“Real food, I know,” my father says, finishing for me, his eyes flashing. Anger. It’s a face I know better than any other.
“Please don’t be angry with her, sir. Please?”
“Angry? Why would I be angry? Poor thing. So hungry. I should’ve ordered her something lighter. Like a grilled cheese. It’s my fault, not hers.”
I rub Nessa’s back in small circles.
“How about you? Your stomach okay?”
He reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, and I flinch. I don’t mean to keep doing that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. His hand freezes midway, then drops to his side.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Truth is, my stomach’s not so great, either.
Nessa’s crying now, either because she threw up, which she hates, or because she lost all that tasty food.
“Don’t cry, baby. You can have the rest of my handburger later.”
My father goes back into the restaurant and returns with a roll of paper towels. I know paper towels. He hands me a Styrofoam cup filled with water.
“Do you need any help?”
I shake my head no, so used to caring for Jenessa, it’s like caring for myself. I pour water on a handful of paper towels and swab off her mouth, then her chin.
“Breathe through your nose and stick out your tongue.”
She obeys, and I wipe her tongue, too. But her normally sweet breath still reeks.
I rip off a fresh sheet and dry her tears as she hiccups and sniffles, her eyes droopy and red by the end.
“She’s flat tuckered out, sir,” I say.
We watch her. She’s weaving where she stands, her face pinched. I tuck her under my arm and pull her close.
This time, I sit in the middle and Ness sits by the window, where I can quickly lean over and roll down the glass if need be.
I barely breathe, although I’m aware of every breath she takes. He takes. I try not to touch arms, his tan one leaning on his leg when he’s not shifting gears, the hairs honeyed up by the sun. His hands are large and work-roughened, but his fingernails are clean. The radio’s on low. I remember radios. The haunting strains of a violin piece I can play by heart—Violin Concerto in E Minor by Mendelssohn—rise through the cab and cradle us all.
His words are casual but careful, like when something’s a big deal but you don’t want to sound it like it is.
“That’s a violin case you got there,” he says, nodding his head toward the backseat.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you play?”
I wait for Jenessa to shift position, her head finding my lap, her breathing slow and even.
“Yes, sir.”
“Joelle taught you, did she?”
I nod, not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.
“Your mama made those strings sing like a bird.”
I think of Mama playing, my head stuffed with years of sound. Thing is, the violin reminds me too much of Mama now. It reminds me of the worst parts . . . the hungry parts, and not just for food. And the white-star night . . . I’m not sure I ever want to play again.
I watch the cars whiz past, everyone in a hurry, all those different lives. A daughter and father pop up in the car beside us, the girl’s head resting solidly on the man’s shoulder. Each vehicle is like its own bubble world hurtling toward realities so unknowable, yet so personal, it hurts to look at them.
Even if I were to like him, which I’m not saying I do—I can’t, after what he did to Mama and me—still, I’m thankful not to feel so afraid.
“Is she okay now?”
He ducks his head in Ness’s direction. She’s a warm thing carved into my lap.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know how to ask this, but—”
I wait, not knowing what to say.
“Do you know who her father is, Carey?”
I squirm, my face burning.
“Mama called her a ‘trick baby, a one-hit wonder. . . .’ ” My voice trails off.
His face turns red, and I look away, like you do at other people’s private things.
“Your mama still doing those drugs?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighs a long, sad sigh, the kind that comes from the belly.
“Did you girls get to eat every day?”
I sneak a look at him. His eyes remain glued to the road, like our words are no big deal.
“No, sir,” I reply truthfully. “Nessa cried when I killed the rabbits and birds, and it took a miracle to get her to eat them. The canned goods had to stretch. Mama didn’t always come back when she said she would, and those times I gave my share to Nessa. When you found us, we were running right low. Ness wouldn’t eat any more beans. Even with her stomach rumblin’—rumbling—like an earthquake.”
“It’s an awful lot of changes, from that to this, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll never want for food when you’re with me, okay? That’s my solemn promise. So eat all you want.”