Mrs. Haskell fiddles with something, and the trunk pops open. He deposits the three garbage bags inside.
I slide in beside Nessa and pull the door shut with a click. Mrs. Haskell inserts a key into the slot beside the wheel, and different-colored lights flash on. The man slides into the seat next to her. As if making it final, Mrs. Haskell pushes a button, locking us all in, for better or for worse. She’s barefoot, her wrecked shoes lying in the space between the two front seats.
“Put your seat belts on,” she says.
I lean over and fasten Nessa’s, and then my own—it only takes a minute to remember. The car lurches forward and the headlights sweep the forest I love, bringing it into focus one last time. I wipe the wetness from my cheeks, my chest expanding with an ache I can’t swallow down. If it weren’t for Nessa ...
The lights of oncoming cars flash past, and in their strobe I study the back of the man’s head, and his profile, too, when he turns to nod at the lowly chattering Mrs. Haskell.
Eventually, I get bored, though, listening to grown-up talk about the weather and the news and other such things I know nothing about. Tornadoes and hurricanes. People killed, nations I’ve never heard of fighting holy wars. I hold on to Nessa’s hand as if it’s for her sake, but it’s for my own. The warmth of her palm against mine spins a familiar cocoon around us, and that’s the last thing I remember before I, too, doze off.
The dashboard clock reads 10:15 as I blink my eyes, careful not to move anything else. At some point, Ness has slipped from the seat to curl like a Cheez Doodle on the floor mat. She isn’t wearing her seat belt, but I don’t have the heart to wake her.
“The girls don’t seem much worse for wear and tear, considering how they were living,” Mrs. Haskell says.
She clicks a stick and a light blinks as she passes a slow-moving truck strapped down with logs.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Your ex-wife’s letter was routed to the wrong department, and I only received word of it weeks after the postmark.”
The man grunts in answer, then looks over his shoulder. My eyes snap shut.
“Joelle carted the girls out into the middle of nowhere, all right,” he says, his words careful, like he knows I might be listening. “At the same time, they were right here in Tennessee. Right under our noses the whole time.”
“There’s an APB out on her,” Mrs. Haskell whispers. “It’s procedure in cases such as these.”
An APB? What’s an APB?
“If she hides herself as well as she hid the girls, they’ll never find her.”
I’m surprised to hear the casual tone of his voice, although, what I was expecting? Anger? Remorse? For him to make pretend he loves me, wants me? If he wanted us, he wouldn’t have beaten us, Mama and me. He’d at least sound sad for all the years we’ve been gone. But I can’t tell what he’s feeling. I can’t read him like I could Mama.
“If they do find her,” Mrs. Haskell continues, “you won’t have a lot of say in how they handle it. She did take off with Carey as the noncustodial parent. In the state of Tennessee, that’s kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping?” I blurt the word, unable to stop myself. Then, as Nessa stirs, I lower my voice. “Are you saying he’s gonna have Mama thrown in jail?”
He’s the one who should be in jail.
The man sighs, his shoulders hard set. I watch the back of his head. He doesn’t turn around.
“I’m not sure what they’re going to do, honey, but your mom broke the law.” Mrs. Haskell pauses to open her window a crack. “We’ll have to see what happens when it happens.”
Again, I feel the white heat fill me from my toenails to the tips of my ears. It should be him in trouble, not Mama. Not Mama, who’d tried to protect us from him. Heck, he hadn’t even cared enough to look for us. He’s only stuck with us now because of the letter.
I sit back in a huff, watching the cars zoom by, quite numerous now, as are the flecks of light thumbtacking the land in the distance. My emotions swirl like leaves caught in the breath of a dust devil, and the only thing I can seem to hold on to is the anger.
Why had Mama sent that letter? Didn’t she know they’d call him, that they’d release us into his custody? Where else would we go? Jennesa isn’t even his. Didn’t she care that they could separate us, stuff us into ill-fitting foster homes like the wrong puzzle pieces?
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Haskell’s voice is strong, unwavering. “It’s going to be okay, Carey. You’ll see.”
I answer her with my silence, understanding the full power of it for the first time. Words are weapons. Weapons are powerful. So are unsaid words. So are unused weapons.
“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Haskell hands me a bag of potato chips—sour cream and onion, which happens to be my favorite—as if she knows to take a thread from my old life and weave it into this new one.