Becoming Ellen (2 page)

Lydia twisted to look up at Ellen, who thought,
In her world, she's been told not to say anything to strangers.
Ellen nodded once to the girl, granting permission, and Lydia responded to the query with a quick shake of her head.

At that moment, two policemen entered the small room. Ellen reached up with her free hand and wrapped it tightly around her upper left arm. The spidery scars there itched as though they were freshly scabbed instead of years old. She wasn't even sure why, only that whenever she saw police in uniform, Ellen had flashes of one of her early foster homes, of a policeman with a drinking problem and a cruel streak, and she remembered the startled look of pity on the face of the teacher who had noticed the multiple scabs scratched into Ellen's arm, prompting yet another change of foster homes. Ellen shook it off now, like raindrops from an umbrella.

The first officer in scanned the room twice before he spotted Ellen. “We need to get some information and a statement from you, ma'am.”

Ellen took a shaky breath and tried to think of how to tell them with the least amount of words and notice. “A guy, big, white, probably on drugs, got on the bus and attacked the driver. It crashed.” She was rubbing her arm furiously.

“Are you all right?” the officer asked.

Ellen stopped the rubbing and held her fisted hand firmly in her lap, though the sensation on her arm grew into a burning so strong she imagined she could hear it sizzling. “I'm fine,” she said quietly.

“Ms. . . . Homes, could I speak to you outside for a moment?”

A gale force terror struck Ellen and she squeezed her eyes shut to block the wind of it, momentarily rendered incapable of movement. Then she rose stiffly and pried Lydia's hand from hers. “I'll be right back,” she told the girl.

“Don't leave.” The girl spoke simply, almost inaudibly. Yet the two words crushed Ellen.

“I won't,” Ellen said, then she thought,
Don't lie to her!
So she added, “Not yet.” As Ellen followed the officer out, his partner sat down next to the bed. Lydia ignored him and kept her eyes riveted on Ellen on the other side of the glass.

“So, you wouldn't have any idea who we could contact to pick this child up, would you?”

Ellen's heart leapt from her chest, slammed against the wall, and slid to the floor, shriveled and bruised. She stood motionless until it flopped its way back into her chest. This was too much like her own story, no one to come for her. It was one of many chapters of her life too painful to be relived. She had survived it precisely because she did not relive it—ever.

Ellen shrugged off the shadow of her own debilitating scenario and managed a single word. “No.”

The officer shook his head. “Child services is on their way, and they can place her for the night at least.”

Ellen thought of the mother's battered body being carried from the bus and understood that one night would almost certainly become a hundred, then a thousand. The memories of her own mother's desertion that ambushed her now were so painful that, out of desperation, she began to shut down. The Novocain of denial, of a lifetime of conditioning herself not to feel, to look only forward, never back, began in her gut and spread. The addictive response was a hit of saturated numbness.

“Can I go?” Ellen asked the officer.

“I'm not going to keep you.”

Without waiting, Ellen gratefully turned away from him and back toward the room. She would go in and tell Lydia that she had to go but that she, Lydia, would be all right. Though the only thing Ellen knew for certain was that the girl was about to become a ward of the state. Through the glass, Lydia was watching her with her strange, round eyes. She raised her hands and held them out toward Ellen.

Ellen felt something just above her stomach splinter, like thin ice fracturing, and it crumpled her. She put one hand against the window to steady herself. She tried to force her body to turn toward the doorway and go back in, but at that moment a woman in tan slacks and a tight bun walked briskly through the emergency room doors. Ellen knew what she was even before the woman took up her position in Lydia's doorway. She'd seen this same person a dozen times before, and each time they had been different ages, had different hair, skin color, were a different sex, even had different accents, but they'd all been the same person to Ellen. Not even a person really, more like a force, an
institution
.

“Lydia Carson?” the woman called out, advancing on the girl like an animal she'd struck with a car and that was bleeding on the side of the road. Through the open door, Ellen could hear her say, “My name is Serena and I'm here to help you. There's no reason to be afraid.”

Ellen could not enter while the generic face of so many of her nightmares occupied that space.
What a stupid thing to say,
she thought bitterly.
Of course she's afraid, of course she has reason. Why pretend to a child who knows fear so much better than you?
She remembered hearing the same banal words, the same promises of safety and care that were never delivered. She stood, wondering if anyone could see that she was inside out and praying that they couldn't see her at all. Struggling to fend off the panic, Ellen began to take sharp, shallow gulps of air as the woman's expression, a fixed smile that did not extend to her eyes, stimulated a flurry of ugly images for Ellen. Before she fell spinning into that dark, gaping void of emotions she could not control, Ellen fled.

She reached the corner of the hallway and powered on around it, so targeted on the anonymity that would hide her beyond the exit that she did not see the man directly in her path. Ellen tried to alter the direction of her momentum—not an easy shift when her one hundred and eighty pounds were fully committed elsewhere.

“I'm glad you're okay. Are you leaving?” It was the undercover police officer from the bus.

She looked up in both surprise and relief. Somehow this capable cop in jeans didn't frighten her the way the uniforms did. The harshly lit hallway revealed that he was much older than he first appeared, closer to midthirties, she thought.

“Uh, yeah,” Ellen managed.

“I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to give you this.” He pulled out a card and handed it to Ellen. She looked down at it to avoid the naked feeling of his eyes on her. It read
DETECTIVE
LIONEL
BARCLAY
. Beneath that were his precinct and phone number.

Ellen mumbled, “Sure,” and pocketed the card.

“How's the little girl?” Detective Lionel Barclay asked.

“I don't know.” She hesitated. For some reason she felt compelled to share something with this man. The sensation was alien, yet not as threatening as she would have thought. So she ventured, “I don't suppose she's doing very well, do you?”

Lionel Barclay sighed. “No, I don't suppose she is. I think it really helped that you were there. You seem to be good with kids.”

If the detective had pulled out his gun and shot her, Ellen could not have been more startled.
Good with kids?
Kids had made her own childhood a living hell. She had been
good
at avoiding them, but that was the extent of it.

“I, uh, don't really know any kids,” was all she said.

The detective laughed. “Well, let me know how you're doing. I'm really grateful to you. If there's anything you need, please let me know.”

Ellen nodded shallowly and got going more carefully this time, but picking up speed as her need to be invisible grew to an aching necessity. The hospital doors opened and Ellen felt the chilly early-morning air rush over her, soothing her tattered nerves.

But the name Lydia Carson repeated itself over and over with a steady, constant beat in her brain. The mantra grew from weak to strong, forcing back the paralyzing memories.

Lydia Carson, Lydia Carson.
Over and over, Ellen repeated the feeble syllables of the name in a syncopated rhythm until they steadied and grew stronger.
Lydia CARson, Lydia CARson, Lydia CARson,
like a new heartbeat born of intent.

A
re you sure this is coffee? It smells like something BP scraped up off the Gulf of Mexico,” Temerity was exclaiming loudly to Justice as Ellen opened the door to the loft. The blind girl sniffed at the green mug and wrinkled her nose. Her brother looked beseechingly across the expanse of floor at Ellen and shook his head.

“Just add some hot water if you think it's too strong,” he told his sister.

“It doesn't matter how much you dilute battery acid, it's still acid.”

“You're a bit acidic yourself this morning,” he countered, slurping his coffee audibly to let her know he was enjoying it.

“Which gives me an idea for this Drano.” Temerity found the sink with her free hand and poured the contents of her cup down the drain. Then she set about making herself a fresh pot of coffee in what Ellen now knew was a “French press.” Even after knowing Temerity for a year, Ellen was still fascinated by the way she could navigate the kitchen, not to mention the rest of the world, with nothing more than her “antennae,” as she called her hands.

“You have an overdeveloped sense of taste and smell,” Justice told her. “There's nothing wrong with my coffee.”

“Not if you're using it to remove paint.” Temerity laughed. “Hey, Ellen!” she called out before Ellen had even closed the door.

Blind people, Ellen had learned, have an overdeveloped sense of hearing, too.

“Hi,” Ellen responded. She didn't know how she had come to be comfortable around these two people out of the mass of humanity she so invariably distrusted, but it had been that way from almost the moment she had met them. They were different from anyone else she'd ever met or observed. Ellen suspected that they always had been. She put the mail, which she picked up every morning on her way in, on the table.

“If you want some
drinkable
coffee, it'll be ready in five minutes,” Temerity called out.

“My coffee is
fine
,” Justice retorted as he ducked down to pull something from the cabinets. “I put your mug out, Ellen.”

“If you value your stomach lining, you'll wait,” Temerity warned.

Since she already had the shakes, Ellen thanked them both but refused. She made it halfway across the open space before Runt, the twins' big shaggy mutt, bounded up to her and ran in clumsy circles around her legs until she patted his head. On the sofa in the seating area, her cat, Mouse, raised his huge head, shook his tattered ear and a half, and stretched before tucking his butterball body back into sleep position. Runt galumphed over to Mouse and sniffed him. The cat made a low noise and placed a paw on the dog's nose.

Justice pulled out a frying pan and set it on the burner. “Eggs and toast?” he offered as Ellen reached the bickering sibs.

“Yes, please.”

“You're late, young buttface,” Justice said, fixing his gray eyes on her with a mock look of disapproval.

Temerity threw one hand onto a hip. “Oh no, you did
not
just call her buttface.”

“Did they not take skin from Ellen's backside to repair her scar?” Justice asked with a wink at Ellen, who actually liked the familiarity, though affectionate teasing was taking some getting used to. “So, I get to call her buttface.”

“It doesn't surprise me you don't know the difference between a butt and a thigh,” Temerity proclaimed.

“Well, I can't call her ‘thigh-face.' That's not nearly as much fun,” Justice objected. Then he turned to Ellen like the big brother he'd become to her. “If you're this late again, I'm giving you a time-out.”

“There was an . . . accident,” Ellen said, feeling the unusual compulsion to tell them.

Temerity was measuring coffee into the pot by scooping up the grounds, then running a finger over the top to level them off, but she froze. “What happened?” she asked, her pretty brow creasing in concern. Justice, too, had suspended his task. In that moment it wasn't only their dark hair and similar body types that made them look like twins, it was also their matching expressions of deep concern.

“Uh, the bus kind of, well, crashed.”

“What?”
Temerity dropped the scoop and hurried around the counter that separated the kitchen from the open living space. She found Ellen with two exploratory sweeps of her arms and took hold of her shoulder. Ellen could tell Temerity was holding herself back from enveloping her in a hug, with which she knew Ellen was not comfortable.

“Some drugged-out guy got on the bus and attacked the driver. It turned over sideways, but luckily toward my side, so I didn't fall, just got bruised a bit.” She rubbed at her left hip where she had taken Lydia's weight.

“Oh my God! It flipped over?” Temerity spun in her brother's general direction. “Why didn't you tell me about this?”

Justice just raised his arms before letting them flop to his sides. “Because . . . I'm not psychic?” He performed an exasperated roll of his eyes for Ellen's sole benefit, and then immediately became serious. “Are you all right? Were you injured?”

“No,” Ellen said, though in truth she could already feel herself stiffening up into one large ache, and the gnawing in her stomach was beginning to actually hurt. “I'm hungry, though.”

“I'll bet you are,” Justice said emphatically. “Four eggs and toast coming right up!” He turned back with renewed purpose to the stovetop. “You want cheese on that?”

For some reason, the offer of cheese made Ellen want to cry. Normally, Justice discouraged cheese, though mostly by suggesting a healthier alternative, but he understood that calories were the pillow that cushioned Ellen from the pointy bits of life. “Yes, please,” she said. She swallowed hard, and Temerity sensed the movement. She began to rub Ellen's back between her shoulder blades with the flat of her hand, a gesture that the two of them had settled on. Though Ellen was still hyperconscious of the touch, she had braced herself not to fear or resent it.

“Okay, spill,” Temerity said, and climbed up on one of the stools at the counter, patting the one next to her with her free hand. “Up,” she ordered.

Ellen set down her bag and obeyed. She told them about the accident, using considerably more words than she had with the police, and before she was finished, Justice had set a steaming plate of scrambled eggs smothered in cheddar cheese, with four pieces of buttered wheat toast, a fork, and a jar of jam, in front of her. Ellen picked up the fork and pushed the eggs onto some toast, then took a big mouthful. The taste and the heft of the food insulated her like a heavy jacket in a blizzard. As the result of her facial surgery nine months ago (which had made chewing difficult), she had lost close to eighty pounds. Adopting some of the twins' healthier eating habits had helped her to lose even more, but today required food, substantial and caloric. Her inner shivers subsided.

Temerity and Justice were both silent for a few moments, and then Justice said, “Adventures do seem to find you, don't they?”

“It's not my fault that guy picked my bus,” Ellen objected, reaching for the giant glass of orange juice Justice set down near her plate.

Justice, who was now officially a doctor—of anthropology, it was true—had spent two years in medical school before switching majors, and that made him the resident expert on all things physical. He measured out three ibuprofen into his palm and held them out for Ellen to take. “Okay, you need to get into a very hot bath. When you are in an accident, you seize up and it's the equivalent of pulling almost every muscle in your body. Amanda is coming by tonight after her shift at the hospital, and we'll have her give you a once-over.”

“But I was already at the hospital,” Ellen objected.

Justice fixed her with a steady, stern look, and Temerity slapped a palm on the countertop. “Ellen, now be honest. Were you examined?”

Ellen swallowed. “Well, no,” she admitted, continuing on rapidly to distract them from that line of questioning. “But there's nothing wrong with me. I was only there because of the little girl.”

There was a slightly charged silence during which the siblings
would
have exchanged a look, if Temerity had vision, but the pause on its own sufficed for their version of a knowing glance. Temerity stood up. “This is going to require coffee,” she said. She moved around the counter, poured the water, which had boiled moments before, into the press, put the top on, and gave it a swirl. Then she crossed her arms and faced the counter, where Ellen was seated. “What girl?” she asked.

“Of course,” Justice said without enthusiasm. “There's more.”

“There was a girl, on the bus, with her mother, and when the bus went over, well, the little girl, Lydia, landed on me, but her mom . . .” Ellen's voice faded out as the image of Lydia's mom jammed between the seats came back to her, and she tried to mentally swipe it away.

Justice put one hand to his forehead and shook his head slowly. “She's dead?” he asked.

“No, I don't think so,” Ellen said. “But her neck was twisted really funny.”

Temerity gasped a little and Ellen saw that her hands were balled into anxious fists. She still didn't understand how Temerity could feel so much for people she didn't even know, but she did. “How horrible. We have to help that little girl!” Temerity exclaimed.

“Whoa, hold on, at least let Ellen finish telling us about it before you form a posse and gallop off in a cloud of dust,” cautioned Justice.

“So,” Ellen went on, “I sort of stayed with Lydia until . . . someone came to get her.”

“Oh.” Temerity calmed down. “Thank goodness she has family.”

Ellen shook her head. “Not family. Someone from social services,” she mumbled, wanting to spit after the hated words had slithered from her mouth.

Justice reached across the countertop and put one hand over Ellen's. She resisted the instinct to pull away, though it was still an effort. “Ellen, I know that you had very bad experiences in foster care, worse than bad, horrible even. But not everyone does. I'm not saying it's ideal. No matter what, it must be lonely, scary, and a thousand other difficult things, but it can be the best—sometimes the
only
—choice for kids with no options.”

Ellen couldn't look up at him. She knew that he was right, she'd heard stories of loving foster families, but her own experiences had taught her what it was to live in a place where your very presence was treated as some kind of repellent infection.

She did, however, have hope for Lydia that she hadn't had for herself. Lydia had one huge advantage. “Well, there's one thing that
is
different for her,” Ellen said matter-of-factly. “She's a
cute
little girl. That might help. Maybe someone will want her around more than they did me because . . . you know.” She dropped her eyes and her left hand went up to pull her hair down over her scar before she remembered it wasn't there, but the motion was too well memorized to stop it. “I mean, I don't know.” She forced her hand down and sat on it. That would teach it.

Temerity turned away too quickly and busied herself pouring the coffee, but Ellen could see her friend's shoulders quivering slightly, the way someone does when they are crying but trying to hide it. Concerned, Ellen looked to Justice. He was shaking his head silently at her to not mention it. Ellen was glad to comply. She never knew how to identify and handle emotions, especially other people's, having had very little practical experience. Justice said, “All right. Before you two saddle up, I'm going to call Amanda and see if we can find out how the mom is doing. Maybe we're worrying for nothing, maybe she'll be all right, or some other relative has shown up.” Amanda and Justice had been dating for a few months, and she was finishing her residency at the hospital. “What do you think, Tem?”

But the slim, dark-haired girl was standing still now. Her graceful hands resting on the counter and her body leaning over it, with her head cocked. “Listen,” she said in a whisper.

Ellen strained to hear what her friend could, a feat that was not always easy or even possible. In a moment, she realized that strains of piano music were seeping in through the kitchen vent. The music was exotic and enticing, all the more so because of its mysterious origin.

Temerity listened for a minute, swaying slightly. “Oh, that's nice! I've never heard it before. But I like it.”

“I wonder who it is,” Justice said. “You know somebody is subletting the Dlugoleckis' place while they're in Europe for a year. I think she said it was a cousin or something. Maybe it's them. Or could the Rogerses be playing the stereo?”

“No,” Temerity stated firmly. “Someone is playing. Actually, I think they might be composing.” Even as she said it, they heard a discordant note, and the player repeated the musical phrase, switching the notes to a more harmonious progression. And Temerity whispered, “The change to minor, yes.”

Justice was gazing at his sister wistfully and it surprised Ellen. She had never seen him pity his sister, because of course that would be both unwelcome and absurd. Temerity was one of the most capable, remarkable people Ellen had ever seen, but Justice's gaze as he watched her now—swaying, a look of longing on her face—seemed somehow sad. Then the cloudiness cleared away and he turned to Ellen. “Right. Now, young lady, you go get into a hot bath and then to bed. Doctor's orders!”

The counterweight of a full stomach steadied Ellen's rocking anxiety so that now exhaustion had its chance at her. She was grateful for both the advice and the excuse to be alone. Rubbing her heavy eyes, she thanked them for breakfast, picked up her bag, crossed the huge open room, and went through the door into the hallway.

Off of that, a smaller door, barely wider than Ellen's short and stocky shape, opened onto an equally narrow stairway that had probably, before the building's conversion into lofts, been an attic access. Ellen climbed the stairs and retreated gratefully into her compact bedroom. The bed, luxurious in its queen-size comfort, beckoned her, but Ellen went first to the window.