If You Find Me(26)

“If you see anyone in these woods,” she says, lettin go only to cup my cheeks so tightly, my eyes bug out, “hide. Don’t let yourself be seen, girl, and whatever you do, don’t give your name.”

“What would happen, Mama?” I ask, my face achin.

Nessa wails, wantin’ me to go to her. But Mama won’t let go.

“They’ll take you away from me and make you live with him. And then I won’t be there to protect you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now go see to your sister, before I slap that cryin right outta her.”

The Children’s Services parking lot teems with cars, thick as ants on spilled beans. My father has to circle around back to find an empty parking space.

“Take your sister’s hand,” he says as we jump out.

I lift our arms into a V, sister fingers entwined. “I’ve already got it, sir.”

“Of course you do. I keep forgetting—”

“It’s okay, sir.”

“Maybe it’s good I keep forgetting, huh?”

I know what he means.

I’m a girl, just a girl, who never should’ve had to be in charge in the first place.

Jenessa tilts her head back. Her large eyes worry me with questions.

“Melissa said it’s just some puzzles or something, remember? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Nessa’s grip relaxes. I wouldn’t tell her something that wasn’t so. I lean in and gather her backpack from the seat, a gift from Melissa before we left the house. It contains two sandwiches, a clean pair of underpants, and a few children’s magazines.

“That’s Snow White on the back,” Melissa says, turning the backpack over.

We look at her blankly.

“Don’t you know Snow White? She’s a princess. You know, the Disney princesses?”

“She knows Cinderella, ma’am. From her shirt.”

“Right! Cinderella is one of the princesses. I’ll have to dig out Delly’s princess books for you, Jenessa.”

Nessa claps her hands and does a silly dance.

We smile, Cinderella building a bridge between our woods and civilization. For a moment, we all stand on it equally, comfortably. For a moment, we belong.

[page]Ness reaches for my father’s hand, and we make an awkward train, zigging up the building’s steps and zagging down the polished hallways. I picture him in my mind, pushing open the beige door with the MRS. HASKELL nameplate glued to the front, discussing the letter and our case while I cooked beans and washed clothes in the creek and smushed cochroaches scurrying across the tiny countertop, oblivious to the coming end of our world.

Mrs. Haskell looks awfully happy to see us.

“Awww,” she says as Ness flies into her arms.

Familiar faces are priceless for my sister. In a sea of trees turned into a sea of total strangers, familiar means everything.

“Hi there, sweetie. Hi, Carey. Won’t you come in?”

My father motions me in front of him with a sweep of his hand. We all settle into chairs opposite Mrs. Haskell.

“How’s it working out so far, Mr. Benskin?”

Folders are piled high on every surface but her desk. Even an empty chair boasts a rising tower of paperwork stretching toward the ceiling, steadied by the wall the chair leans against.

“We’re doing well, I think. Right, girls?”

Jenessa leaves Mrs. Haskell’s arms and sidles over to my father, climbing into his lap. Mrs. Haskell turns to me, waiting.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing right fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

“That’s good to hear. I dare say we may have a happy ending in the making. And they lived happily ever after.’ Who doesn’t love a happy ending?”

I think of Jenessa. We have to stay together. That’s our happy ending.

“Let’s get down to business. I’ll be working with Jenessa today, and you’ll be in a room on your own,” she says, motioning toward a few loose pages on her desk. “These are written tests. Answer what you can.”

She hesitates, and I wait, watching the struggle play across her face.

“Excuse me for asking, but you can read and write, can’t you?”

My cheeks burn.

“Yes, ma’am. We both can. I taught Ness through books. I also taught her her sums. Mama found a chalkboard at a yard sale, and we used that. We had some old schoolbooks, lots of Winnie-the-Pooh books, and the poetry of Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Wordsworth, Lord Tennyson, Mr. Tagore, and Miss Dickinson, to name a few.”

Mrs. Haskell exhales, looking relieved.

“That’s really good, Carey. Jenessa’s lucky to have a sister like you. It’s much easier to teach reading, writing, and numbers to children when they’re younger.”

Nessa grins, like she’s so smart and it’s all her own doing.

“All I ask,” I say, the mama bear rising, “is that you don’t make her talk if she doesn’t want to.”

“Are you sure she can talk?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she talks to me.”

I shift in my seat, feeling like I’m betraying Nessa’s trust. But the fact of the matter is, her choice to remain mute concerns me, too. As if it isn’t bad enough we’re poor, backward folk; Jenessa’s lack of speech is enough to cast her as a freak. She’s so trusting, so innocent. That’s what worries me the most.