Runaway (17 page)

How can anything be that strong? I know she loved me. I know it. She'd cry her eyes out over the thought of losing me. “You're all I've got left. Please, please, please, God, oh please, she's all I've got left.” Then she'd hold me and rock me and whisper, “I love you, baby. I love you so, so much.”

So we stayed together, living on the streets. We slept in alleys, back doorways, over heater vents, and if we were really lucky, inside a filthy, closet-size room of a flophouse.

We didn't go to shelters too often because they made my mother very nervous. “They'll take you from me, baby,” she'd whisper. “They'll take you from me.”

I didn't understand why someone would take me away from my own mother. So one time I asked her, “But why?”

“They'll say I'm a bad mom,” she whispered.

I hugged her tight and told her, “But you're a great mom!” and I meant it. With all my heart, I meant it.

I read any book I could get my hands on. It helped me forget my fleabites and itching scalp. Mom didn't seem to care now that we had lice or that we were living among cockroaches and rats. When she wasn't conked out, she spent most of her energy tracking down “the doctor.”

I stole food. I stole money. I stole watches, CDs, jewelry…. You name it, if it was small enough and I could reach it, I stole it.

“Oh, thank you, baby, thank you!” Mom would say. She'd never eat very much of the food, but she'd take whatever money and valuables I'd snagged and say, “This will help to pay the doctor.”

How could I have been so STUPID? I thought I was helping, but all I was doing was helping her score drugs.

All I was doing was helping to kill her.

         

7:00 p.m.

I don't even know where she's buried.

I don't even know
if
she's buried, or just ashes somewhere.

No one ever told me, and I never asked.

It kills me just to think about.

9:30 p.m.

There's a voice in my head

“Let her go”

There's a hole in my heart

crying, “No”

There's a headwind

A swelling

Strong chains

Demons yelling

There's a voice in my head

“Let her go.”

         

The next day, 8:45 a.m.

I had a talk with my mom last night. I don't know if she heard me, but I felt like she did. I told her I was sorry, and inside I believe that she's sorry, too.

I cried a lot while I was talking to her, but you know what?

Today I feel kind of peaceful inside.

Like the calm after a big storm.

         

3:00 p.m.

Eureka! I've found BROCCOLI! Fields and fields of broccoli!

I hadn't eaten in two days, but now I'm full of BROCCO-LA-LA-LA-LA-LI!

         

Who knows what day it is, but…

I am on the world's biggest farm! Yesterday I filled up on broccoli, but today I found a field of strawberries. Strawberries! They were yummy with a capital YUM!

Since then I've passed by fields and fields of vegetables. Cauliflower, bell peppers, peas, lettuce, spinach, more broccoli…It's a mind-boggling amount of food!

There are no little farmhouses or poultry or pigs. As a matter of fact, there's a
highway
cutting through the middle of this farm. Lots of traffic. Lots of people stooped over in the fields. Lots of irrigation trucks, lots of tractors.

Hmm.
I wonder what my dad was doing when the freak tractor accident happened.

I doubt he was harvesting strawberries.

         

A couple of days later…

My watch stopped working. I think the battery's dead. I'm bugged not knowing what time it is. Bugged way more than I would have thought. It's bad enough not knowing what day it is.

So what have I been doing?

The usual: escaping and surviving.

This particular escaping started because I had to go to the bathroom. And since, like I said, it's farmland around here for as far as you can see, there was no good place to go. No trees, no bushes, no camouflage areas, just fields and fields of vegetables.

The farther I walked down the highway, the more of an emergency it was becoming, so I finally went through a field of (I think) Brussels sprouts over to some portable outhouses. I could see a couple of pickup trucks and a swarm of field workers in the distance, but there were other portable outhouses near them, so I thought I could use one of the nearer ones without being seen.

The outhouses said
HUNNY HUT
on the outside, which I thought was pretty funny, considering the way they smelled on the inside. But it was an emergency, so I went in, closed the door, and did my business.

Man. It was ripe in there! I tried to hold my breath but wound up having to gulp in a few more. And when I was all done, I tried to shoot out the door, but the door wouldn't open. I frantically turned the lock every which way, but it would not release the door. I rattled, I shook, I twisted, I pushed, but I was trapped.

Calm down, Holly, calm down! I told myself. I tried the door some more. Tried to be calm. Tried to analyze the situation. But the stupid latch wouldn't release and it was SO rancid in there. “Calm down?” I shouted out loud. “I came all this way to suffocate to death in an outhouse? Forget it! No way! Nuh-uh!”

So I sat on the seat and bashed the door with my feet.
Smash! Bash! Crash! Smash! Bash! Crash!
The whole outhouse was shaking!

Smash! Bash! Crash! Smash! Bash! Crash!
I whacked it with all my might, and finally, FINALLY the door flew open.

I dove outside, gasping for air, and I landed right in front of a big dusty farmer.

Instead of buying myself some time by yelling at him about the condition of his facilities, I did something really stupid:

I tried to make a break for it.

“Whoa! Whoa!” He grabbed me by the back of my backpack and turned me so I was facing him. “Who are you?”

“Someone who about DIED in there!” I shouted, pointing at his Hunny Hut. “I can't believe you make people use those! They're rancid death traps! I got locked inside!”

He raised an eyebrow at me, holding me at arm's distance. “They're waitin' on the sump truck,” he said, “which is behind schedule.” He didn't seem mad. Just BIG. Big feet in big dirty boots, big hands, big sweaty trucker hat, big fleshy nose…just
big.

“Let me
go
!” I shouted.

But he didn't. Instead, he walked me over to his big truck and shoved me inside through the driver door, saying, “When I first spotted you, I thought you were a field worker making a bad latrine choice, but you're a runaway, aren't you?”

I dove for the passenger door, but he snagged me by the backpack again and said, “How long you been on the run?” That eyebrow went up again. “And what you been runnin' from?”

I clammed up tight. Like it was any of his business?

He snorted softly and nodded. “Well, it's plain to see you could use a shower and some clean clothes.” He shot me a sideways glance. “And a hot meal, most likely.”

It's funny what the words
a hot meal
can do to you when you haven't had one in a while. They get your taste buds amped and your saliva flowing. They make you start picturing a table loaded high with meat and potatoes and gravy and vegetables and rolls and butter and pie. And a big pitcher of ice-cold milk. Yes, that's what a hot meal is. None of this fast food stuff. I don't care how hot they serve it, fast food will never qualify as a hot meal.

The bad thing about someone offering you a hot meal is that it can make you drop your defenses, and when you're on the run, it's important to stay suspicious. You don't want to get duped by the lure of meat and potatoes and pie.

But I did quit squirming after that. He drove through the field, over to the swarm of workers, and shouted something in Spanish to one man, who nodded and waved like, Don't sweat it. I got it.

We drove past the workers slowly, then sped up on the dirt road that cut away from the highway between fields. I looked in all directions and realized that no matter which way I ran, there was no place to hide. I was surrounded by fields and fields of low-growing plants.

“I'm Walt, by the way,” he told me, looking straight ahead. “Walt Lewis.”

I said nothing.

“You'll like my wife. Good cook. Good humor. Good heart.”

I still said nothing, but I could see the farmhouse straight ahead. It was yellow and white, with flower beds at the base of the front porch and dormer windows on the second floor.

I love dormer windows. They're very storybook. So between the promise of a hot meal and the sight of dormer windows, he didn't have to yank too hard to get me to follow him inside. And after he explained the situation to his wife, she clucked all over me like a mama hen. “Poor sweet darlin', let's get you into the bath!”

I didn't actually talk to her, but I did turn over all my clothes, then I got in the bathtub. Do you know how long it's been since I've soaked in a bath? Forever! I used to hate baths, but I was stupid. Baths are divine! They're massage therapy for the soul.

And I really needed one! I washed my hair four times before it didn't feel matted to my head anymore, and I had to switch the bathwater three times before it stopped being muddy-looking. I wish I could have just relaxed, but I started worrying about my name being in my jacket. Had she seen it? What if she was calling social services?

Walt's wife came in twice. Once to pass in a change of clothes and say, “I'm Valerie, by the way. I hope these fit'cha. I only had boys, so the choice isn't great, but I've got boxes and boxes in the attic if these don't work.” The second time was about an hour later when she knocked and popped her head in, saying, “Supper's about ready.”

I still hadn't said anything more to either of them, but when I emerged from the bathroom and came downstairs to the kitchen table, the smell of pot roast and biscuits broke me down. “Oh, that smells so good!” I said, and it came out hoarse. Sort of choked up.

Valerie smiled at me. “Well, look at you!” she said, sounding very pleased. “And those clothes fit you fine!”

They did fit. And they were a good choice: regular jeans and a black T-shirt, with a long-sleeved, button-down work shirt to wear over.

“Have a seat, then,” she said, “and let's say grace.”

But on my way over to the table a border collie with bright blue eyes came padding toward me. She looked so happy and so sweet that before Walt could finish snapping his fingers and say, “Chia, corner,” I was down on my knees, letting her love me up with doggie kisses.

Valerie laughed, and Walt did, too, but they made me wash my hands and face again before eating.

Dinner was great, and they were nice, but I didn't say a word. I did shrug and shake my head some when they asked me questions, but when they started trying to find out more about why I was on my own, I quit making any kind of response at all. I just ate.

Nobody from social services came pounding on the door, and Valerie set me up in a room, like of course I was going to spend the night. The bed was big and soft, with feathery pillows, and there were all my clothes, clean and folded at the foot of it.

I fell asleep right away, but in the middle of the night something spooked me awake. A noise. Footsteps
inside
my room.

I clicked on the light quick and laughed when I saw it was Chia. “Hi, girl!” I whispered, then got back in bed and patted the covers. “Want to sleep up here with me?”

She jumped onto the bed and lay down against me. I put my arm around her, and for one brief, floating minute I felt so,
so
happy.

Then I started having dangerous thoughts:

What if Walt and Valerie could become my foster parents? I could help around the farm. I could go to school. Or if there weren't schools around, maybe Valerie would homeschool me. I'd be a good student. I'd try hard. I'd be helpful and grateful, and Chia could sleep on my bed every night.

I'd have a dog….

I'd have a home….

I'd have a family….

         

Early the next morning Chia nudged me awake. I let her out of the room and heard little clinking noises coming from the kitchen. So I went downstairs, where I found Walt reading the paper and drinking coffee at the table while Valerie fried eggs at the stove. I stepped inside the kitchen and asked, “Do you need any help?”

Valerie practically dropped her spatula, and I must have startled Walt, too, because he jerked and spilled a little coffee.

Valerie laughed and said, “Well, good morning! You're up early.”

There was toast sitting in the toaster so I went over and said, “Would you like me to butter these?”

“Sure!” Valerie said, handing me a dish of butter. “That'd be great.”

But something was wrong. And it wasn't just that I was suddenly talking to them. Valerie was nervous, and I was pretty sure I knew why.

I didn't say, You called social services, didn't you. I just ate breakfast and then excused myself to use the bathroom. But what I really did was hide around the corner, and when they thought I was gone, Valerie whispered, “I feel like I'm betraying her! She seems like such a sweet, scared child….”

I heard the paper rustle and Walt's voice say, “She'll run, Valerie. She'll run and wind up in the condition I found her in all over again.”

“Maybe she can stay here with us.”

“Val…,” he warned, “we're too old for that. And we can't give her what she needs.”

“What the girl needs is love!”

I heard the paper snap and Walt's chair grind back.

“What she needs is a family and friends and a place to go to school. She'll be in good hands, Val. The woman sounded very nice. We're doing the right thing.”