“This is for you.”
She holds out a yellow brush in a crinkly plastic wrapper, small enough to brush Nessa’s Barbie’s hair, and a little tube of something. I look at it and mouth the word: Crest.
With her eyes matter-of-fact, she makes pretend I shouldn’t already know what it is. I’m grateful for that.
“That’s a toothbrush, and the tube is filled with toothpaste. You put a little on the brush and scrub your teeth with it.”
“Oh yeah. I remember now.”
My cheeks burn as the fuzzy memory returns, of Mama’s hand moving back and forth in front of my face, my lips curled back as I stood on a little white stool and leaned over the bathroom sink.
“That’s mighty convenient, in a tube and all. Ness and I used baking soda and tree bark. Mama said the soda would make our teeth cleaner and whiter.”
“Baking soda is a good substitute, if you don’t have toothpaste. Your mom was right.”
I nod, relieved. Relieved not to be that backward.
As I brush my teeth at the bathroom sink, I hear Jenessa waking up, groaning in that low way of hers, which is as close to talking words as a stranger will get. Mrs. Haskell makes her way to the bed, and I concentrate on the brushing. I make a face at the toothpaste taste, studying myself in the mirror. I can’t stop staring at myself.
“It’s okay, Jenessa. Carey’s right there in the bathroom, brushing her teeth.”
I hear the bed shifting and the pad of bare feet. Jenessa stands in the doorway, her lower lip trembling.
“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” I say, my mouth full of white bubbles. “And, look at this! It’s your lucky day,” I say brightly.
I peel the plastic from the pale pink toothbrush sitting on the ledge of the sink and hold it out to her after squeezing a small ribbon of Crest onto it. Jenessa takes the brush, sniffing at the toothpaste. Her tongue darts out like a lizard’s, testing it.
“It’s toothpaste, to clean your teeth. That’s what the people here use. Watch.”
In slow, exaggerated motions, I scrub my teeth back and forth, back and forth.
If I was expecting her to decline or argue, she doesn’t. She stands on tiptoes next to me and gives it a careful try, smiling at the bubbly film on her lips and then up at me, like a modern girl trying new things. I watch her watch herself in the mirror, as mesmerized by her own reflection as I am by mine.
By the time the man comes back with breakfast, we’re seated at the table. I get up to open the door when he knocks, taking two bags from the bunch he’s juggling.
The food lies unpacked on the table, and my stomach rumbles at the feast spread out before us. I don’t know the names for all of it, but the scent alone is stunning.
Mrs. Haskell names the food as she fills our plates: french-toast fingers, maple syrup to dip them in. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Hash browns. Fried apples. Some of it I do know: ketchup, apple juice, and butter—real butter. I drop a few squares on my scrambled eggs and even more on Nessa’s, until her eggs rise like an island floating in a pale yellow sea.
I’ve never seen Nessa eat with such abandon, sticky syrup dripping down her chin, and bacon—heavenly, hot, salty bacon—three helpings inhaled in as many minutes.
“Slow down, Ness. You’ll get sick if you eat that fast.”
The grown-ups eye each other and then look to me. I get up and remove Jenessa’s plate, holding it high above her head.
“You’re going to throw up if you don’t slow down!”
She kicks at the rungs of her chair, her hands in fists.
“You know we don’t kick. It isn’t civilized. Remember?”
Her legs still. She puts her fork down obediently, her eyes welling.
“If I give you this plate back, you’d better eat like a human being, not a grizzly. You hear?”
Jennessa picks up her fork and nods, her curls bouncing. I kiss her head and return the plate. She resumes her breakfast cheerfully, her legs swinging rhythmically under the table.
Mrs. Haskell smiles at me. I bet she’s thinking of the puke from yesterday.
“Ness has a clean dress she can wear to the hearin’—hearing— but it’s wrinkled,” I say.
Mrs. Haskell holds out her hand. “Let’s see it.”
Reluctantly, I leave my breakfast and saunter over to one of the garbage bags, rummaging through it until I find the pastel pink dress and a pair of white socks with ruffles at the ankles, dingy white, but clean. I also pull out the scuffed Mary Janes, a little tight on her, but okay for an hour or two of wearing.
Mrs. Haskell grabs a metal triangle topped with a hook from her suitcase. I follow her into the bathroom, and she closes the door behind us. She pushes aside the shower curtain and turns on the water full force.
“This is a hanger,” she says, catching me eyeing it. “For hanging up clothes.”