Into the Free (25 page)

“I have to go see,” I say softly. “I have to.”

Still, no answer. But now he looks at me.

“Bump. Come on. Don’t do this to me. I’ve been waiting all year for him to come back. Please listen.” I beg for some sign that he is processing what I am saying. “Bump, I could be making the biggest fool of myself I ever imagined. But this guy, River, he’s gotten me through the last year. Everything I went through with Jack. Mama. The fall. Moving in with Diana. Trying to finish school. I’ve just been counting the days. I know it sounds crazy. But that dream is what’s kept me alive all this time.”

“Who’re you kidding?” Bump’s words pierce the air. “River didn’t get you through the last year. Mr. Tucker did. Mabel. Diana. Camille. And Firefly. And some, believe it or not, might even say me.” He looks me straight in the eye. “River ain’t been here these last eleven months, Millie. I have.”

CHAPTER 35

The gypsies have arrived, and I am not heading out to meet them. Instead, I am following Bump back to the arena to do the evening chores. Neither of us has said a word during the ride. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know. I don’t know.

I’m lucky, really, to have a choice at all. Just a few months ago, I was falling to my death from Sweetie’s limbs after losing both Jack and Mama within a week’s time. Now, I’m riding an amazing horse through a beautiful trail with a guy who just invited me to start a new life with him on a horse ranch in Colorado. How dare I think that’s not good enough? How dare I want more than this?

We arrive at the barn and Bump speaks sharply. “I got this. You better go. It’s getting late.”

“I can help,” I say, beginning to remove Firefly’s saddle and tack.

He puts his hand on mine to stop me. “Look, Millie. I know this came on suddenly, and that you may not have all this figured out yet, but I love you.”

I catch a large blast of air in my lungs and feel pressure around my heart. I can’t look at Bump. I don’t know what to say. Do I love him?

He continues. “You don’t even know this guy, as far as I can tell. And he don’t know you.”

I fill Firefly’s water bucket and brush her as she drinks. I don’t respond. How dare he think I don’t know River. That River doesn’t know me. River knew me when I was just a poor girl living in a slave cabin. It was River who listened to my stories, saw my scars. It was River who quoted Psalms with Mama, saved me from a cottonmouth, made Miss Harper beam with chats about Steinbeck. Bump knows nothing about Jack’s ax, Mama’s stash. He couldn’t quote literature to save his life. Probably has no idea what book I’ve been reading. If anyone knows me, it’s River.

“So what’s your choice?” Bump asks.

After a long stretch of silence, Bump walks away, and I don’t go after him.

Instead, I pull all the tack back out and saddle Firefly up again. In the saddle, I click my tongue and squeeze my heels into Firefly’s warm belly. She jumps into a canter and then slides straight to a gallop. We leave Bump in our dust. I imagine that’s how Jack must have felt, spinning his tires out of the drive all those angry nights. Leave it all behind. Decide you don’t need anyone but yourself.

I lead Firefly back through the woods, not knowing where I’ll go. I figure River is with the group, and I bet I can find them at the campsite this time of night. But I’m not sure that’s what I want anymore either. I’m beginning to think I don’t want either Bump or River. I just need Firefly, and the freedom to ride.

I slow Firefly’s pace as we weave our way through dark trails until we end up at the river. I pull her to a halt and slowly let her get a feel for the water under her hooves. The sandy bottom shifts beneath us, as I press my heels into her belly and say, “Let’s go.” She moves forward, despite her fear. I coax her with gentle words until her feet no longer touch bottom and she is swimming across the current with me on her back. Her head works as hard as the rest of her, pulling and straining, trying to keep her nose above the surface. Her loud huffs echo around the darkened bends. No one knows we are here.

As soon as I start to feel afraid, the river bottom becomes shallow again and we are making our way back onto dry land. And there it is. East.

I have practiced this route in my mind for months, imagining the day I’d finally work up enough nerve to visit the place where Mama died. I can’t help but feel the sting of irony as I turn to the madhouse in hopes of finding where I belong. Babushka’s words ring clear: “To know future, must know past.”

When I arrive I tie Firefly to the front rail and dust my new pants off a bit. They are wet up to my knees from crossing the river, but I try to look a little more presentable. A security guard blocks the entrance. He stands in a wool uniform with black gloves, despite it being warm enough for the first lightning bugs of the year to buzz around us. “What business do you have here?” he snarls. It is night, and he is covered in sweat.

“I’m here to collect my mother’s things,” I say. “Marie Reynolds. She was a patient here.” I hope this is a normal request.

“What’d you say her name was?” he asks. He has no chin, and his neck is wider than my waist. If he’s here to intimidate visitors, it’s working.

“Marie Reynolds,” I repeat, trying not to show fear. “She was here around Christmas. Just for a few days.”

“I wasn’t here then. Let me check.” He lets the heavy door slam in my face.

Firefly snorts, and we wait for the man of steel to return.

I’m beginning to think he’s never coming back, that his strategy is to leave me standing here until I give up and leave for home. But I don’t surrender. Instead, I start looking for ways to break in. I find an unlocked window, and with Firefly’s help, I think I can reach it. I’m moving Firefly to the window when I see the guard coming down the hall, permit papers in hand. He opens the door, and I act innocent.

He gives me a suspicious look before saying, “Hold these. Stop at the front desk and register. Irma will help you from there.” I retie Firefly, and the man waves me through, done with me for the night.

Slick gray floors reflect foggy pools of light from bulbs that swing from high white ceilings. Laughter bounces off the walls, jagged shards that jam the hallways, surrounding me.

“Over here,” a woman growls. I assume she is Irma. She wears dark-red lipstick and nails to match. She taps a stainless steel clipboard as she measures me with heavy eyes. “You the one looking for belongings?”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything from Marie Reynolds.”

“Who are you?”

“Her daughter. Millie. I thought you might have something, I don’t know, something for me to keep.” I am regretting my choice to make this trip tonight. Wishing I had left well enough alone and gone to the gypsy camp instead.

“What kind of something?” she asks, smacking a wad of gum and taking a long look at my new rodeo outfit. I suddenly feel ridiculous wearing such clothes.

“She was here for a few days, back around Christmas. You may remember her.” I keep my arms tucked to my side, trying not to let her see the fringe.

“Well, what took you so long?” she snorts.

I can’t give up. Surely this woman has a pinch of kindness somewhere. “Did she—did she leave a note?”

“It’s not standard for us to hand out that kind of information, Little Miss Rodeo.”

“She was my mother,” I say. “Can’t you understand why I would want my mother’s things?” I look her in the eye. I just want the whole scene to end.

She blows a large gray bubble and lets it pop. I don’t blink.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I know you don’t want to deal with me right now. Honestly, I don’t want to be here either,” I admit, still not sure why I came here instead of going straight to River. “Can you please just check to see if she left any belongings? Anything at all? It’s my birthday.”

Irma gives me a last look over and releases an exaggerated sigh as if the conversation has exhausted her. “I’ll check. You wait right here.”

I wait. I have seen no one in the halls. No patients, no employees, and certainly not the uptight Dr. Drimble or his pathetic assistant. Laughter continues in the background. Someone is playing ragtime on a piano. Quick and lively. I imagine these notes as the last my mother heard before she died. The laughter, spinning her into the final depths. Irma and others treating her as if she were worthless.

A door opens at the end of the hall, spitting out a feeble, gray-haired woman who wobbles through the opening with a cane. “Who there?” she yells, pointing her cane at me.

I don’t answer.

“I say, who there?” she yells again.

I look around. No one. Irma has yet to return, and the front guard disappeared after depositing me at the front desk.

The woman slowly works her way toward me. She touches her cane to my permit. “Who you here for, child?” Her spine is bent like a snapped branch, and her eyes wear a milky-white haze. She looks to be a hundred years old, and I wonder how many of those years have been spent listening to pianos and laughter.

“I’m Millie Reynolds,” I whisper, nearly too afraid to speak. “My mother was here. Her name was Marie. Did you know her?”

“Marie?” The lady ponders longer than expected. “Marie, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am. Marie Reynolds. She was here around Christmas. Only for a few days. She died here. Did you know her?” I struggle to hold back tears.

The receptionist’s loud steps click down the hall. “Verline! Where are you supposed to be?”

“Hear me now. Hear what I say,” the old woman grabs my arm, squeezes it tight. “Ain’t nothing more important than loving your mama. Even if you can’t understand her. Love her. That’s all you gotta do.”

The receptionist picks up her pace and her volume. “Verline! You get back where you’re supposed to be. Right now, Verline!”

A large round clock ticks on the wall behind me. I have so little time to find the truth.

Irma pulls Verline by the arm. “That’s enough. Back to bed.” She glares at me. I don’t want to be afraid of Irma, but I am. If I anger her, she’ll kick me out and give me nothing of Mama’s. I have to do my best to keep her on my side.

Verline creeps back down the hallway, dragging her cane. Irma plugs her through a doorway, and Verline disappears from sight.

“Come with me,” Irma orders. I follow her through another painted doorway, into a large room filled with file folders. Black letters divide each section in alphabetical order, and my eyes move directly to the
R
s.

“Don’t pay no attention to Verline. She’s nuts.” Irma does not hesitate to define Verline as insane. I assume they think all their patients are delusional, unable to form a single lucid thought. I know better. I know there is a thin silver line between the sane and the insane, and even in that realm of madness, there are degrees of reason, fluttering moments of clarity and truth. Maybe the world can’t handle their truth. Maybe we are too weak. Maybe, like Sloth used to say, “It’s the blind who see the most.”

The receptionist thumbs through the
R
files and pulls one into the air. “Now look,” she says. “Ain’t exactly common for us to go handing out information like this. This here’s CONFIDENTIAL.” She points to the bold red letters stamped across the front of the file. “But since it’s your birthday and all, I’m gonna be nice and take a look.” I don’t say a word for fear she’ll change her mind. “Says here,” she continues, “there’s a box of personal belongings. Follow me.”

I can’t believe she is really going to help me. And to think, I was ready to climb through a window and become a thief just a few minutes ago.

I follow her to a back closet where small cardboard boxes are stacked from floor to ceiling. Each one is labeled with large black capital letters. I scan the stack and find REYNOLDS, MARIE #978842. Like a number from a stockyard, a prison camp, a slave market, Mama had been labeled and branded, and maybe even killed, here in this place where people go for help.

Irma slides a box from the pile and places it in my hands. It feels empty, like Pandora’s box after all the evils had been spilled into the world.

“Happy birthday,” Irma snaps. “Sit over here. Let me know when you’re done.”

With that, she leaves me seated at a splintered table with all that remains of my mother: one tiny box. I sit and stare at it for a long time. I’ve waited months to get the courage to come here, and now I don’t know how to move. As much as I want to know the rest of Mama’s secrets, a part of me doesn’t want to know. Until now, I haven’t fully accepted that Mama is gone. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I have been holding on to the idea that she is still hidden away, in some dark chamber of East. That soon they’d let her out, and she’d come walking back into my life, all better, and ready to pick up where we left off.