One for the Murphys (16 page)

I feel warmer.

She seems a little embarrassed. “You know, I’m not used to people taking care of
me
.”

“Well,” I say slowly, “I’d… I’d do anything for you, ya know.”

She stops in midstroke and stands the iron up.

“I mean, I really would.”

She tilts her head and stares, her mouth turned up on just one side. “Well…
that
may be the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time. And listen, if I hadn’t been throwing up all last night, I might have even hugged you for it! You’re lucky,” she says with a wink.

I try to decide if I’m disappointed or not.

She flips the shirt over and begins ironing again. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Did you need something?”

I don’t answer at first. I stare at the iron as it slowly moves over the wrinkles in the shirt. I am mesmerized by the little puffs of steam that rise out of the iron as she gently pushes all the wrinkles out. That’s what Mrs. Murphy does.

I point at the shirt. “Have you noticed that all of your clothes are happy? Like, you never wear tan or black. Always bright stripes and stuff.”

“Bright colors keep me awake.”

I’m too nervous to laugh. “Can I ask a favor?”

She looks serious all of a sudden. “Of course.”

“Well, I… it’s just that…”

“Yes?” Her slow tone is like a rope that pulls the words from me, even though I don’t want to let them go.

“I wanted to ask you a question.” I force myself to look her in the face as I ask. It’s always a person’s very first reaction that you need to watch for. “Well, I was wondering if… you would mind if… I mean if it’s okay that…”

She laughs. “C’mon, spit it out!”

“If I can call you
Mom
.”

Her smile fades and is replaced with worry. “Oh, Carley, I just—”

I interrupt. “Oh, I know that it’s pretend and it’s only for a little while—you know, until I have to go—but it just seems like it would be easier than calling you Mrs. Murphy because it’s only a fourth of the syllables and, well, you kind of feel like a mother—well, a second mother, ’cause you know I have a mother of my own, but I just thought it would be nice until I go. Just until I go. I mean, I guess I am gonna go.”

Her silence screams an answer. I feel like my head rests firmly in a guillotine. She reaches for me and I twist away.

“You and I have a very special relationship.”

“But not special enough.”

Her eyes brim with tears. “I just don’t think it would be a healthy thing for you.”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you.”

I back up into the door frame.

She talks fast now. “I don’t mean it like it sounded. I think it would be unfair to you. You have a mother—a very lucky one. Carley, I’d love to have been your mother.”

I know this is supposed to be a nice thing, but it cuts so deep, leaves such a hole, I feel like I may turn inside out. I notice the patterns on her bedspread. I realize I’m counting out loud.

“Carley?”

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. What a jerk I am. How could I be so dumb?

“Try to understand, Carley. You and I both know that you’ll have to go someday and I just—”

I interrupt. “But what about that book? That book about adoption? I thought I was going to stay here.” I spiral and she deflates.

“Oh, honey…”

I step back. Honey?

Her shoulders slump. “It just isn’t in the cards. Your mother is doing better and better and Mrs. MacAvoy has said that the court will rule to grant her custody of you when she’s ready.”

How can I go back after what she did?

She steps toward me, and I step back into the door, putting my hands up in front of me, palms facing her. “When you do go, Carley, it will be excruciating”—she clears her throat—“for this family because, in many ways, you’re one of us now. I think leaving would be harder for me
and
for you if you called me Mom. Not to mention…”

I can tell this is something I don’t want to hear.

“. . . My boys.”

I hate how she says “my.”

“Carley, I…”

I cut her off. “Fine.” I step back again. “Then I have just one more question.”

“What’s that?” Her voice cracks.

“Will you just leave me alone, then? Leave me alone until I leave.”

I bolt before she can answer.

I want to hate her, but I can’t.

I feel so sad I can hardly stomach it. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mean to, but she’s taught me what I’ll never have. Brought me to the candy store and given me just a taste—just enough that I’ll always know what I’m missing. And those kids—always watching them live here. The knowledge that I’m not loved like her kids are. Not by her and not by my own mother.

I have to remember.

I must.

Don’t forget your place.

Don’t forget who you really are.

T
he “can I call you
Mom
” execution was yesterday; it plays over and over in my head. Last night, I claimed sickness so I could skip helping with or eating dinner. Even when she resorted to making an apple pie, I refused. Killed me, but I did.

Before leaving for school today, I stuffed the Mother’s Day card for Mrs. Murphy into my backpack. On the bus, I ripped it into pieces and then dropped a few pieces in the trash at the beginning of each class. It was my routine and about the only thing I thought of all day. I didn’t want anyone piecing them together. Not even me.

I think that M-O-M must stand for “mind over matter”—like if I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Problem is, I do mind.

I know that Mrs. Murphy feels bad. The air is thick whenever we’re in the same room, so I avoid her. I almost bump into her,
though, as she comes out of her bedroom. “Oh, Carley!” she says like I haven’t seen her for weeks. “How are you doing?” she asks.

“Okay,” I say, turning to leave.

“You want to help me with dinner?” she asks, which is code for just hanging out.

“Naw. I’m gonna read.”

“Sure you don’t want to help? I would really like your company!”

“I have a lot to do.”

“Okay then.” She turns to go, takes two steps down the stairs, stops, and turns back around. “Carley, I’m just heartsick about what happened Sunday morning.”

“I haven’t even thought about it,” I lie.

She comes back up two steps and her talking speeds up again. “What concerns me is that you know I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.”

I turn to go.

“Carley. You know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, because I don’t want to talk about it. The part that keeps me safe would rather stay mad at her.

I hear her voice crack. I turn around, clutching my book, and am ready to tell her she cries
way
too much.

I open my mouth, but she interrupts me. “I love you, Carley. You know, I just
do
.”

I turn away. That’s the last thing I wanted to hear.

T
he tally on the back of the hero sign is sixty. It has already been a long day and it’s only lunch. Mostly because it’s Mother’s Day.

Not like Mother’s Day has ever been my favorite holiday, but this has to be the worst. I have to sit around while Mrs. Murphy reads cards from everyone else. I feel terrible that I tore up that Mother’s Day card and don’t have one to give her.

I wish more than anything that I had a mother I could give a sappy card to. That my mother could be my mother. Or that Mrs. Murphy wanted to be my mother. That anyone wanted to be my mother. A Labrador retriever maybe. Anyone.

Mrs. Murphy comes by my room after we’ve cleaned up. “Mind if I come in?”

I shrug.

She walks over and sits on the bed beside me. “Today is a tough day, huh?”

I shrug.

“You want to talk?”

“Nah. I’m fine.” All I can hear are the things I can’t say.

“Fine, huh?” she says. “You don’t lie very well.”

It’s funny how she knows me. I so wish I had the card to give her now. She deserves a card from me.

“I’m just tired,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eye.

“Okay.” She pauses. “Hey, listen, I have something to tell you.”

Uh-oh.

“Remember how I told you that your mom wants to see you, Carley? And that you would be going to visit her?”

“Do I have to go?” I blurt out.

She puts her hand on my back, and I am instantly on my feet. I am surprised at how quick my breathing is. “When?” I ask. “When do I have to go?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine.” I am so worried about how my mother will act toward me.

“Carley.” Her tone reminds me of when she’s talking to her boys. “It’s been a tough day being Mother’s Day, I know. And this visit is a difficult thing. No one would ever say you’re not strong, but you know you don’t have to be all the time.”

My eyelids come down like window shades. I count my breaths.

“It’s okay, Carley. Whatever it is, we can talk it out.”

Her eyes are moist, and she looks like something hurts. I stare at her shoulder.

I know that if I tried to rest my head on her shoulder, it would be okay. But I know I can’t. Hearing the boys laughing downstairs reminds me that she isn’t mine.

Mrs. Murphy picks up a pen on the side table and plays with it. “Well, I’ve had an interesting day. I was in town with the boys.”

I let my breath back out. Slowly.

“We were walking by a bench where an older lady was smoking a cigarette. Michael Eric looked up at me and said, ‘Hey, Mom! Check out this fool smoking a cigarette!’ And he was
loud
. And she was right there.”

I crack up because I can see it so clearly in my head. God, I just love that kid.

Mrs. Murphy points at me. “Yeah, sure! Easy for you to laugh! I was horrified. She looked at me like I was the worst mother this side of the planet.”

“Well, she must have been a fool then.”

Her expression softens again, so I kill the moment quickly. “Hey! You were a teacher. I have a question. You know that book
The Giving Tree
?”

“Sure. I’ve read it to my classes and to all of my sons. Many times.”

“Why would you want to teach anyone a lesson like that?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, that you should just give people whatever they ask for and never expect anything in return? Like if a friend just kept
coming and asking for stuff and never even said thank you. It just seems like a book about a selfish jerk and a sucker. Who’d have friends like that?”

“Well, Carley.” I can see she measures her words. “That book is about unconditional love. You know, loving no matter what. Giving completely of yourself because it makes you happy to give, not because you expect anything in return. It’s about loving someone more than yourself. And you’ll notice that the tree doesn’t mind.”

“The tree is just dumb.”

“Well, not really. But it isn’t so much about friendship; I agree with you on that.”

“What do you mean? You agree with me, but you don’t agree with me? I don’t get it.”

“Carley, honey. It’s about unconditional love.” She hesitates before finishing. “
The Giving Tree
is about a mother’s love for her child.”

I step back against the wall again.

M
y mother’s room smells like a mixture of rubbing alcohol and floor cleaner. The walls have cheery yellow and blue stripes and, I guess, are supposed to convince you that you’re happy to be here.

My mother’s face is so white that it seems dusted with powdered sugar. It is also thin and, as I walk up to her bed, I am afraid to touch her. I bend over to see if her chest rises and falls with each breath. I open my mouth to say her name, but all I get is a squeak. She opens her eyes.

“Carley Cake,” she whispers.

“Hi, Mom. How do you feel?” The irony of the question winds through my head.

She reaches out to me with an open hand. Just like she did that night. The night I thought she was reaching for help.

My chest aches when she begins to sing. Raspy. Slow.

I see the words as she sings them. I realize that
pals
spelled backward is
slap
.

“How’s my girl?” she says with a voice that reminds me of Mrs. Murphy.

There’s a feeling, deep down, that shoots up through the middle of me. I try to shove it down, but it wants to come no matter what I think of it. The way she talks all nice and calls me “Carley Cake.” It
sounds
the way it should, but it doesn’t
feel
the way it should.

I want to tell her never to call me that again. That she doesn’t deserve it. But instead, I sit down, put my palms together and stuff them in between my knees. We’re both quiet for a while. I can feel it. Two broken hearts and neither one knows how to fix anything.

She stares. I can’t sit still.

“What?” I finally ask.

“You. You look so different. Your hair. It looks nice fixed that way. And those clothes. I hardly recognize you.”