Ana of California (4 page)

“Look, I know you're going to send me back,” she said.

Emmett remained mum.

“It doesn't take a genius of perception to read the signs, so don't feel weird. You can just turn around and take me back to the airport or I can hitch it back to L.A. You're not the first person to send me back almost immediately, probably won't be the last, so no hard feelings. I'm used to it.”

Emmett inhaled audibly.

“Honestly, I don't really want to work on a farm anyway,” she continued. “I said yes to this whole thing only because I didn't want to go back into the system or get shuttled off to another group home, which, trust me, is like a step up from prison, or what I imagine prison is like, not that I've ever been, but who knows, it's probably my destiny. I'm fully aware that my mouth gets me into trouble, and you're completely right about me filling the air—it's a nervous habit—but I did try to make conversation about music, which you clearly have some sort of interest in, judging by all the CD cases on the floor. It's kind of cool that you still listen to them and that you have Creedence because ‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain?' is one of the most profoundly depressing songs of all time, especially if you're a dude living or not living alone in a library in East L.A. But that's just me. I'm not a music critic either.”

Emmett remained silent. Neil sang something about dominoes.

“I don't know what you were expecting, but Abbie, your sister, sounded nice from what Mrs. Saucedo told me, and I saw a photo of your farm, which seems truly spectacular.
What I'm trying to say is I appreciate your flying me all the way up here, and I totally get it. The ride through all of this was worth it, even for the day, just to see trees that look taller than the buildings in downtown L.A. But, like I said, I can find my own way back.”

“It's too late to take you back. At least, today it is,” Emmett said.

“I understand.”

“You're here for only a month anyway,” he said out loud, wondering why he said it, because he'd already decided Ana wouldn't be staying.

“I was told it might be for longer, but as usual it's not my place to decide.”

“Why don't you put on some other music,” Emmett said, wanting to change the subject. “Pick something.”

Ana eased her backpack onto the floor and fished through the CDs swimming at her feet.

“You've got a lot of Fleetwood Mac,” she said.

“Those aren't mine. You can play anything you want except for those,” Emmett said, rolling down his window, airing out the front seat with early evening breeze.

Ana took a CD out of its case and popped it into the player. She turned the volume up, like Emmett seemed to like it, and resumed her dual-eyed stare out the window.

“
I see the bad moon arising
,” the stereo sang. “
I see trouble on the
way.
”

M
ain Street widened toward the center of town. Emmett stopped the truck at a traffic light and cleared his throat. He gestured to the rest of the road in front of them and said, “Welcome to Hadley,” as the truck rolled slowly past quaint buildings that reminded Ana of the ghost town facade she once saw in a book about old Hollywood movie studios.

There was Mariner's Antiques on the left with a replica of an old ship occupying most of the cluttered window. To the right was the Hadley Pie Company, shaded by a lemon yellow awning that flapped above whitewashed chairs and tables. There was a tiny sweets shop next door with the words “Sugar Pearls sold here!” and a bookstore called, simply, BOOKS—all caps—that looked as though no one had rung its rusty doorbell in decades.

“It's not what I imagined,” Ana said.

“I know it's not much, but it's home.”

“I mean that in a good way—it's the opposite of what I
thought it'd be,” she continued. “I expected it to be bigger, not like a city or anything, but more populated with people and horses. This—this is . . .”

Again Emmett Garber cleared his throat in a way Ana couldn't decipher.

“We're a small town, full of good people,” he said. “Got some horses too.”

“It's like out of a children's book or a classic movie or something.”

Suddenly, Emmett hit the brakes. A tall, bearded man with long gray hair sauntered in front of the truck, his hand held out in front of him commanding them to stop. His face was deeply lined, and he wore an expression of beatific satisfaction. There was a blue bandanna tied around his forehead and various necklaces dangled over his faded denim overalls, stained thermal shirt, and olive green work jacket, much like the one Ana herself was wearing. The man was dripping with bits of indecipherable totem detritus—turquoise here, leather-tethered rocks there, a ukulele made out of an animal's skull hanging from a random belt loop, and on his left hand, wrapped tightly around his wrist, he wore what looked like a swollen fur glove.

Before Ana had any time to make sense of it, the rest of the glove jumped into view, revealing itself to belong to a very real, very large black bear who stood on its hind legs licking a blue snow cone. The man saluted Emmett, who saluted back, and then he and the bear continued their slow-motion saunter across the street toward the red brick building marked
SAL
'
S
SALOON
.

“That was Alder Kinman,” Emmett said. “If Hadley has a mascot, he's it.”

“And the bear?”

“Never seen him before. Must be new to town.”

Ana couldn't tell if Emmett was kidding or not. He stared straight ahead as the truck coasted forward. Ana noticed a few people loitering around a cheerful-looking storefront with a giant crescent moon hanging above it. A girl her age, with a swish of short, dark hair, was washing the windows out in front while simultaneously peeking into the window of the record shop next door. Watching her as they drove past, Ana remembered how unremarkable her last day of school had been earlier in the summer. Not that she missed it. Not that anyone was missing her.

The truck continued down Main Street. Emmett turned a corner past a tired corner café. A man with shoulder-length hair, tattooed forearms, and considerable brawn diligently swept the threshold. Emmett decelerated.

“Is that a friend of yours?” Ana asked.

“Nope,” Emmett said, taking a menacing glance in the man's direction. “Guess he bought the old place. 'Bout time somebody did, even if they're definitely not from around here. But if he's thinking of turning it into a biker bar, he's in for the fight of his life.”

As they rolled out of town, old-fashioned streetlights flickered on. Emmett drove past a few of Hadley's famous Victorian mansions as well as the town's oldest church, which was backed by a hill dotted in gravestones.

“We're almost there,” he said.

Ana lifted her backpack onto her lap and peeked inside for a moment before shutting it again. It was funny, she thought, how her whole life fit into this bag.

“Mr. Garber?”

“Emmett is fine.”

“Emmett,” she said, taking a breath. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

“For what?”

“For giving me a ride to your home today. I know I'll probably be going back tomorrow—my mouth gets me in trouble all the time; you can ask Mrs. Saucedo or any of the foster parents or teachers I've had in, I don't know, the past ten years—but this journey, even if it's a truck ride from the airport, has been incredible. It's a moment in time I'll ponder forever.”

Emmett remained silent. His jaw ached from clenching.

“What I'm trying to say is I want to do the farmwork. I'll keep to myself because I mostly do anyway, and I know it doesn't look like it, but I'm good with my hands.”

The front seat shook as the truck rattled off the road and onto a dirt path past a wooden fence painted with barely legible letters that read
LIVE
,
LOVE
,
GROW
.

“Just because you want to do it doesn't mean you're
fit
to do it. Farming takes focus, hard work, and patience,” Emmett said. “There'll be long hours and difficult days. It's intensely physical and requires you to do exactly as I say. I don't allow tardiness, daydreaming, or talking back. Frankly, if this ride is any indication, it doesn't seem like you can handle that.”

“I'd like to try if you're willing to give me the chance.”

“We're here,” Emmett said, ending the conversation.

Along with the glass sconces flickering with electric candlelight on either side of the door and brightness peeking out from under the eaves, there were fairy lights igniting the nearby trees. In the center spotlight of the porch, Abbie Garber waved one hand, then two, beckoning them closer.

“She's got the place lit up like Christmas,” Emmett sighed, throwing the pickup into park.

Ana took in the house. Neither grand nor humble, rather pleasantly in between, it was Victorian, like the ones they'd passed on the way.

Emmett leaped out of the truck and walked toward the house, forgetting the passenger who was still inside. Ana watched as the two siblings exchanged words.

Abbie waltzed right past Emmett and over to the pickup truck, her hair bouncing defiantly along her shoulders.

“Hi, there!” She waved again as she approached. “Welcome!”

The passenger remained frozen inside.

“I'm Abbie Garber,” she said, opening the truck door. “You must be Ana?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“May I help you with your bag?”

“No, tha—yeah, sure. Thank you.”

“I'm so happy you're here,” Abbie continued with a gentle smile. “Don't mind him. We're delighted to have you. He's nothing but a bulldog in a baby basket.”

Abbie slung Ana's backpack over her shoulder and gestured her to follow her into the house.

“You're a light traveler. I like that.”

“I don't have much.”

“We've got plenty,” Abbie chirped. “And grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup in the kitchen. I took a gamble since most people like both, and if you're vegan, you can have the soup with toast.”

“I eat everything. Thanks for asking.”

“You're very polite,” Abbie said, as they made their way through the front door.

Ana took in the warm, cozy living room. Abbie Garber
was all that Mrs. Saucedo described her to be—pleasant and thrilled to have her. A tall and athletic woman with strong arms and shoulders, she was dressed in a simple T-shirt and slim-fitting jeans that belied her forty-seven years. Her face was fine lined and makeup free. There was no embellishment about her, not a trace of polish or intentional color, just unadorned simplicity.

“I'll give you a tour of the house after we eat,” Abbie said. “Follow me to the kitchen and we'll see if we can find Emmett along the way.”

There was art on every wall, Ana noticed. She passed a portrait of a dignified older woman and a small watercolor of a dormant beehive. She wanted to stop and inspect each one with a careful eye, but she didn't dare, knowing she'd soon be leaving. Remembering the words of her abuela, she reminded herself to always extend a hand, either physical or metaphorical, even toward those who recede.

“Your house . . . It's really nice.”

“Thank you,” Abbie responded. “It's been in our family for years. Bit of a rickety old thing, but we love it.”

They entered the kitchen. Ana had trouble focusing; it had been a long forty-eight hours. “Wow,” she whispered.

“Have a seat,” Abbie said, filling a glass goblet with water and a slice of lemon. “I'm guessing Emmett made a pit stop to the barn, so I'm just going to arm wrestle him over for dinner. Make yourself comfortable at the table.”

Ana had never seen such an elaborate kitchen table before. There were plates decorated in climbing roses on top of cloth placemats and napkins, all neatly arranged with polished silverware and a jug full of mismatched flowers. She forced herself to stay awake and keep it together. Emmett might want to send her back, but Abbie seemed
kind—perhaps a little strange and overly cheerful, but welcoming. So far, it was unlike any other foster transfer she'd undergone.

“Stop screwing it up,” she whispered to her reflection in the plate.

Outside there were voices, the same hushed conversations she'd heard her whole life. Next, she imagined, there would be downturned eyes entering the kitchen, followed by a “We gave it a lot of thought” or “This isn't working for us.” At least this time around she'd get to eat before being sent back, a real meal not birthed from a microwave or rescued from a refrigerator a week after the sell-by date either. If this was to be her first and only night in this place, she decided she'd try to enjoy it.

The screen door creaked open and slammed shut. Emmett ambled into the room, pausing for a moment by the table before heading to the stove. Abbie was right behind him.

“Soup and sandwich, Ana?” she asked. “I'm sure you're famished.”

“Sure. I really appreciate it.”

Abbie placed a tray of sandwiches on the table and brought bowls of soup ladled from a well-loved copper pot. The soup was thick and hearty, most unlike the thin soup from a can Ana was used to. She watched as Emmett tossed two sandwiches onto a plastic plate he'd fished out of the cupboard. He stuffed a paper towel into his back pocket before turning toward the table.

“Five o'clock sharp,” he said to his plate.

No one responded.

“I'm talking to you.”

He looked directly at Ana, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

“Five a.m. out in the field,” he continued. “That means you'll be standing next to me at that time, not walking out of the house. Wear comfortable layers, the sneakers you have on now, and find a wider brimmed hat.”

“Okay,” Ana said, having forgotten she was already wearing a cap. She removed it quickly and smoothed down her hair. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. This is a trial period.”

Emmett walked past the table and out the screen door, taking his dinner with him. A dog barked in the distance.

“Please eat,” Abbie said, sitting down next to her and taking a bite of a sandwich in hand. “These are good, right? The secret is extra crunch and a bit of caramelized onion.”

Ana nibbled the sandwich, careful not to inhale it whole. She took a few spoonsful of soup, surprised by how it coated her throat with a savory sweetness, and told herself not to appear too eager or ravenous, despite how delicious it may be. The chimes of an old clock filled the kitchen.

“You must be tired from your trip,” Abbie said.

“I'm okay,” Ana said, keeping her gaze down at her plate, taking a rest between bites. She was starving, but her stomach was clenched with nerves.

“You can barely keep your eyes open. I can show you upstairs if you'd like.”

“The food is great, really.”

“You're not hurting my feelings if you'd rather get some sleep. I'm sure it's been quite the whirlwind day. I'll send you up with some oatmeal cookies. Who doesn't want dessert for dinner?”

Ana stood up abruptly, nearly knocking her head on the light fixture hanging above the table. She fumbled for her baseball cap before picking up her plate and reaching for Abbie's.

“Shouldn't I clear all this first?”

“Just leave it here, hon,” Abbie said with the same warm smile. “C'mon. I'll show you to your room.”

Ana followed as Abbie led the way out of the kitchen, guiding them with a small plate of cookies in her hand. Ana couldn't help but wonder if she was being put to bed early because of something Emmett said about the ride from the airport. It wasn't the first time she'd been sent to a room—never hers, always shared—but either way, she was relieved to have time alone to ruminate on the day.

Abbie stopped at the top of the landing and waited for Ana, who gazed down the long upstairs hall. It was lined on either side, top to bottom, with built-in bookshelves, tiny bursts of color popping from the multitudes of spines.

“You're welcome to take any of these you'd like,” Abbie said. “I'd like to think of it as a lending library, but I don't get many visitors up here anymore.” She snorted or swallowed, Ana couldn't tell. “I mean, it's pretty much just me in the house most of the time.”

She gestured to the open door on the left. Ana followed her into the room, which was like walking into one of those wallpapered home stores she had visited once when living with a family in Pasadena. Though her time with them had been brief, they'd been kind, and the mother, Mrs. Ferguson, had always seemed busy redecorating room after room of their home with new pillows and faux flowers. Unlike the catalog feel of the Fergusons', here it felt to Ana as if she were stepping back in time.