If You Find Me (9 page)

Jenessa is excited to be going into town, and she squirms under my hands. Shorty lies next to her on my bed, pushing her hand with a wet nose each time she stops scratching his back.

My father peeks in through the open door and grins at the two of us.
“Yes sir,” I say, braiding a little faster. My fingers trip over a turn and I let that part out, rebraiding the strands so there are no bumps.
Downstairs, sitting on the couch, my heart beats fast, thinking of those test results. What if we failed? What if we’re stupid for real and they don’t want us anymore?
“Is she going to be in any of my classes?” Delaney stops to talk to my father on her way to the living room. “She won’t, right, because she’ll be, like, a freshman, and I’ll be a sophomore. Better yet, if they keep her back a grade, we’ll be in two separate schools,” she adds, perking up at the thought.
“Mrs. Haskell will let us know. I haven’t seen the test results yet myself.”
My father is clean-shaven and chipper. Chipper: his word. I sneak a longer look at him. He winks back.
“Sometimes the fourteen-year-olds end up in sophomore English,” Delaney says, fretting. “If she ends up in sophomore English, can she be put in a different period?”
I don’t know him well enough yet, but I can sense Delaney is wearing on his last nerve.
“She’s your sister, Delaney. You’d think a girl would want to help her sister,” my father says.
Delaney glares at him.
“She’s not my sister! She’s not even my real half sister. If Mom had let me keep my bio father’s name, no one at school would even know—”
“They’re registered under their mother’s maiden name. So your secret is safe. Go clean up your room, Del. Your mom said it’s a disaster area.”
It’s a voice I hope he never has reason to use on me.
“Ashley is having everyone over for study group. I go every Thursday afternoon, and stay for dinner. You know that.”
“You can do your homework here tonight, in your room.”
“That’s so unfair! Mom!”
I watch Melissa through the window glass, raking leaves.
“Life’s unfair. Now, march!”
Nessa shrinks against me when Delaney stomps by, her nostrils flaring like the devil himself. I glare right back at her. I’ve seen scarier things in the woods. So has Ness.
I think of my father’s words, saying we’re sisters. I hadn’t given it much thought, nor had I framed it that way in my mind.
But he’s right. Only, we’re stepsisters, like Melissa said. We share no blood.
“C’mon, Ness. I don’t want to make us late.”
Nessa follows me outside, with Shorty bringing up the rear. Melissa holds the hound by the collar, where he pulls and whines and complains in a chortling howl.
“Not today, old man. You can ride with me tomorrow,” my father says, affection smoothing his words.
The drive to Mrs. Haskell’s office is quick, now that we know the way. We sit in the waiting room, Nessa flipping through a picture book, The Tiptoe Guide to Fairies, from the rack on the wall. I wonder if she misses the wood fairies, the only friends she’s ever had, besides me.
“Hello, folks. Come on in.”
Jenessa runs up for her hug. Mrs. Haskell gulps the rest of her coffee and gets right to the point.
“You will be pleased to know that both girls scored out of their age groups, Mr. Benskin. Jenessa, going by your age, you should be in first grade. You’ve tested as a second-month third grader.”
I beam at Ness, who smiles sweetly, not grasping the terms but knowing it’s something right proud. My father slaps his knee and grins.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You did a great job, Carey, at keeping up both your educations. You, my dear, tested as a solid eleventh grader. Both of you scored two grades ahead of your peers.”
My father smiles at me now, and I force a grin, my face feeling funny. Especially when I think of Delaney.
“What does it mean?” I ask, skeptical.
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll recommend placing each of you ahead one grade. That way, you won’t be too far out of your age groups. If the material is too easy, we’ll revisit the situation in the future. What’s most important is your social adjustment.”
She turns to my father.
“While I believe the girls could keep up academically if they were placed two years ahead, they also need to fit in emotionally. Taking their history into account, and Nessa’s speech impediment, I feel that placing them ahead one grade is a solid compromise. That would be my recommendation to the court.”
My father nods at her words. We all watch him rub his chin as he continues to grin.
To my surprise, he turns to me.
“What do you think, Carey? Sound manageable?”
I’m not sure what I think. I’m still not finished thanking Saint Joseph that we’re not stupid as a hill of beans after all those years in the woods.
“I don’t know.” Then I surprise us both. “What do you think we should do?”
All eyes trail to my leg, which is jiggling wildly.
“I think Jenessa will be fine starting off in second grade. She’s sophisticated enough. And you’ll do fine as a sophomore. I think the woods matured you, compared to girls with more contemporary upbringings,” he says.
I jump when he leans over and curls his hand around mine. He gives my hand a squeeze, and then, just as suddenly, lets go.
“I have no doubts you can handle skipping straight to your sophomore year. There are AP classes if you need more stimulation, and we can always bump you up another grade next year,” Mrs. Haskell says.
I nod, still unsure.
“High school is a social experience,” Mrs. Haskell adds. “It’ll give you time to adjust before you have to start thinking about college.”
College? It’d always seemed as likely as going to the moon.
“Then it’s settled,” I say, woods-firm. Perhaps the woods had made us older. I’d just never looked upon it as a good thing. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
I smile at Nessa with all the confidence I can muster.
“You’re absolutely sure?” Mrs. Haskell says, scrutinizing my face.
“Yes, ma’am. Ness and I didn’t have much else to do but study. We both like learning, and Ness is right scrappy. Talking or no talking, she can hold her own.”
“That brings us to the next item on our agenda. Jenessa’s talking, or lack thereof. Carey, you’d mentioned she’d been diagnosed in the past?”
Nessa stares out the window, zoning out. I betray my sister, letting it look like what it seems—like Ness is bored by the grown folks’ talk. My heart speeds up, then slows down. Ness would never give up my secret.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s always been quiet, but she stopped talking a little over a year ago.”
“Your mother must have been concerned.”
Annoyed was more like it.
“When she didn’t start talking again, Mama took her to a speech therapist in town.”
“So, who are you?”
Mama waits, her eyes marble-hard.
“Ness is Robin, like Christopher Robin, and I’m Margaret, from Goldengrove unleavin’.”
“You girls and your book nonsense. Okay. Robin and Margaret. Your father?”
“Dead.”
“Your address?”
“You answer that. Ness and I talk little as possible.”
“Good girl,” Mama says, beamin’. “That’s right. Let me do the talkin’.”
Mrs. Haskell pigeon-scratches on her pad. “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”
“No. But I remember the building—it was gray— and there was a child therapist next door. I remember because we went in that office first, by mistake.”
Mrs. Haskell turns to my father. “We probably won’t be able to get the rec ords from that visit, but I’m not concerned. I think a speech therapist is a good idea, though. I’d like to recommend once-weekly visits. Since Jenessa has a stable home life with both a mother and a father, I think once a week would suffice.”
My father turns to Jenessa, his voice luring her from the window view back to us with words soft as an embrace.
“What do you think, kiddo? Would you like to visit with a nice lady who could help you with your words?”
Nessa nods, avoiding my eyes, and I swallow hard. But I smile weakly in her direction, and she smiles an apology in mine, all without looking at me.
I can’t blame her, wanting to be normal. Wanting to let go of the past.
Saint Joseph, please let Ness’s words come slowly so I have time to figure out what to do before she spills the beans.
Mrs. Haskell eyes me in a way that lets me know she knows there’s more, but the moment has passed. Ness has gone back to watching the warblers on the windowsill, and my eyes are empty of the secrets she seeks.
“Does she speak in full sentences when she does speak?”
I rip my eyes from my sister and turn to Mrs. Haskell, feeling two hundred years old, at least.
“Yes, ma’am. Sentences and paragraphs, like anyone else. She doesn’t talk above a whisper, though. She doesn’t want anyone to hear when she does.”
Mrs. Haskell turns to my father. “I’d have to agree, in my professional opinion, that the diagnosis of selective mutism is an accurate one. Her mind is fine, obviously. Just, for some reason, she chooses not to use her voice.”
They both look in my direction, waiting for me to add to the conversation, but I don’t. I can’t.
“So, these will be my recommendations to the court: that Carey enter tenth grade, Jenessa enter second, along with once-weekly sessions with a speech therapist. Any questions?”
I shake my head no and look to my father.
“Thank you, Mrs. Haskell. Do we need to go to the next hearing?”
“You’re welcome to, if you’d like, but it’s not necessary. I’ll present the points we discussed, give a status report, and it’ll all be over in a matter of minutes. Then I’ll prepare and file the paperwork.”
“We’ll leave it in your capable hands.” My father gets to his feet, motioning for us to follow. “Let’s go, girls. Melissa’s making a special dinner for you two. To celebrate.”
Jenessa gets to her feet and hugs Mrs. Haskell good-bye without her usual pluck.
“She’s just tired,” I say.
But Mrs. Haskell’s eyes bore into mine, digging deep as the hickory roots of the Hundred Acre Wood, if not deeper. My eyes trip over hers, and I’m the first to look away.
I take Jenessa’s hand as we cross the parking lot and she leans into me in her usual way. It’s hard to keep my mind from going back to that night, the night we swore we’d never talk about.
“What happens in the woods, stays in the woods. You hear?”
I shake her bony shoulders, forcing her to look me in the eye.
“You hear?”
Only, that night became the next day, the next night, and the next.
I know it’s my fault Ness went silent. I kept telling myself there were worse things than silence. Worse than Jenessa losing her words would be for her to lose me, like we lost Mama. I’d give my own words to make things different, I would. In the truck, I curl my hands into fists, the nails pressing red half-moons into my palms. I want them to. I want to hurt.
You’re just trying to save your own skin, you coward. That’s what it’s been about all along, and you know it.
Saint Joseph as my witness, I hope that’s not true. I lean down and kiss Nessa’s head, her fine hair sticking to my lips.
What else was I supposed to do?
Once again, I feel the white-hot hatred toward Mama. I let the feeling trickle in without the usual filters, and it feels good because it’s the truth. She’d left us alone while she did who knows what. The books she brought back, the broken toys, the smelly old clothes— they were the consolation prizes.
Only, it’s no consolation, alone in the woods, two young girls short on options. She never should’ve left us there, that time or any other.
What else could I have done?
Nothing. We weren’t strong enough. One day, I’ll be paying the consequences, not Mama, and I burn harder.
But not today, which is its own sort of consolation.

Jenessa is crazy in love with family dinners. She’s gotten a handle on her eating at this point, no longer stuffing herself or wolfing down her food. She uses her utensils in a civilized manner, doesn’t use her fingers except for stuff like fries or hamburgers or sandwiches, and looks forward to setting the table and helping Melissa in the kitchen before and after.

We’ve all found Nessa in the pantry on more than one occasion, silently mouthing the labels with her finger in the air, counting off cans, but this time it’s different. A person only has to look into her face to see she’s dazzled by all the bounty.

Mrs. Haskell said we shouldn’t worry, that Nessa’s food fascination will pass with time. I’m relieved not to have to worry about feeding us anymore. I have a ton of extra time on my hands now that I’m not shooting and preparing our meals. Melissa says that’s her job, minus the shooting part.

Her canned-food stash, lining shelf after shelf of a walk-in pantry that dwarfs even my large clothes closet, consists of more than just beans. There are cans of olives, mixed vegetables, beets, corn, string beans, asparagus, button mushrooms, tomato paste, noodles, and so on, although Melissa prefers fresh, then frozen, whenever possible. She says she likes to have the canned goods for the wintertime, when the farm is snowed under and she’s down on supplies.

That’s an apt description of now (minus the low supplies). Even Delaney has been home this last week of November, the high school closed due to snow days.

Back home, I help Ness out of her coat and boots, my stomach growling at the wafting scents of Melissa’s celebratory dinner: spaghetti and meatballs, with golden crisp garlic bread hacked off in thickly buttered hunks.

At the table, I take Delaney’s hand in mine, and Jenessa’s in my other, bowing my head.
“For what we are about to receive, let us be thankful,” my father says, glancing at me and Ness when he says it.
Delaney can’t drop my hand fast enough.
“Enough of the suspense! Tell us how it went!”
My father grins at Melissa, an electricity flowing between them. Love. It’s the same that flows between Ness and me, better than a million dollars, and more filling than a whole pantry of canned goods.
“We don’t got nothin’.”
Her arm winds back, and she lets it fly.
“Jenessa Blackburn! You pick that up this instant!”
She stomps her foot in protest, and I get up and pick up the Pooh book myself, wipin’ the dark, rich soil off the inside pages.
“What do you mean you got nothin’ ”? You have these books, for one. Books are like whole new worlds,” I say, my voice reverent.
“So?”
“So, that means you have the world. And you better take care of it,” I say, handin’ the book back to her.
“I want a Barbie,” Nessa says, snifflin’. She hugs the book to her chest in apology.
“You have a Barbie.”
“Not that one. I want a real Barbie. From the store. With clothes and tiny shoes and nice hair and a clean face.”
“Tell Saint Joseph.”
“I did. And he won’t give me none. All I get is nothin’.”
“That’s not true. You have love. My love. That’s better than a Barbie any ol’ day because it never gets lost or old or dirty.”
“No effin’ way!”
A speck of food flies from Delaney’s mouth and lands on the side of the bread tray.
Now, that’s gross. I rouse myself, tuning into the conversation.
“There’s no way she’s going to be in my class! She’s fourteen, remember? I’m fifteen. That makes her a freshman, not a sophomore. Do the math.”
Delaney turns to Melissa, her eyes flashing. My father’s hand holds a slice of bread lifted halfway to his mouth. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s fuming. I half-expect to see smoke curling from his ears, like a character from one of Nessa’s cartoons.
We watch him dip the bread in the sauce and chew methodically. Then: “You watch your language, Delaney. I won’t tell you again.”
“Mom!”
“He’s right, honey. No need to speak to us that way. Not unless you want to be grounded.”
“But Mom.”
“Delly honey, Carey’s and Jenessa’s homeschooling pushed them both up a grade. It’s not the end of the world. Your dad and I discussed it, and we agree that advancing them at least one grade is best.”
My cheeks burn when Delaney scoffs at Melissa’s use of the word homeschooling! The veins twitch in my father’s forehead, his eyes trained on Melissa. He keeps still, even when Delaney scrapes her chair across the floor, leaving scuff marks behind.
I wait. Will he hit her? I’m ready to grab Jenessa and run.
Delaney throws her napkin onto her plate, and to my surprise, her eyes pool with tears.
“I don’t count around here anymore, do I? Not since his real daughter arrived.”
“Delaney!”
Melissa looks aghast, and my father looks like he’s been punched.
Jenessa’s mouth hangs slack, full of half-chewed food. The kitchen is silent as we listen to Delaney stomp through the living room and up the stairs.
“Oh boy. Teenage girls.” Melissa attempts a shaky smile, glancing at us and then away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, that went over well.”
“Mel, I swear to God—”
Melissa’s face turns fierce, like a mama bear protecting her young.
“It’s a lot to get used to, Charlie. For all of our girls.”
I’m taken by the effort Melissa makes to bite her tongue—her decision not to say more in front of Nessa and me. She was brought up right, unlike our mama. The rest of the words flow between their eyes, until my father visibily softens.
No switch. No black eyes or bruises.
Looking down, I follow the slight movement of legs as my father’s foot finds Melissa’s under the table.
“I’ll go talk to her after dinner,” he says.
I can see it in her eyes, how much she loves my father.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
I guess it would be a big adjustment, to have sisters all of a sudden, but I’m not the best judge. I’ve always had Jenessa. I can’t imagine life without her.
I had a captive audience, so I’d recite poetry or stories, and Jenessa would dance in her car seat after I’d moved it into the camper and propped it in the corner. With her bundled up in her baby snowsuit during camper winters, I’d play my own souped-up version of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” like Pa Ingalls played for Laura and Mary, Carrie and Grace in their own woods. Nessa would swat at the air with her chubby hands as she cooed to the music.
I still see echoes of that baby in her eyes, those eyes that could swallow a person whole and spit you out gooey with love.
As my father reads the paper after dinner and Melissa loads the dishwasher, I sneak to my room, shut the door tight, and pull out my violin. I learned to play by watching Mama, by mimicking her notes and finger placements, sometimes right, sometimes corrected. She was more patient back then.
“That’s right, Carey. Hold the string there, and keep your bow level.”
“Like this?” Even I’m surprised by the perfect notes I carve out of wood and air.
“That’s it! Right fine playin’. You’re a natural, child. All you have to do is develop your calluses, and you’ll be playing every song there is to play.”
Sometimes we’d played together, her rendition perfect, mine full of clunkers. But eventually, I got better, and our music rose up smooth and seamless.
When she went into town one time with her violin and returned without it, she hadn’t explained, but I figured she’d sold it for food, and she had, but that wasn’t all.
“These are for you.”
“For me?”
Mama hands me a slew of books, thin, full of parallel lines and strange markin’s.
“Them there are music books. Them things are notes. If you learn to play from sheets, you’ll be able to play anythin’ in the world.”
“Just like you, Mama.”
“Yeah, well. You just mind your g’s and keep up your book learnin’. That way, you sound smart on the strings and in the world.”
Over the years, I learned each piece from front page to last, playing for her and Ness on the evenings she stayed at the camper, which wasn’t as often after the white-star night. Eventually, I didn’t need the books anymore. She called it “playin’ by heart.”
Even though playing reminds me of Mama, I feel worse when I don’t play. It feels like my soul is lost outside my body, howling to get back in. These past weeks, with my violin lonely on the toppest closet shelf, I’m sure it pined for me the way I pined for it. I just wish it weren’t so tangled and complicated.
Tonight, my captive audience is Nessa, who’s snuggled up against Shorty on the bed. I know I’m playing soulfully when Shorty points his nose toward the ceiling and howls in mournful accompaniment.
Right away, I notice the shadow beneath the door, which lingers while I play. And I think of what Melissa said about the big adjustment, and I wonder what it would be like to have an older sister, or even a friend close to my age.
I spied on Delaney through the kitchen window as I pretended to wash a dish or rinse a cup, and the sleds and saucers looked fun, and so did the girls laughing and pushing one another into the snow.
Melissa appears in the doorway, her cheeks rosy with cold.
“Why don’t you join Del and her friends? Doesn’t it look like fun?”
“Thanks, ma’am,” I say, but my feet don’t budge.
One-two-three-four- five- six-seven-eight girls, I count, with Delaney the queen.
I smile shyly at Melissa, but my insides are an avalanche of slush. I’ll never be like those girls. I’ll never be able to forget.
“You’ll make friends once you start school,”she says knowingly.” You’ ll see.”
But, I don’t know. I think of the woods, and I still feel like that girl—filthy, lacking, backward. I don’t know the hip music, the slang, the cultural references, what’s “cool.”
I don’t know how to be like them, how to think like them.
I’m hoping it’ll be easier for Nessa, since she’s still so young. But can a person make friends when they don’t talk? Will the other children tease her, make her cry, cause her to yearn for the woods like me?
I wonder where Mama is, what she’s doing, if she has friends. I want to stay angry at her, but lately what I’m feeling is sorry for her. She remains in the old world, a cold, colorless world with all the energy a person can muster spent on sheer survival.
As soon as the MazurkaOberek is over, Jenessa bounces on the bed and claps her hands, giggling when Shorty burrows his head into her lap, watching us from upside down.
I bow like a real performer, imagining people throwing roses onto the stage like they did for Mama.
Glancing at the bottom of the door, the shadow flickers, then disappears.
“Music is a bridge,” Mama says, blowin’ meth smoke through the melancholy strains my violin leaves hangin’ in the air, the notes decoratin’ the woods like ornaments on a Christmas tree. “It connects folks on a higher level, sayin’ what words can’t say.”
Maybe it says what Delaney can’t say, also.