If You Find Me(22)

“Good. We didn’t have the heart to wake you, the two of you out cold like that.”

Warm. I raise my eyes from his boots. I practically know them by heart at this point.

“Thank you, sir, for the hospitality.”

I don’t know what else to say. He nods toward the distance.

“I see you made a new friend.”

I think of Delaney, thinking how wrong he is. But when I follow his gaze, I see Shorty playing fetch with himself. Silly dog.

“I’m mighty grateful to that old hound,” I say, thinking of my sister.

“Have you had your breakfast?”

I shake my head no, and think of Nessa. I feel a pang, knowing she hasn’t eaten yet, either. Worse, I’ve left her with Delaney.

“I’d better see to Jenessa,” I say, my shoulders hunched against the chill air, fighting the urge to glance back over my shoulder as I shuffle toward the house. I feel his eyes on me, trying to know me the way we’re trying to know him; voice, walk, words—both spoken and unspoken.

I think of yesterday. Mrs. Haskell was right. Ness and me need to stick together. She’ll need my help to decode this new world, with all the things she’s never seen before, like inside tubs, flameless lights that don’t reek of kerosene, meat from the store bundled in shiny, see-through packages. I’m sure she’ll like it better than creek-caught trout and gamy squirrels and pigeons.

I hate myself for thinking it, but the bed and food are worth the risk of being here. At least it’s worth giving it a shot. I wish I had my shotgun, though. But, when I made one final sweep of the camper, I forgot I’d left it on the tree stump. I didn’t know how to explain my need for it, so I didn’t ask Mrs. Haskell or my father to let me go back for it.

One thing I keep going over like a well-worn photograph is the first sighting of Melissa on the porch steps. Oozing smiles and griddle-warm welcomes, her voice soft and sincere—so different from Mama’s cigarette-roughened bark and irritated, clipped sentences.

[page]I can’t imagine someone like Melissa letting my father hurt us. Maybe in the past he was just angry at Mama. Maybe he’d found her smoking the meth or drinking the moonshine. Maybe I had the rash, the one my sister always had until I stepped in and made Nessa like my own baby, changing and cleaning her regularly.

It’s easy to get angry at Mama. She often forgot about us completely—like not coming home for weeks on end, or forgetting to hug us or wash our clothes. I didn’t mind picking up the slack, because I’d have done anything for Nessa. But there were the times Mama got all fired-up mean, leaving angry welts from the switch all down our behinds and backs.

My breath comes faster as I think of the men she brought home from town, starting when I was eight years old. Their dirty, sandpaper hands rubbed me raw in the most secret, velvety of places. I saw them give her money, and the next day, there’d be warm pop or chocolate or, the one time, Jenessa’s new Salvation Army coat and sneakers.

I was lucky I turned red early. There were no more hands after I turned red. That alone was worth the cramps and the mess of it.

I think of this man, this father, compared to the version in my mind. I’d hated him for hurting us, for making it so we had to leave, for not giving a damn about us. But maybe it was Mama who hurt us. Maybe she had it all mixed up.

Mama said possums don’t change their tails.

It sure rang true, for Mama.





6


“There you are, Carey. Come have some breakfast.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Melissa beams at me, and she really means it; it’s obvious in the way her face opens wide as the sky. I relax into it just a little, but her kindness is also a sort of free fall, pushing me off balance. I have to stay strong, for Nessa. I can’t let anything interfere. I hide away the yearning like a squirrel hides its nuts in a rotting hickory stump.

Melissa guides me with a reassuring hand to an empty chair around a large table in a nook off the kitchen.

Nessa sits in her chair, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She’s mesmerized by the food, watching Delaney cut pancakes into mouth-size bites.

“Ness can cut her own food,” I snap, more harshly than I mean to.

Delaney throws up her hands, turning to Melissa to confirm it—I’m impossible. She collapses into a chair across from us, glaring at me.

“No need for all the drama, Delly. Carey knows her sister best.”

“Fine. I was only trying to help.”

Melissa watches me, and so does Nessa.

“Sorry, ma’am, but she don’t—she doesn’t—need babying. It’s bad enough she doesn’t talk. The world is tough on the weak and the helpless.”

“Why does she talk like that? She better not talk like that in school, Mom, or I’ll be the laughingstock of the sophomore class! She’s better off saying nothing, like Jenessa.”

Melissa ignores her and turns to me.

“Those are wise words, Carey, and I understand your concerns. But everybody needs a little help now and again. Jenessa and Delaney are sisters now. You need to let them get used to each other.”

“Really, Mother? That’s it? You’re going to let her speak to me that way and get away with it? You told me to be nice to her. Maybe you should tell her to be nice to me.”