“Well, a pencil is the same sort of thing—a writing instrument. You write with the sharp end, and see this hard, spongy thing here? That’s an eraser. If you make a mistake, you can erase the markings you made with the eraser.”
I marvel at it. “We could’ve used one of those when Jenessa was learning to write.” I take it from her outstretched hand.
“Well, you can keep it, if you want. See what it says on the side?”
I read it out loud. “ ‘Children and Family Services of TN.’ ”
“TN is the abbreviation for Tennessee.”
“Where we live,” I say softly.
“Right. Now, off you go.”
Me and my pencil enter the assigned room, and I lay out the pages on the long table. I can’t see tables now without thinking of a plate of bacon. I wish there was bacon, too.
The first part is easy:
Carey Violet Blackburn
Age: 15
It could be worse, I tell myself as I struggle over the first few questions. You could not know how to read or write. You could’ve had no books, no schoolbooks, or, even worse, no motivation to teach Ness or yourself.
To my surprise, once I get started, I know most of the answers, and the math is even easier. I think of the algebra and trigonometry texts Mama brought home from the yard sale, and those endless hours we filled with history and science, poetry and Pooh.
I won’t lie. There were times I daydreamed about what it’d be like to get out of the woods, go to college, and play in the symphony, when Jenessa was older and didn’t need me so much. No way I’d turn into Mama. My moods are steady, dependable. I’m not bipolar; I’m sure of it. I won’t do drugs. I took care of myself and a baby. I kept us safe, kept us fed, kept us smart.
I finish the pages in no time, in under two hours, according to the wristwatch Melissa gave me before we left.
“Carey, honey, wait.”
I slide my shirt on quickly before she opens my bedroom door.
“Yes, ma’am? Do you need help with Nessa?’’
“No, she’s downstairs, ready to go. It’s just that I have something for you. For luck.”
I stiffen, not sure what to do. “For me, ma’am?”
“This was mine when I was in college. It was a high school graduation gift from my father.”
Delaney, passing by, stops to listen.
“Hold out your arm.”
I do. Melissa buckles on the thin straps of a wristwatch. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe she’s giving it to me.
“Mom!” Delaney squeals.
“You have my watch from college graduation. You have plenty of watches, Delly,” she calls out as Delaney stomps down the hallway.
“’Don’t worry about Delly, She can have one of my other ones, if she wants another that badly.”
Now, I stare at the tiny hands, no thicker than a strand of Nessa’s hair, as they tick tick tick around the face. The watch is delicate, with a golden rectangular frame and a creamy mother-of-pearl face, with blond leather straps and a tiny gold buckle to hold it in place.
It’s fine—right fine. I’ve never owned anything so fine before.
I fill in the last question and put down my pencil. I decide I love pencils. Such a convenient invention, if ever there was one. Stretching my legs, I peer out the windows on the back wall. The glass is rectangle-shaped, and the consecutive panels stretch from waist height to high above my five feet, seven inches.
I survey a courtyard filled with children Nessa’s age and younger, swinging on swings and hanging from bars and climbing a roundshaped cage with ladder rungs.
Women dressed like Mrs. Haskell cart folders in their arms and talk to grown folk who watch the children from benches. Some of the women remind me of Mama—worn-out clothes and hair askew, puffing on cigarettes like no one’s business, and, even from my perch, quite obviously putting on the dog, plain as a slice of moldy muskrat meat.
A river of feelings courses through me when I think of Mama. Her memory snaps around me like a cheap bear trap that’ll never let go.
Where is she? Why did she leave us? She could’ve at least said goodbye to Nessa.
I jump at the sound of the door opening. A shiny-headed man peeks through.
“I’m looking for an empty room.”
“You can have this one, sir.”
“Don’t forget your papers,” he says, pointing.
Tripping over my feet, I gather up the sheets and slide past him through the doorway, careful not to touch.
Feeling sneaky, I peer through the tiny glass window in Mrs. Haskell’s office door. True to her word, she and Jenessa are bent over some sort of puzzle made out of yellow, blue, red, and green wood pieces.
I watch them for a moment. Nessa is smiling. That’s all I need to know. I continue toward the waiting room.
My father sits in a chair in the corner, sunlight pouring in from a window above as he reads a newspaper. He folds it and drops it on his lap when he sees me.
“How did the test go?”
“Fine, sir.”
I sit in the chair farthest from him, swinging my feet.