“I don’t know,” she said.
He came to sit beside her, and she didn’t shift away from him, turned to face him instead. He put his arms around her and she held her body stiff, then let go, wrapped her arms around him, too. He buried his face in her hair; then he was shaking. It took her a second to realize he was crying. She held him tighter, feeling less alone in this thing. He was whispering; she couldn’t understand what he was saying at first. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Over and over again like a prayer.
FIVE
Penny dreamed of a room with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and yellow sunlight washing in through big windows. A mobile of red painted wooden fish dangled at a tilt by the bookshelf; there was the smell of toast and coffee. Blankets soft as powder, smelling of fabric softener, tiny marshmallows bobbing in creamy hot chocolate, a chalkboard wall where she could draw whatever she wanted. The last thing she’d scribbled there was a frowny face with tired eyes: I don’t want to go to school today! She could remember the smell of the chalk and how the pink dust got on her clothes.
But as soon as Penny woke in the musty, windowless space she occupied now, all of that disappeared like fairy powder—a sparkling, insubstantial thing that everyone knew didn’t exist—like so many of the dreams that Penny had.
She was never sure what time it was now. Her room didn’t have a clock or a television. She didn’t have an iPod Touch. She’d had one once, though. She remembered it with its cover that looked like a penguin. She’d been angry because her brother accidentally smudged it with purple marker that wouldn’t come out. The ink made a little smear by the eye. It looks like he got in a fight with another penguin, her brother said. And lost. (That, for some reason, had made her really mad.) But all that, too, was gone. It was better not to think about the things from before; otherwise that feeling came up. That sad, angry twist like a tornado inside her that made her do things that got her into trouble.
She sat up now in her hard cot that squeaked and wobbled beneath her. There was only one too-thin wool blanket that scratched, no sheets. The blanket was so dirty it made her skin itch and crawl, like something you’d see in a homeless person’s cart. It had that dirty-body smell, the kind that got into your nose and stayed. Penny climbed out and straightened the blanket, put the flat, yellowed pillow right, so they wouldn’t get mad at her. Lazy, ungrateful, stupid thing.
Then she walked over to the little mirror and combed her hair, pulled it into a ponytail at the base of her neck. You’re so pretty. Your hair looks like spun gold. Her mommy used to tell her that. But her mommy was gone. Now, Penny’s hair looked like straw; she had to pull her hardest just to get the cheap plastic comb through. Her mom used to spray something that smelled like apples, and the tangles would just fall away. But no one did anything like that for her anymore.
Slowly, she pulled on the jeans that were too big for her, and the boots that were too big for her, and the coat with the sleeves rolled up. Then, pushing out the narrow door into the cool air, she shuffled over toward the old red water pump. It was dark outside and the moon hung low and wide like a sad face looking down on her. She had to use both her hands and all her strength to get the pump to work. But after a few tries, the water started spilling and filling the bucket that Poppa had left there for her.
You never tasted better water out there, I’ll bet. Right?
She’d agreed because she always agreed now. She used to argue with her daddy, and he’d roll his eyes and tell her to lose the attitude and was she planning on becoming a lawyer when she grew up. But her daddy was gone, too. And when she disagreed here, bad things happened. Really bad things.
She dragged the bucket over toward the barn where she could already hear the cow lowing. A little bird was singing a sweet song up in the trees, which meant that dawn wasn’t far off. That was something she had learned here. Birds start singing before the sun comes up, just before there’s even a lick of light in the sky. She’d read in a book once, The Bumper Book of Nature, that the quiet of dawn was the very best time to hear birdsong. She wanted to write to the author and tell him that really it was right before dawn. That’s when the songs were the prettiest, as if the best singers got up before everyone else.