Orphan #8 (40 page)

I was nearly asleep when the sound of a key in the lock startled me into alertness. It had to be Molly using the extra key we’d once exchanged with her. I cursed myself for never having gotten it back.

Chapter Twenty-one

P
ENNSYLVANIA
S
TATION WAS A HOTHOUSE, THE SUN BEATING
down on the glass ceiling of the train shed. Rachel felt perspiration beading on her scalp and worried for the wig. She left the trunk and her hatbox at the luggage check and walked out to the street unencumbered. There was the thrill of emerging onto Eighth Avenue, the noise and energy of New York made new again by her time out west. Rachel had the day to kill and a night to get through before she could report to nursing school. She’d decided the station was the safest place to spend the night but didn’t want to draw attention to herself by settling on a bench too early. With no particular destination in mind, she began walking uptown. In Mary’s clothes and Amelia’s hair, she sought out her reflection in shop windows, surprised each time that the pretty girl she saw was really her.

The squealing trumpets and rat-a-tat drums of a marching band drew Rachel toward Times Square. Crowds lined the sidewalks, blocking her view. Shouldering through, she saw the Labor Day parade coming down Broadway. Leaning against a light pole, she decided that watching the parade would be a fine way to pass the time. Her stomach protested as a food cart rolled by. She spent
the last pennies in her pocket on a pretzel, the hard squares of salt crunching between her teeth, and an Italian ice, the frozen sweetness a relief for her thirst as labor unions and school groups and politicians paraded past.

It was when she saw the color guard carrying a banner ahead of the Orphaned Hebrews Home marching band that Rachel stood up straight and swiveled her head, looking for a place to hide—the impulse of a runaway. Then she relaxed, reminding herself no one from the Home was looking for her anymore. As she watched the marching band approach, nostalgia overwhelmed her. After a year away, the injustices and rigors of the Home were temporarily forgotten as Rachel remembered the familiar companionship of a thousand siblings, the reassuring knowledge that a bell would always ring to tell her what to do. What a comfort it had been—never having to worry where her next meal would come from or where she would sleep that night.

The parade halted for a performance. The Orphaned Hebrews Home band was arrayed in front of her, the leader who’d presided over the Purim Dance stepping in front of the children to lift his baton. The spectators around her cooed at the adorable orphans in their humble outfits and remarked on the precision of their playing. Rachel thought of the long hours of practice in the yard, dust kicked up as they marched across the gravel. They had no choice but to be perfect.

Across the street, standing apart from the crowd, she saw Vic, arms folded across his chest, watching over the band as they played. Of course, Rachel thought, he was a counselor now. It was his job to march alongside and keep an eye on the children, then shepherd them back up Broadway at the conclusion of the parade.
Rachel’s eyes darted around, seeking out Naomi. But no. The band was only boys, and the F1 girls were too young for the color guard. Naomi’s girls would have watched the parade farther up Broadway and then retreated to the Castle. Relief was quickly followed by yearning as Rachel felt how keen she was to spot her friend.

For the thousandth time, Rachel ran it through in her mind, hoping somehow, this time, she’d figure a faster way to save up enough to repair their friendship. Again, the calculation yielded a span of a year at least, more likely two, before Rachel could accumulate the price of forgiveness. She feared Naomi would have found by then, among the young women at the Teachers College, a new friend, a particular friend, Rachel demoted in Naomi’s memory to an adolescent crush that had ended in betrayal.

The Orphaned Hebrews Home band sounded its final flourish. For a moment, the parade was quiet, waiting for the momentum of the marchers ahead to start its movement up again. Rachel noticed a few people taking advantage of the stillness to dart across the street. Impulsively she, too, stepped off the curb and crossed the wide pavement, ducking behind the band director and skirting the color guard’s banner. Just as the band stood at attention, ready to resume marching, Rachel came up to Vic. He was the one person in New York who felt like family, and his familiarity suggested to Rachel a possibility. She could explain to him about taking Naomi’s money, that it was only to follow Sam, tell him how sorry she was, that she intended to pay it back. She could ask him if Naomi hated her. Maybe he could mediate between them, convince Naomi to accept Rachel’s apology. They could be friends again, Rachel working to repay her even as they spent their days together. Rachel knew, now, the kind of friendship they were capable
of. With a thrill of hope, she approached Vic, blocking his path as he walked the parade route, his blue eyes scanning ahead.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, stepping around her.

“Wait.” She grabbed his sleeve, turning him back.

Vic looked directly at Rachel. She remembered their first meeting, how she’d assumed from his friendly smile that he was her brother, not the scowling boy beside him. So few people in the world had known her as long as Vic had. His gaze felt like coming home. She smiled up at him.

“You shouldn’t be out in the street, miss.” He pulled his arm away, turned his face downtown, hurried to catch up with the band. Rachel, shocked, stood apart from the curb until a mounted policeman clopped up, the horse’s tossing head chasing her back into the crowd.

H
E HADN’T RECOGNIZED
her. Of course, Rachel told herself. It was because of the wig and her new clothes. She should have said something before it was too late. Still, his blank stare had shaken her, as if she’d become a ghost. Even if he had known her, what chance was there that Vic could heal the rift between herself and Naomi? Whether or not she ever paid Naomi back, it was a fantasy for Rachel to think she could reverse the damage she’d done.

She felt the crowds pressing in on her. Someone bumped her shoulder, spinning her around. Rachel heard a mumbled apology but couldn’t see clearly enough to distinguish the speaker. The pressure of people, the heat of the sun, the noise of the parade, all became too much. Rachel sensed the emptiness of a subway entrance and descended. Underground, she stood by the turnstile, intending only to regain her composure, when she spotted
a dropped token on the filthy floor. Bending to pick it up, she thought she might as well spend the coming hours moving back and forth under the city. At least there would be the illusion of progress. When a train whooshed up to the platform, she trudged through its open doors without looking to see if it was going uptown or down. Inside the carriage, she was held up through the sway and jerk by the people packed tightly around her. By the time the passengers thinned enough for someone to offer her a seat, she sank into it, the sleepless night from Chicago catching up with her. When the train emerged from underground, sunlight flickered over Rachel’s closed eyes. She watched the liquid spots floating across her corneas. If she had any desire left, it was that the train would never stop moving.

“End of the line, miss, all passengers exit at Surf Avenue.”

A hand on Rachel’s shoulder shook her awake. A uniformed conductor was leaning over her, the brim of his hat casting his face in shadow. She stood and swayed for a moment, catching at a hanging strap. Cautiously, she wobbled onto the platform. As she was herded through the turnstile, she realized her mistake. She should have switched trains at a free transfer station, kept her pointless journey going, stretching the value of her found token across as many empty hours as possible until finally making her way back to Penn Station. Her bleary eyes searched the ground, but there were no more tokens to be found.

Emerging from the station, Rachel had no idea where she was until she saw the distinctive circle of the Wonder Wheel, the undulating tracks of the Cyclone. Coney Island, of all places. She must have slept longer than she realized to have reached the end of the Beach line. A fresh pang of regret stabbed her. The happiness
promised in that picture of Mary and Sheila by the sea would never be hers. She seemed destined to remain alone in the world, always an orphan.

A light turned green and she crossed the street, carried by the momentum of the people around her toward the boardwalk. Music spilled from the open doors of ramshackle establishments. Hawkers shouted their wares as parents yelled at their children. The burned-sugar smell of cotton candy mixed with the meaty scent of hot dogs and the vinegar sting of sauerkraut, taunting Rachel’s stomach and reminding her of her poverty. She kept her eyes cast down, scanning the wooden planks for the gleam of a dropped coin, but she spotted nothing.

Rachel decided to go down to the beach. There she could shed her shoes, spend a melancholy afternoon staring at the waves or dozing on the sand, sheltered from scrutiny by the holiday crowds. On her way, she passed the carousel. She recognized the carved horses from the workshop of Naomi’s Uncle Jacob, the bright painted colors as Estelle’s handiwork. Everything she saw seemed designed to prick her with regret, display for her again the happiness she might have had. The operator saw her standing there and opened the gate, his hand held out, but Rachel pulled at her pockets and showed her empty hands, indicating she couldn’t afford the ride. She watched his eyes take in her dress, her face, her beautiful hair. With a jerk of his chin, he drew her in. Apparently pretty girls rode for free, an economy of beauty to which Rachel had never been privy. It occurred to her that this was how she’d get back to Penn Station: a pretty girl by the turnstile with a story about dropping her coin purse on the sand would inspire
someone to press a token into her hand. Her mood lightened for a moment as Rachel grabbed a pole and was swept up onto the rotating platform. She hoisted herself onto a horse’s saddle, lifting and sinking, turning and turning.

Carnival music jingled in her ears. She felt the ocean breeze on her face, the vague taste of salt on her tongue. Each time the horse rose, her head felt lighter. Each time it sank, her stomach compressed. Dizzily, she watched the world around her swing past in a blur. In the blur, a figure stood out. On the next circle of the carousel, she craned her neck, looking. There. Short hair tucked behind ears. A belt cinched around a dress. Rachel sat up, impatient now with the moving platform that pulled her away from what she thought she saw.

As she rounded again, Rachel trained her eyes on the spot, but no one was there. A rush of disappointment constricted her throat. She must have imagined it. But she hadn’t. There, walking toward her against the turning of the carousel, a hand settling momentarily on each passing mane, was Naomi, her upturned collar flapping white among the painted horses.

Rachel watched Naomi approach, bracing herself for the anger she was sure would come. But there was Naomi, close enough now to touch, looking puzzled, surprised, happy—anything but angry. Rachel couldn’t understand it. Then it occurred to her that Naomi, like Vic, might not recognize her. The thought was terrifying. As ashamed as she was of herself, the notion of Naomi not knowing her was devastating. She tugged the wig off her head, exposing the smooth curve of her skull.

“It’s me, it’s Rachel.”

Naomi placed a hand on Rachel’s cheek, her arm moving with the rise and fall of the horse. She smiled. “Of course it’s you. It’s always been you. Don’t you know that?”

Rachel slid from the horse’s saddle, swaying as her feet met the moving platform. Naomi threaded a steadying arm around her waist and guided her through the laughing children to one of the carved benches that hugged the inner circle of the carousel. They sat together, the wig spilling its strands across Rachel’s lap. Naomi reached for it. Rachel expected Naomi to take the wig of stolen hair and toss it into the carousel’s greasy gears. It was as much as she deserved.

“So that’s what happened to Amelia’s hair.” Naomi laughed a little. “You should have heard her screams when she woke up that morning. You hadn’t slept in the dorm for so long, no one ever thought it was you. There was always someone jealous of that hair. Monitors gave them all standing lessons for a week, but no one confessed. But you know what? I think Amelia was glad, after all, to be rid of it. She got a short bob, which looked gorgeous of course.” Naomi settled the wig back on Rachel’s head. “Where’d you get it made into a wig?”

“At Mrs. Hong’s House of Hair, in Denver.” Rachel wondered how so many months could fit into so few words.

“Colorado? So Vic was right. He figured you’d gone after Sam. Did you find him?”

Rachel nodded. How was Naomi so calm and conversational, after what Rachel had done to her? “He was in Leadville, with our uncle. But nothing was what I thought it would be.”

She must not know, Rachel thought. But how could Naomi not know it was Rachel who stole her money? She hadn’t known who
cut Amelia’s hair, and children were always stealing from each other—the disappearance of coins or ribbons or sweets was epidemic at the Home. When Naomi checked her shoe and found the money gone, she must not have suspected Rachel. It was the only explanation. How else could Naomi be sitting beside her, a hand on Rachel’s hand, their hips pressed together by the turning of the carousel? All the reasons she thought Naomi was lost to her disappeared. Naomi didn’t know the truth. Rachel, relieved, finally smiled.

“So tell me. Was fifty dollars enough to get you all the way to Colorado?”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed hot with shame. Naomi did know everything. Now she would turn Rachel away, return her betrayal. Rachel’s face went from red to white. She braced herself for the blow.

“You could have told me,” Naomi said. “I know you were just protecting me, though, not telling me your whole plan. When they asked if I had given you the money, helped you run away, I never had to lie. I was so broken up at first, they could see I was telling the truth. Then Nurse Dreyer convinced Mr. Grossman to pay me back from your account, and that’s when I realized you’d had it worked out all along.”