Authors: Heather Gudenkauf
Chapter 7
W
hen I arrive at the familiarly ramshackle neighborhood, I am struck at how depressingly run-down it has gotten through the years. Burnt yellow lawns are edged with rusty metal fences, windows are boarded up and the ones that are intact are covered with grungy sheets or threadbare blankets.
Before I even turn onto Madison Street, I hear the sirens behind me. I pull to the side of the road to let a police car pass.
Please just be precautionary,
I say to myself, hoping that help hasn’t arrived too late. I drive the final four blocks as people in the neighboring houses peek out screened windows and step out onto crumbling front steps to see what’s happening. I stop three houses away, throw the van into Park and leap out and hit Lock on my key fob. The temperature has risen in just the few minutes I’ve been driving; the oppressive air crawls heavily into my nostrils and sits like sludge in my chest. Two police cars are idling in front of the house and I rush up to the nearest officer, who has emerged from his squad car and is calmly surveying the house that looks eerily quiet, empty.
Without looking at me, the officer holds up his hand to silence me before I even speak.
“Please stay back,” he says.
“I’m Ellen Moore, the social worker. I called 911,” I say, as if this explains everything.
He raises his eyebrows, finally looking me in the face. Sweat glistens on his bald forehead, his uniform already darkened with perspiration. “Officer Stamm,” he introduces himself. “Then you probably know a lot more about what’s going on in there than I do. What’s the situation?”
I try to keep my voice composed, level, but it still shakes with fear. “Manda Haskins lives here with her two children, Kylie who is seven and Krissie is four. Kylie called me a few minutes ago and said that her mom’s boyfriend, whom Manda has a temporary restraining order against, came over last night. Kylie said that this morning he started beating up their mother, so she and her little sister locked themselves in the bathroom and called me. We got disconnected and then I called you. I’m afraid the boyfriend is done with the mom and now is going after the girls.”
I don’t have time to go into the entire all-too-familiar story of Manda Haskins’s life with Officer Stamm. That Manda is twenty-five years old but still seems to always choose the wrong man. She may have been pretty once, but now Manda looks closer to forty than twenty-five—a meth addiction will do that to you. Her face is set in a permanent scowl. Manda lost custody of Kylie and Krissie two years ago when the police stopped her van and found that she was housing a mobile meth lab inside. She swore that her boyfriend was the one who placed all the drug paraphernalia in the back. In return for testifying against the boyfriend and admitting herself into an inpatient drug treatment center, Manda avoided jail time. In foster care the two children did well and all thought that Manda had done the work. Gotten clean, gotten a job. I’d hoped for so much more for Manda and her girls, but apparently her self-improvement didn’t extend to her choice in men.
“Any weapons in the house that you know about?” Officer Stamm asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean I don’t know. Have you been able find out what’s going on inside?”
“Not yet. We’re going to walk around the house, take a look in the windows, see if we can hear anything. Have you tried to call the kids back?” Stamm asks.
“No,” I say. “I was afraid if the phone started ringing it might lead the boyfriend to where Kylie and Krissie are hiding. Should I call now?”
“Yeah, go ahead. We’ll walk around the perimeter and see if we can hear a phone ringing. That might give us an idea of where the kids are. If the kids or the mom answer, try to find out the status of the situation and keep them on the line.” Stamm and the other officer begin to make their way around the house and I scroll through my received calls to find the number that Kylie called me from, hit Send and the phone goes directly to voice mail. Stamm looks at me over his shoulder and I shake my head in disappointment. He rotates his hand in a keep-trying gesture. I scan my phone looking for Manda’s contact information. In the back of my mind I remember that at one time she had a landline number as well as a cell phone. I locate the number, press Send and an instant later I can hear the faint trill of a phone ringing from within the house.
A woman, a neighbor I presume, sidles up next to me. “What’s going on?” she asks. I give her a cursory look. She is wearing flip-flops, flannel boxers, a tank top and holds a crusty-nosed toddler on her hip.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now,” I say to her, and take two steps toward the house. The phone continues to ring and ring. “What’s going on?” the woman asks again, this time more insistently. The boy in her arms begins to giggle, a strange sound amid such a tense situation. I turn to face the woman and immediately recognize her as one my former clients, a woman whose son was removed from her home because of severe neglect. “Jade, Anthony,” I say. I give the little boy’s bare foot a squeeze and he smiles shyly back at me before burying his face in his mother’s shoulder. I lower my phone down to my side as it continues to ring, unanswered from within the house. “It’s Manda Haskins. The police are afraid that she’s got some trouble in there and are worried about her girls.”
Jade shakes her head, her dark eyes knowingly serious. “Haven’t met her new boyfriend, but I’ve seen him coming and going. Used to be Manda would be outside all the time in her front yard while the girls played. Her Kylie is real good with Anthony here. They would sit in their little pool.” She nods toward the small, round, plastic pool. A yellow duck floats aimlessly and a few Barbie dolls are submerged in the shallow, dirty water. “It’s too hot to be inside.”
“You don’t see them outside much anymore?” I ask.
“No.” Jade shifts Anthony to her other hip. “The boyfriend is over all the time and Manda won’t let the girls outside by themselves. Haven’t seen much of them the past three weeks or so...” Jade trails off and we both watch as Officer Stamm and his partner emerge from the other side of the house and make their way back toward to where we are standing.
“No answer,” I say, indicating the still-ringing phone. “Did you see anything?”
“No,” the female officer says, running a forearm across her sweaty forehead. “The house is shut down tight. Shades are drawn and the only sound is the phone ringing.”
We are silent for a moment, quietly regarding the house. I don’t see any sign of activity. “Jesus,” Stamm whispers. “It’s hotter than hell standing out here. Call for another car,” he tells the other officer, “I’m going to go knock on the front door.”
I’m vaguely aware of movements behind me. Curious onlookers and neighbors trying to see what is going on.
Jade lays a hand on my arm. “Look,” she says, and all our eyes fix upon the front of the house. “Something’s happening inside.”
There is movement behind the curtains at the front of the house and my attention returns to the Haskinses’ home. Abruptly the ringing stops and I quickly raise my cell phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say fervently. “Kylie, is that you? Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” the little girl whispers.
“Where are you?”
“Inside,” she whispers.
“Where at inside? Are you in the kitchen, the living room...?”
“The TV room,” she answers. Her voice is small and so scared sounding.
“Where’s Krissie?” I ask. I tilt the phone away from my ear so that Officer Stamm can hear what Kylie is saying.
“She’s still in the bathroom.”
“Good. That’s good,” I reassure her. “Where’s your mommy?”
Kylie’s voice quivers. “I don’t know. The bedroom door is locked. There was yelling and loud noises and then it stopped. I was afraid to knock. Should I go knock?”
“No, no, Kylie, stay right here with me,” I say in a rush, desperate to keep her on the line.
“Tell her we’re coming to the door,” Officer Stamm instructs.
I cover my hand over the phone. “Can’t I go to the door to get them? The kids know me. They won’t be afraid of me.”
Stamm shakes his head. “No. Too dangerous. Stay down here and you’ll be the first person they see when they come out. Tell them that two police officers are coming to the door.”
“Kylie, honey,” I say. “Two nice police officers are going to come to the door. You open it up for them and then they’ll be able to check on your mom, okay?” I nod at Stamm and the two officers move toward the front door.
“Okay,” Kylie answers. “Should I go back to the bathroom and get Krissie?”
“No, no. Lay the phone down but don’t hang it up. The police officers are almost to the door. Okay, Kylie, go open the door. I’m right outside waiting for you.” The front door opens a crack and a short beep indicates that I have another call coming in. I ignore it.
Shouts come from behind me, and when I turn I find that a handful of people are not watching to see what is happening in the house. They are turned in the opposite direction, their backs to the drama unfolding right in front of them. I face the house again. Stamm and the other officer cautiously enter the home, hands near their weapons. More hollering from behind me, this time urgent, frantic sounding. The commotion behind us has also caught Jade’s attention and I can tell she is torn between attending to what is happening in the home and the flurry behind us.
I hang up my phone, confident that the officers are in the house and will bring the girls out safely.
Immediately my phone begins to buzz. I look at the display. Three missed calls, all from Adam. I shove the phone into the pocket of my skirt.
The screen door opens and, to my relief, Kylie and Krissie are being led out of the home. As they exit, I see the fear and uncertainty on Kylie’s face and it breaks my heart. I rush forward to meet them, taking comfort in that I will be a familiar face to them and I will whisk them to safety. But I also know that they will hate me. I will be the one who may have to place them in a new foster home, the one who may take them away from their mother whom they love unconditionally, without question, without asking for anything in return. I hope that the entire situation was just an awful misunderstanding. I pray their mother is still alive.
Before I can gather the girls into my arms there is a sharp crack and the sound of broken glass. The crowd behind me has grown and I see that they have gathered around the source of the broken glass. My van. Someone is breaking into my car in broad daylight, a police officer less than a block away. The nerve. But very quickly I realize that these thieves aren’t wayward teenage boys with too much time on their hands, but a group of women and a lone man. Mothers and grandmothers by the looks of them, and an old man wielding a crowbar. He steadies himself by placing a hand on the hood of the van, his chest rising and falling heavily. The crowbar slips from his hand, clanking to the ground. A heavyset woman reaches through the broken window and violently flings open the sliding door. She disappears for just a moment and then emerges. It’s then that I see what they already know. A flash of pink, a dangling shoelace.
“Oh, my God,” a voice I don’t recognize as my own erupts from my throat. “Please, no,” I whimper. I run toward the van.
It’s a terrible thing when you discover your child’s life is in danger. God or evolution or whatever you believe in must equip our bodies, our minds, our souls with some sort of talisman. At first I can’t believe that it’s Avery. She should be at the babysitter’s house gnawing on a graham cracker, playing with the other one-year-olds, piling big plastic blocks on top of one another. How did she get in the van? I know I didn’t put her there. Did I? No, it was Adam, I think, remembering how I met him coming back into the house just as I was leaving. How could I not even know she was strapped into the seat directly behind me?
The world becomes silent, I see mouths moving but no sound emerges. A numbness has crept into my limbs; a curious heaviness weighs down my extremities. I pray that what I’m witnessing right before me is all a terrible mistake. The bluish tinge that rings Avery’s lips is just the slant of light through trees. The way her hands lie limply at her side just means that she is very tired. It is just about time for her morning nap.
Too soon, much too quickly, I realize what I am so desperately trying to deny.
I reach for Avery and the minute she is in my arms I know that nothing will ever be the same, will ever be right again. The heat is rising from her skin searing into my own. There is no flutter beneath her eyelids to let me know she is just sleeping, no discernible rise and fall of her chest. There is nothing. Just as quickly as I have bundled Avery into my arms she is pulled away from me and I am left empty-handed with only the sound of my own cries and the question roiling over and over in my head.
What have you done? What have you done?
Chapter 8
J
enny was a bit disappointed as the bus made its way into the town of Cedar City. It looked identical to what she knew of Benton. She had been hoping for something new, something greener, maybe. More flowers, more trees, maybe a cornfield or two. Instead, there was just a whole lot of swaying power lines, stores and restaurants with desperate weeds poking up through the cracks of the gray cement.
The bus pulled into the bus station and Jenny hesitated. Should she get off the bus now or continue on to Dubuque, maybe try to find Matthew, her father’s friend? With a hiss the bus shuddered to a stop and several passengers stood, gathered their belongings and disembarked. Jenny looked down at her father’s overstuffed duffel at her feet and knew she wouldn’t be able to drag it very far. Quickly she examined the contents one more time, searching for items of value. In a side pocket she found some loose change and a pack of gum. She shoved these into the front pocket of her jean shorts. Buried beneath a pile of her father’s socks and underwear was a charger for the cell phone and as Jenny slid it into her backpack the driver made one last call for anyone getting off the bus.
With one last swipe, Jenny grabbed her father’s favorite t-shirt from the duffel and held it briefly to her nose, inhaling the familiar, slightly smoky scent that was her father. The t-shirt was washed and had been worn so many times that it was faded to a water-washed indigo-blue, and the motorcycle emblem on the back was cracked and peeling. Finding no more room in her backpack, Jenny tied the t-shirt around her narrow waist, wiggled into her backpack and, holding tightly to the envelope, made her way up the aisle toward the exit.
“Hey,” Dave called after her, “take care, niece!”
“You, too, Uncle Dave.” Jenny smiled in return. She felt slightly better knowing that she had Dave’s number in the cell phone, but knew she would never use it. On shaky legs, Jenny descended the bus. The air outside was warm and thick with moisture. Jenny squinted up into the sky where white horsetail clouds filtered the sun. Jenny tried to remember the real name of the clouds, cumulo or nimbus something or other. She couldn’t quite recall. But Jenny did remember how her teacher described the wispy clouds as resembling the tail of a horse. Jenny had visions of spectral-like white ponies galloping through the skies.
Jenny tried to push down the anger she felt toward her father for getting her into this mess—allowing her to be swept away all alone on a bus only to land in a strange town, hundreds of miles from anything that was familiar. But she couldn’t keep the hot tears from gathering in her eyes or keep the panic from nesting within her rib cage. She didn’t know what to do. Immediately get a ticket back to Benton? Call one of her father’s old friend-girls to come and get her? Connie came to mind again. She pictured her friendly face. Everything about Connie was big. Big hair, big smile, big chest, big heart. She was the only one Jenny could bear calling. Or maybe she should go to the nearest police station. Jenny knew she needed to make a plan. This was something her special education teacher, Ms. Lugar, always said.
When in doubt, make a list, think it through and make a decision.
Jenny’s stomach rumbled loudly with hunger and she looked around in embarrassment to see if anyone had heard. She made her way around the side of the bus station, the weight of her backpack already causing her shoulders to ache and slump, a small question mark standing on the corner. She decided to start by getting a snack from the vending machine inside the bus station and finding a place to sit down and make her list. Then she saw the most welcoming of sights just across the busy intersection: a slowly rotating yellow-and-blue sign that spelled Happy Pancake Restaurant in large bulbous letters. Jenny scurried across the busy street, not waiting for the flashing green light that signaled that it was safe to cross, ignoring the blare of car horns and shouts of irritated motorists.
Yanking open the heavy glass doors, Jenny inhaled the sweet, buttery scent that greeted her. This was only the second Happy Pancake that Jenny had ever been to, but she was relieved to find that it was exactly the same as the restaurant she and her father had visited the night before in Benton. The same high ceilings, crisply painted white walls punctuated with large framed photos of stacks of steaming pancakes topped with pats of melting butter and dripping with amber maple syrup. Jenny’s stomach grumbled again and she placed a hand over her midsection as if to shush it.
She tentatively looked around for the Happy Pancake mascot named Stack who handed out crayons and children’s menus printed with tic-tac-toe grids and word searches and dot-to-dots. Jenny found Stack vaguely disturbing with his oversize pancake-shaped body and oversimplified features: wide staring eyes, a yellow mound of butter for a nose and an upturned strip of bacon for a mouth. Only the mascot’s legs and arms sticking out from the vast costume gave any indication that something human resided beneath. Apparently, Stack didn’t work the 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. shift at the Happy Pancake in Cedar City.
A weary waitress with a white ponytail and freckles dotting her nose approached, looking past Jenny’s shoulder toward the front entrance as if expecting an accompanying adult would step forward. She was wearing standard Happy Pancake fare, a navy-blue skirt and a blue-and-yellow-checked blouse and a matching scarf tied at a jaunty angle around her neck. Black, thick crepe-soled shoes completed the outfit.
“I’m meeting my big sister here,” Jenny lied effortlessly.
“Will it just be the two of you?” the waitress asked, leading Jenny to the table nearest to the door.
“Can we sit in the back there?” Jenny asked, turning slightly so that the waitress could see her backpack hanging from her shoulders. “Homework,” she said by way of explanation. If the waitress thought that it was odd that a young girl had homework in the middle of July, she gave no indication. Maybe they had year-round school in this town; maybe the waitress thought that Jenny was some kind of genius student who took college classes.
“Summer school, eh?” the waitress asked, her voice tinged with sympathy. “That’s no fun.”
“No,” Jenny rushed to explain. “Gifted and talented. I skipped third grade.”
“Good for you,” the waitress said as she led Jenny to a large booth in the rear of the restaurant. “No one can ever take your education away from you. What are you reading?”
Jenny blinked, drawing a blank. She wasn’t much of a reader, though she loved it when her teachers read out loud to her or when her father took the time to read her a book from the small stack of picture books that she brought home each week from the school library.
The waitress was looking at her with interest, waiting for her tell her the name of the genius-level book she was currently reading. Jenny’s mind worked furiously trying to recall a title of a book, but all she could think of was
Little Turtle’s First Day of School
and she could hardly say that. “The Bible,” Jenny finally blurted out. “I go to a very religious school. I’ve already read half of it.”
The waitress looked duly impressed as she set a large, glossy menu on the table. “I’ll be back with some water for you. Can I get you anything else to drink?”
Jenny wriggled out of her backpack, slid into the high-backed booth and set the pack next to her on the midnight-blue faux leather seat. The smell of coffee made her think of her father.
She had come to love waking up to the pungent smell of her father’s morning coffee. This meant that he was trying, that he was functioning well enough to get out of bed, to face the day, to go to work. The two of them would stand together at the kitchen counter, each sipping the black, caustic liquid. At first Jenny had winced, sticking out her tongue, rolling her eyes back in her head and making a gagging sound in response to the bitter taste, causing her father to laugh. Eventually she grew accustomed to the acrid sensation on her tongue, reveling in the bloom of warmth that flooded her mouth and coated her throat and to the zing of caffeine that nudged her into wakefulness. But most of all she loved the quiet moments with her father, both of them bleary-eyed, crunching on burnt toast and sipping their coffee from mismatched mugs.
“Coffee,” Jenny said with confidence. The waitress stood there for a moment, pen poised over her order pad while Jenny busied herself with scanning the menu, trying not to blush beneath the waitress’s puzzled gaze and realized her mistake. A waitress would easily remember a ten-year-old who ordered a cup of coffee and read the Bible for summer school. “It’s for my sister,” Jenny explained. “She’ll be here any minute. I’ll have milk.” The waitress raised an eyebrow at Jenny, her green eyes unwavering. “Please,” Jenny added contritely.
Soon the waitress returned, set the glass of milk in front of Jenny and poured a stream of black coffee from a stainless steel carafe into a ceramic white mug that she situated on the place mat across from Jenny. “No sister yet?” the waitress asked, tucking a loose strand of white hair behind her ear.
“Nah,” Jenny said casually. “She’s always late. I’ll just go ahead and order.” At the waitress’s skeptical look Jenny dug into her backpack. “I’ve got money. See?” Jenny pulled a wad of cash from the manila envelope.
The waitress’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money, you better put that away,” she warned, glancing left and right to see if any unsavory types were lurking around. “What can I get you?” she asked as Jenny shoved the money back into the envelope.
Jenny tapped her finger on her chin as she had seen her father do numerous times when trying to make a decision. “I think I’ll have that,” she said, poking her finger at a picture of a pile of oddly colored, red-tinted pancakes flanked by fluffy scrambled eggs and two strips of bacon. Please,” Jenny added after a beat.
“Velvety Red Pancake Platter. Good choice,” the waitress murmured, writing down the order with a flourish. “I’ll get that right in for you.”
“Thanks,” Jenny told her. “I’m not going anywhere until my sister gets here anyway.”
After the waitress retreated, Jenny pulled the coffee cup toward her and breathed in the coil of steam that rose from the thick liquid. She could almost imagine her father sitting across from her in the booth, cracking jokes about the other passengers from the bus.
How ’bout that guy and the girl with the veil. Who would take their new wife on their honeymoon in a bus?
Jenny would have laughed right along with him, but inside she would zing back with,
At least he married her. You couldn’t even do that.
Jenny often wondered how her life would be different if her mother and her father ever got married. Maybe her mother would never have run away; maybe her father wouldn’t drink so much.
She swallowed hard and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears that threatened to spill. While she waited for her food, Jenny covertly counted her money beneath the table. She lost count three times before determining that she had $633.42. She was rich. She had never seen so much money in her entire life and was a little miffed at her father for holding back on her. She had always thought they were broke. There never seemed to be enough money for new clothes or a trip to the movies; even groceries were iffy. But all along he had all this cash stashed away.
Next, Jenny pulled the photographs from the envelope. There was one of her smiling brightly up at her mother. Her mother looked back down at her, just a whisper of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Jenny stared hard at the photo, trying to remember the day the picture was taken. She must have been around three years old, taken before she went to live with her father. She carefully placed the picture back in the envelope when the waitress approached again.
“Here you go, dear,” the waitress said, setting the plump stack of deep-red-colored pancakes in front of her. “The Velvety Red Platter.” Hands on her hips, the waitress looked around. “No sister yet, huh?”
Jenny rolled her eyes as if this was to be expected. “She’s always late—my dad’s going to kill her.”
“Maybe you should give her a call? Do you need to use a phone?”
Jenny waggled her father’s cell phone. “I just called her. She said she’s on her way.”
“Okay, then. You just let me know if you need anything else. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.” Jenny nodded, and was already forking up large pieces of pancake with one hand while pouring maple syrup over the stack already covered with cream-cheese icing and whipped cream when two police officers entered the restaurant and started moving toward her.