One for the Murphys (4 page)

Daniel reappears, and Mrs. Murphy looks up at him. I can see the relief in her face. “I’m glad you’ve come back. Are you ready to apologize?”

“How long is she staying, anyway?” he asks.

“I really don’t know, Daniel. As long as she needs to.”

I suddenly need to go.

“I want her to leave. She isn’t in our family.”

“Daniel.” I sense panic in her voice. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why don’t you sit down and eat something?”

“I don’t want to.”

Daniel glares, and I am surprised at how his words cut me. “Just because your mother doesn’t want you doesn’t mean you can take mine.”

He runs.

And so do I.

I
run out through the garage and into the night. The blast of cold air shocks me. I scramble across the yard, looking back to see if Mrs. Murphy is at the door. She isn’t there. Of course. Why would someone else’s mother care about me?

I sprint up the hill and around the curve of the road, picking up more speed. Every time my socks hit the concrete, pebbles and sticks shoot pain through my feet. But I won’t allow myself to slow down. “Go, Carley,” I say through clenched teeth. “Run. Run away.”

My fingernails dig into my palms. Every time I inhale, my chest aches. But with every pain, every sting, every ache… I only run faster.

Every time my right foot touches the ground, I say, “No.”

No to crying.

No to the Murphys.

No to me.

My body wants to slow down, but I force my legs to move. To speed up while my “No” becomes one long, continuous word—a pleading. A prayer to please make things different.

And just as the pain makes my chest feel like it will explode, there’s no pain at all. Just a blur of things. Cold wind. An orchard. The sound of dried leaves tumbling across the ground. My parched mouth.

I fall. Slowly.

My palms and face rest on the dirt before I fall to my side, curled up like a caterpillar that’s been touched.

I think about my own mother. Could it be that she really doesn’t want me anymore? Is she mad about how I messed with Dennis? Made him so mad.

My mind plays a movie for me. The movie of the night everything tipped upward and all around.

I had been dribbling my basketball. The faded one with no bumps left from constant use.

My mother smelled like vodka when she came in, complaining about me bouncing the ball inside. I wasn’t too surprised when she lunged for it. I jumped to the side and she stumbled, then landed on the floor. She held her leg, her face twisted in pain. “Carley,” she yelled. “You better show me some respect!”

Her new husband, Dennis,
who had been fired as an Elvis
impersonator back in Vegas, came in
wearing his paste-on black sideburns to check on his howling wife.

He asked me what I’d done and I said, “All I did was move out of her way.”

Einstein spoke. “That don’t explain why she’s laying on the floor.”

“Why? Are you the only one who can hit her?” This wasn’t smart to say, but the bruises I had seen on my mother—even before their wedding—made me so mad.

“What I done to her is nothing compared to what I’m gonna do to you,” he said.

My mother watched, groaning as she held her leg.

I ran around the dining room table as he tried to catch me, steadying himself on the table as he went.

“Hey, Dennis. How does one get fired as an Elvis impersonator? Is it because you sing like your foot is caught in a steel trap?” Another dumb thing to say, but I’d decided to egg him on, to really annoy him. Because I had just come up with a master plan to show my mother why she had to leave him.

He lunged at me across the top of the table and I jumped back. If it weren’t for his fat stomach, he might have gotten me.

“I hate you, Dennis. You’re nothing but a loser.”

He slammed his fist on the table, but his voice was quiet and intense. “Too bad I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

My plan suddenly felt like a suicide mission, but I knew that if he hit me, my mother would be angry. One good belt is all I would have to take, and she would tell him to go. Forever.

I was ready.

I held up an imaginary microphone, and I sang “Don’t Be Cruel.”

“I’m gonna shut you up for good, little girl.”

My mother cried out for me, and I moved toward her.

Something clamped around my ankle. I looked down and it was my mother’s hand holding me. She needed my help.

“Mom! What’s wrong? Is it your leg?”

But she didn’t answer. Instead she spoke to Dennis. “Honey, I got her! I got her by the foot!”

M
y face itches. My eyelids flutter. I smell apple juice.

I open my eyes expecting to see a nurse, but instead I see tree branches and a black-velvet sky sprinkled with silver glitter. I am freezing and wonder if I’m finally dead.

I hear my name.

Turning my head, I see Mrs. Murphy and I am confused.

I can still feel my mother’s hand on my ankle and the first hit from Dennis. Harder than I imagined it could be. And then I think how I couldn’t remember anything that happened after that or how my mother landed in the hospital too.

“Carley?” Mrs. Murphy whispers.

My first question surprises me. “Where are the boys?” I mumble.

“They’re fine. I called Jack and asked him to come home.”

I think that she belongs with them and not with me and if she
left me in this orchard forever, I would be happy. I could be the wild girl raised by the apple trees. This would be my excuse for not fitting into society.

“It’s so cold, Carley. Let’s get you home.” She reaches for me.

Home? I don’t have a home. And I can’t believe this woman I don’t even know is reaching for me. I never cry anymore, but with this woman’s open hand in front of me and the memory of my mother’s hands around my ankle, I almost lose it.

It hurts, but I let her pull me up. I stare at my feet as we walk back to the house. Wondering why she cares what happens to me. Relieved we don’t have to talk.

“Let’s get you inside and warm,” she says, opening the front door and stepping inside.

I follow. She closes the door and turns off a bunch of lights that were on outside.

“You have a lot of lights,” I say.

“I had them all on because I was hoping you’d come back.” Her smile is sad, like she’d worried as she turned on those lights.

“Why did you take me in, anyway?” I ask, unable to stand still and suddenly needing an answer.

“Well…” She sighs and puts her hands in her pockets. “I grew up with a friend in foster care. She really had a tough time, and I’ve never been able to shake her stories… And when I grew up, I wanted to help kids. That’s how I ended up in teaching.” She bites her lip. “Jack and I talked about taking in a needy child before, but we thought we’d wait until our own were much bigger.”

Needy child
. I don’t like either word.

“But it had been on my mind, so I dropped by the foster care office just to get some information. I was curious about the kinds of kids there are.”

Kinds of kids? Sounds like she’s shopping for dishes.

“Well, I was sitting there in the office with this huge binder of children—so many of them, Carley…”

She heads into the kitchen, and I follow her.

“. . . and feeling like I should do something. And then Mrs. MacAvoy comes in spitting nails about a kid she’d just met at the hospital. I could hear only some of what she said, but what I overheard was… well… pretty funny, actually.”

I half smile.

“The thing is, she kept referring to you as ‘Connors,’ and so I assumed you were a boy. But there was just something. Some vibe. I wanted to help a kid with… personality, you know? A kid with some fight in them.”

“So I can hit somebody?” I say, sitting in a chair. “Because, to tell you the truth, I would really like to hit somebody.”

She takes a deep breath. “I understand, Carley, but no, you can’t. But I don’t blame you for feeling that way. I meant
fight
as in determination.” She looks at me in a suspicious kind of way. “But I have a feeling you knew that.”

I look up at her. “Sometimes you
need
to fight, you know. Even if you don’t want to.”

She nods slowly and says, “I understand.”

But somehow I just don’t see her as someone who knows real fighting. Fighting for her probably means getting the last sirloin steak at the grocery store.

“Can I get you something to eat? Are you thirsty?” she asks.

I realize that the last four letters in “Julie” are “u lie.”

I stand, feeling like I suddenly have to give back all the nice things she’s done. “Do you want your coat back?”

She shakes her head. Seems confused. I take off her coat and hand it to her even though she’d let me keep it. She offers to make me hot chocolate, which I want but can’t seem to say yes to. She tries to be nice, making conversation, but it makes me distrust her all the more. It just doesn’t make any sense to me as to why she would care whether I live or die.

After all…

My own mother doesn’t.

O
fficially, this is my fourth day in captivity. I have started keeping the tally on the back of that dumb hero sign. One good thing, though. Mrs. Murphy has cleared some time to take me clothes shopping. In an actual store.

This is a far cry from my mother and I making late-night visits to Salvation Army drop boxes to “shop.” I remember how she’d hand me a flashlight, hoist me into the bins, and then make requests for sizes and specific colors like I was sitting in there with a doting saleslady and a catalog.

It was cool, though, how we’d go to McDonald’s afterward and my mother would hold up her ice cream as if to toast me. “Carley, what would I ever do without you?” she’d ask.

Back when I was little, I used to wonder why there weren’t lines of people at those bins. I figured my mother must be the most clever mother anywhere.

We get into her car. I feel out of place without fast-food containers to kick out of the way. I am also feeling trapped, being strapped into a seat which puts me eight inches from Mrs. Murphy’s elbow.

“So, what makes Carley Connors unique?” she asks.

I slide my hands under my thighs.

“C’mon, kid. Cough up the goods. Something about
you
.”

She tugs at my insides, and I hate it. “Nothing to tell, really. I was born with two heads, so one was removed by surgeons. Unfortunately, they took the wrong one.”

“Maybe you should have kept it. You’d have made a great referee.”

She laughs, and I figure I’d rather have her laugh at my jokes than have to tell her anything real. I take a breath. “I’m captain of the Hawaiian downhill skiing team. Oh… I’m also perfecting my recipe for toast.”

She laughs again, and then I hear her add something as if she’s talking to herself and not to me. “What a clip.”

I still like this. I wonder if it has anything to do with guns—the clip that holds the bullets. I would want to be that part.

“You’re a real hot ticket, aren’t you? Now tell me something real about yourself.”

“So, what do you know about me already?”

“I know that you’re pretty sharp.”

Sharp as a marble.

“And I know that you’re a nice girl.” She looks over.

“Nice girl” is about the worst thing you can say about a
person. It says that there’s nothing remarkable. It says that you make no impression whatsoever. My mother has always taught me to make an impression.

“I guess that means you don’t know a thing about me.”

She looks as if she knows the punch line of a joke that no one else does.

I say, “I’m in foster care. Doesn’t that pretty much spell it out?”

She doesn’t look at me but lets out a small laugh. “Hardly.”

The mall is enormous. We quickly join the beehive of people. She picks up a shirt that says
ANGEL
on it; I just about swallow my tongue at the idea of wearing it.

“Oh. Isn’t this cute?” She picks up a different shirt. A striped pink shirt with a white collar and three buttons. She holds it up in front of me. Like I’m ready for a day of golf at the country club.

I back away.

She tilts her head. “It would look wicked good on you, Carley!”

“Wicked good?” I laugh.

“Yeah,
wicked
good. You’re in Red Sox Nation now. Well… close to it, anyway.” She holds the shirt up again. “So? What do you think?”

I usually have no trouble expressing my opinions, but I’m usually with someone who lives on the same planet as me. And I worry. I worry about making her mad. I think of my mother and wonder what she would think of me wearing these clothes.

But living with my mother has also made me a good reader of people; I was trained to see things coming before they actually
do. On the streets of Vegas, I learned how to figure people out—who really wanted directions to a casino and who wanted something else.