Counting by 7s (17 page)

From a distance, they look suspicious.

Their bodies are too close and their postures are rigid.

The late-day Bakersfield sun beats down, bouncing off from the cars and the blacktop. Anyone in his or her right mind would have gone inside to the air-conditioned building.

I can see Mai brokering the deal.

She is speaking to her mother. I will find out later that she says:

“We'll put down his address. And then in the future, when they come visit, we can go over and make it look like we live there.”

I see that Pattie is silent and her face is sour.

Dell has no idea what's actually happening. Mai talks so fast:

“If we don't do this, they will keep her here. And then they'll just stick her in a foster home. She will end up being put somewhere with people she doesn't even know. She'll run away again!”

Mai stares into her mother's eyes.

“She needs us.”

I watch as Pattie breaks the gaze and looks down at Dell's small hands. He chews his fingernails.

I'm guessing that she hates that. She keeps her eyes on his cuticles and I can see her speaking. She is probably saying:

“I don't want to get involved.”

It's a strange thing for her to say, because she took a bus over to Jamison as soon as she heard that I had disappeared from the hospital.

If she really didn't want to get involved, what is she doing here?

And then I see Pattie suck in her breath and cross her arms in a way meant to show firm resolve.

I know that posture well.

It was always my mother's last stand.

Decisions are made.

I will officially be turned over to my old family friends: the Nguyens.

Temporarily. Just for now.

Is there anything anymore but Now? There
was
Then. But that world was blown up in an intersection.

I hear logistics being discussed.

At Jamison, they believe the Nguyens reside at the Gardens of Glenwood, which is where Dell lives.

Everything decided today is TEMPORARY.

Again. So that we all understand.

Temporary. Brief. Not permanent. Provisional. Passing. Short-term. Interim.

We all get it.

The temporary arrangement means I must go to Jamison once a week. And I will continue to see Dell Duke as my counselor.

I have been placed on a leave of absence from school because I told them that I didn't want to go. No one wants to make me do anything right now. They are afraid that I'll run away again.

Dell Duke has agreed to supervise my homeschooling. He looks guilty when they ask him how I'm doing in my class work.

I think that he might say something about the tests and why I had started going to see him, but he doesn't.

I don't care whether he lies or tells the truth.

It's all taking me to the same place.

Dell drives us all back to Happy Polish.

Everyone is exhausted and silent.

Pattie Nguyen signed all kinds of things back there. So who knows what she just agreed to?

The Old Me would have read every word of that paperwork. The New Me couldn't care less.

I'm out of there, that's all that matters.

The sunlight has a way of dulling the world in Bakersfield, and I gaze out the window and everything is like a copy of an original.

The whole place is faded.

It all looks like it would be easy to tear apart.

I'm surprised when we get back to the nail salon and it feels familiar.

The strong odor of the colored lacquers can be smelled out on the sidewalk, even with the door shut.

I'm certain that it is carcinogenic.

Before the world came apart, this would have been a concern.

Now I take a deep breath and hold the noxious fumes in my lungs.

Bring it on
.
All of it
.
Bring it on
.

Dell hangs around for a while but he's just in the way.

I can see that he's pleased with himself as he finally says good-bye and walks to his car.

At Jamison a lot of people thanked him.

And he looks like someone who hasn't been thanked very often.

One of his shoes is untied but, with his belly leading the way, he has a new swagger in his step.

I don't see anything anymore, but I can't help but notice.

According to Pattie Nguyen, who seems to have seen her share of heartache, activity and a glass of water cure almost anything if you give it enough time.

So she makes me drink two glasses of water.

Then she sits down next to me and says:

“I will help find a good place for you. I will not let them take you until we do. You have my word. You will stay here until we have the answer.”

I would like to express my gratitude, but I can't.

Because I can't express anything.

I only nod.

Pattie gets up from the table and starts unloading little square bottles of nail polish into the back cupboard.

People usually find a good place for stray dogs, or for the elderly when they can no longer go up stairs or use a can opener.

Finding a good place for a kid seems like a much bigger challenge.

A
memorial service for
my parents is held in a neighborhood community center on the second Saturday after the accident.

Dell drives me there and Mai and Pattie come too. Quang-ha has other plans, and I watch him head down the alley with what look like bolt cutters in his backpack.

Lenore meets us at the community center and I see the nurse from Jamison who helped me when I hit my head.

I can't look at them.

I can't look at anyone.

As we walk to the front doors, Mai takes my hand. It feels warm.

It is colder than normal and a sea of mostly unfamiliar faces press too close, saying some version of how sorry they are.

I'm not sure that I can breathe. The air is sticking at the top and the bottom of my lungs.

They put me in the front row.

Workers from my dad's union organized this event and three people are speakers.

I do not hear a single word that they say.

On an easel next to the podium is a poster-size picture of my mom and my dad taken back when my dad had hair and when my mom was skinny.

They have their arms around each other and they are laughing.

I know this picture.

It sits at an angle on my mom's bureau in a frame made from seashells.

I remember when I was younger asking my mom why they were so happy in the photo, and she said because they knew one day I was coming into their lives.

It wasn't logical, but it made sense.

After the service everyone is given white balloons and we are ushered outside.

The helium-filled inflatables say
JIMMY AND ROBERTA
in chunky purple letters.

The idea is to release them while some guy in a suit (but also wearing sandals with white socks) sings about love being the answer to everything.

I watch in horror.

I know for a fact that the latex lumps will end up tangled in electrical wires.

They will find their way into rivers and streams, and even travel for miles out into oceans, where they will choke fish and endanger marine mammals.

But I cannot find my voice to do anything about these future calamities, because it is someone's idea of inspirational to release the bobbing weapons.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a toddler refusing to let go of his helium prize.

His parents finally manage to pry the ribbon from his clenched fist.

As the four-year-old sobs in agony, I know that he is the only one here who understands.

A small article with a postage-stamp-size photo of me is in the local paper, and a fund is started for my future education.

My father's employer makes a generous contribution.

There are other people on the list of donors, but they are only names I've heard in passing, not associated with faces that I would easily recognize.

The only person I know is Jairo Hernandez from Mexicano Taxi Company.

I write Jairo a thank-you note and he calls Happy Polish Nails. It's two and half weeks after the accident. I used the stationery from here, so he took a guess that they might know where I am.

Pattie is surprised that a man wants to speak to me.

I explain he is an old friend. He
is
a friend. And a lot older than me. So I'm not lying.

Jairo asks how I'm doing, and then he says:

“I want you to call me if you need a ride somewhere.”

I say:

“Thank you. I will.”

It is quiet for a long time but I know he is still on the phone line. Pattie is watching me so I nod and try to look like I'm listening to more than silence. I finally say:

“Did you enroll in school?”

He says:

“I haven't done that yet.”

He then asks:

“How is school going for you?”

I could just say fine, but it feels wrong, so I say:

“I'm taking a break from that.”

He says:

“Me too.”

I add:

“But I'm going to the library today. Maybe that's some kind of start.”

I hang up the phone, and later in the afternoon I ask Pattie if I can go to Beale. She says yes.

Once inside the building, I go upstairs and find the spot behind the doughnut chair. I crawl back there, but I don't sleep at first. Instead, I watch the world from this protected place.

The library has regulars.

A lot of them talk to themselves.

But they do it quietly because quiet is enforced here.

After a long nap, I go back down to the first floor.

The computer room is the most popular space in the building.

I'm surprised, but a lot of the people who I think might be homeless (from the amount of things they are forced to leave downstairs at the front desk) go online.

I can see that they check their Facebook pages.

I watch these people click through pictures and view the same kind of videos as the bored-looking teenagers who show up once school is out.

I'm not sure why this is reassuring, but it is.

I go outside and sit on the steps.

I'm not waiting.

I'm just being.

Time exists only in my mind.

For someone grieving, moving forward is the challenge.

Because after extreme loss, you want to go back.

Maybe that's why I don't calculate anything now. I can only count in the negative space.

I'm on a different planet now.

I only speak when I absolutely have to.

Otherwise, I do my best to be invisible and stay out of the way.

No matter how hard they try, other people do not understand because I'm incapable of communication.

And that is why the deepest form of pain comes out as silence.

Mai, when she's not at school, or with her friends, talks to me about her life.

I listen. But I don't answer.

I spend most of my day with Pattie.

She's there for me.

And just being there is ninety-nine percent of what matters when your world falls apart.

I know for a fact that Quang-ha hates me.

But I'm okay with that.

I have brought nothing positive into his life. Now he has to wait longer to use the bathroom, and the hot water in the shower runs out more quickly.

I try to do everything last, but sometimes it doesn't work out that way.