The Names They Gave Us(47)

Of course, at the time, I yelled back that this was the first time I’d ever messed up. But later, lying in bed and feeling mucked over with guilt, I realized I didn’t know what her life was like at my age. All I know is the timeline: that she moved in with foster parents right before high school, and they adopted her some time after that. When I asked my dad for details, he said, “Oh, Bird. That’s her story to tell.”

I’ve figured, since then, that the adoption took a long time. I can’t imagine the court dates, the lawyers, the feeling that you have to be worthy enough for a family. That’s something no kid should ever have to worry about.

When our girls are settled in afternoon class, I duck into the Bunker for coffee. Anna sits at the table, reviewing something in a binder and eating Red Vines.

“Hey,” she says as I fill a mug. “I thought you were a tea drinker.”

“Desperate, is what I am.” I dump the nearby glass canister fully upside down. Sugar streams like white glitter for a solid five seconds before I consider the coffee drinkable.

I sink onto the couch and decide I’m giving myself five minutes. Keely’s right behind me with the same caffeine goals.

She turns to me. “Did you get anything from Thuy at lunch? I got nothin’.”

Sad as it is, our concern about Thuy has been good bonding for us, as we exchange tactics and clues.

“I did, actually.” I’m mad at myself all over again, relaying the conversation. “So . . . I think . . . foster care? Or maybe recently adopted?”

She jerks her head back, eyes blazing. “No. Don’t make that face.”

“Keely,” Anna says quietly. A warning.

I’m just as defensive as she is, scowling. “What face?”

“That ‘broken family’ pity face. Not everyone is lucky enough to have both biological parents around.”

So now even my facial expressions aren’t right? I can’t cry or even emote?

“My mom,” I say evenly, “was adopted by her foster parents. If I made that face, it’s because getting to that point wasn’t easy.”

“Oh.” Her posture relaxes, and she takes a long sip of coffee. “Sorry.”

You’d think, based on her tone, that I pried the apology out of her mouth with my bare hands. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll talk to Thuy.” She moves to the door, and Anna’s eyes follow her, disapproving.

“Tell her if you want.” Keely tosses this comment aside without even glancing over. “I don’t give a shit.”

After the door bangs shut, Anna takes a deep breath. “Sorry. She, um. Well, Keely’s mom died not long after Kiana was born. Leukemia.”

“Oh, no.” The bonfire comes back to me. “Yeah. I remember her saying her mom wasn’t around. I didn’t know that she . . .”

Anna nods. “It’s just complicated because Keely’s stepmom is the only mom her sister has ever known. But for Keely? That’s not her mom.”

I have not considered, until this precise, world-tilting moment, that my dad would ever remarry if God forbid—God, please, forbid—my mom died. I’d want him to be happy. Of course I would. But I can’t imagine seeing him with another woman, making a family with her. “Is her stepmom cool, at least?”

“For sure. And Keely likes her. But she’s always been convinced that Tracy—her stepmom—got stuck with her. That Tracy fell for her dad and toddler Kiana. And middle-school Keely was just part of the deal.”

“But . . .” But Keely is so capable, so quick on her feet and good with kids. She’s smart and skilled and she shows up. It’s magnetic. Anyone would want her as their stepdaughter.

“I know,” Anna says, reading my mind. “But you can’t talk someone into feeling like they belong.”

“Wow.” That’s . . . a lot.

“Like I said,” Anna says, a bit sadly, “some of our checked bags are no joke.”

I don’t catch up to Keely until afternoon rest time. We’re waiting near each other as the girls file into the cabin.

She meets my eyes. “Look, I really am sorry about before.”

“I know. But you were right.” I’ve been so angry—at God and the universe and cancer—that I think it’s been hard to touch gratitude. That my mom can get treatment, that we have a support system, that I was born into such love. “I am lucky.”

Keely nods and turns to walk off, but I call out, “Hey, Keely?”

I don’t know if I’ve ever said her first name out loud. In the cabin, on the clock, I tend to think of her as Simmons.

“Yeah?”

I hesitate, wondering if I’ll make things weirder. “You’re really good at what you do.”

I didn’t quite get her approach at first, that my needs—and hers—are secondary to our campers’. Not unimportant, not irrelevant. Just second priority. Because we’re in charge of kids half our age who have already seen real hardship.

Keely peers at me, as if waiting for something more. When I simply smile, she says, “I know. But thank you.”

That night, Keely holds a copy of “Posy and the Dreaming Tree” in a binder, with illustrations hand-drawn by a camper years ago. The pages are yellowed, but it’s surprisingly good art—defined fox fur, beautiful forest scenes, the scary bared teeth of a wolf.