“The only animals we had were for dinner,” I tell him, and he stares at me, his grin receding like the mountains during some of the worst storms, the ones where the roof leaked into rusty metal pots while we huddled together on the cot for warmth, our toes and lips blue.
Jenessa reappears and tugs on my father’s hand, pulling him out the door. I note the emotions that play across his face—happiness, sadness, shock, regret—before he tears his eyes from mine.
Gravel crunches under the tires as we bounce down the driveway. Nessa kneels backward on the seat, waving at Melissa on the porch until we can no longer see her.
“Turn around, Ness, so I can do the seat belt.”
First, I plop each of her feet on my thigh and tie her shoes— the laces are always coming loose—making bunny ears with the laces.
“Where did you learn to do that?” my father asks, astonishment in his voice.
“You,” I say quietly as another memory slips into place, like a puzzle piece that knows where it belongs even before I do.
I see myself, a little girl from another world, riding in the truck with her daddy.
“Oh no. My soos are bwoken.”
I pout, wavin my feet in the air from my car seat in the back.
“Want me to make you bunny ears?”
“Bunny eawrs! Bunny eawrs!”
My father keeps his eyes on the road, his knuckles yellow-white as he grips the wheel.
Mama’s voice scratches through my mind, too.
“That son of a bitch left us to fend for ourselves.”
“But you said we left him.”
Her swift backhand knocks me off my feet.
“Don’t you sass me.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
My nine-year-old voice is tinier than a chipmunk’s chirp as I clutch my cheek, tears stingin’ my eyes.
“Damn right we left him. I had to save my girl.”
“I know, Mama.”
“And don’t you be tellin no strangers our b’ness. Family b’ness don’t leave this family.”
I nod vigorously, her viselike grip dentin’ my upper arm.
“If you see anyone in these woods,” she says, lettin go only to cup my cheeks so tightly, my eyes bug out, “hide. Don’t let yourself be seen, girl, and whatever you do, don’t give your name.”
“What would happen, Mama?” I ask, my face achin.
Nessa wails, wantin’ me to go to her. But Mama won’t let go.
“They’ll take you away from me and make you live with him. And then I won’t be there to protect you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now go see to your sister, before I slap that cryin right outta her.”
The Children’s Services parking lot teems with cars, thick as ants on spilled beans. My father has to circle around back to find an empty parking space.
“Take your sister’s hand,” he says as we jump out.
I lift our arms into a V, sister fingers entwined. “I’ve already got it, sir.”
“Of course you do. I keep forgetting—”
“It’s okay, sir.”
“Maybe it’s good I keep forgetting, huh?”
I know what he means.
I’m a girl, just a girl, who never should’ve had to be in charge in the first place.
Jenessa tilts her head back. Her large eyes worry me with questions.
“Melissa said it’s just some puzzles or something, remember? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
Nessa’s grip relaxes. I wouldn’t tell her something that wasn’t so. I lean in and gather her backpack from the seat, a gift from Melissa before we left the house. It contains two sandwiches, a clean pair of underpants, and a few children’s magazines.
“That’s Snow White on the back,” Melissa says, turning the backpack over.
We look at her blankly.
“Don’t you know Snow White? She’s a princess. You know, the Disney princesses?”
“She knows Cinderella, ma’am. From her shirt.”
“Right! Cinderella is one of the princesses. I’ll have to dig out Delly’s princess books for you, Jenessa.”
Nessa claps her hands and does a silly dance.
We smile, Cinderella building a bridge between our woods and civilization. For a moment, we all stand on it equally, comfortably. For a moment, we belong.
Ness reaches for my father’s hand, and we make an awkward train, zigging up the building’s steps and zagging down the polished hallways. I picture him in my mind, pushing open the beige door with the MRS. HASKELL nameplate glued to the front, discussing the letter and our case while I cooked beans and washed clothes in the creek and smushed cochroaches scurrying across the tiny countertop, oblivious to the coming end of our world.
Mrs. Haskell looks awfully happy to see us.
“Awww,” she says as Ness flies into her arms.
Familiar faces are priceless for my sister. In a sea of trees turned into a sea of total strangers, familiar means everything.
“Hi there, sweetie. Hi, Carey. Won’t you come in?”
My father motions me in front of him with a sweep of his hand. We all settle into chairs opposite Mrs. Haskell.
“How’s it working out so far, Mr. Benskin?”
Folders are piled high on every surface but her desk. Even an empty chair boasts a rising tower of paperwork stretching toward the ceiling, steadied by the wall the chair leans against.