Once the era of Anne had ended, marching band filled some of the newly empty space in my life, and I spent many hours practicing in the evenings with Angela, who welcomed me back unquestioningly. We began tenth grade, moving up to the large, well-funded Central High School. I took every Advanced Placement class possible and felt like I was on a steady path to some kind of success. I was fifteen, and had always thought that the age of sixteen marked the beginning of adulthood; I was on my way. I had never been much of a performer, but I took an acting class and joined the debate team, feeling strong and ready to participate in things that other people cared about, ready to take risks, to be seen. Central had a selective creative writing program, and I planned to apply the following year, when I became eligible, even though the idea terrified me, as I’d written very little since Mom’s death. I met dozens of people and was interested in everyone, open to new friendships. My nights of fear had mostly disappeared by then, like a fog burned off by the Texas sunlight. I could see ahead more clearly, to college and my steadily approaching freedom. Things were even starting to get slightly better between me and Tootsie—she and Jimmy were divorcing, and once he had moved out that summer, she had started to seem a lot more relaxed.
Two months into the school year, I was riding home in a charter bus after performing in the first halftime show of the year with the marching band in El Paso, a six-hour trip each way. I watched, headphones on, as the sun disappeared below the unending horizon line and the glowing blue descended upon my friends, falling asleep around me, one by one. I remember feeling a calm, immense peace as the bus shot across the perfectly flat desert. I looked out at that land and felt a deep sense of belonging.
I got up late the next morning, having gotten home after midnight. As I brushed my teeth, Tootsie knocked hard on the bathroom door and said, “We need to talk.” I spat into the sink and paused. I made a neutral face in the mirror. “Okay, just a minute!” I wondered what I had done to irritate her this time. I wiped my mouth. I walked to the kitchen to meet her, determined to remain calm and defend myself as best I could against whatever accusation she had dreamed up.
She said, “Your aunt Carol and I were talking last night, and we agreed that it would be best if you went back to Maine.”
Something twisted inside my chest, answered by an immediate and powerful urge to fight that weakness. I didn’t want to react until I’d had some time to think. I said only, “When?”
“Well, you can leave this week or you can wait until the end of the semester.” She said this as if the options should have been immediately obvious to me.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll have to think about that.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon at my friend Loren’s house, returning home a few hours later to gather some of my things. I found Tootsie in the kitchen and said, “I’m staying at Loren’s tonight.”
“Excuse me?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“May I stay at Loren’s tonight?” I said, as softly and evenly as I could, trying not to give that “may” sarcastic emphasis, inwardly furious that she could upend my life and still expect courtesy and submission.
“Well, what’s your decision?” she said, standing up to her full height and looking down at me.
“Well . . .” I began. I hadn’t really thought yet about when I wanted to leave. It had only been about four hours since she’d told me I had to. “I’ve been in school for two months already . . . and I only got to do one halftime show in marching band after practicing all summer, so . . . I’d like to stay until the end of the semester.”
She crossed her arms and looked at me for a moment. Then she said, “No, the sight of you is pissing me off; you’re leaving on Wednesday.”
It was Saturday. My mind froze up in response to this. I retreated to my room and stared at the wall. Think, I thought to myself. Figure it out. She seemed to be bluffing, hiding something. If I could identify it, maybe I could stay. A memory of all those long, sleepless nights at Carol’s edged into my mind. I had to try to stay. I could not go back to Maine. But over the next few days, my attempts to get an explanation from Tootsie were met with a wall of anger I could not penetrate. It took me years to realize that there was probably never a choice, that she must have bought that plane ticket before she told me anything at all.
* * *
Tootsie and I mostly kept out of each other’s orbits in those final days, speaking as little as possible. She bought me a cheap three-piece set of luggage and I found myself in the ridiculous position of thanking her for it. But as the hours disappeared, so did my restraint. On Tuesday night, I came out into the living room where Tootsie was watching the news and told her that I thought it might be illegal, what she was doing. I had been in the courtroom when they processed my adoption, when the judge decreed that she take care of me as her own. You couldn’t just go back on a legal promise like that. She turned off the TV and rose from the couch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’m just your aunt,” she said. “The adoption was only so you could have health insurance.”
I was astonished by how much this hurt. I’d tried to harden myself against her, but I knew then that she would always be stronger. I felt like a fool for seeking reassurance in the judge’s words, for remembering them at all.