The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel (31 page)

For once, he doesn’t drag out the usual dusty lecture about “respect.” He just shakes his head and shuffles away, leaving me to my own pathetic company.

T
hat night, I don’t sleep at
all. I get up and walk circles in my room. I take off my pj’s and open my window to let in the stars, the moon, the cold night air. Ben Franklin, or maybe it was George Washington, one of those founding father dudes, said that if you can’t sleep, you should strip naked and stand before an open window. Then, when you get back into your warm bed, you go right to sleep. Doesn’t work for me, though. Sorry, Ben.

For one thing, I’m too
hungry
to sleep. Even the cold soup congealing on my nightstand looks like a feast. But I refuse to eat until I figure out why I chase away everyone I care about. Will I end up in my own castle somewhere, walking around with a face like the Bug? Or will I turn out like my mother—another victim straight out of a made-for-TV movie? I’m not sure which possibility scares me more.

Around three I realize I’m probably going through the same thing Gustavo Silva did after my visit. The pacing. The horrifying look into my own black heart. Out of nowhere, I’m desperate to read his letter one more time. I go to the metal waste basket where I turned it to ash, looking for something—a scrap that survived my bonfire of fear and anger. I’m looking for the wisdom of “the hole” encapsulated in one secret message meant just for me. But the only piece I manage to dig out contains the words “offered to drive”—obviously referring to the doctor.

Okay, I admit it. I’m sleep deprived, hungry, and overdosing on self-pity, but I take this as a sign. Something like a divine message. The words that survived my fire are clearly telling me that I have to go to the prison and see the priest one more time. After all, the good doctor did
offer to drive.

Without further thought, I go downstairs and pull out the phone book. Hallett Costa, M.D., 535 ½ Commercial Street, Provincetown, is not hard to find. I pour myself a mixing bowl full of Cheerios and milk, gulp it down, and dial. I know 4 a.m. is not the best time for a phone call, but if I wait for the perfect time I’ll change my mind.

The phone rings about ten times before the doctor picks up, sounding sleepy and disconcerted—and just a little scared—the way people always do when a ringing phone slices the night in two.

“Hello?” she says. “Hallie Costa here.”

“It’s me, Doc. Mila Cilento. Remember? You made a house call on me today?”

The line goes completely silent.

“Señora? You there?”

“It’s four-oh-eight in the morning. Could you tell me the reason for this call? And, Mila? It better be good.”

“From what I understand there’s visiting hours this Saturday at the prison. I was thinking you could pick me up—say, around two-ish?”

“Oh, is
that
what you were thinking? Well, what I was thinking is something I wouldn’t say to a child,” she says before she slams the phone in my ear.

A
child
? Excuse me?

But even though she obviously isn’t too impressed with my character, I’m very impressed with hers. In fact, I’m so impressed that I’m sure she’ll show up at two o’clock sharp. I don’t know her very well, but I can already tell that she’s one of those people who always come through. I mean, she’s still running errands for her old boyfriend.

After that, I have another big bowl of Cheerios. Then I go upstairs and sleep like a baby—as if I’ve got something resolved, though I’m not sure exactly what it is.

Chapter 34

dear ava,

i seem to have lost my last friend in the world so once again i’m left with u, good old dead mom. that’s right: e hasn’t spoken to me in 4 whole days—not since i told him to go fuck himself. he walks right past me in school without even a glance in my direction, dragging his 50 pound pack of books on his back.

seriously, i wish u could have met e. not to brag, but all my life people have been telling me i’m pretty smart. my guidance counselor even said i’d probably make valedictorian if i weren’t so antisocial. but next to e, i’m practically a moron. he’s hot, too, tho he does have this acne problem, not to mention being totally skinny. ok, so probably, no one else in the entire world wd call him hot, but he’s got great black hair & these incredible navy blue eyes. i even like the slouch he got from carrying around all those books.

don’t get me wrong. it’s not like i’m in love with e, but if i was ever in this lifetime going to fall in love, it would be w/ someone like him. someone w/ character and a brain in his head. not an old man who hasn’t smiled since lincoln was president. no offense, but how could u? i suppose the answer is obvious. the bug’s, well, a BUG w/ a nasty temper, but he was rich enough to build a castle around u.

after the letters i sent to u last yr, i made a vow i would never write to u again. for one thing, if anyone found out i was carrying on a correspondence w/ my departed mother, they’d probably lock me up. and besides, how long can u keep up a one-sided conversation w/ someone u don’t even know?

let’s face it, ava: i slipped thru yr body to life & air, but since then, u’ve never been much of a mother. that may sound harsh, considering the circumstances, but i doubt we were ever very close. all i know of u is the soft feeling of yr pajamas when i wear them to bed & yr european featherbed. i know how the sun filters thru yr gauzy curtains in the morning, gently waking me up. sometimes i even picture u in that delicious bed feeling the same delicate sunlight on yr face & i wonder what u were thinking about the last time u slept there. was it the priest w/ the gorgeous eyes?

i guess that’s the real reason i’m writing to u. i wanted u to know i’m going to see him again. don’t worry, tho. our secrets are safe—both the big one we share and the smaller one i told u about the last time i wrote. i know it’s pathetic, but if i shared them with anyone—even e washburne—it would cut the last—the only—thread that connects us as mother & daughter.

mila

After I finish the letter, I tell Eileen I’m going shopping. In Eileen’s eyes, shopping is the safest, most normal thing I do. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. I’m such a shopping addict that when I come home weighed down with bags, I know exactly how a heroin addict feels when the needle first pops the skin. It’s like totally letting go and exhaling a huge satisfying
Yessss!
Tell me how healthy that is.

The good thing about being with E is that on some days he makes me totally forget about the shopping rush. E hates “consumerism” and video games, texting, and practically every other thing that normal kids do. What he likes to do after school is to take the B bus to Hyannis, pick up some coffee at Dunky’s, and hang out on the village green with the street people.

On this day, however, I seriously need to go to the mall. Eileen drops me off near the Macy’s entrance. As I walk toward the heart of the complex, my sense of mission takes over. I need something totally provocative to wear to the prison on Saturday. My intention is to press every button on Dr. Costa’s keyboard. It takes me an hour of intense hunting before I find exactly what I want: a skirt that is about a foot long, a pair of stilettos that make my calves muscle up, and one of those little shirts that rattled him the last time. The whole effect is very un-Frida, and I personally don’t like it. But that’s okay, cause it’s not for me, anyway.

W
hen I clomp downstairs the next
day in my prison-visiting ensemble, a familiar little furrow appears between Eileen’s brows. “New clothes?”

“Yeah, I’m meeting a couple of girls from school,” I say, pulling out my high-powered ammo.

“Really?” The furrow irons itself out. “Well, I suppose that’s how kids your age dress.” Her voice is still doubtful, but I know she’s not about to do anything to jeopardize my chance of making friends.

I’m almost out the door, my red purse in hand, when she is assailed with one final concern about her job security. “That skirt is
awfully
short, Mila. I don’t know what your father—”

“Dad’s already seen it,” I say, then give her a fluttery little
see-ya!
wave, and slide out before she has the chance to call the Bug and check out the veracity of my statement.

The truth is the Bug would probably freak the way he does when he’s forced to deal with any hint that I might be a sexual being. He acts like he doesn’t even know I have my period yet. Once when I asked him to pick up some Tampax, he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, and ended up embarrassing us both.

Anyway, it isn’t two yet when I set off down the street in my cute little skirt and my red bag to wait for the doctor’s car. By two-fifteen, I’m starting to get pretty cold standing out in the wind in a skirt that barely covers my ass. It’s April, but spring comes late on the Cape, if at all. Usually, the gray old winter drags into May, and then
bam
! It’s straight into tourist season. So I’m practically
shaking
from the cold—and, okay, I admit it, I’m a little nervous, too. I mean, the doctor didn’t actually say she was coming. In fact, she made it pretty clear she never wanted to see me again.

By the time her car rounds the corner, I’m glad to see her—though I do my best to look nonchalant—like I just got there, too. She pulls up and looks me up and down like she’s deciding whether or not I’m good enough to get into her cheesy car.

“Nice outfit.” She pops the lock so I can climb in. “For a hooker.”

“Ba-da-boom,” I say. Then I turn on the radio to let her know I have no intention of making conversation.

After a while, it’s like she forgets I’m there. At first, I find her obliviousness a little insulting, but then I realize, she’s thinking about
him.
She’s got that fizzy, distracted look you get when you have a
boy
on your mind. It’s so bad I consider asking her to pull over so I can give her the benefit of my not-quite-sixteen-year-old wisdom. I’ve already got my three-point lecture ready to go:

1.  From what I’ve read in the paper, you were the lucky one. You got away. You ought to respect that.

2.  If you want to meditate on something while you drive, think about the one who isn’t here. She’s everywhere, and nowhere. She sits between us in the car. She’s in the fields we pass. You can ignore her if you want (believe me, I’ve tried) but she’s always there.

And 3. Jeez! You’re like thirty-five already! Aren’t you a little
old
for this crap?

A
ll of that is way too
personal, though, so the two of us implicitly agree to ignore one another and occupy ourselves with whatever’s rattling around in our own heads for the rest of the ride. But once we get there, she starts acting all motherly. She gets so pissed at the way some of the guards are looking at me that she gives them this hard, focused look. I really can’t describe it, but somehow it works. Oh, they still look at me—her, too. Even if she’s old and doesn’t make much of an effort, she’s still a stunner. But no one dares to come near us or say anything nasty like they did the first time I came. I’d never admit it, of course, but it feels kind of nice to be, well,
protected.

We revert to ignoring each other again during the long wait. When they lead me into the visitor’s room, I’m surprised when she gets up and follows. “I know this is your visit, but I just want to say hello,” she says, trying to act like it’s no big deal. As if I can’t see her hands are shaking when she opens the door. She steps into the corner, and allows me to sit in the chair facing the glass.

When Gustavo Silva is finally brought into the visiting room, it’s nothing like the last time. That day I had his full attention. Now all he sees is her. And though it’s obvious that she’s trying to keep it together, she can’t. She doesn’t gasp, or collapse, or even cry, but from ten feet away, I can feel her doing all those things inside. It reminds me of the first time I visited. All I had to go on was a photograph from the newspaper, but I was pretty shocked by how much he’d aged. And well, just
how
he’d aged.

Finally, he picks up his receiver. “Hello, Mila,” he says. “Would you mind if I talked to Hallie for a minute?”

I quickly pass her the grimy phone and stand aside, feeling seriously pissed.

He does all the talking. Every time she tries to speak, he looks at her with so much love or forgiveness or
whatever
that it’s just embarrassing. He covers his mouth so I can’t see what he’s saying into the phone, but it must be pretty intense because she can’t keep it back anymore. She starts to cry. Or maybe he just has that effect on people. At one point, he reached out and touched the glass with his hand, which earned him a rebuke from the guard.

For a minute I almost feel something like
jealousy
on behalf of my mom. I mean, I still hate her, but my mother obviously loved this psychopath so much she put everything on the line for him—including me. And here is the guy looking at the doctor like she’s the sun and the moon. I clear my throat to remind them that they’re not exactly alone.

The priest says something else, and then the doctor asks if she could visit again some time. Alone. Apparently he agrees, because she mouths the words “thank you.” Then she hands the phone to me.

By that time, I’m breathing fire. I mean, what is she thanking him for? For ruining her life? Or mine? Or probably every life he ever touched?

“I noticed a coffee shop a few miles back. I’m going to go and grab a cup,” she tells me in a shaky voice. “When you’re ready, I’ll be parked in the same area.”

“Wait,” Gus says. He’s talking to me, but he is looking directly at her. And she at him. “Before she goes, there’s something I need to give to her.” He signals a guard, who promptly unlocks the door and without a word hands the doctor a brown paper bag.

So I admit it; I’m curious. What in the world could a guy doing life have to give to anyone? Some cute little keepsake he made in the prison shop, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s so familiar to Hallie that she seems to recognize it by its weight. She shakes her head and insists she doesn’t want it even before she reaches in and pulls out—drum roll here—some ancient
book
? I squint to read the title on the spine:
David Copperfield.
Are you kidding me?

“That book has been with me since I was nine,” Gus says into the phone, and this time I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to her, or just to himself. “It was the only thing I took with me when I entered the seminary.”

“Maybe you should tell
her
that.” By then, I’m seriously confused at what all the intensity is about. I mean, it’s just a book, right? It’s not the Bible.

I’m about to hand her the phone when Gus speaks up emphatically. “No.
Please.
Just tell her.”

The only reason I do it is because I’m starting to feel sorry for the poor doctor. The last thing I want is for her to start bawling again.

“With all the time I’ve had on my hands, I read it again,” Gus says. “It was almost as good as the first time.”

And then, before I can do my parrot routine, she speaks directly to him. “Gus, I
can’t
take that back.”

Though he doesn’t respond, it’s obvious that he’s read her lips. “Well, I can’t keep it here anymore. I don’t want to keep it here.”

I don’t need to repeat that either, because whether Hallie deciphered the words or not, she understands something I don’t. She stares at him for a long, probing moment.

Finally, she clutches the book to her chest. “Okay, then,” she says. Just that—after all the drama.
Okay, then?
But somehow she manages to infuse those two words with more heartbreak than a whole book could hold. It’s so bad that even
I
feel like crying. Then she turns toward the guard and walks out without looking back or even saying goodbye. I’ve got to admit, I kind of admire that.

A
fter she’s gone, I’m overcome with
this crazy anxiety—like all of a sudden I don’t really want to be alone with this guy, especially after the scene I just witnessed. It doesn’t even matter that a guard is watching every move he makes. At first he keeps looking at the door, like he’s expecting Sun and Moon to walk back in, or like he can’t believe all that light shined on him, even for a minute.

Then he turns his full focus on me, and I wish she’d stayed—even if I
am
just a little bit jealous. It’s as if my skin is transparent and he can look straight through my chest and see my ugly little heart pumping blood and ruin through my body.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it was rude to stare?”

“My mother died before she had time to teach me much—just like yours did. I guess that makes us both rude orphans.”

“Speak for yourself,” I snap, feeling a weird twinge inside. Then, since neither of us can think of a follow-up, we just sit there. Two minutes seem like two days. I don’t exactly back down, but he still wins. His eyes give off so much heat that I feel like I’ve been singed.

“In your letter, it sounded like you’d had some great spiritual experience after I visited you,” I finally say.

“You could call it that. The night after I denied God, the glacier that had formed inside me over the last ten years turned to water. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sorry for anything in my life as I felt for saying those words.”