“Roberto and Anya?” I asked. “Are they still at Mother Del’s?”
“Roberto liked to make kids cry. Just because he could. Roxy taught me how to take care of the babies. After she and Lola left, I stayed with the babies. They’re better than Roberto.”
“Did Roberto pay special attention to Lola?” Even as I said it, I did some quick math in my head. Juanita had lost custody of the kids four or five years ago. Meaning Roxanna would’ve been eleven, Lola eight? Eight sounded very young and helpless. Which, according to what Mike was saying, would make her the perfect target for Roberto.
“Everyone paid special attention to Lola,” Mike said. “She’s very pretty. Too pretty, Roxy said.”
“I bet that was hard,” I said. “Roxy must have worried about Lola very much, especially around Roberto.”
“Roberto is dead,” Mike stated.
“What?”
“June. Shot himself. Mother Del was mad. Anya cried. The rest of us, no.”
“Evil Roberto? The one who tortured everyone, picked on Lola, he’s dead?” Of all the things, I wasn’t expecting this.
“Beginning of June. Right before school got out. Suicide. Single shot to the forehead. Boom.”
“What did Roxy say?”
Mike shrugged. “Not much.”
“Why? You made it sound like he was a bully, first at the foster home, now at the high school you both attend. Wasn’t she happy he was dead?”
Mike shrugged. “Roxanna didn’t say much.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t say much either.”
I was very confused now. “What about Lola?”
Another shrug. More bouncing.
“Mike, Roxy came to me and my friend, looking for help. She was very scared. This was just a few weeks ago, so apparently after Roberto died. Do you know what Roxanna was still so afraid of?”
“Home,” he said.
“She was afraid of home? Like, afraid of her mom? Or Charlie the contractor? What about Hector, her little brother’s father. Did she mention him?”
“Roxy was afraid for Lola.”
“Something was happening to Lola at home? Again, like with Charlie the contractor? Was he abusing her? Is that what Roxy said?”
“Lola was mad at Roxy. Lola told Roxy she wasn’t her mother. But then Lola was mad at their mother, too.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s Lola. Roxy would say trouble is what Lola did best.”
“Mike, help me understand. Whatever Roxy was worried about, she must’ve had good reason. Because everyone is dead now, including Lola. What happened? Help me, before Roxy is next.”
“Roxy didn’t hurt them. She protected Lola. That was her job.”
“And at Mother Del’s, did she always protect Lola?”
Mike wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Could she even protect herself?”
He kept staring at the ground. No more jangling. Utter stillness, which somehow felt worse.
“I protected Roxy. Roxy protected Lola. We tried our best.”
“But it wasn’t always enough,” I filled in.
“Roberto is dead. But not everyone is as easy to kill.”
“Mike, wait—!”
Too late, however. He’d said his piece. Now, he turned and walked away without a backward glance.
? ? ?
I STAYED WHERE I WAS. Pretended to fiddle with the zipper on my windbreaker, adjust the Patriots cap on my head. It wasn’t hard to appear distracted, as I had so many thoughts racing through my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Mike Davis exited the park. Then, a heartbeat later, another familiar form appeared half a dozen steps behind and followed him out.
Sarah, on the hunt.
I hoped I’d taught her well.
Chapter 17
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part III
The judge shows us the children’s garden. It’s a kidney-shaped patch of dirt in a bright spot near the back steps of the courthouse. There’s a small tree in the middle. Pear tree, he tells us, flowers beautifully in the spring. A five-year-old planted it two decades ago, the judge’s first family case. Since then, he’s invited all children to add to the garden. Lola, Manny, and I each have little four-packs of pansies. The flowers will bloom this fall, he explains to us, then die back for the winter. But—he pauses for dramatic effect, staring pointedly at Manny—not before seeding themselves. Meaning we can see our pansies again in the spring. Growing bigger and stronger. Just like us.
Manny nods vigorously. He likes the pansies, but mostly the opportunity to play in the dirt. Lola and I don’t care. We just want to stand next to our baby brother. Memorize every move he makes. Record in our minds every hiccup, laugh, giggle. My ribs hurt. I move carefully, so no one will notice. Lola seems equally stiff, though like me, she doesn’t talk about it.
Manny appears perfect. We focus on Manny, everything we have loved and missed about him.
Behind us stands Susan Howe. She’s our CASA volunteer. Her job is independent of the state, she tells us, as if we understand what that means. She sits with us in the courtroom during these hearings. Does her best to answer our questions. “When will I see Mommy?” is always Manny’s question. “Why can’t I go home again?”
Mrs. Howe is also our advocate. “When can we see Manny?” is the question Lola and I always ask her. She’s in charge of coordinating such things. But she also observes us, writes up her own report on how we’re progressing in foster care, how we’re handling the rare times we see our mom, etc. Her role is not to be confused with that of the pinch-faced lady, Mrs. McInnis, our caseworker from DCF, who started this mess.
Last month, we were at this same courthouse with the same judge for something called an Adjudicatory Hearing. Basically, Mrs. McInnis presented all the ways our mother had done us wrong. Reports from the school that we consistently lacked food or money for lunch. Landlord saying we were six months behind on rent and he’d started eviction proceedings. Mom’s car being repo’d. The job she no longer had. The number of times the police had been called to the house due to her and Hector’s drunken rages.
My mom had a seat at her own table next to her lawyer. Public defender, I’d guess, except he looked like a skinny, pimply-faced kid, dressed up in his father’s best suit and hoping no one would notice. His hands shook uncontrollably as he read off counterarguments he’d scribbled on a sheet of paper. A couple of times, his voice cracked. My mother wouldn’t look at us.
She sat and cried.
Manny reached out his arms for her. “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”
She bowed her head. Cried harder.
Manny stayed on my lap for the rest of the hearing, my arms tight around his trembling shoulders, Lola pressed up on the other side. Our CASA lady, Mrs. Howe, sat with us. She patted my arm a couple of times. But we didn’t respond. She wasn’t one of us. She wasn’t family.
Today is the Dispositional Hearing. We plant our flowers with the judge like good children. Smile, nod, and appear grateful. In this new world order there are many adults to please. They all claim to have our best interests at heart. Lola and I are learning to be careful. Very careful.
Back inside the courthouse we go. I carry Manny. At four, he’s too big for this, but he hates the courthouse. He already knows who we’ll see inside, and his little body is trembling. For a moment, looking down the long corridor, I see the outline of a man against the sun-bright glass. Big guy. Hector, I think. They’ve found Hector and he will take Manny and keep him safe. Maybe, if I ask nicely, he’ll take Lola and me, too.