WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26TH
I am asleep in bed but my eyes are awake. They are as open and as green as the numbers on my alarm clock.
When you run away the police always find you. If you try to fight they pick you up and put you in their car and take you to the hospital. After that the family you lived with comes to bring you home.
But there are times when you don’t run away and the police still come. To your house. If you try to fight they still pick you up and bring you to the hospital but then the family you lived with doesn’t come. They don’t come to take you back. Instead a social worker comes. She brings you somewhere new.
That was what happened before.
I ran away two times from Samantha and Bill before I pooped on Morgan’s rug which was when the police came to take me away. Because I didn’t want to live there anymore. I was really tired of Morgan. She was tedious.
And before that the police came to take me out of Carla and Mike’s house. That was because of Snowball. I felt bad afterward and kept saying, “Please, please come alive again,” but I was too late. And when you hide a dead cat you should never put it under your mattress. People will go in your room and say, “What the hell is that bump in your bed, Ginny? What the hell is that bump!”
So if you want to leave a house forever it’s pretty easy. You just have to do something bad. It doesn’t even have to be on purpose.
But it can be.
Because I don’t belong here. I belong on the other side of Forever where I’m still nine years old and everything adds up. Not here in the Aftermath. There’s no place for (-Ginny) in the Aftermath at all. She doesn’t fit in the equation or the sentence and the minus sign means she’s supposed to be subtracted. I know that I drive everyone bat-shit crazy. I see the funny way they look at me when I talk. I’m just a cave girl who doesn’t belong. I can’t do anything right and can barely keep my mouth closed. I can’t take care of anyone so I just don’t belong unless it’s in a cave or like Bubbles in a zoo.
So I’m going to make the police come. If I do something really, really bad they’ll come put me in jail. Because jail is like a cage at the zoo. Jail is for people who need to be away from everyone. If I can’t be who I used to be and my Baby Doll doesn’t need me then I’m guessing I shouldn’t be anywhere except behind bars. Because (-Ginny) isn’t even a person. She is like an animal or a ghost or a scary, scary statue.
Which means tomorrow I’m going to make Brian and Maura Moon wish they let me get a cat.
89
EXACTLY 4:35 IN THE AFTERNOON,
THURSDAY, JANUARY 27TH
Maura is on the couch holding Baby Wendy. She just finished breast-feeding it.
I am sitting on the floor. I just finished watching.
Because there are three things that Patrice asked Maura to let me do now that everyone thinks I’m staying at the Blue House. The first is to let me watch when she breast-feeds. Before Maura used to put a white cloth over her shoulder or a receiving blanket to hide Baby Wendy’s head. I wasn’t allowed to look. But now I’m supposed to watch because it encourages attachment.
The second thing I’m supposed to do is help out a little more with the baby. Like getting things ready for its bath or picking out a storybook when it’s time to read. So this morning I asked if I could carry the diaper bag when we went to the grocery store. But Maura wouldn’t let me.
The third thing I’m supposed to do is hold the baby while Maura watches. Once a day. Maura says we aren’t there yet.
Outside I hear the mail truck coming down the road. I hear it slow down and stop at the neighbor’s house. Then it starts up and slows down and stops in front of the Blue House. I hear the sound of the mailbox door open and close. Then the mail truck drives away.
“There goes the mail truck,” says Maura. “Ginny, I’m expecting something important, so I want to run outside and see if it came. Wendy is almost asleep, so I’m going to put her down in her crib. Do you think you’ll be all right if I go get the mail?”
I look up. “Yes,” I say but it doesn’t sound like my voice. It doesn’t sound like Ginny’s. I know exactly whose it is.
“Good. Now, just stay here. Get yourself a coloring book or maybe something to read, and just relax until I get back. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Great,” says Maura. “Just remember, if Wendy starts crying, everything will be fine. I’ll be right back. And if the sound bothers you too much, just go right into your room and shut the door. But really, it shouldn’t happen. She just finished eating. She’s already asleep. I’m sure I can set her down without waking her up.”
Maura stands up with Baby Wendy. The baby’s eyes are closed. She walks past me into the kitchen and goes upstairs. She comes down exactly forty-four seconds later.
“There,” she says. “Now, I’ll be right back. Be a good girl, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
She sits down on the bench by the door to the screen porch and puts her boots on. Then she gets her coat. She zips it up and pulls on her gloves and hat. She smiles at me one last time. And leaves.
I stand up.
In summer or spring or fall when there’s no snow it takes approximately four minutes to get the mail. When it’s cold and snowy in the winter it takes five. So Maura will be gone for approximately five minutes.
Which means I have plenty of time.
I get up and run into the kitchen and grab a dish towel from the counter. It is white with two green lines around the edges. Two green lines as green and thin as snakes. Maura used the towel a little while ago to dry some baby spoons and a little bowl. Baby Wendy didn’t eat the rice cereal and pears she made for it.
The towel is still damp. I hold it with one hand and lift the other one to turn on the stove but then I start to get anxious. I put my hand back down again and run into the living room to look out the window. Through it I see Maura in the driveway halfway to the road.
I run back into the kitchen and turn the front right burner on. The same one I used in the Little White House to make eggs. Only this time I’m not cooking. I’m setting the white-and-green dish towel on fire on purpose so that it will make the counter and maybe the cabinets start to burn. Then Maura will come in and put the fire out and yell and scream and call the police to take me away and this Forever will end. Approximately five minutes from now.
It’s all part of my new secret plan.
I stand over the burner. The towel is in my hands in a tight, tight ball. The burner turns orange. I smell hot metal.
And then Baby Wendy starts to fuss.
In my brain I say, Well dang!
I step back to listen. The fussing gets louder.