Ordinary Beauty (11 page)

RIGHT FROM THE BEGINNING IT WAS
Miss Mo, my new emergency foster mother, rescuing me from the Fees, talking to me in a kind voice, making a place for me at her table, and singing a rich, haunting “You Bring Me Joy” as she cooked in the kitchen.

That first morning, with the sun streaming in through sheer white curtains.

Waffle-maker waffles with butter and syrup for breakfast.

Barn swallows diving and swooping in a brilliant blue sky.

The edge of the pasture next door outlined with billows of Queen Anne’s lace.

Following Miss Mo’s daughter, Mareene, out to pick rainbow zinnias from the garden.

The both of them digging through Mareene’s outgrown clothes to find me a wardrobe that wasn’t so shabby.

Finding out that Miss Mo and Mareene had moved up here ten years ago from Atlanta, and they
still
weren’t used to the deep cold of our winters.

Being asked to help Miss Mo tuck her silky black hair up beneath the hairnet she had to wear when she served food down at the mission, and saying shyly, “It’s really soft,” and then listening to a story about her Muscogee Creek great-great-great-grandfather and her Creole great-great-great-grandmother who’d fallen in love and eloped, and who had almost nine feet of long, shiny black hair between them.

Getting a smile at lunch and a kiss on the forehead at bedtime, right after Miss Mo reminded me to say my prayers.

Mareene and me, sitting on the back porch in the sun drinking iced tea and watching the fawns frolic down by the wood line.

Miss Mo giving me a haircut, and Mareene fixing the bangs.

Carrying plates of fried zucchini blossoms, deviled eggs, and macaroni salad across the grassy acres between Miss Mo’s little house and the sprawling Sunrise Farm to have a Sunday picnic out under the willow trees by the pond with a plump, elderly gray-haired lady they said I could call Aunt Loretta, and her tall, serious-looking grown son, Beale.

Thinking Aunt Loretta’s fried chicken was the best I’d ever tasted.

Thinking Sunrise Farm, which grew and sold raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, apples, peaches, asparagus, sunflowers, and pumpkins was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

Being quiet and wary around Beale because he was a man and the ones I knew didn’t want to hear what a kid had to say, and then changing my mind when he tilted his John Deere cap back on his head and, smiling, said, “So Miss Sayre Bellavia, how about helping me with a chore?”

I said,
Um, okay,
and he told me to scrape all the meat scraps onto one paper plate and follow him to the edge of the lawn near the old cooler house. When I did, he set the plate down and in a high, silly voice sang,
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty
and like magic, a half dozen mewing, multicolored balls of fluff came tumbling out, tails high and heading straight for us. I dropped to my knees in the warm, sunny grass, enchanted, and when I looked up, laughing and surrounded by mischievous, romping kittens, he was smiling right back.

Hiding my surprise as he sat down alongside me and let the kittens crawl all over him, chuckling as Aunt Loretta called from her seat at the picnic table, “Aren’t they sweet? They’re to be Tabby’s last litter. She’s going to Doc Wendell’s on Tuesday to be fixed. It’s time for her to retire,” and then she said something in a low voice to Miss Mo and they burst out laughing, the happy sound ringing out on the breeze like church bells.

Listening as Beale considered names for them—Stihl, Poulan, Fox, Emmett—and venturing a few suggestions of my own—Bunny, Clover, Stormy, Coconut—and kissing each of the kittens’ fuzzy little heads.

Sneaking glances at Beale’s strong, weathered face and calm hazel eyes, at how gentle his large, calloused hands were when they cradled a kitten, and then actually being brave enough to slip my own hand into his when he stood and reached down to help me up.

Eating two huge slabs of homemade blueberry pie with ice cream and a slice of watermelon, and having a pit-spitting competition with Beale and Mareene to see who could spit their pits the farthest. Beale won, and me and Mareene decided his prize would be to let me name one of the kittens. I chose to name the little gray Stormy and listened close when Beale started singing a song that went, “
Oh Stormy, bring back that sunny day . . .
” Standing worried and tense when Mareene threw back her head and yowled like a coyote, saying that’s what he sounded like, and then exhaling in relief and joining in the laugher when I realized it was only a joke and he wasn’t stomping off mad.

Beale teaching me how to play horseshoes, and then helping Miss Mo and Aunt Loretta carry the dirty dishes back into the farmhouse. Gazing at all the family pictures on the walls and the afghans on the couch, the ceramic apple-topped cookie jar and the old-fashioned claw-foot tub, at the porch swing and the crooked wooden stairs leading down to the root cellar and the extra refrigerator. Gazing at the pantry lined with jars of canned tomatoes and peaches and beets shining like jewels, the stacks of books by Aunt Loretta’s reading chair, and Beale’s mud-caked boots lined up by the back door.

Hating to leave, dying to hug both Beale and Aunt Loretta good-bye but being too shy to do it, waving and dragging my feet all the way back to Miss Mo’s, then falling asleep right there on the stubbly tan couch in the living room, drugged by the sun and the air and the food and the bliss.

Waking up the next morning in my clean, cozy guest room bed with the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze and Mareene singing “Stormy” in the kitchen, with the mouthwatering scent of frying bacon in the air and the memory of a gentle, calloused hand closed firmly around mine, helping me stand up.

Wanting, with all my heart, to stay right there forever.

“WHERE’S MY PHONE?” EVAN SAYS AS
we start down the last two-mile hill toward the hospital. “There’s coverage here, right? I need to call my dad.”

“Oh my God, yeah, here,” I say, reaching into the backseat, tugging at my coat, still wadded behind his head, and digging in the pocket. How could I have forgotten? I hand him the phone. “Do you want me to dial it for you?”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, holding it in his good hand.

I face forward again, trying to give him some privacy.

“I’ll go in with you to see your mother if it would make it any easier,” Red says, downshifting and taking the last winding slope at a slow crawl.

“No, but thank you,” I say after considering his offer. “I feel like I should do it alone.” I make a face. “I really hope Candy’s not in there.”

“What about Beale?” Red says. “Has anyone told him about your mom?”

“No, why should he care?” I say, avoiding his gaze. “They haven’t been together in years.”

“Well, he could still be a valuable support system for you,” he says.

My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head, and it must be plain I don’t want to talk about it because he simply nods and says, “All right, but if you want me, just tell a nurse and they’ll call me immediately. I’m always available, Sayre.”

“Okay,” I say because the hospital is inching closer and I can hear Evan on the phone, his voice rough with exhaustion saying,
No, Dad, I swear I’m all right. My head and my knee . . . Tell Mom to stop crying . . . On my way to the hospital right now . . . Okay, but be careful, the roads are bad . . . Love you, ’bye.

Love you, ’bye.

God, three one-syllable words and I have never heard my mother say them. Not once.

And I’ve never spoken them, either.

Love you, ’bye.

I can’t even imagine saying them, especially naturally and without hesitation like Evan just did, as if he knows for sure, without even thinking, that they’ll be welcomed and not ridiculed or ignored and left hanging there without response.

And with a pang I wonder if he has any idea how lucky he is that he can do that, say such strong words, make such a true, heartfelt declaration without even thinking of how vulnerable it makes him, how admitting it out loud opens him up to hurt and rejection, and if his parents were a different kind of people, addicts maybe, who had never wanted him in the first place, how they could use that love against him.

Who would I have been if my mother had said that to me, even only one time, and meant it? Who would I have been? Not this lost, broke, homeless girl, that’s for sure. It would have given me something to hold on to . . . although . . .

My heart beats faster.

 . . . it would have been bewildering then, wondering why, if she loved me, she would always scream and hit me, ignore me and leave me behind and never care if I was cold or hungry or lonely or scared . . .

If she’d said she loved me and still did all those cruel and careless things, would my child mind have decided to accept
that
as the definition of love?

Probably.

Would I have ended up believing that love was manipulative and hurtful and full of pain, gotten used to being shoved aside, sworn at and disregarded, picked up and hugged, and then slapped around for getting in the way, starved and smiled at, neglected and cursed, told I was no good and would never amount to anything, then hefted high and proudly shown off down at the Walmart, introduced as a little pisser and a big mistake in the same breath?

Yes, I would have, because if she said she loved me and then acted that way I would have thought that was how you loved someone, and how someone should love you back.

But as it is, I
know
she doesn’t love me, and while that still has the power to hurt me, in a strange, twisted way I realize I’m glad of it because now I understand that even though she is my mother and she treated me like crap, I didn’t mistake it for love.

Not good love.

Love was Grandma Lucy, her wistful sighs, gentle chiding and responsible routines, Cricket the old blue parakeet, wreaths on the front door that changed with the seasons, crocheted afghans, a place at the table and ambrosia salad because she knew I liked it.

Love was Miss Mo and Mareene, not rushing me past my cautious shyness but being there when I finally reached for them, their smiles and teasing and helping hands, listening, talking, seeing brightness in every day, finding me clothes and giving prayers of thanks and happily sharing whatever they had.

Love was Aunt Loretta’s reliability, her quiet firmness and sense of fairness, the way she paid attention and saw what needed to be done or heard what couldn’t be said. It was her willingness to listen and to really
hear
you. It was great windswept drifts of Queen Anne’s lace, rambling walks through the pastures with kittens trailing at our heels, an heirloom feather bed, oatmeal with milk and brown sugar in the morning, little Stormy tucked close beside me in winter, and picking buckets of fresh, juicy blackberries in summer.

Love was Beale, good naturedly wearing the bizarre, reindeer-antler ball cap my mother bought him as a joke for Christmas, coming in after working the fields, tired and grimy and smiling right into my eyes as if he was always glad to see me, kneeling beside me as, crying, I buried what was left of a baby possum hit by a car, helping me with my homework, sitting on the porch playing his guitar in the sultry, summer twilight, laughing and picking my mother up, twirling her around and shouting for Aunt Loretta so they could give her the good news, hugging me, providing for me, protecting me.

Love was Ellie, pure and pink and soft with her pretty hazel doe eyes and wispy brown hair, burbling and chewing on her fist in the crib. Cooing like a delighted dove when I kissed her, laughing when I blew raspberries on her stomach, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and chortling when I dressed her in her little pink onesie.

Sweet Ellie, as beloved and enchanting as the sun, splashing in her bathwater, making nonsense noises, and lighting up like all the stars in the universe when she saw me. Ellie, who was never afraid to show her heart, who trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms and who I loved more than anything.

And who loved me, too.

I would have been such a good big sister.

My cheeks are wet and I can feel Evan’s hand on my arm and Red looking at me, but I don’t have enough in me to respond.

Love you, ’bye.

In my world, it means something totally different.

WHEN I FIRST SAW MAREENE AND
Beale together at the picnic I thought they liked each other and would be boyfriend and girlfriend, even though Beale, at thirty-five, was much older than her, but when I sidled up to Miss Mo the next day while she was sorting laundry, I found out I was wrong, and Beale and Mareene had never been anything but friends.

Mareene, it turned out, was dating a guy from the other side of Sullivan, and even though Miss Mo didn’t come right out and say she didn’t like him, I could see by the flash of fire in her dark eyes and the way she starting flinging the clothes into separate piles, whites away from reds, towels away from jeans, underwear away from everything else, that she just wasn’t happy about it.

“For two whole years that girl has put up with his nonsense,” she said, stuffing a whole set of yellow-flowered sheets in the washer. “Him running around on her, never calling, showing up late, coming here drunk and high and mixed up in God only knows what kind of business . . .” Frowning, she snatched up the detergent bottle and dumped some in. “That boy . . . no, that
man
has disrespected her in every possible way, but does she use the backbone the good lord gave her and tell him it’s over? No, she does not.
But, Mom, I love him,
is what she says every single time I try and talk some sense into her.”

“Hmmph,” I said because I’d learned that if I stayed quiet and listened, most times adults would forget who they were talking to and just keep giving air to whatever was on their minds.

She heaved a hearty sigh, shut the lid on the washer, and turned it on. Leaned an ample hip against it and blotted her damp forehead with her sleeve. “So I’ve given up. I’m not going to argue against him anymore because every time I do, she rushes to defend him.
But, Mom, he’s one of God’s children, too. But, Mom, he didn’t have a good upbringing like you gave me, and I feel I can help him. But, Mom, it’s his medication that makes him act mean like that.
You know what I told her? What do you want with all of that ‘give me your wretched, your messed-up, and your cheater’ stuff? You’re not the Statue of Liberty!” She snorted and shook her head like she just couldn’t figure it out. “I don’t know what kind of hold he has over her, but you just watch how that child loses all the good sense God gave her the next time he shows up. But I’m not saying a word, oh no. Not anymore. Now I’m just going to try to remember that yes, even Harlow Maltese is one of God’s children, and sometimes the hardest folks to love are the ones who need it the most.” She picked up the empty laundry basket. “In the meantime, I’m going to pray for God to give her the strength to break free of him.”

“Okay, I will, too.” Even though I’d only been there for six days, I already loved Miss Mo and Mareene, and didn’t want trouble anywhere around them.

Mareene went on seeing her no-good, cheating boyfriend and two weeks into the praying, we got word that the prosecutor’s office had charged the Fees but that thanks to Bobby Fee’s gallant insistence that my mother, Candy, and the sisters-in-law were only users and not dealers, they were mandated to an assortment of residential rehab facilities and counseling instead of being sent to prison with the rest of the family.

Forty-five days.

That’s how long I had left on Sunrise Road.

One short month, and two weeks.

It seemed like no time at all, especially now that when Miss Mo was home from her mission work she was teaching me how to make squash pancakes and homemade dill pickles from scratch, and Mareene was finally getting just a little tired of her bad boyfriend’s behavior (although she hadn’t quite given up on him yet) and talking about either going to college or taking one of those Carnival cruises she was always seeing on TV. Aunt Loretta had a fresh pitcher of iced tea ready every day at six when Beale quit working and we would all sit out on the steps and talk about chickens and horoscopes and honeybees and whatever struck our fancy, while Aunt Loretta embroidered and Beale had a cigarette and I guzzled iced tea and chewed the ice cubes, making everyone shudder, and the kittens pounced on each other in the grass.

Only forty-five days until it would all be over and I would be back with my mother.

Rehab.

It meant she would be quitting drinking and drugs.

It was impossible to imagine. I had no idea who she was without them, what she would look like, how she would act, whether she would treat me any different . . .

I just didn’t know, and the questions swirled in my head, making it hard to sleep at night. Would she want me with her? Why? Where? We didn’t have anywhere to live. Would she let me stay here instead, now that she was sober? And wouldn’t it be the great irony of my life if that, when she was stoned, she didn’t care where I was and so I could have stayed here forever without a worry, but now that she was going to be sober, she wanted me with her?

I fretted about it for two weeks and finally went as far as to ask Miss Mo if I could live here with her even after my mother got out. I shouldn’t have done that because she was preoccupied with Mareene, who was depressed because her boyfriend had cheated on her again and was trying to decide if she had finally had enough, and it was the only time Miss Mo was impatient with me, saying it was very brave of my mother to go to rehab, to try and do the right thing, and how terrible she would feel if, after all of that work, her own daughter didn’t even want to try and work things out.

She must have seen my stricken expression because she sighed and gathered me close, stroking my hair as I buried my face in her ample waist and saying, “Baby, baby, do you know how many people would give everything they own to see their mother or father or brother or sister make it through rehab and step into the world clear-eyed again? Trust me, I see them every day down at the mission, drifting in like zombies with some kind of hurt so bad and so deep they’d rather numb themselves to all the glory in the world than face one day of the pain of it. You’re one of the lucky ones, Sayre. You’re gonna get to see your mother as sober as God intended rather than as man has made her. Now isn’t that something to be excited about?”

I shook my head, keeping my arms locked tight around her. “I don’t want to go with her. I want to stay here with you.” I wanted to tell her I loved her, too, but those words had never passed my lips and they didn’t this time, either.

“Oh, baby,” she said softly, “I know you’re scared, and I know you had some tough times but—”

“She doesn’t even like me,” I mumbled.

Miss Mo’s arms tightened around me and we were quiet a moment, gently rocking back and forth.

“Will you do something for me, honey?” she said finally, sliding a finger under my chin and tilting it up so she could see my face. “Will you give your mother a chance to show you she’s changed? What if all this time it’s been nothing but the drugs and alcohol making her so unhappy around you?”

“What if without them she doesn’t want to be around me at all?” I said brokenly because I was losing and I knew it. Miss Mo didn’t know the whole story and so she didn’t understand, and she wasn’t going to keep me. I was going to have to go back to my mother and it would be just as bad as it had always been. “Then can I stay here?”

“No, baby,” she said, holding my gaze. “I’ve raised my daughter and I’m too old to take on a young child. I keep my door open for emergency fostering and that’s all I can handle. You have to give your mother a chance, Sayre. She’s making a fresh start and she’s gonna need all the love and support you got in you. Will you do that for me?”

I could have kept begging, could have sworn I wouldn’t be any trouble or even threatened to run away, but it was Miss Mo and I loved her and she was already worried about her real daughter, Mareene. I couldn’t make her worry about her foster daughter, too. So what could I have said but, “All right, I’ll try.”

And once I said that, it was like I’d already left. I felt myself pulling away from them, receding, watching them as if from a distance and tucking away each kind word and smile to relive again later, when I was back with my mother.

I didn’t cry when I told Aunt Loretta and Beale over iced tea on the porch that I would be leaving soon, but I wanted to, especially when Beale tilted his cap back on his head and gave me a long, considering look from those steady hazel eyes. “Well,” he said finally, with a slow, thoughtful nod, “it isn’t going to be the same around here without you, that’s for sure. You’ve grown on me, Miss Sayre Bellavia, and I’m gonna miss you.” And then he slid a sturdy arm around my shoulders and hugged me hard and quick. “And don’t you worry; me and Ma will keep an eye on that kitten of yours, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Will you sing that Stormy song for me one more time, please? The one about bringing back the sunny day?”

“Sure, but you know what? I don’t think I ever sang it for you from the beginning,” he said, and looking out over the pink-and-gold sunset across the field, sang softly, “ ‘You are the sunshine, baby, whenever you smile . . .’ ”

I drew my knees up to my chin and my eyes blurred, stared down at my bare, grass-stained feet. The song wasn’t as happy as I’d thought but that was okay because I didn’t feel happy at all. I felt like breaking down and bawling the way I did when Grandma Lucy died and suddenly the pain of it was too much. I couldn’t sit there with them anymore knowing it was done, so I just pushed myself off the step and took off across the grass, running blind with tears, back toward Miss Mo’s, and I heard both of them call from behind me, “Sayre? What’s wrong? Are you all right?” and no, I wasn’t, but in three days I’d be gone and—

“Hey,” Beale said, running up along beside me and catching hold of my arm. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” He slowed, and I slowed, and stopped. “Aw, honey, are you crying?”

I couldn’t answer, just stood there staring at the ground as tears, more than I knew I had in me, ran down my cheeks and splashed onto my T-shirt.

“Don’t tell me my singing’s
that
bad,” he joked gently. “Come on now. What is it?”

“I don’t want to go,” I sobbed, holding myself. “I want to stay here forever. This is the best home I ever had and it’s not fair that I have to go and you guys get to stay. I want to stay, too. Please?” I was blubbering now, caught up in the fierce pain of longing. “Please, Beale? I’ll be good, I promise. I could help with the chores and I won’t be any trouble—”

“Aw, Sayre.” He sighed, and crouched in front of me. Took one of my damp hands and cradled it between both of his big, strong, steady ones. “I wish you could stay, too, but you have to go back to your mother and—”

“No,” I cried angrily, pulling my hand free and swiping my hair from my eyes. “I don’t want to! I hate her!” The words rang out huge and harsh and ragged, shocking us both into silence.

“
Hate
’s a strong word,” he said quietly.

And that was it. The end. I gave up because it was all there in his tone, including the regretful good-bye.

“Come on now, it’s not like you’re moving out of state or anything,” he said, rising. “We’ll see you around town, you know that.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, sniffling because I knew otherwise. Sullivan was small, but my mother and Beale did not inhabit the same universe, not even close, and I knew that when I was back with her, I wouldn’t, either. “I have to go now.”

“Hey,” he said, tugging a lock of my damp, lank hair. “We’ll always be friends.”

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and walked away, knowing that he was still standing there watching me go, knowing that I would probably never see him again in my whole, entire life.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and by the time I reached Miss Mo’s house I couldn’t take it anymore, so I turned, praying he was still there watching and he was. I stood up on tiptoe and waved and waved, and he and Aunt Loretta, who had joined him on the lawn, waved and waved back.

And finally, exhausted, I stopped, and trudged inside.

I didn’t sleep at all that night, or the next.

Hardly ate.

I didn’t talk much, either.

What was there to say?

The day before my mother was released from rehab, Mareene’s boyfriend got pulled over for another DUI and called Mareene to come down and bail him out. What the police said when she got there was that he’d had a woman in the car with him, also drunk, who claimed she was a stripper down at a club in Scranton and that he still owed her twenty dollars for a lap dance.

Instead of bailing him out, Mareene had coolly thanked the officers and come straight home again, not only leaving him there but leaving a message on his voice mail telling him it was over for good, and not to call or come around again,
ever.

Miss Mo sat on the couch and commiserated with her, patting her back when she cried and being sympathetic when she ranted about all the times he’d hurt her, but she couldn’t quite hide the hallelujah sparkle in her eyes, and I was glad for them.

It was good that at least some of the prayers around here had been answered.

And the next afternoon when the social services lady pulled into the driveway to get me, my knapsack was packed and I was calm, quiet, and unemotional again.

I was ready to go.