Etched in Sand (21 page)

Mr. Brownstein gives us assignments to report on the genocide in some parts of Africa, where men are being killed and their mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters are raped. I’d seen commercials of the starving kids on TV, but I never really knew why they were suffering, or how deeply. For the first time, I’m able to look differently at my childhood; at some parts, even gratefully.

But the doors that his class is opening in my mind don’t offer escape from my past. The week before midterms, Cherie calls my dorm’s pay phone every night with updates about Rosie that are so dark, at moments I have to tune her out. I hear phrases—

“—Clyde—”

“—Cookie blames her—”

“—severely depressed—”

“—pills went missing—”

“—only thirteen!”

Mr. Brownstein’s not surprised when I pop in during his office hours. “More discussion about our laws and republic?” he says with a smile.

“No. Not really. Mr. Brownstein, I have some things happening in my family.” I feel that he’s the only professor I can trust to share my background with.

He removes his glasses and gestures toward the open chair across from him. “Regina, please. Sit.”

“Look,” I tell him. “I prefer not to share all of this with my professors. I’m here to learn, not for sympathy.”

“That’s fine.”

“I don’t know if you know why your class matters so much to me, but learning the ins and outs of policy is . . . well, it’s how I’ve been able to survive.”

“In your life?” he says.

“Yes.” Nervously, I fold my hands. There’s no turning back, as hard as I’ve tried to paint an impression for Mr. Brownstein, the professor I admire most, that my life is neatly tied up in a bow. “Things in my family have always been difficult, and now my little sister is having a really bad time. My mother is . . . well, she’s a difficult woman, to put it mildly, and I really don’t know what’s going to happen next. And there’s the midterm next week, and I’m studying really hard—”

“I know you are, Regina.”

“But if I don’t end up with a good grade on it, I don’t want you to think this class isn’t a priority to me.”

“When I teach history and politics,” he says, “I don’t teach it for you only to memorize answers to a test that will be forgotten days later. I teach this class so you can learn who you are as an individual—to appreciate what those more learned than you have long valued. I see how hard you’re working, Regina, and I see a lot of potential in you. I told the class at the start of the semester that if it’s not clear to me that a student has an appreciation for our government and how our nation fits into the world, I’ll fail them. But we’re not even halfway through the term, and I have a good feeling you’ll pass this class.”

I leave his office, too exhausted to meet Sheryl and our friends from home for dinner in the cafeteria. When I go to plop my head on my pillow, I discover that KiKi’s written a message on ripped-off notebook paper:
Call Camille
.

Rosie’s situation was rough enough when Cherie was there and now it’s gotten worse. Cherie had told me a few months back that she pulled up to the house for a visit only to find Rosie in the field, collapsed in tears next to a cow. “What’s wrong, Roseanne?” Cherie asked her, brushing dirt and hay off her clothes. “Did this cow hurt you?”

“No, Cherie,” Rosie said. “
I
hurt
her
. Mom beat me and I was so angry that I came out here and beat up this cow.” Cherie talked about how she sobbed in remorse, and I imagined the vulnerable cow’s pain and confusion. She cried for her and Rosie, for all they had in common—both innocent and unprotected against totally undeserved, uncontrollable madness.

“God, Camille,” I say into the pay phone. “Why does it have to be this week that I’m trying to memorize the names of the leaders of every country in Africa?” There’s a silent despair that rests between us on the line as we realize how immersed we’ve become in our new existences, no longer free to drop everything and travel three thousand miles to check on our baby sister.

I call my social worker, begging her to contact social services in Idaho to help protect Rosie. “We have to get her away from Cookie once and for all,” I plead.

“Regina, your sister is a resident in another state. There is nothing we can do here.”

“Nothing?”

“The only thing I might be able to suggest would be for social services in Idaho to call me here and verify everything you’ve just told me.”

I contact the phone company in Idaho and locate the number of the child welfare agency that would be responsible for the town of Oakview. When a patient-sounding male social worker picks up the phone, I share the graphic details of what Rosie is being subjected to. “You can verify Cookie’s record if you contact Suffolk County social services,” I tell him.

“I’ll take up the issue directly,” he assures me.

That night he calls me at my dorm and tells me he located my mother. I purse my lips in hope he’ll deliver the details of Rosie’s intake by the foster system there. “Rosie was present when I informed your mother about your call,” he says.

“You did
what
?”

“I spoke to Cookie first, then waited for Rosie to return from school. I questioned her in front of Cookie.”

“Did you
just
finish Social Work 101? Of course Rosie’s only response was to deny it! Do you know what Cookie would do if Rosie told you the truth and you didn’t act fast to take her in?”

Later that week he calls my dorm again. “I’m calling to inform you that I’m closing the case, Ms. Calcaterra.”

“
Closing the case?
Explain why!”

“Because Rosie denied the abuse, and your mother explained . . . well, I understand you have some emotional issues that might cause you to embellish certain accounts.”

“Emotional issues?”

“Your alcoholism,” he says. “And your . . . ability to tell outrageous tales that harm others. Ms. Calcaterra, you should know I’ve informed the local police, the school district, and the child welfare agency that any complaints we receive from New York are coming from an alcoholic, drug-addicted juvenile delinquent. Your mother told me you were permanently removed from your siblings because of your violent outbursts and promiscuous conduct.”

Is this really happening? “I’m not any of those things!” I respond. It’s obvious that Cookie manipulated this social worker. Any further attempts I could make for Rosie will be hopeless.

I hang up on him and run back to my room, digging into my dwindling laundry coin stash to call Cherie. I fill her in on what just happened with the social worker in Oakview. “You have to go back out there!”

“Hang on!” she says. “Let me think a minute. Just make sure I can get through if I call you tonight.”

I prop open my dorm room door and face my desk chair at the hallway, listening for the pay phone to ring. I calculate how effectively I’ll be able to keep others on my floor off the phone—it’s the middle of March, so most are using their free time having long conversations with girlfriends or boyfriends from home who they have not seen in months. “Didn’t you hear about the pending drug search?” I tell one unsuspecting neighbor as she approaches the pay phone, taking a quarter from her pocket. “I heard the R.A.’s going to pull the fire alarm and the police are coming into our rooms to search.” She stares at the phone in confusion, then slinks away.

Around midnight, when KiKi brings a group of friends into our room, I slam our door shut behind me and take a spot on the hard couch in the common area near the pay phone. First I lie seething, then tears streak down my temples and into my hair. I think about Mr. Brownstein’s lectures on the role of government in our lives, how it needs to be there as a safety net . . . right now I’m the only one who’s been saved by any net, while my baby sister navigates a high-wire act with no protection whatsoever; no sisters or social workers there to defend her. Exhausted by my tears, I drift to sleep.

I’m awakened by the sound of the phone.

It’s rung four times when I’m finally within arm’s reach.

Then, it stops.

I slam my fist against the painted cinder-block wall and press my forehead against the phone. “Dammit!”

Then it rings again.

“Hello?”

“Cherie is flying out to Idaho tomorrow,” Camille says.

“And?”

“She’s getting Rosie!”

“How?”

“We’ve got this whole plan. She’s flying into Boise and will rent a car, then she’ll stake out at Rosie’s bus stop. She’ll have to talk fast to convince her to get inside, but when she does, she has a hiding spot where they’ll put on wigs and change clothes.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“It’s a small town, Regina. If anybody sees Rosie in a car with Cherie, they’ll call Cookie, then Cookie will call the cops, then Cherie will get arrested. Cherie has to play it safe. Then the two of them will rush to the airport in Boise and fly back to New York.”

“You feel like this plan is foolproof?”

“As foolproof as it ever will be.”

“Okay. I have a test to take tomorrow, then I’ll hop on a bus to Manhattan and catch the train out to you and Frank so we can wait together.”

“No, Regina—you have school. You can’t screw it up.”

“Camille, I screwed up the thing that’s most important to me in the world the day I signed that affidavit when I was fourteen! Rosie’s life has never been the same, and nothing matters more to me than this.” Two of my neighbors groggily stick their necks out of their rooms. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I whisper into the receiver. “I’ll call you when the train drops me at the Ronkonkoma station.”

I
ARRIVE AT
four thirty and spot Camille’s car with the headlights on. I knock on her car trunk. “Hey, open up!”

She climbs out of the car and pops the trunk with her key.

“Why did you haul a garbage bag of clothes? You need to do laundry this weekend?”

“No. I want to be ready if this takes awhile.”

“Regina, what about school?”

“Camille,” I tell her. “Please.”

Frank’s warming himself on the front porch when we arrive at their house. “Cherie just called,” he says. “She got Rosie to the airport, piece of cake.”

“So we still have hours before Cookie even notices Rosie’s gone!” I’ve calculated the logistics of the escape, considering every possible glitch. This is the best-case scenario; exactly what we prayed for. There’s a feeling of relief beginning to rise in me . . . but this is no time to get comfortable.

“They’re probably boarding right this second,” Frank says. “Cherie said they’re scheduled to land at JFK just after nine o’clock. You two have time to eat. Come in and let me make you a sandwich—”

“No,” I tell him. He and Camille look at me, alarmed. “I want to go to the airport
now
. If that plane touches down early, I want to be there the second our
bambina
walks off of it.”

Frank looks at Camille. “Let me clear out the car so there’s room for the four of you. Hey,” he says, “why don’t you let me drive you?”

“No, sweetie,” Camille tells him. “Stay home with Frankie and close to the phone. Cookie could call—she doesn’t know you. You’re the only one she won’t dare to grill.”

When Camille and I arrive at the airport at seven thirty, we establish our post at the arrivals area. Camille looks around to make sure we’re not being watched or targeted, while I check and recheck the television monitor to make sure their flight is on time.

When they finally deplane, Cherie’s carrying only her purse. Both she and Rosie—now with a modest feminine shape and taller than any of us—have their wigs tugged down tight on their heads. Rosie’s wig is thick and dramatic, a cartoonish contrast to the tired, blank stare on her face. It’s impossible for me to tell if she’s numb from the unexpected plane ride or the trauma of what she’s been living through with Cookie and Clyde.

The four of us walk fast to short-term parking, finally huddling in the car to embrace Rosie the second we’re all inside Camille’s backseat. “My
bambina
,” I whisper in her ear. The car fires up with the turn of Camille’s ignition, and Cherie and I stay hugging Rosie. I imagine the tighter we hold her, the faster she’ll heal; but in response, Rosie does nothing. She utters no sound; she makes no expression. “Are you in shock?” I ask her.

She shakes her head.
No.

“What is it then? You’re afraid Cookie’s going to come after you?” She sits silently, then nods slowly.
Yes.

“No,” Cherie says. “We’re going to do everything we possibly can to keep you here. You’ll live with me while Regina’s at school, then in the summer she’ll come and live with us. We’ll have a home together—Regina, Camille, you remember how good it was? Like in the Happy House, and the Bubble House, and the Glue Factory.”

“And the Brady Bunch House,” Rosie says.

“Yes! You remember the Brady Bunch House! All we need is us,” Cherie says. “We’ve done it before, when we were all much younger. We can do it so much better now.”

Camille’s house is filled with the aroma of pasta and meatballs. “Grab a plate, ladies,” Frank says as we pile into the kitchen. “I’m just about to pull the baked ziti out of the oven.” When baby Frankie starts crying from his nursery, Frank whispers in Camille’s ear, braces his hand on her shoulder, and smiles. Then he walks quietly down the hall.

When I finally break from staring after him, I notice Rosie’s doing the same. “Where’s he going?” Rosie asks. Never before have we seen a man so caring and capable.

“He’s going to take care of Frankie so we can stay up together.”

We lounge on the living room couch and love seat, gently taking note as Rosie begins to drop hints of a smile as I rest with my arm around her and play with her hair. The name
Cookie
never comes up. The word
abuse
is never spoken. The four of us sleep head-to-toe in the living room; and in the morning, Camille starts the coffeepot and sets out a box of gooey glazed donuts while Frank dresses Frankie and steps out to warm up the car. “Rosie, how about we head out to the mall and get you some warm, new clothes?” Camille says.