I let go like I haven’t since the white-star night, or perhaps since Jenessa was a baby. Ever since then, I’ve been a world of tired, clear down to my dusty bones.