My heart ticks twice and then stops. That can’t be true. Mom would never let them get away with that. She’s lying. She’s trying to trick me into saying something that will get Mom in trouble.
“Why?” I say as calmly as I can. Underneath the sheets, my palms are clammy and cold.
“Our priority is you.” Maria sets her folder on the end of the bed near my left foot. I want to kick it. “We need to make sure you are safe and well cared for in your home environment.”
“My mom did care for me, does care for me. You’re the one keeping me out of my ‘home environment.’ ” It comes out a little panicky. Why is she doing this to us?
Maria’s shoulders slump in her shoulder pads. “Lou, you were living in your car, and it’s about to be winter. That is not safe.”
My heart kicks back in, but at double speed. I can’t breathe. I can’t stay here one more second! I rip off the sheets and jump down. I almost fall but catch myself.
“We were about to go to LA! Please, please let me see her,” I beg. And then I start crying. I want my mom. A dark, deep pit has opened up in my stomach. I need my mom.
“Honey.” Maria puts a hand on my shoulder. I howl like an animal and run to the opposite side of the room. I bang on the window and scream until my throat’s raw and bitter tasting.
A nurse bursts in, and Maria holds out her hand like a traffic cop. “We’re okay.”
Eventually I stop screaming, mostly because it hurts too much. Maria has been standing still this whole time. She watches me crawl back into bed. I pull the blanket over my head and pretend, once again, that she is not there.
“Lou, I promise not to touch you again without your say-so, okay?”
Maria’s voice has changed, there’s a different kind of pity there. She understands now that I am not normal.
Good.
“For now, until we sort this out with your mother, we’ve found a relative with whom we can place you. A judge expedited the orders this morning. You were lucky. It can take up to a month in foster care before we would even get a hearing.”
“Not my grandparents?” I say from under the sheet. Even though I know the answer. Mom hasn’t spoken to them since I was born.
“Not your grandparents. It’s your mom’s sister, your aunt Ginger, and her husband.”
“But…” I lift my head up. Aunt Ginger. I barely remember her. She’s just a freckled face in a grassy field under a summer sky. I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t even know where she lives.
Maria answers my unspoken question. “They’re awaiting our arrival tomorrow night in Nashville.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” Maria asks.
“Why’d the judge ‘expedite’ the order?” Maybe foster care wouldn’t have been so bad. At least I could have been in the same state as Mom.
“Lou,” Maria says, and something about her gentler tone makes my stomach drop. “Your mother requested it.”
My mother. My mother is sending me away.
I cover my head and howl again, but only on the inside.
4 Leaving on a Jet Plane
It’s Friday. I stand in the hospital’s tiny bathroom. There’s a shower with a handicap bar, and the toilet has a red emergency cord dangling above it.
PULL IF YOU NEED ASSISTANCE.
I wonder what kind of assistance they mean. If I pull it, will someone get my mom? Get our truck? Get our life back? No one asked me what I wanted. I lock the door and consider never coming out.
It’s been a good while since I looked at myself properly. I turn toward the mirror and take a deep breath and meet my own eyes. I am a ghost. I am the thing you imagine at your window at night. There are dark circles under my eyes, almost like pits, and I can’t tell if that’s because of the wreck or not sleeping or maybe this is how I always look. The bump on the left side of my head is a nasty knot, purple in the middle and yellow at the edges like a rotten sunflower.
One corner of my lip has split. There’s a little dried blood there. And my hair needs washing. It usually does. It’s stringy. The last time I had a decent shampoo was last Monday before the show at Joe’s. Mom wanted me to look nice for “potential investors.” We used the campsite showers, which are really just a box of stalls near the port-o-johns. I scratch at my head. The shower behind me is small, but beautifully clean. There’s no mold in the corners or someone else’s hair clogging the drain. It calls to me.
Underneath the hottest water I can stand, I rub the bar of soap into my scalp and under my arms and watch the dirt whirl away down the drain. There’s so much of it. I wonder if they let Mom shower. Is she in a jail cell, like with actual bars and a metal toilet? Despite the heat I start to shake. I miss her so much it hurts. I sit down and let the water run over my head while I cry… again.
I’m toweling off when a knock on the door makes me jump.
“Lou, it’s Maria. I’m leaving your clothes by the door.” I hear her on the other side. I can see the shadow of her feet. But when I don’t say anything, she eventually leaves. I wait another minute while the steam clears and then inch open the door. My sweatshirt and jeans are folded neatly on a chair. They’ve been washed, and there’s a new pair of underwear and socks still in their packages. My boots and suede jacket sit underneath.
I feel a tiny bit better once I’m dressed in my own clothes. I fold up my used towel and nightgown and lay them at the end of the bed. Mom cleaned hotel rooms for a while. Even in the truck she likes us to be tidy. Then I sit and wait. There’s a TV up in the corner, but I don’t turn it on. I need to talk to Mom. Something about this whole thing doesn’t add up. I know Mom. She’d fight tooth and nail for me. Somebody tricked her into sending me away. I know it. I pick up the white hospital phone, but after a minute of sitting and listening to the dial tone, I set it back down. I don’t even have a number to call. Mom, come get me, I think, and curl up on the bed again.
Eventually the trio comes back in—Dr. Janson, Nurse Caroline, and Maria. Everyone’s holding a pile of papers. Everyone looks fake cheery. It gives me the shivers.
“Looks like you’re all clear, Louise,” Dr. Janson says. “Here are your discharge papers. Remember, Tylenol or ibuprofen every four to six hours as long as the headaches persist. But if you’re stilling having them in a week, you need to make an appointment with a primary care physician. And you’ll need to do that in a month, regardless. Understand?”
Nurse Caroline hands me the papers. I take them. Nod. See, I am capable. Let me go home.
Maria opens her folder and hands me a ticket. I look at it for a full thirty seconds. It’s a plane ticket from Reno to… Los Angeles. Something blooms in my chest—hope.
“So, I’m really going? With Mom?” Maybe they just had to make sure everything was on the up-and-up before they let us go. Maybe Mom’s right outside. I take a step toward the door. “Mom and I are flying to LA?”
But Maria shakes her head. “We change planes in LA, Lou, on our way to Nashville.”
Mom’s not outside. Mom is nowhere I can get to. The spark of hope burns as it fizzles out.
“Your aunt wanted me to tell you how excited she is to have you,” Maria is saying, but I’m not listening. I’m staring at the ticket that meant one thing just a second ago and now means something else entirely.