IT TOOK A while for the photos, the posts, the cheering kitty GIFs to start appearing, but we eventually called phase one of the Upton Promise Project a huge success. The woman from Florida with all the foster children posted photos of her kids and praised God. The woman from Alaska posted a photo of herself in front of the FOR LEASE sign on the building she wanted to house escaped prostitutes in. She had made a giant LEASED sign and was holding it with a THANK YOU, BENEVOLENT ANGEL sign. The parents of Marigold, the five-year-old with the rare cancer, had posted pictures of her in her hospital bed holding up the care package with a sign that said THANK YOU, SPECIAL FRIENDS. I LOVE YOU.
Nothing yet from Ella’s family. But I knew it would only be a matter of time.
The Gordie beach encounter had left permanent waves inside me. I thought about it all the time—in the shower, as I sat drinking lemonade with the farm stand guys, as I hung out on my willow crate fielding the-hunt-for-Hector texts from Alice.
It was a busy day at the farm stand with two tourist buses swallowing up all our good produce, and a bunch of locals and city people grumbling about the slim pickings the rest of the day. Daniela had to bring her son to work, and her son was a whiner. He wanted a lollipop. He wanted the iPad. He wanted to get on the tour bus. I was relieved when Dad showed up to take me to therapy.
Dad drove me to the appointment in the ice cream truck, which was embarrassing. He waited in the truck with his Daily News and his bag of pistachios while I went in to bare my soul to Willie Ng’s therapist. Or half bare my soul.
“I know the victim advocate mentioned you may be entitled to weigh in on the ultimate sentencing decision. Are you comfortable writing the statement about how the incident has impacted you, both physically and emotionally?” He sat upright, his purple pad in his lap, his glasses propped on his white tangle of hair. “Because we can work together if it feels overwhelming.”
I stared at the crack in the glass of the framed Monet’s waterlilies print that hung over his head. “I haven’t been thinking much about the incident lately. But I can definitely write something on my own.”
He tapped his pen against his cheek. “How about the night wanderings? Have those subsided?”
“Not really. It’s easier to calm myself down now, though.”
“Had you ever had sleep issues like this before the incident?”
I thought about it.
“Actually, when I was little. When we first moved out to the East End, I slept with my parents almost every night for a long time.”
He nodded. “Lots of transitions happening this summer, too, huh?”
He was right. There were lots of transitions happening. Maybe more than I wanted to confront during the waking hours.
More pen tapping. “How about when you’re at the farm stand? Any feelings of dread? Physical reactions? Anxiety in general?”
I stared at the Monet crack again. I remembered the flood of fear I had felt when Jean tore into the parking lot, but didn’t feel it worthy of reporting. And then I thought of the snapping. Every time I walked past the spot where I hit the gravel, I snapped my fingers twice. Every single time. It was just a thing I did. I wasn’t going to tell the guy that either. That was just crazy.
“No. Things have been going really well.”
“Good. Good. You’re doing good, Sadie.”
I felt like I was holding a balloon and releasing a tiny bit of air, just to get through the session, because if I released the balloon, if I let it fly around the room and blow the shit in my head all over this guy, he wouldn’t know what hit him. And the truth was, most of the shit in my head had nothing to do with the incident.
“How’d it go?” Dad said when I finally got out of the stuffy office.
“Good. Good,” I said. “Really good.”
Dad dropped me at the barn, where Val was waiting with a carload of backpacks and her clipboard. It was the big night, the school-supply pickup picnic.
Gordie showed up late with Keith and Zoe after Alice, Val, Val’s two uncles, and I had loaded box after box of sorted supplies into the Subaru, Uncle Juan’s pickup truck, and Uncle Milky’s Mustang. We stuffed the rest of the heavy bins into the back of the Range Rover and made our way to a church not far from Riverhead, where a group of men had gathered near the church steps.
“Limonada!” Papi from the farm stand shouted when I got out.
“No way! Hey, Papi!” I ran over and high-fived him.
“And how do you know Papi?” Gordie said.
“I know a lot of people, Gordie,” I said.
He put his arm around my waist and leaned in close. “I need to see you,” he whispered.
“You’re seeing me right now,” I whispered back, the waves rolling through me.
“You know what I mean,” he said, walking away. “Limonada.”
The men drank beer from cans and laughed raucously. We followed Val to the back of the church, where a group of kids played soccer in an overgrown lot.
“Valeria,” somebody shouted. The kids swarmed.
“Come on, chickies,” Val said.
The kids stood in two lines and waited patiently for us to lead them to the bins. Each chose a brand-new backpack stuffed with school supplies. I glanced over at Gordie, who was bent down and smiling at an adorable little girl in a floral sundress.
“Gracias,” she said shyly.
“De nada,” Gordie said.
“Have fun in school. Work hard,” Keith said to each kid.
Val marched around with her clipboard, answering parents’ questions and talking with grateful grandparents, many weathered from long years in the fields.
When we were finished, Val’s mom invited everyone down to the cool, brightly lit church basement, where the crowd was greeted with salsa music and platters of tamales and plates of cakes and cookies. I grabbed a soda and some tamales and sat on a folding chair between Alice and Zoe.
“Do you have enough tamales, Alice?” I said, pointing my plastic knife at her obnoxious stack.
“Maybe,” she said, chewing.
“You could make a Mayan temple out of those,” Jean joked from across the table.
“Nice of you to show up after all the work is done,” Alice said.
“Hey, I gotta earn a living,” Jean said. “I’m setting up for the epic Tiny Art Show. You’d better be there.”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Alice said. “I’ll even take pictures.”
Parents and grandparents danced on a stage above the crowded tables. Packs of kids ran around playing tag and popping cookies into their mouths. Every last kid, even the older ones, carried their backpacks.
“Limonada, baile!” Ramon, one of the other farm stand guys, came up behind me and grabbed my hand.
“Uh. No, gracias.”
“Go dance with the guy,” Alice said.