If You Find Me(52)

I think of Melissa, and nod. I can’t meet his eyes, either.

“She left you on your own in the woods? More than just that time we found you?”

Again, I nod.

“I know you said your sister stopped talking last year. What I want to know is why.”

I command myself to breathe. In, out. In, out. I’ve rehearsed the words in my head so many times, it should be easy.

“She never talked a lot to begin with, sir. It wasn’t like there were lots of folks to talk to anyhow.”

I see it in his eyes, the struggle not to push.

“Ness was five,” I continue. “After a few months, when she stayed like that, Mama took her to the speech therapist in town.” “Was there a precipitating event?”

“ ‘Precipitating’?”

I know so many words. It’s perplexing to come across so many I don’t.

“Something that upset her. There must’ve been a reason.”

I look at the animals, so warm and safe. The cocoa brown donkey peers at me, waiting for an answer, too. I don’t know what to say. All the prerehearsed words aren’t as easy with my father’s eyes upon me and his forehead creased with concern.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying not to look away, because liars look away. That’s what the man in the woods had said. I tremble, trying not to remember. My father pulls a blanket from a shelf and drapes it over my shoulders.

My teeth chatter the words. “Thhank yyyou, ssssir.”

His work boots are water-stained at the toes after dumping and filling buckets for the animals. Neither of us talks for a long spell, but I can feel his need to know. I think of Perdita, as lost as me:

One of these two must be necessities

Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.

“Well, if you think of anything, let me know. We want to help Nessa get past this.”

I nod as I hand the blanket back. “Yes, sir.”

Outside, I let out my breath in a large white cloud. I’m shivering even while my T-shirt sticks to my ribs. I follow along the wall to the back of the barn, sliding down into a squat. I wish I had that paper bag. The lady on the late-night “infomercial” called them “anxiety attacks.” They’re becoming all too common lately.

My father has no idea what he’s asking of me. None of them do. Only Jenessa, who loves me too much to tell—literally. Jenessa, who’s willing to give up her words altogether to keep me close . . . a sacrifice I let her make because I’m too cowardly to say the words myself.

What kind of monster am I, to let a six-year-old bear my sins?

I hate myself, hate what I’ve done. I’ve thought it through backward and forward, and I still can’t find an answer that spares us both.

I wipe away the tears angrily, the wool chapping my cheeks. I cry too easily since coming here. I hate that, too.

As long as Ness is safe, the rest doesn’t matter.

[page]I think of Mama, the tears giving way to numbness. She was only being herself, leaving us in the woods. “Just cuz a person don’t like the truth don’t make it less the truth.” Mama’s brain doesn’t work right. She called it “manic episodes.” Diagnosed bipolar when she was my age. She didn’t have a say in it, either.

Saint Joseph, can you hear me? I don’t know what to do! It seems no matter what I do, a little girl gets hurt. You tell me—what’s worse? Jenessa losing her words, or losing me?

What if I tell them and they don’t want me anymore?

I roll up the leg of my jeans, my skin moon white in the darkness. I run my mitten over the scar, flat and gray, like a rut in the back of my calf where the flesh rubbed away. The metal edge of the folding table had done that. I hadn’t felt it happen until afterward.

“Charles! Carey? It’s freezing out here! Jenessa is hoping Carey will give her her bubble bath. Are you two coming in?”

I’m surprised when my father covers for me.

“Carey went for a walk—I told her not to go too far. Tell Ness that Carey’ll have to give her a rain check.”

“Well, don’t you be too long, then. I have water on for tea.”

“I’m just finishing up, and then I’ll be in.”

Their voices ring out clear as crow caws carried on the back of the frigid air.

A few minutes later, I hear my father’s footsteps crunch through the snow and the sound of boots knocking against the back stairs before the door clicks shut behind him.

It’s only a matter of time. I know it for sure now. And then I won’t be able to stay here—either because the law won’t let me or because it won’t be good for Jenessa and her new family.

I reckon Miss Charlotte Bronte summed it up best.

Speak words of kindled wrath to me

When dead as dust in funeral urn

Sank every note of melody

And I was forced to wake again

The silent song, the slumbering strain.



I don’t care about myself. Not really. I might be a coward now, but I wasn’t when it really counted. If there are consequences, so be it. It’s why I’m not like Mama. It’s why we made it, Jenessa and me, and why we always will.





12


If you ask me, it’s a strange teenage ritual on a Saturday night to gather together at someone else’s house to eat snacks and drink pop. I mean, didn’t we all just eat dinner, pop included?