If You Find Me

  The first bag is full of so many colors, I can’t even name them all. I most definitely can’t call the first items “undergarments,” because the plain word dishonors the silky beauty of the pretty colors and patterns. There are matching bras to go along with them, some with small cups and some that remind me of tank tops cut in half. I glide my fingers over the material as Melissa pulls out packs of socks, some colored, some white, some up to the calf, some stopping at the ankle. There are even two pairs of panty hose I could swear are made of flesh-coloreds piderwebs.

  Another bag contains a pair of gloves fashioned from the softest material I’ve ever touched—“cashmere,” Melissa says, then explains what cashmere is.

  “Isn’t it the most amazing thing you’ve ever felt?”

  “Right soft.” Gently, I lay my check on the glove, imagining a whole pillow made of the stuff.

  “Do you know what cashmere is?”

  I shake my head no.

  “It’s the silky, fine wool at the roots of the hair of the Kashmir goat.”

  “A goat?”

  “I know. Isn’t the world so interesting?”

  I smile my yes, my attention turned back to the loot, to another pair of hand coverings with a thumb but no separate fingers, made of thick, scratchier material.

  “That’s wool, and it comes from sheep. It’s not as soft, but it’s thick and warm. They’re called ‘mittens.’ It can get pretty cold most winters.”

  She says it like I don’t know, like I don’t know cold the way I do. I like when she forgets. I think of early mornings with my clumsy hands purple as I rubbed Nessa’s little fingers, her skin denting yellow, then glazed-over white as we huddled together in the camper, frostbitten if we weren’t careful, our winter coats buttoned up past our throats, and underneath, sweatshirts, the hoods tied snugly under our chins. We wore two pairs ofjeans apiece, and a spare pair of socks on our hands once the feeling returned to our fingers.

  It was warmer outside in the snow, where we sat on logs around the fire I coaxed to life from coals each morning, and if we had tea bags, we’d drink cups of orange pekoe. There, I could peel off the covering and warm my hands to the point that I could play for Ness, the ghosts of Bach, Vivaldi, Beethoven crouched on the log, the notes sparkling like the icicles hanging from the branches above us.

  Sometimes, Nessa skipped and danced to the music to keep warm, her feet scratching white circles around the fire as I heated the leftover squirrel, hiding the bits of meat in thick beans sweetened with brown sugar, lucky with a few squares of bobbing fat.

  My new clothes don’t smell like wood smoke, and neither does my hair or Jenessa’s anymore. I never thought I’d miss it, but I do . . . in the same way I miss the crisp ceiling of stars and the wanwood leafmeal that made up our floor.

  “Look in the next bag,” Melissa urges, her voice gilded with excitement.

  I unpack two pairs ofjeans, fancy as all get out. Jeans just like Delaney’s.

  “Bedazzled jeans. They’re bedazzled with gems and rhinestones,” she explains as I run my fingers over the glinting swirls and patterns along the bottom of the legs. “Delaney and her friends brought them back into style.”

  Along with a few plain pairs, I count seven pairs ofjeans in all. Seven pairs ofjeans. It’s right unimaginable. My fingers wander over to one pair, washed-out-blue, with a small hole I trace around the knee.

  “Can you believe that’s the in thing? Even in the woods, you were sporting the style,” Melissa says, winking.

  I laugh, startling myself with the sound. But it is funny. All these girls with hot water and warm houses and store-bought clothes wearing washed-out jeans with holes in them.

  The next bag is filled with tops—a few sweater pullovers, a few button-downs made of flannel, also soft in my hands, and some of what Melissa calls “turtlenecks” to wear beneath them. There are more T-shirts, some short-sleeved, some long. My bed is a rainbow for the senses. Melissa leaves and then returns with six packs of hangers in white, pale blue, and pale pink colors.

  We turn to the next bag, the one with the white rectangular boxes. My breath catches in my throat. Box after box is filled with shoes. I pull out a pair of ankle-high boots that look like my dad’s work boots, a pair of white Keds, another pair of sneakers in dark blue with the word Converse and a star on the sides, and a shiny pair of shoes with little heels that look as fancy and wobbly as Mrs. Haskell’s. Another box contains a pair of snappy snow boots with faux fur tufting the tops. I gasp when, from the last box, I pull out a slinky pair of knee-high boots in rich brown leather, so beautiful that my eyes grow as wide as Jennesa’s.

  This can’t be for real. It can’t be all for me. Luck is as rare as butter for Mama, Jenessa, and me.

  “These items should start you off right. Your closet’s going to look the way it should—nice and full. Go in and try something on.”

  Needing no second invitation, I grab a bright purple bra with cups and a matching pair of underpants, a pair of bedazzled jeans, and a long-sleeve T-shirt splashed with flowers melting into different colors down the front. I close the door of the closet behind me.

  My clean, warm toes sink into the plush rug, and I hold my breath as I put my arms through the bra straps, the A cups padded and the tricky clasp taking me a few tries to hook. I turn sideways in front of the mirror. I actually look like I have something up there now. I pull on the underpants, amazed that Melissa sized me so perfectly. I turn back to the mirror, holding my breath, afraid to open my eyes. When I do, I can’t believe the girl staring back at me is me.

  It’s so wonderfully, truly, frightening, but in a good way, like Delaney says.

  I slip on the shirt and jeans, smile shyly at the stranger in the mirror.

  Melissa knocks on the door. “Are you decent?”

  I push the door open without turning, frozen in the looking glass. Melissa clasps her hands and gasps, her eyes on my eyes in the mirror. We stare at the strange girl, the honey-blond hair woven into a thick French braid by her gentle hands that morning, and the large brown eyes blinking in disbelief. The bedazzled jeans flash in the light as I turn left, then right.

  “Look at you, Carey. You’re absolutely gorgeous. You could be a model in a magazine.”

  I can’t take my eyes off myself. Hair clean and styled, no smoke smudges on my nose or cheeks. Hands slender, lotioned, nails clean. My old life kicks within me, but on the surface, the woods are gone. I look like Delaney. Like the girls in the mall parking lot. A brand-new Carey. No one would guess what I did.

  I tear my eyes from Melissa’s as I tear up.

  “Oh honey,” she says. “It’s okay for things to go well for you. It’s about time. Don’t you think?”

  “I reckon.” I duck my head, noting her own white Keds. “Thank you kindly for the clothes. For shopping for me—” My voice cracks, and the sentence melts away. She smiles wide enough for both of us.

  “It’s my pleasure, honey. And hey—”

  I find her eyes again.

  “Thanks for not calling me ‘ma’am.’ ”

  I go back to the girl in the mirror, and I can see it plain as day, like a photo negative of the woods. The girl standing on the rug practices a smile. The mirror girl throbs on the inside. Melissa locks her arms around me, holding me against her. I feel womanly softness against my wing bones and her heartbeat tapping against my back. She rests her chin on my head, her eyes solemn. We both stare at the girl in the mirror, a creature that can’t be fully captured, not even in mirror glass.

  “You deserve all of it, Carey—all of it. You always have.”

  She pauses, seeing me, really seeing me. Like she knows.

  “That girl in the woods is amazing. Don’t you ever stop being that girl in the woods, you hear me? Braids and new clothes can’t take away the best parts of you. You hold on tight to your heritage. That girl in the woods raised a baby, took care of her sister, kept her fed, warm, safe. That girl in the woods is special. Especially o
ut here.”

  I nod, my voice a wavery whisper.

  “Thank you.”

  I hope she knows it’s the girl in the woods who’s thanking her.

  “You’re braver than most girls your age will ever have to be. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  I feel the cool air move in where her warmth used to be, as she walks out of my bedroom to check on Jenessa. She doesn’t have to say so; I know her well enough by now to know that’s where she’s going.

  I walk over to the window, where I see Jenessa smiling and giggling and whispering to Shorty in the field below, bolder when no one’s around. Shorty lies on his back with his legs in the air, grabbing Nessa’s arm in his huge mouth and letting go as she laughs and laughs.

  Melissa walks down the path toward her, and Nessa’s smile grows large enough to swallow the sun. She flies into Melissa’s arms, laughing as Melissa spins her in circles.

  Please don’t let me wake up. Please, Saint Joseph, don’t let this be a dream. Let me have this. Help me to know how to have this. Don’t let us wake up cold and hungry, Jenessa’s eyes begging me to make it better. Please. Never again. I may not deserve it, but Jenessa does.

  Melissa takes Nessa’s hand and they walk across the grass toward the kitchen door, while Shorty tears around, doing what my father calls a “rabbit hop,” streaking ahead and doubling back, like he knows, somehow, these times are special. I know, because I have that same feeling.

  For a moment, I almost forget how the date of my classroom debut’s rapidly approaching.

  “You’ll start on December first, and there’ll only be a few weeks until Christmas break. It’ll give you a chance to dip your feet in the water without being overwhelmed,” Melissa had said, brave enough for both of us.

  I don’t know. I don’t know how it’s going to be. All I know is, if I want to be normal, I’m going to have to work at acting normal. Talking normal.

  Fake it through until I make it true.

  8

  “You have to sit still if you want me to braid your hair like mine.”

  Jenessa is excited to be going into town, and she squirms under my hands. Shorty lies next to her on my bed, pushing her hand with a wet nose each time she stops scratching his back.

  “You girls almost ready?”

  My father peeks in through the open door and grins at the two of us.

  “Yes sir,” I say, braiding a little faster. My fingers trip over a turn and I let that part out, rebraiding the strands so there are no bumps.

  Downstairs, sitting on the couch, my heart beats fast, thinking of those test results. What if we failed? What if we’re stupid for real and they don’t want us anymore?

  “Is she going to be in any of my classes?” Delaney stops to talk to my father on her way to the living room. “She won’t, right, because she’ll be, like, a freshman, and I’ll be a sophomore. Better yet, if they keep her back a grade, we’ll be in two separate schools,” she adds, perking up at the thought.

  “Mrs. Haskell will let us know. I haven’t seen the test results yet myself.”

  My father is clean-shaven and chipper. Chipper: his word. I sneak a longer look at him. He winks back.

  “Sometimes the fourteen-year-olds end up in sophomore English,” Delaney says, fretting. “If she ends up in sophomore English, can she be put in a different period?”

  I don’t know him well enough yet, but I can sense Delaney is wearing on his last nerve.

  “She’s your sister, Delaney. You’d think a girl would want to help her sister,” my father says.

  Delaney glares at him.

  “She’s not my sister! She’s not even my real half sister. If Mom had let me keep my bio father’s name, no one at school would even know—”

  “They’re registered under their mother’s maiden name. So your secret is safe. Go clean up your room, Del. Your mom said it’s a disaster area.”

  It’s a voice I hope he never has reason to use on me.

  “Ashley is having everyone over for study group. I go every Thursday afternoon, and stay for dinner. You know that.”

  “You can do your homework here tonight, in your room.”

  “That’s so unfair! Mom!”

  I watch Melissa through the window glass, raking leaves.

  “Life’s unfair. Now, march!”

  Nessa shrinks against me when Delaney stomps by, her nostrils flaring like the devi l himself. I glare right back at her. I’ve seen scarier things in the woods. So has Ness.

  I think of my father’s words, saying we’re sisters. I hadn’t given it much thought, nor had I framed it that way in my mind.

  But he’s right. Only, we’re stepsisters, like Melissa said. We share no blood.

  “C’mon, Ness. I don’t want to make us late.”

  Nessa follows me outside, with Shorty bringing up the rear. Melissa holds the hound by the collar, where he pulls and whines and complains in a chortling howl.

  “Not today, old man. You can ride with me tomorrow,” my father says, affection smoothing his words.

  The drive to Mrs. Haskell’s office is quick, now that we know the way. We sit in the waiting room, Nessa flipping through a picture book, The Tiptoe Guide to Fairies, from the rack on the wall. I wonder if she misses the wood fairies, the only friends she’s ever had, besides me.

  “Hello, folks. Come on in.”

  Jenessa runs up for her hug. Mrs. Haskell gulps the rest of her coffee and gets right to the point.

  “You will be pleased to know that both girls scored out of their age groups, Mr. Benskin. Jenessa, going by your age, you should be in first grade. You’ve tested as a second-month third grader.”

  I beam at Ness, who smiles sweetly, not grasping the terms but knowing it’s something right proud. My father slaps his knee and grins.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “You did a great job, Carey, at keeping up both your educations. You, my dear, tested as a solid eleventh grader. Both of you scored two grades ahead of your peers.”

  My father smiles at me now, and I force a grin, my face feeling funny. Especially when I think of Delaney.

  “What does it mean?” I ask, skeptical.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll recommend placing each of you ahead one grade. That way, you won’t be too far out of your age groups. If the material is too easy, we’ll revisit the situation in the future. What’s most important is your social adjustment.”

  She turns to my father.

  “While I believe the girls could keep up academically if they were placed two years ahead, they also need to fit in emotionally. Taking their history into account, and Nessa’s speech impediment, I feel that placing them ahead one grade is a solid compromise. That would be my recommendation to the court.”

  My father nods at her words. We all watch him rub his chin as he continues to grin.

  To my surprise, he turns to me.

  “What do you think, Carey? Sound manageable?”

  I’m not sure what I think. I’m still not finished thanking Saint Joseph that we’re not stupid as a hill of beans after all those years in the woods.

  “I don’t know.” Then I surprise us both. “What do you think we should do?”

  All eyes trail to my leg, which is jiggling wildly.

  “I think Jenessa will be fine starting off in second grade. She’s sophisticated enough. And you’ll do fine as a sophomore. I think the woods matured you, compared to girls with more contemporary upbringings,” he says.

  I jump when he leans over and curls his hand around mine. He gives my hand a squeeze, and then, just as suddenly, lets go.

  “I have no doubts you can handle skipping straight to your sophomore year. There are AP classes if you need more stimulation, and we can always bump you up another grade next year,” Mrs. Haskell says.

  I nod, still unsure.

  “High school is a social experience,” Mrs. Haskell adds. “It’ll give you time to adjust before you have to
start thinking about college.”

  College? It’d always seemed as likely as going to the moon.

  “Then it’s settled,” I say, woods-firm. Perhaps the woods had made us older. I’d just never looked upon it as a good thing. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  I smile at Nessa with all the confidence I can muster.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” Mrs. Haskell says, scrutinizing my face.

  “Yes, ma’am. Ness and I didn’t have much else to do but study. We both like learning, and Ness is right scrappy. Talking or no talking, she can hold her own.”

  “That brings us to the next item on our agenda. Jenessa’s talking, or lack thereof. Carey, you’d mentioned she’d been diagnosed in the past?”

  Nessa stares out the window, zoning out. I betray my sister, letting it look like what it seems—l ike Ness is bored by the grown folks’ talk. My heart speeds up, then slows down. Ness would never give up my secret.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s always been quiet, but she stopped talking a little over a year ago.”

  “Your mother must have been concerned.”

  Annoyed was more like it.

  “When she didn’t start talking again, Mama took her to a speech therapist in town.”

  “So, who are you?”

  Mama waits, her eyes marble-hard.

  “Ness is Robin, like Christopher Robin, and I’m Margaret, from Goldengrove unleavin’.”

  “You girls and your book nonsense. Okay. Robin and Margaret. Your father?”

  “Dead.”

  “Your address?”

  “You answer that. Ness and I talk little as possible.”

  “Good girl,” Mama says, beamin’. “That’s right. Let me do the talkin’.”

  Mrs. Haskell pigeon-scratches on her pad. “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

  “No. But I remember the building—it was gray—and there was a child therapist next door. I remember because we went in that office first, by mistake.”

  Mrs. Haskell turns to my father. “We probably won’t be able to get the records from that visit, but I’m not concerned. I think a speech therapist is a good idea, though. I’d like to recommend once-weekly visits. Since Jenessa has a stable home life with both a mother and a father, I think once a week would suffice.”