If You Find Me(27)

“She talks to you? When was the last time?”

I look over at Jenessa, who’s thumbing through a Highlights magazine fished from her backpack. She stares at the page, transfixed by a dog that bears a clear resemblance to Shorty.

“Yesterday.”

My father looks from me to Jenessa. Surprise and relief flood his eyes. He exhales loudly as he fiddles with the ball cap on his head.

He doesn’t want her to be a freak, either.

“What did she say?”

I look over at Nessa again, who seems relaxed, paying no nevermind.

“She said Shorty was hers.”

My father laughs until his eyes tear up and his face turns kidney-bean red. When he finally gets hold of himself, he sputters out the words.

“That’s right, honey. That old hound dog was half-dead when we found him in the woods. I bet she’d understand the feeling more than most. He’s hers all right.”

And that’s the thing about little kids. Even when they’re not listening, they’re listening.

Nessa flies to my father and weaves her arms around his neck. She looks like a twig that’d snap on the first bend, wrapped up in his tree-trunk arms.

I’m overcome by a feeling I don’t know how to hold. It’s the opposite of hardship and worry. The opposite of cigarette burns, dwindling camp supplies, and creek-cold bones.

Mrs. Haskell, her eyes bright, clears her throat. “Okay, folks. Carey, you can see yourself to the room next door. That’s right, the one to the right. Mr. Benskin, you can sit in the waiting room. I’ll be working with Jenessa at the table here. Carey, take these with you.”

She holds out pages. I lean forward in my chair and take them from her hand.

[page]“Please print your name and age on the top right, and answer as many questions as you can. There’s no passing or failing—we just want to see where you are.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My palms sweat and my jeans stick to my legs. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Now, Jenessa, your tests are like games. Do you like games?”

Nessa’s eyes grow wide and she nods.

“Good. You sit in the chair right there.”

We drag ourselves out the door, both of us hesitant about leaving her.

“Jenessa will be fine with me. I promise. Now, shoo, you two.”

My father makes his way toward the waiting room, but I linger.

“It’s okay, Carey. Really.” Mrs. Haskell looks me straight in the eye. “She’ll have fun.”

“If she needs me, you’ll send her right next door, ma’am?”

“I will. And I almost forgot.”

Her heels click over to me, and she holds out a long yellow stick with a sharp black tip on one end and a brownish orange cylinder on the other.

“This is a pencil. I know you know what a pen is, right? I saw some in the camper.”

I nod. Black ink, called a Bic. My mom hoarded them in an empty tea can.

“Well, a pencil is the same sort of thing—a writing instrument. You write with the sharp end, and see this hard, spongy thing here? That’s an eraser. If you make a mistake, you can erase the markings you made with the eraser.”

I marvel at it. “We could’ve used one of those when Jenessa was learning to write.” I take it from her outstretched hand.

“Well, you can keep it, if you want. See what it says on the side?”

I read it out loud. “ ‘Children and Family Services of TN.’ ”

“TN is the abbreviation for Tennessee.”

“Where we live,” I say softly.

“Right. Now, off you go.”

Me and my pencil enter the assigned room, and I lay out the pages on the long table. I can’t see tables now without thinking of a plate of bacon. I wish there was bacon, too.

The first part is easy:

Carey Violet Blackburn

Age: 15

It could be worse, I tell myself as I struggle over the first few questions. You could not know how to read or write. You could’ve had no books, no schoolbooks, or, even worse, no motivation to teach Ness or yourself.

To my surprise, once I get started, I know most of the answers, and the math is even easier. I think of the algebra and trigonometry texts Mama brought home from the yard sale, and those endless hours we filled with history and science, poetry and Pooh.

I won’t lie. There were times I daydreamed about what it’d be like to get out of the woods, go to college, and play in the symphony, when Jenessa was older and didn’t need me so much. No way I’d turn into Mama. My moods are steady, dependable. I’m not bipolar; I’m sure of it. I won’t do drugs. I took care of myself and a baby. I kept us safe, kept us fed, kept us smart.

I finish the pages in no time, in under two hours, according to the wristwatch Melissa gave me before we left.

“Carey, honey, wait.”

I slide my shirt on quickly before she opens my bedroom door.

“Yes, ma’am? Do you need help with Nessa?’’

“No, she’s downstairs, ready to go. It’s just that I have something for you. For luck.”

I stiffen, not sure what to do. “For me, ma’am?”

“This was mine when I was in college. It was a high school graduation gift from my father.”

Delaney, passing by, stops to listen.