The Face of Death

  Cathy turned to him.

  “So you’re saying—what? Don’t give a shit?”

  Santos smiled at her, a sad smile.

  “Care while it’s your problem. That’s what I’m saying. You’re gonna see a hundred Sarahs. Maybe more. Do the right thing for them while it’s your job, and then let it go and move on to the next one. It’s a war of attrition, Jones. Not a single battle.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  But I bet you have a case you could never let go of. I think Sarah’s going to be mine.

  Saying it to herself made Cathy feel better.

  Mine.

  “I’ll be right back,” Cathy said.

  Santos looked at her. He was inscrutable. A sphinx in shades.

  “Okay,” he replied, and sucked on his straw.

  They had parked at a Jack in the Box next to the hospital. Cathy exited the patrol car and walked across the street. She entered through the front doors and wound her way down the hallways to Sarah’s room.

  Sarah was sitting up, looking out the window. The view was of the hospital parking lot.

  How depressing. Way to promote healing, guys.

  “Hey,” Cathy said.

  Sarah turned toward her and smiled. Cathy was struck again by the beauty of the little girl.

  She walked over to Sarah’s bed.

  “I wanted to give you this.”

  Cathy held a business card between her fingers.

  “That’s got my name and number on it. My e-mail address too. If you ever need help with anything, you can get in touch with me.”

  Sarah took the card and examined it before looking back up at Cathy.

  “Cathy?”

  “Yeah, honey?”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  The pain that Cathy had been keeping at arm’s length tried to crawl right up her throat. She fought it back down with a swallow.

  What’s going to happen to you, kid?

  Cathy knew that Sarah had no living relatives. Unusual, but it happened. It meant she was going to become a ward of the state.

  “Someone’s going to come take care of you, Sarah.”

  Sarah mulled this over.

  “Will I like them?”

  Cathy grimaced inside.

  Maybe not.

  “Sure you will. I don’t want you to worry, Sarah.”

  Man, those eyes. I gotta get out of here.

  “Hold on to that card, okay? And call me if you need to. Anytime.”

  Sarah nodded. She even managed a smile and now Cathy didn’t just want to walk out of the room, she wanted to run, because that smile was heartbreaking.

  (Gut-wrenching)

  “Bye, honey,” she stammered as she turned and walked away.

  “Bye, Cathy,” Sarah called after her.

  Back in the car, Santos—now shake-less—regarded her.

  “That make you feel better?”

  “Not really, Ricky.”

  He regarded her for another moment. He seemed to be mulling something over.

  “You’re gonna make a good cop, Cathy.”

  He turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse as Cathy stared at him in surprise.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Santos.”

  He smiled at her as he put the car in drive and headed out of the parking lot.

  “Then you need new friends, Jones. But you’re welcome anyway.”

  25

  SARAH SAT IN THE CAR AND WATCHED THE LADY CHANGE.

  Karen Watson had shown up in the hospital room and explained to Sarah that she was there from Social Services, and that she was going to take care of her. Karen had seemed really nice and had smiled a lot. Sarah had felt hopeful.

  Once they were out of the hospital, Karen had changed. She’d begun walking faster, yanking Sarah forward.

  “Get in, kid,” she’d said, when they reached the car.

  Her voice sounded mean.

  Sarah puzzled over the change, trying to make sense of it.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked Karen.

  Karen looked at her once before starting up the car. Sarah took in the dull eyes, the carelessly coiffed brown hair, the heavy face. The woman looked tired. Sarah thought she probably always looked tired.

  “I don’t really care about you one way or the other, princess, if you want to know the truth. My job is to get a roof over your head, not to love you or be your friend or anything like that. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Sarah replied, her voice small.

  They drove off.

  The Parkers lived in a worn-out house in Canoga Park, which was located in the San Fernando Valley. It resembled its owners: in need of work that would never be done.

  Dennis Parker was a mechanic. His father had been a good man, had loved fixing cars, and had taught Dennis the trade. Dennis hated the work—hated all work, really—and he made sure that everyone knew it.

  He was a big man, just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. He had scraggly dark hair, ever-present stubble, and muddy-colored, mean-looking eyes.

  Dennis would tell friends that he liked three things above all others: “Cigarettes, whisky, and pussy.”

  Rebecca Parker was a stereotypical California blonde with too many sharp edges to be truly attractive. She’d been beautiful for about four years, from sixteen to twenty. She made up for her deteriorating looks in the bedroom—not that it took much skill to please Dennis. He was usually full of booze by the time he was trying to get into her pants. She had a pair of heavy breasts, a waist that had stayed slim, and what Dennis liked to call “a tight little panty-hamster.”

  (Note from Sarah: This is true. Theresa told me he actually said that once. Charming, yes? Oh, who is Theresa? Read on and find out.)

  Rebecca’s job was simple: managing the care of three foster children, the maximum number they could legally take in. They were paid for each kid, and it was a fair part of their income.

  Rebecca’s duties included feeding the kids, telling them to go to school, and making sure that neither she nor Dennis left any visible marks on the kids when they delivered a beating. The trick was to pay just enough attention to the children to keep Social Services from getting pissed off, but not so much that it ate into her own free time or—most important—their bottom line.

  Karen knocked on the door of the Parkers’ house as Sarah stood next to her. She heard footsteps coming, and then the door opened. Rebecca Parker peered through the screen door. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, and had a cigarette in her hand.

  “Hey, Karen,” she said, opening the screen door. “Come on in.” She smiled. “You must be Sarah.”

  “Hi,” Sarah replied.

  Sarah thought that the lady looked and sounded nice, but she was beginning to understand that looks could be deceiving. Plus the lady smoked—yuck!

  Karen and Sarah walked inside the Parkers’ home. It was clean, sort of. It smelled like stale cigarettes.

  “Jesse and Theresa are at school?” Karen asked.

  “Yep,” Rebecca replied. She guided them into the living room, and gestured for them to take a seat on the couch.

  “How are they doing?” Karen asked.

  Rebecca shrugged. “They’re not failing anything. They’re eating. Neither of them is doing any drugs.”

  “Sounds fine, then.” Karen indicated Sarah with a nod of her head. “As I told you over the phone, Sarah is six. I need to place her quickly, and I thought of you and Dennis. I know you are looking for a third.”

  “Since Angela ran away, yes.”

  Angela had been a pretty fourteen-year-old girl whose mother had died of a heroin overdose. She was already a hard case and Karen had placed her with the Parkers because she knew they could deal with her. Angela had run away two months ago. Karen figured she was probably heading down the same path as her whore mother.

  “It’ll be the usual routine. You need to get her in school, make s
ure her shots are up to date, and so on.”

  “We know.”

  Karen nodded in approval. “Then I’m going to leave her with you. I brought her bag, she has plenty of clothes and underwear and shoes, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Karen stood up, shook Rebecca’s hand, and headed toward the front door. Sarah went to follow her.

  “You’re staying here, kid.” She turned to Rebecca. “I’ll be in touch.”

  And then she was gone.

  “Let me show you where your room is, honey,” Rebecca said.

  Sarah followed the woman in a daze.

  What was happening? Why was she staying here? And where was Doreen? What had they done with her puppyhead?

  “Here it is.”

  Sarah looked through the door into the room. It was small, about ten feet by ten feet. There was a single dresser and two small beds. The walls were bare.

  “Why are there two beds?” she asked.

  “You’re sharing the room with Theresa.” Rebecca pointed toward the dresser. “You can put your clothes in the bottom drawer. Why don’t you go ahead and unpack your stuff, and then come meet me in the kitchen?”

  Sarah had managed to cram all of her clothes into the bottom drawer of the small dresser. She’d arranged her shoes under her bed. As she’d unpacked, she’d caught a whiff of a familiar scent, the smell of the fabric softener her mother used. It had caught her by surprise, a punch in the stomach. She’d had to bury her face in a shirt to cover up her crying.

  Her tears had subsided by the time she’d finished emptying out the small bag Karen had left. She sat down on the edge of her bed, filled with bewilderment and a dull ache.

  Why am I here? Why can’t I sleep in my own room?

  She didn’t understand any of this.

  Maybe the Rebecca lady knew.

  “There you are,” Rebecca said as Sarah showed up in the kitchen. “Did you get all your stuff packed away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come have a seat at the table. I made you a bologna sandwich, and I got you some milk—you do like milk, right? You’re not lactose intolerant or anything?”

  “I like milk.” Sarah sat down in the chair and picked up the sandwich. She was hungry. “Thank you,” she said to Rebecca.

  “No problem, sweetie.”

  Rebecca sat down at the other end of the table and lit up a cigarette. She smoked and watched Sarah as the little girl ate.

  Sad and pale and small. That’s too bad. But everybody learns the same thing sooner or later: It’s a tough old world.

  “I’m going to explain some of the rules of the house to you, Sarah. Things you need to know while you’re living here with us, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “First of all, we’re not here to entertain you, understand? We’re here to give you a roof over your head, to feed and clothe you, make sure you get to school and all of that—but you’re going to have to keep yourself occupied. Dennis and I have our own lives, and our own things to do. We don’t have time to be your playmates. Understand?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Okay. Next thing, you’ll have chores around the house. Get them done and you won’t get in trouble. Don’t get them done and you will. Bedtime is at ten. No exceptions. That means lights out and under the covers. The last rule is simple, but it’s important: Don’t talk back. Do what we say. We’re the grown-ups, and we know what’s best. We’re giving you a place to live and we expect to be treated with respect. Understand?”

  Another nod.

  “Good. Do you have any questions for me?”

  Sarah looked down at her plate. “Why am I living here? Why can’t I go back home?”

  Rebecca frowned, puzzled.

  “Because your mom and dad are dead, honey, and there’s no one else that wants you. That’s what Dennis and I do. We take in kids that don’t have anywhere else to go. Didn’t Karen explain that to you?”

  Sarah shook her head, still staring at her plate. She looked numb.

  “Thank you very much for the sandwich,” she said, her voice small. “Can I go to my room now?”

  “Go ahead, honey,” Rebecca said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. “You new ones usually cry for the first few days, and that’s okay. But you’ll need to learn to toughen up fast. Life goes on, you know?”

  Sarah stared at Rebecca for a moment, taking this in. The little girl’s face crumpled and she fled the table.

  Rebecca watched her go. The blonde took a long drag on her cigarette.

  Pretty girl. It’s a shame what happened to her.

  Rebecca waved her hand in dismissal, though she was alone. Her eyes were angry and miserable and surrounded by too much mascara.

  Well, that’s too bad. It’s a tough old world.

  Sarah lay on her strange new bed in her strange new house and curled into herself. Tried to make herself small. To make herself

  (Go away)

  Because maybe if she could

  (Go away)

  She’d reappear back at home, with Mommy and Daddy. Maybe—and this idea perked her up, filled her with hope—this was all just a long, bad dream. Maybe she’d gone to sleep on the night before her birthday and never really woken up.

  Her brow furrowed in thought. If that was true, then all she needed to do was go to sleep in her dream.

  “Yes!” she whispered to herself.

  That was it! She’d just go to sleep here (in her dream), and then she’d wake up in the real world. Buster would be there, snuggled up next to her, and her mother’s painting would be there, hanging on the wall at the foot of her bed. It would be morning. She’d get up and go out and Daddy would tease her about not having any presents or cake, but there would be presents and cake…

  Sarah hugged herself in her excitement. This had to be the solution to—she looked around—all this.

  Just close your eyes and go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be happy again.

  Because she was exhausted and only six, Sarah fell asleep without any effort at all.

  26

  “WAKE UP.”

  Sarah stirred. Someone was shaking her. Someone with a soft female voice.

  “Hey, wake up, little girl.”

  Sarah’s first thought was: It worked! This was Mommy, telling her to get up on her birthday!

  “I had a bad dream, Mommy,” she murmured.

  A pause.

  “I’m not your mommy, little girl. Come on, wake up. It’s almost time for dinner.”

  Sarah opened her eyes in surprise. It took a moment for her to focus on the girl speaking to her. The girl had spoken the truth: She wasn’t Mommy.

  It’s no dream. It’s all real.

  Acceptance arrived again, painful and absolute.

  Mommy’s dead. Daddy’s dead. Buster’s dead and Doreen’s gone, and I’m all alone and no one is ever coming back.

  Something of what she was feeling must have showed on her face, because the girl talking to her frowned.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  Sarah shook her head. She couldn’t talk.

  The girl’s face softened.

  “I understand. Well, anyway, my name is Theresa. I guess we’re foster-sisters.” She paused. “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah.” Her voice sounded weak, faraway.

  “Sarah. That’s a pretty name. I’m thirteen—how old are you?”

  “Six. I just had a birthday.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Sarah examined this strange but friendly girl. Theresa was pretty. She looked vaguely Latin, with brown eyes and thick, dark hair that ran just past her shoulders. She had a small scar near her hairline. Full, sensual lips softened a serious face. She was pretty, but Sarah thought she looked tired too, like a nice person who’d had a hard day.

  “Why are you here, Theresa?”

  “My mom died.”

  “Oh.” Sarah fell silent, unsure of what t
o say. “Mine did too. And my daddy.”

  “That sucks.” A long pause. Then, soft and sorrowful: “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”

  Sarah nodded. She felt her face getting hot, her eyes begin to prickle.

  Don’t be a silly old crybaby!

  Theresa didn’t seem to notice. “I was eight when my mom died,” she said, talking while Sarah listened and struggled with her tears. “A little older than you, but close enough. So I know how you feel and what you can expect. The main thing you have to understand is that for the most part, none of the people you deal with really care about you. You’re alone. I know that sucks to hear, but the sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be.” She grimaced. “You don’t belong to any of these people. You’re not their blood.”

  “But…but…if they don’t care, why do they do it?”

  Theresa gave Sarah a worn-out smile. “Money. They get paid to.”

  Sarah stared off, taking this in. A frightening thought occurred to her.

  “Are they bad people?”

  Theresa’s expression was grim and sad. “Sometimes, yeah. Every now and then you’ll get a good foster-family, but a lot of the time, it’s bad.”

  “Is it bad here?”

  The thing that flew across Theresa’s face was bitter and dark and complex, part blackbird, part teardrops, part dirt.

  “Yeah.” She grew silent, looking off. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Probably not so much for you, though. Rebecca’s not the one you have to watch out for. She doesn’t drink the way Dennis does. As long as you do what she says and you don’t cause any trouble, she’ll leave you alone. I don’t think they’ll hit you much.”

  Sarah paled. “H-hit me?”

  Theresa squeezed Sarah’s hands. “Just keep to yourself and you’ll be fine. Don’t talk to Dennis when he’s drunk.”