Three Little Words

  I sat on a stool and asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Many places,” she replied. “Like you, I have had several families.”

  She browned some onions, then rubbed a big nut on a grater. “What’s that?”

  “Nutmeg. It grows on Grenada, the island where I was born.” The fragrant steam was more exotic than anything from the Merritts’ kitchen. “How old are you?” she asked as she added chicken pieces.

  “Almost nine. My birthday’s next month.”

  “When I was your age, my mother went to another island.”

  “Did you miss her?”

  “Yes, very much.” Mrs. Chavez poured some dry rice into a pot and added water.

  When it was ready, she called the others to the table. Two of Mrs. Chavez’s children-Madeline, eighteen, and Mario, sixteen-were still at home. Her eldest daughter, Mercedes, was away at college. Everyone seemed to talk loudly and at once.

  “Is everything okay?” Madeline asked when she saw me pushing my food around.

  “Yes,” I said meekly. “I was just wondering what the rules are here.”

  “We respect each other,” Mrs. Chavez said. “We don’t go outside without permission; we keep our room and belongings tidied up.”

  “What about food?”

  “Nobody goes hungry in my house.”

  When Mrs. Chavez started to clear the table, I carried my plate into the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Ashley,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Oh, it will be great around here for the first few weeks. I’ll be very polite and sweet. After that, everything will go downhill and you will send me away.”

  “Why is that?” Mrs. Chavez asked.

  “Because that’s how it always happens.”

  Violet Chavez tilted her head. “We’ll see.”

  She enrolled me in third grade at Boyette Springs Elementary School. Because I was excellent at jump rope, the “in” sport at the time, I made friends quickly. My teacher, Mrs. Lovelace, sent me to take some tests in the guidance office. Eventually, a letter arrived saying that I had been accepted to a magnet school for gifted children.

  When I found out that Mrs. Chavez had accidentally left the letter at the salon where she worked as a manicurist, I was livid. “You go find that letter right away!” I ordered.

  “Don’t disrespect me!” Mrs. Chavez replied sternly.

  “But I have to go to that school or my life will be ruined!”

  “That’s for your caseworker to decide.”

  Violet Chavez went all out for my ninth birthday. She baked a Barbie cake with a skirt of pink and blue icing and wrote Happy Birthday Ashley in loopy script. This was the first birthday party I had ever had.

  After the meal there were organized games. Madeline filled water balloons to toss and handed out raw eggs, which we kids were going to pass under our chins. One of the girls, a blonde named Amelia, was wearing a plaid dress. When it came time for the outside games, Amelia complained, “I can’t get my dress dirty.”

  “You can borrow something of Ashley’s.” Mrs. Chavez loaned her the striped shirt that had had the buttons torn off at Lake Mag.

  “You can’t wear that,” I snarled. “My mother gave it to me.”

  “Don’t be a party pooper.” Madeline tossed me a water balloon.

  I knew the Chavezes were trying to make me feel welcome, yet I also knew the day would come when their hospitality would end suddenly and I would find my stuff in garbage bags again.

  I had been living at the Chavez home for only a few days when Mary Miller called to check on me. Mario answered the phone and told her that his mother was running errands.

  “Hi, Ashley. How are you?” Mary asked when he put me on the phone.

  “Good. I like it here.”

  “When’s Mrs. Chavez coming back?” Her voice was tense.

  “Oh, soon.” I answered her questions as quickly as I could because one of my favorite television shows, Full House, was on. Later I learned she complained that a teenage boy was supervising me, which was against regulations.

  After school I attended day care at L’il Ranchers. I didn’t like it because I did not know anyone and there was no point in trying to make new friends when I moved so often.

  I was sitting motionless on a swing when I looked up and saw Mary Miller coming my way with long, purposeful strides. She took the empty seat beside me. “How high can you go?” she asked.

  I kept my eyes on the clouds as I pumped back and forth so I could avoid anything I did not want to see or hear. I gave one-word answers to her inquiries about school.

  When she paused, I asked the only question that mattered: “When am I going to live with my mother again?”

  “You aren’t going to.” Her voice was both tender and firm.

  “Why?” The word felt like a pebble lodged in my throat.

  “Because she can’t take care of you.”

  “Ever?” came out in a frog’s croak.

  “No, Ashley, not ever.”

  I kicked the hollow of dirt under the swing without daring to look down. “Then, who will?”

  “We will find a family who wants to care for you forever.”

  I twisted in my seat. “What about Luke?”

  “We will find a family who wants both of you.”

  “When is that going to happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary replied. “But it will happen.” I pushed harder with my foot, kicking up dust. “What sort of family would you like?” Mary asked.

  Until that moment, I had never allowed myself any dream other than going home with my mother. The breeze caught my hair as I pumped the swing higher. After a few long arcs, I braked hard with both feet. I thought for a moment, then swiveled my seat to face Mary. “I want a big house with two stories, lion statues to guard the front door, and a bedroom that I don’t have to share with anyone. I want a canopy bed and a hammock for lots of stuffed animals. I want all my dolls back and even more and lots of clothes for them and for me. And dogs, including a female who has puppies, so I can have one of my own.”

  “What about Luke?”

  “Oh, he can come too, but he has to live in the doghouse.”

  “What sort of parents do you want?”

  “I don’t care, as long as they are not like the Mosses.”

  A worker took me to see Dr. Wolfe, a psychiatrist, who asked the same questions the other doctors had. Once again, the diploma seal over the doctor’s left shoulder made for a good visual target. I did not care if he knew I was not looking at him, because even if I said I knew the difference between truth and lies, he would not believe me. When he asked whether I had ever been abused, I said I had not, since I knew he wasn’t going to do anything even if I told him about the Mosses.

  “What do you do when you feel sad?” he asked.

  “I read my Bible.” I thought the Merritts would have liked that answer.

  “When was your saddest time?” he asked.

  “When they told me I couldn’t see my mother anymore.”

  “What do you want to do now?” he queried.

  “I want to wear high heels!” I said to change the subject.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A nurse, an artist, and a poet.”

  “And if you had three wishes, what might they be?”

  “To be with my mother, to live in a decent home, and to have plenty to eat.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, because I never had to see him again.

  The rituals I had learned in the prim Seventh-day Adventist service were completely different from the way people worshipped at Mass at the Resurrection Catholic Church, which had a red neon sign and crucifix out front. As soon as we entered the church, we dipped our fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross. I kept mixing up which shoulder to touch first. When we got to the pew, Madeline reminded me: “Forehead, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder, hands together.”

  There
was a lot of standing, then kneeling on the padded rail. I soon learned the Hail Mary. Mostly, I was bored and my mind wandered. I focused on the Virgin Mary statue’s stone-eyed stare and wondered what secret message she might be trying to send me. Both my mother and the Holy Virgin had been teen mothers, so that meant my mother was not all bad. Mary was also the name of my Guardian ad Litem. Maybe Mary Miller was an angel and God did have a plan for me, like Mrs. Merritt had said.

  I asked Madeline’s friend Kyle why some people prayed on Saturday and others on Sunday. “They’re both celebrating the Sabbath, they just interpret which day it is differently,” he responded.

  “Wouldn’t people like each other better if everyone went to the same church?”

  Kyle laughed. “You’re going to grow up to become either the president or a bomb-maker.”

  Mercedes came home for Christmas, and other relatives gathered at the Chavez house. My pile of presents was the largest it had been since being with Adele and Grandpa, although there was nothing from my mother. I received the Polly Pocket pizzeria I had wanted, but I could not enjoy the commotion. The family often spoke in Spanish—sometimes purposefully when they didn’t want me to know what was going on. They referred to various saint’s days that had significance to members of the family, but none related to me. They didn’t seem concerned about spending hours lying in the sun, because their olive skin only burnished and became more radiant, while mine either freckled or fried. They hugged one another at each hello or good-bye, but since they knew I didn’t like to be touched, they avoided me. I was an outsider by race, religion, culture—and blood.

  Even so, Madeline often went out of her way to be kind. She knew I hated after-school day care. If her community-college classes were finished early, she would pick me up before her mother got home from the nail salon in Tampa. During strawberry season Madeline would stop at a farm stand and buy me my own pint of juicy berries.

  I was sitting on the kitchen stool eating some fresh berries when the phone rang. “Oh, hello,” Mrs. Chavez said in the higher-octave voice she reserved for her nail clients. She turned to me. “Ashley, one of your foster mothers wants you to spend the weekend. Would you like to go?”

  I thought it was Mrs. Merritt. “I guess,” I said, because I had not seen Luke since Christmas vacation.

  “She’d love to come, Mrs. Moss,” Violet Chavez replied. I shook my head vehemently and mouthed No! but she ignored me. “Okay, I’ll have her ready for Miles in the morning.”

  “That’s the horrible lady who was mean to us!”

  “She sounds very nice, and she said her daughter is anxious to see you again.”

  “I won’t go!”

  “I think your brother is there.”

  “Luke is with the Merritts.”

  “He left their home right after Christmas.”

  “Mary Miller would never have allowed him to go back to the Mosses!”

  Madeline came in the kitchen. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Ashley has been invited to visit one of her old foster families.” Mrs. Chavez smiled slyly. “Maybe we’ll go to Disney for the weekend while she’s gone.”

  I ran to my room and slammed the door. So, this was their way of getting rid of me! I did not mind leaving—what else was new?—but how could they send me back to that witch, who, in my nightmares, baked her for-show cookies out of foster children.

  In the morning Mrs. Chavez handed me Mario’s gym duffel. “This should be all you need for one night.”

  One night! I felt reprieved. I tossed my oldest clothes in the bag, just in case the Mosses decided to keep any of my outfits.

  Mr. Ferris tried to be friendly, but I scowled the whole way there. I had one bright thought: I might be able to get back my dolls, radio, and Easy-Bake oven. As I started spotting recognizable landmarks, I felt as though I were watching an all-too-familiar horror movie, but the creepy scenes still made me jump. The Mosses’ mailbox was overgrown with an even heavier layer of bottle green lichen than before. The trees draped in Spanish moss were even spookier, the brambly bushes thicker, the hairy vines more twisted. The trailer was seedier than I remembered, and the babies’ play area was a mucky mess. The smell of wet cow and pig manure permeated my pores. I had returned to hell.

  “See you Sunday,” Mr. Ferris said heartily. As soon as I shut the car door, he sped off. If I had not kept my bag on my lap for the ride, he would have left with it.

  I took a deep breath, walked up the cement steps, and knocked on the off-kilter screen door. Mrs. Moss peered over my head. “Did Miles leave already?” she asked in the silvery tone she used to charm caseworkers.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I responded with a quavering voice.

  “Too bad. I baked a treat for him.” She stepped outside. “Ashley, I want to ask you one question.” She was still talking in the phony cadence, but her gaze was steely. “Remember all those nasty things you said about us? They weren’t true, right?”

  I squirmed and tried to find a point to steady my gaze, but my eyes blurred. My pulse pounded. I had not been so fearful since the last time I had been there. Was an investigator in the house waiting for me to change my story again? Even if one was not, Mrs. Moss could do whatever she wanted to me for the next two days. I would not give her the satisfaction of falsely apologizing aloud, so I stared at the doorsill and shook my head.

  “Good, I didn’t think so. Come on in and get settled. It’ll be just like old times.”

  Nothing much had changed in more than a year, although the rooms seemed smaller and more cluttered. The air still smelled of wet cigarettes and ammonia. As if they were a part of the dÉcor, punished children faced each corner. Mr. Moss was planted in his recliner, smoking and staring at the television screen.

  Mandy came around the corner shyly. “Hi,” she said. Her face was thinner and her hair was wispy.

  “Would you girls like some milk and cookies?” Mrs. Moss asked.

  I was caught off guard. Maybe she was going to treat me like a guest so I would report that everything was fine. Mandy, who was even more skittish than I remembered, was reluctant to sit at the table, but in a few minutes we were enjoying the snack.

  I looked around. Mandy’s brother, Toby, was still there, as were Lucy and Clare, who occupied two of the corners.

  “Where’s Luke?” I asked.

  “Oh, that guardian of yours didn’t like him staying here, so they took him to some shelter” Mrs. Moss’s raspy tone had returned in full force.

  “Lake Mag?” I worried that Luke would get picked on in that rough-and-tumble place.

  “They don’t tell me those things.” Mrs. Moss went to watch television.

  I passed Mandy my last cookie, and she smiled in gratitude. “We don’t have time-outs where I live now,” I boasted.

  “You’re lucky,” Mandy murmured.

  Mrs. Moss jumped out of her seat as if she had sat on a hot coil. She grabbed Mandy’s arm and pinched it hard. “Remember, Mandy, you’re mine now, and I can beat the shit out of you anytime I want.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mandy said. Panic creased her face, and she looked more like a frightened old lady than a girl of ten.

  “Take Ashley to the new girls’ room,” Mrs. Moss ordered. “I need to keep my eyes on these bad children.” She flicked her multi-ringed fingers on the shoulder of the kid in the closest corner. He twitched, then resumed his position.

  Trembling slightly, I slung Mario’s gym bag over my shoulder and started down the hall to the girls’ room. Mandy indicated the other direction. We walked out the sliding glass door and into the shed where we used to pick out clothes. It had been converted into another bedroom. The Little Mermaid sheets were the same, and I wondered when they had last been washed. Mandy said that I could have the top bunk next to hers. “They took the safety rails off,” she pointed out. “The rules are different because we’re adopted now.”

  “I hope they don’t want to adopt me!” I blurted.

  After a better-
than-average meal of spaghetti and fruit salad, I changed into my pajamas. I thought I had put my toothbrush in one of the gym bag’s side pockets. When I fumbled for it, I pulled out a small foil square that had a transparent back. Inside was a hard rubber ring with a slippery center. “Look what I found.” I showed it to Mandy.

  “Open it,” she prodded with a giggle.

  I ripped the package. “Ick! Why is it so gooey?”

  “It’s for boys!” Mandy said. “You shouldn’t have opened it.”

  “You told me to!”

  “You’d better hide it,” Mandy warned.

  “You never get in trouble for telling the truth,” I said, parroting Mrs. Merritt.

  Mandy lurked in the shadows as I approached the house. “Ma’am,” I said to Mrs. Moss as I interrupted the television show. “I found something that didn’t belong to me and opened it by mistake.” I handed her the flaccid tube.

  Mrs. Moss’s eyes almost exploded. “Where did you get a condom?”

  So, this was a condom! The Lake Mag girls had mentioned them, yet I had never seen one. I made sure to stare directly in her eye so she would believe me. “I found it in my bag and wanted to see what it was.”

  “If it wasn’t yours, why did you open it?” She saw Mandy slinking in the doorway. “Mandy, did you have anything to do with this?”

  “Ashley just showed it to me,” Mandy’s voice wavered.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Ashley Rhodes.” Mrs. Moss shook her head as if writing me off. “Throw that in the trash and go to bed. If I hear another word, I’m separating you two.”

  I was happy to comply. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner Sunday would come and I could leave. I was not really even angry with Mandy, who had urged me to open it and then lied to save her skin. She had to do what was necessary to survive.

  When Mr. Ferris arrived the next day, the condom was in a plastic bag. Mrs. Moss waved it at him as evidence. “She brought it on purpose!” Mrs. Moss said with disgust. “She showed everyone how it’s used—even the little ones!” Her tone changed to phony concern. “That child needs help. You know the first thing she told me when she arrived? She said, ‘I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble by telling those lies about you.’ Then she comes into my home and throws this in my face!”