Counting by 7s

  Respectfully,

  Willow Chance

  The woman looks stunned by the clarity of the communication.

  Or maybe the intense expression on her face is normal.

  Either way, it is a relief that she doesn’t smile.

  For a period of time, immeasurable now that nothing can be quantified, my caseworker tries in a variety of ways to convince me to leave with her.

  I say nothing.

  And I don’t move a muscle other than to take shallow, almost imperceptible breaths.

  I know this can be unsettling to people.

  I can’t count anymore by 7s, but I can conjugate irregular Latin verbs, and I do this while she speaks to me.

  Finally, when it is obvious that none of her talking is working, the woman implies that force is an alternative.

  She doesn’t say that she’s going to drag me to her car by my hair if that’s what it takes.

  But I get the picture.

  And so in the end I have no choice but to go along.

  I’m surprised that I have as much trouble as I do saying good-bye to Pattie Nguyen.

  She puts her arms around me tight and I wish that she would stay that way.

  But of course she can’t.

  I don’t say anything, but I guess the tears running down my cheeks do the talking, because Pattie abruptly turns away and goes to the back of the salon. It is the hardest good-bye I’ve ever had.

  Yesterday at this time, I didn’t even know her.

  Chapter 23

  Jamison Children’s Center is the county facility that provides emergency foster care.

  Lenore Cole gives me a pamphlet.

  I read it, but get the distinct feeling that the place is probably for kids who have parents who hit them or don’t feed them real food because they are too busy taking drugs or stealing something.

  As we drive up to the building, I put my index and middle fingers on my carotid artery just behind my ear to take my pulse.

  I know for a fact that my heart rate is in some kind of danger zone.

  We go inside.

  They are processing my paperwork.

  When I enter, I see that the doors have locks on both sides. They click shut.

  There are surveillance cameras in every room.

  People are watching.

  It is a big mistake for me to be here.

  All of a sudden, I have trouble breathing. I can’t get air in. And I can’t get air out.

  I take a seat on a lime-and-purple upholstered couch and struggle to get a grip on my lungs.

  Someone’s left a copy of the morning edition of the Bakersfield News Gazette on the elephant-shaped metal coffee table.

  A photograph takes up most of the space above the fold.

  The headline reads:

  FIERY CAR CRASH CLAIMS TWO LIVES

  Third Person in a Coma

  Below the caption I see my dad’s demolished pickup, in pieces and burned black, conjoined with a mangled medical truck.

  And then everything in my field of vision disappears.

  I hit my head on the elephant-shaped coffee table when I experienced syncope, or a transient loss of consciousness, more commonly known as passing out.

  Yes, I fainted.

  And when I did, the sharp edge of the pachyderm’s trunk sliced right into my glabella.

  Blood suddenly is everywhere because blows to the head bleed profusely.

  I’m in and out of consciousness, and the confusion feels good.

  Suddenly there are all kinds of announcements being shouted on the P.A. system.

  And then I can hear someone say I need stitches since it’s a deep cut and it is right between my eyebrows and it will likely scar.

  I murmur:

  “My glabella . . .”

  But the staff doesn’t know that the glabella is the name of the space between your eyebrows.

  I hear someone whisper:

  “She’s asking for Bella!”

  I shut my eyes again.

  So many things in life are distressing.

  The brow of the head is formed specifically to guard against these kinds of injuries.

  It is bone, and like the bumper of a car, it’s designed to take a blow.

  So this is a freak accident to faint and then collapse in such a way as to get sliced between the eyes by the surprisingly dangerous trunk of the elephant coffee table.

  But I did.

  And now there is blood.

  My blood.

  Hemoglobin is iron-containing protein that makes up 97 percent of every red blood cell’s content, when dry.

  But when mixed with water, which is how it courses through the human body, it is only about thirty-five percent.

  Hemoglobin is what binds the oxygen.

  Now that Jimmy and Roberta Chance are gone, what binds me to this world?

  They take me to Mercy Hospital because I am a twelve-year-old girl and they don’t want me to have facial disfigurement.

  At least that’s what I hear someone whisper in the hallway.

  The nurse at Jamison puts a bandage over the laceration and asks me to hold an icy compress on my wound, which I do.

  And then Lenore Cole and I get back in her car and drive together to Mercy Hospital.

  Twice she asks if I’m still bleeding, and I’m wondering if she’s worried about her upholstery.

  It would look pretty messed up to be a social worker and have dried kid blood as a permanent stain in your vehicle.

  They didn’t request an ambulance because it wasn’t that kind of injury, but I wouldn’t have minded riding in one.

  At Mercy, I sit in the waiting room of the E.R. and it doesn’t take much to realize that this place doesn’t have double locks on the doors or surveillance cameras everywhere like at Jamison.

  I get nine stitches.

  The old me would have asked for 7, because that was my number.

  But the doctor puts in nine.

  I don’t say anything when he tells me.

  It now looks like I have a caterpillar between my eyes.

  Yet this is not the most important thing that happens after I collapse onto the now-established-as-dangerous elephant coffee table.

  Because after I have a drink of water and, for the fourth time, view my medical chart, I ask to use the bathroom.

  I tell Lenore Cole that I’ll be right back.

  And the woman believes me.

  I don’t go down the hall to the restroom.

  Instead, I take an elevator up to the third floor, and then walk to the other wing of the hospital and use the back stairs to get to the cafeteria.

  Once I’m there, I ask a grief-stricken woman (I know the look) wearing a fuzzy green bathrobe and ski boots if I can use her cell phone.

  She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no.

  And after an awkward amount of time where I just stare at her, she hands me her mobile device.

  I dial the number for Mexicano Taxi and make a special request for Jairo Hernandez.

  I know his taxi license number and give that to the dispatcher. I say I want to be picked up in front of Century 21 Premier Realty on the corner of Truxton and A Street.

  That is one block from the hospital.

  When I hand the phone back to the woman in the bathrobe, I notice that she has a hospital band on her wrist.

  So she’s a patient.

  Before everything in my life changed, I would have sat down to discuss her condition.

  But now I just say in a voice that sounds automated:

  “Get some rest. It is critical to recovery.”

  And I’m gone.

  Chapter 24

  Jairo was spooked.

  This girl was some kind of
mystic.

  As she’d suggested, he’d been to see a doctor. And the mole on his neck had been removed that morning. He was now waiting for the report. The biopsy.

  But the doctor had made it clear that the ugly black hunk of skin was something bad.

  He hadn’t told anyone at work, and he had a scarf around his neck to cover the bandage.

  He looked down at his right hand and realized it was shaking.

  Jairo shut his eyes and mouthed a prayer. He never did that. But this was serious.

  Even a non-believer would believe.

  Now, as he pulled up to the curb, he could see that she’d been in some kind of accident, because she had a line of stitches between her eyes, which were both puffy and red.

  It looked like she’d been doing a lot of big-time crying.

  He wanted to know what happened.

  Had someone hurt her?

  He felt a wave of anger roll over him. If someone did this girl wrong, they would have him to deal with.

  The undersized twelve-year-old got into his taxi, and in a whisper of a voice said that she did not have the money to pay for the fare.

  She asked if she could get it to him later in the week, or by mail—whatever worked better for his schedule.

  Jairo said yes, of course, he would take her anywhere.

  No charge.

  She wanted to go to Beale Memorial Library.

  That was only a few miles away, but it was hot out and she said that she wasn’t up to walking anywhere.

  Jairo asked if she was okay, and she only nodded and then shut her eyes.

  He put on his turn indicator and pulled back out into the lane. He realized that he’d lived in Bakersfield for eleven years and he’d never been inside the library.

  That was wrong.

  It was for the public and it was filled with knowledge.

  Jairo understood as he drove that he needed to stop listening to crazy guys yell at each other on sports radio and start thinking about something that had consequences that were real and important.

  She was guiding him.

  He knew that now.

  Yes.

  She was his angel.

  As they neared her destination, Jairo glanced into the rearview mirror. The ghost/prophet/inspector/angel was gnawing some kind of plastic strip off her wrist.

  A hospital band?

  That’s what it looked like.

  Why was he just now seeing that?

  He was going to have to learn to be a better observer of all things.

  But most especially of his own life.

  When she got out of his taxi, she told him that he would hear from her.

  He didn’t doubt that.

  And then as he watched, she headed into the library.

  In the backseat there was a small trash bag. Jairo reached inside and pulled out the plastic hospital scrap.

  On the band was written:

  Willow Chance I.D. number 080758-7

  He would play those numbers at Lotto for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 25

  Yes, he worked for the Bakersfield Unified School System.

  And, well, ah, yes, he’d heard—or rather—he knew that there had been an accident involving the parents of one of the children he was helping.

  He had to concentrate. To focus. Fear had a way of scrambling his brain.

  What was the woman going on about?

  “The police report said that you brought her home . . .”

  Dell was grinding his teeth as his jaw slid back and forth and his tongue sucked up into the roof of his mouth, forming a kind of foamy vacuum.

  He was able to break it long enough to say:

  “Yes, I’d been working with her. I’m a counselor. It’s just a tragedy.”

  And then he heard:

  “We’d like you to come down to Jamison. You could be part of the search.”

  It was like the sun suddenly poked through a stormy sky. Everything changed color and tone and intensity.

  “The search . . . ?”

  The voice now replied:

  “She’s missing. You could be helpful.”

  There might even have been bells somewhere far away now ringing.

  Dell found his voice rising two octaves.

  “I could?”

  Dell left work, driving ten blocks out of his way to pass the Chance house, where several dozen bouquets of flowers from neighbors and coworkers lay wilted from the heat on the front steps.

  Someone had made a homemade banner that said:

  JIMMY AND ROBERTA R.I.P.

  But the evening wind from the night before must have gotten hold of the sign, because now it was on the neighbor’s dry front lawn.

  A group of burned-low votive candles sat on the walkway and a half-dozen empty beer bottles were on their sides nearby.

  It looked, Dell thought, like the remains of a bad party.

  Willow Chance, according to the assembled authorities—was he part of them now? It looked like it!—had no viable relatives.

  But now the kid was missing.

  They had sent a patrol car to Happy Polish and she wasn’t there.

  The woman in charge was playing a version of the blame game, accusing all kinds of people of being at fault.

  He knew that game well, having been a finger-pointer since early childhood.

  When in doubt, pout. Or falsely accuse someone.

  But one thing in the muddle of confusion was clear: He was being asked to help.

  He could sense his power in the room. It was a new feeling and it made him literally dizzy.

  What if he could actually find the missing kid?

  They were focusing on “foul play.” Abductors who might have been caught on video cameras or other means of surveillance.

  But Dell knew in his heart that the twelve-year-old hadn’t met with any kind of foul play.

  It was more likely that she was assisting a doctor performing open-heart surgery than that some creep had snatched her.

  But he didn’t show his hand.

  And so while Lenore huddled with other employees filing police reports and requesting interviews with hospital workers, Dell excused himself and accessed the school district website.

  He then drove straight to Mai’s high school.

  Chapter 26

  I would live here at Beale Memorial Library, if it were any kind of viable option.

  But it’s not like the classic book where the two kids run away from home and go to hide in a museum in New York City.

  I know that I need a bed, and I like to take frequent baths and showers. Brushing my teeth is very important and not just because of the proven connection between poor oral hygiene and heart attacks.

  But as I walk through the double doors of this place I do wish that it were possible. Because:

  books = comfort

  To me anyway.

  And comfort is a thing of the past.

  I have trouble concentrating, but I still attempt to search for reading material involving losing a parent.

  I find no literature or empirical data directed to a middle schooler.

  If I were a publisher, I would immediately initiate a series of books for kids who have to cope with the death of their mother or father.

  And I would include an entire edition for those who have lost both of their parents at the same time.

  But despite my own situation, I do not believe that there is a large enough need for useful information about losing two parents twice.

  I find an abandoned piece of paper on a desk, and after borrowing a pen at the front counter, I write:

  There must be commonality in the experience of losing a parent that makes it worthwhile to share the particulars of the occurrence.
>
  Especially for the young.

  More literary output is needed from professionals in this area.

  Please pass along this request to the appropriate people in the world of publishing.

  I then fold the paper in half and slip it into the suggestion box, which is located next to the water fountain on the first floor.

  And then I head up to the second level.

  You are not allowed to sleep in the library.

  I know this because I’ve seen the security guard wake people.

  It’s a rule to keep the homeless from taking over the place.

  I feel overwhelming empathy for that group right now.

  We are one.

  But I know this building.

  And upstairs, in the far corner, are big molded chairs that look like doughnuts.

  I crawl behind a red one.

  I tuck my knees up against my chest and only my shoes stick out.

  Camouflage is a form of crypsis, which means hiding.

  The skin on my ankles is dark and I’m wearing a pair of brown work boots.

  The carpeting in here is also shades of tan and chocolate. It is a pattern of swirls and dots, no doubt installed to camouflage any dirt.

  I’m hiding in plain sight, which is often the best way to be concealed.

  And in only seconds, I’m asleep.

  Chapter 27

  Dell went to the front office and made a request to speak with Mai Nguyen.

  He showed his credentials and, though a few eyebrows were raised, only minutes later the scrappy fourteen-year-old was escorted out of class and stood in front of him.

  Mai’s fiery eyes narrowed as they noticed Dell.

  What was he doing here?

  At the same time that she was mildly freaked out by the sight of the bearded counselor, she was also excited. She’d never been plucked out of class before.

  All the teenagers had stared as she was led from the stuffy room. Mai wondered if her classmates assumed it had something to do with her shady brother.