I take the bag from her, saliva squirting at the back of my cheeks.
Closing my eyes, I savor the chips, trying to remember the last time I’d eaten the salty, crunchy goodness. Heaven this minute lives in my mouth. I have to pace myself, stop myself from gobbling down the whole bag in seconds. Mama brought us chips maybe three or four times. All too often, though, we couldn’t afford extras.
Mrs. Haskell smiles over her shoulder. “Bet it’s been a long time since you girls had chips. There’s another bag in the glove box—do you like barbecue?”
I nod my head emphatically, under the potato spell.
She hands the second bag over, and for a few moments, the only sound in the car is the crinkle of the bag around my greasy hand and the sound of my chewing. Like I do with the first bag, I save half, a big half, for Nessa.
“You girls are too thin, but it doesn’t surprise me, living the way you were. We’ll have to get some meat on your bones, especially Jenessa’s. We’ll need her hitting those height and weight percentiles normal children grow through.”
“She don’t like beans much.” Only they can’t understand me with my mouth full of chips.
“Doesn’t like what, hon?”
“BEANS, ma’am. She got all kinds of sick and tired of ’em after Mama left. We ran out of the ravioli and Campbell’s soup. All that was left was beans, and she don’t like ’em anymore.”
“DOESN’T like them. That’s the proper way to say that word, sweetie.”
I know that. I forgot my vow. I blush redder than Jenessa’s Crayola. “Yes, ma’am.”
I catch them exchanging glances across the seats, and I see, what? Pity? Concern? It hadn’t occurred to me that someone could feel sorry for us, let alone pity us. We were fine—we did right fine. I took good care of Nessa—better than Mama. Better than they could, still.
Ness knows it, too. It was me who taught her her numbers and her ABC’s, addition and subtraction, reading her books to her and then my own, and after we’d exhausted those, reading her favorites over again, only this time, having her read them to me. Pooh practice. I played her to sleep on my violin, ushering some culture into the woods, like Mama said.
“She loves butter,” I add. “But she doesn’t like peas. She loves birthday cake, too.”
I smile when Mrs. Haskell smiles.
Of all the crazy things a little girl could love, Ness loves birthday cake. There’d only been a few—one on my ninth birthday, one on Nessa’s third and fifth. Each time, Ness had lost it, squealing over the fluffy pink icing.
They look at each other again with that same sorry look, and my smile fades. They have no right.
“Well, when we get back to the motel, we’ll get you and Jenessa a hot bath and dinner. Do you girls like hamburgers? French fries?”
My stomach rumbles before the sound of her words leave the air.
“We like food, ma’am. I don’t think we’ve ever eaten those things you mentioned.”
This time, stopped at a light, Mrs. Haskell turns around in her seat and stares at me.
“Are you telling me your mother never took you into town? Not even to a restaurant?”
“She did. We went to town twice. Once to a speech therapist when Nessa stopped talking, and another time to the doctor when we both came down with the chicken pox.”
“Twice? In ten years?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hear the intake of breath from the man as Mrs. Haskell regards me with round, uncomprehending eyes.
“What, ma’am?” I say, fidgeting in my seat.
She’s bugging me, now. Not everyone can afford to eat out all fancy like. Doesn’t she know that?
“Where were you, then, all these years?”
What a ridiculous question. Really.
“In the woods. You were there . . .” I say, my words trailing off.
“Where did you get food and supplies?”
“Mama went into town for supplies every month. Canned goods keep, she said. We had a can opener,” I add, my words tasting tinny and inadequate.
“My God. Who schooled you? Your mother?”
“I did. Mama brought us old schoolbooks. I’d learn them, and help Nessa learn hers.”
Mrs. Haskell turns back around. The light is green, green means go, and I’m glad she has to pay attention to the road, instead of to me. Having strangers just stare at you is the oddest feeling. But it’s more than that.
What had I said? Did I say something wrong?
My stomach sinking, I push aside the chips. Would my words hurt Mama later, after they found her?
I hope they don’t find you—fly, Mama, fly! I’ll watch over Nessa. We’ll be right fine.
It’s easy to look out for Nessa. She’s my baby sister. She’s my family, and family is everything.
I drift off again as the motion of the car—it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a moving car—lulls me to sleep like a baby in its mama’s arms. I wake just as we pull into a parking lot.
“This is it. The Social Services building.”