One for the Murphys (15 page)

Daniel only makes the two baskets, but he earns some respect from the other players, which feels as good as the points do. I remember.

At the end of the game, Mrs. Murphy squeezes my arm. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you, Carley. It’s such a relief to see him happy and having fun.” She shakes her head as her gaze wanders back to the court. “All these gifts you have, Carley. All these gifts you have.”

O
n my fifty-second night, I wake up to Elvis Presley music. After lying there for a while, I have to go see where it’s coming from.

At the bottom of the stairs, I recognize the song as “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Any self-respecting Las Vegas resident can sing any Elvis song there is. This one, though, isn’t like the others. It’s actually kind of nice.

I sneak through the dining room and lay my hand on the door frame leading into the kitchen. I lean in, listening.

Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are dancing.

She rests her head on his chest with her arms around his waist. His cheek rests on the top of her head. They move as one, back and forth and around.

I’ve seen my mother dance with plenty of guys, and it’s always grossed me out. But this? This is like a real love story come to
life. I mean, they’re just dancing, but I can feel it. And everything else I see during the day makes sense. The way he puts his hand on her waist as he reaches around her to get a glass from the cabinet. The way they look at each other and laugh when the rest of us are wondering what’s so funny. The way he winks at her across the dinner table.

What would it be like to love someone like that? Does my mother know what that’s like? Will I?

I don’t watch for long, because I feel like some sort of weird stalker. As I head back upstairs, though, I feel lucky that I got to see it.

M
rs. Murphy comes in my room and closes the door as if it could break and sits on the bed. “I have some news for you.”

I take a deep breath and hold it.

“Um…” Mrs. Murphy speaks carefully. “I spoke with Mrs. MacAvoy. There’s some good news for you, Carley!” She’s sitting up extra straight, and she bites her lip a little; she isn’t happy at all—just trying to make me think she is. “It turns out that your mother is doing much better. In fact, she’s going to be transferred to a rehab facility.”

“Rehab? For drugs?” I gasp.

“No, no. Physical rehab. She needs some help overcoming her injuries. They’ll teach her to walk again.”

“My mother can’t
walk
?” I do not react. On the outside, anyway.

“She will, but she needs some time. And… well, apparently she wants to see you.”

I’ve waited for this for such a long time, but now that it’s here, I don’t know if I want to go see her or not. “That’s great,” I say, trying to smile since we’re both faking here.

“So, we’ll give her some time to settle in, and then we’ll visit her. How would that be?”

How would that be? She asks like she wants to know if I want rainbow sprinkles on my ice cream cone. “Okay,” I say. “What are we having for dinner?”

“Oh. That chicken casserole I do.”

“Ooh. The one with the stuffing. That’s wicked good.” I actually feel a little better.

“Yeah. It is. I mean, I’m glad you like it.” I can see her studying me—trying to figure out what’s really going on.

“Mrs. Murphy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is my mother going to prison? Remember that policeman who was here? He said my mother was in trouble.”

“No, Carley, she’s not in trouble. I was going to talk to you about that. It seems the charges against your mother have been dropped in exchange for her testimony.” She leans forward. “Do you know what that means?”

I nod. So she’s going to rat on Dennis. I don’t mind if that jerk goes to prison. I don’t want my mother to go to prison, but I’m not in a rush to get back to her either.

“One more thing,” she says.

I’m both eager and terrified to hear this.

She holds out a piece of paper. “I have the phone number to her room in case you want to call her.”

I wonder what she would say to me if I called. That she’s done with me? I want to take the paper so badly, but I can’t move. Like if I took it, it would burn my fingers.

Mrs. Murphy finally puts the number on the nightstand and leaves.

Later that night, I dial my mother’s phone number from the Murphys’ bedroom. The phone rings and I’m not sure what I’ll do when she answers. It rings five times and just as I move to hang up, her voice is there. Raspy and tired, but unmistakably her. “Hello?”

I count the pictures on the wall.

“Hello?” she asks again.

I should say something, but what? That I’m sorry? That I love her? Or that I’m not sure if I’m sorry? Or I’m not sure that I love her?

“Carley? Is that you?” she asks, and I feel my body jolt like when I got the shock from plugging in our fan when I was little.

“Yeah?” I hold my breath.

“My
God
. They told me they put you in some foster care place. Are you okay?”

That’s ironic. “Yeah.”

“We’ll be together soon, Carley. I promise.”

I feel like the things I should say are the things I can’t say. And the things I could say are the things I shouldn’t say.

“Carley?”

“Yeah.”

“My girl is not usually at a loss for words.”

My girl? “Yeah.”

I hang up the phone. I don’t say good-bye or anything because I want her to wonder what I might have said. Or maybe that’s just me who would spend all that time wondering.

M
rs. Murphy’s back is to me as she makes me a sandwich for school. When she turns to hand me the brown bag with my lunch, I sense trouble in her face. She lays a five-dollar bill in front of me; you’d think I would be happy, but I know better.

“Carley,” she begins. “Mother’s Day is coming up. And I’m not saying that you
have
to get or even that you
should
get a card for your mother, but I wanted you to have the money just in case you choose to.”

My mother. I probably should send her something, I guess. I hate the thought of it, though—some sappy, sweet card for her?

Then I look at Mrs. Murphy and wonder if I am supposed to get her a card. I wonder if Hallmark makes a “Happy Mother’s Day to someone who isn’t the slightest bit related to me and
only took me in because I’m pathetic but what the heck, the state throws in a little money—which isn’t worth it, I’m sure” card.

I realize that I’ve been staring at her. And she stares back. I slide the bill off the counter like a poker player takes his hand. I fold it up until it can’t be folded any more and push it down into my jeans pocket with my thumb. I realize that I’ve not said thank you or good-bye or
anything
until I am in the driveway. I turn around and she’s there, in the dining room window. Her right hand waves like she’s playing the piano, and she looks sad. I wave back and leave.

I swing the door of the Hallmark store open too hard and it bangs. Toni follows.

The first thing I see are a bunch of signs on the wall for sale. They all say
BELIEVE
. The first thing I notice is that right smack in the middle of the word is “lie.” It figures. Besides, what am I supposed to believe in anyway?

“A pink nightmare,” I mumble, walking toward the Mother’s Day display.

Toni elbows me. “Have you ever noticed that the bigger the L-word, the uglier the card?”

She’s holding a card with
LOVE
written in giant letters. I remember the day I told my mother that
love
spelled backward is the first four letters in “evolve.” She said it figured since you have to change for anyone to really love you. I think back to that now as I watch Toni brush off her cool New York jacket, wondering if it’s the truth.

I reach for a card. It stabs.
MOM, WHAT WOULD I EVER DO WITHOUT YOU
?

I read it over and over. Eight words. Ten syllables.

Toni touches me and I jump. “Jumpy, Connors? What gives?”

“I don’t want to give my mother a card.”

“Look, Connors. You’ve never told me in detail why you landed at the Murphys, but I’m going to assume that she doesn’t deserve a Mother’s Day card. Skip it if it winds you up.”

“But I feel like I should. I’m still her daughter.”

Toni shrugs. “Well, look at it this way, Connors. It’s only a card. It’s not like you’re gonna sit down and write a poem for her or tattoo ‘Mom’ on your arm. Some dork probably wrote these. Some dork who wears suspenders and lives in his mother’s basement. So just let the dork do the talking, and you’re off the hook.”

I nod, thinking about how much I would miss Toni if I ever have to leave. I grab a card quickly. “Oh my God. Look at this one. Warm and tender?”

“Sounds like fried chicken,” Toni says, leaning in.

“It does!” I say. “They should have a rotisserie chicken in an apron.”

“Pulling a roast out of the oven,” Toni adds. “The chicken would probably make beef, don’t you think?”

“Or it could pull out another chicken with a suicide note stuck to it.” I’m laughing. Laughing really hard, but it scares me, like I’m walking a fence between laughing hard and crying.

Toni is talking, but I can’t listen. There isn’t enough air in the store. These cards are a slap in the face, listing all of the things
that real mothers do. Knowing that I have a mother who does so little of it. It’s not like I’d expect her to stay home at night or join the PTA. I mean, all I want her to do is look at me the way Mrs. Murphy looks at her kids. Like I’m the best thing ever. Like she loves me more than anyone else.

I reach for a card, and I decide to buy it no matter what it says. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Toni grabs it and reads it on the way to the register. “Hey, nice card, Connors.”

Late that night, I sit under the hero sign. I open the card. I wipe my palms on my jeans. I worry Mrs. Murphy will walk in on me, but Jay Leno is on, so I know the house would have to be on fire for her to leave
that
. I read the card:
THANKS FOR ALL THE REALLY BIG THINGS YOU DO, BUT ALSO FOR THE 45 BILLION LITTLE THINGS. BET YOU DIDN’T KNOW I WAS COUNTING.
I add, “Ha-ha,” and then sign, “Love, Carley Connors.”

I sure hope Mrs. Murphy likes it.

S
ince I read those cards at the store yesterday, I realize how Mrs. Murphy is like a lot of them. Kind of too good to be true, maybe. I remember she’s human when I hear her puking in the bathroom.

Adam and Michael Eric are outside the door and they are freaked.

I hear her retch. Then she says, “Mommy’s okay, guys. Why don’t you…” And then she retches again.

“Hey, guys,” I say. “I think your mom wants to be alone. She sounds a little sick.”

Michael Eric looks up at me with a milky face. “But she sits with
me
when I throw up.”

“Well,” I say, thinking about how lucky he is, “grown-ups tend to do that alone.” I squat. “Hey! I have an idea! Would you like to see my secret reading cave?”

Their eyes widen.

“Get some books and we’ll find the secret reading cave and I’ll read to you.” They run off. I knock softly on the door. “Mrs. Murphy, I’ll read to the boys. You can sleep for a while. I can make dinner and put them to bed and stuff, okay?”

There’s a really long silence. In fact, I worry that she’s fallen in or something. Finally, I hear a raspy, “Thank you, Carley. I think that might be good.”

I grab a flashlight out of the garage and meet the boys in the family room. “Follow me,” I say. I put my pointer finger over my mouth. “Be very quiet. The Book Eaters may hear you. We must reach the magical secret reading cave before they see us and eat… our… books!”

“Wicked awesome!” Adam says.

“If I see a Book Eater, I’ll kick his butt!” says Michael Eric.

Adam asks, “What do they look like?”

“Book Eaters?” I ask.

He nods.

“They’re big and heavy like tanks—that color green too. Unless they stand in front of something, then they change like chameleons.”

Adam smiles.

“That way they can hide. But when they smile, you can see their teeth. And they’re usually chewing on pages. They devour books like you guys eat ice cream.”

“Wow. That’s fast,” Adam says.

Michael Eric nods likes he’s proud of how fast he eats.

“Here we are!” I say. “The secret reading cave!”

“The closet?” Adam asks.

“Not a
closet
. A secret reading cave—safe from the Book Eaters.”

They scurry in, and we settle down on the floor of the cleanest closet I’ve ever seen. Any sound we make is shushed by Michael Eric, who is afraid of being found. I sit cross-legged while each of them leans on one of my legs. Michael Eric sits Mr. Longneck up to listen too. “Which book should we read first?” I ask. “You scare a Book Eater away by loving a book, so let’s read a favorite one first.”

Michael Eric grabs a bright green one. “This is Mommy’s favorite.”

Adam nods. “The tree and the boy book. Yup. She likes that one.”

“
The Giving Tree
,” I read aloud. It is about a tree and a boy. Simple enough. But every page annoys me more than the last. It’s dumb. The tree in the book is so nice, no matter how much of a twit the boy is. Why would the tree do that? I finish it but am happy to get to a book about trucks that even the boys enjoy more. But I can’t get that
Giving Tree
out of my head.

I wish the Book Eater would come by so I could slide it under the door.

W
hen I wake up, I check on Mrs. Murphy. She’s ironing. “Do you feel better?”

“I’m okay. I thought I’d get some of this done while the boys are still sleeping. Why are you up so early?”

I shrug.

“Can’t sleep?”

I shrug again.

“I can’t thank you enough for watching the boys last night. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”