The Other Way Around (28 page)

I was painfully aware of everyone around us and particularly G, who was shooting daggers in our direction. “Can we talk about it later?” I whispered into her ear.

“You're not performing like that,” G said.

Emily let out a big sigh and turned to face her. She hung her arm around my shoulders like it was the two of us against G. “Lighten up,” she said. “I'm fine.”

“G's right,” Lyle said. “You're wasted. You can't do the show like that, even if it is just the hoops. It's not what we're about.”

“Oh really, Carter?” Emily said caustically. “Why don't
you
tell me what
we're
about then?”

I cringed and pulled away from her. Lyle shook his head. His cheeks turned red. “Everyone else is over it, Emily. Everyone except you.” But still he walked away.

“So that's how it is, huh? I'm the bad guy? It's all of you against me?”

“Nobody's
against
you,” I said.

“Yeah,” G said. But her voice was a little less convincing. “We're not against you, but you need to find another way to deal with your shit.”

Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “That's interesting coming from you,” she said. “And just how do you deal with your shit, G?” Emily sputtered self-righteously. “By running from it? By being a freakin' dyke? You think that's going to keep you safe? What's your deal anyway? So what if you like girls, you never hook up with any of them. You're like a lesbian nun! What the fuck happened to you anyway? Were you like abused as a child or something?”

I winced. Emily was inches away from G's face, her accusations hanging in the air.

G stuck her hand out Heisman-style and connected just below Emily's neck, shoving her backwards. Emily hit the ground hard. I started towards her, but only for a second. “My shit is none of your business,” G said in a low, controlled voice. “It's none of your business because I don't run around like a drunken whore making it everyone's business.”

Emily stood up and reached forward like she was going to push G back, but G batted her hands away easily. “Screw you,” Emily shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Screw all of you!” She screamed again and ran from the fire circle. I watched her go. Even though I cared about her, I wanted to stay. I had a sinking, tearing feeling like I was living through my parents' divorce all over again. Like I had climbed up the ladder of a high diving board with no way to back down. I stared in the direction Emily ran off in. “Do what you need to do,” G said to me.

“I want to stay,” I said.

“Then stay.”

***

There's a light rapping on the hospital door that brings me back to the present moment. A man in his mid-fifties with a thick brown mustache pokes his head in through the doorway. He smiles in a friendly enough way. “Are you Andrew? I'm Officer Hanley. The nurses paged me last night when you and your friend turned up.” I look at his brown work pants and his faded blue denim shirt. “I'm technically off duty,” he says, taking in my gaze. “But I'm the captain of our district, and I didn't want to hand this off to anyone else on Christmas Day.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“It's all right. My kids already tore through their presents, and my mother-in-law's here; she and I could use a few hours apart.” He looks around the room at G hooked up to the machines, down at my small backpack, empty of its contents. “Do you think you and I could have a little conversation?” I nod. “How about we head down to the waiting room so we don't disturb your friend here?”

I follow Officer Hanley down to the waiting room and have to remind myself several times not to tell him the whole truth. He's the kind of guy you want to tell the whole truth to because it seems like he would be able to pick up the pieces of any situation. We sit down in two squishy plastic yellow chairs opposite each other, like one of us is the doctor about to give the other some bad news. “I think I should tell you that I already contacted your mother. Nice lady.”

“Yes,” I say. “She is. Did she seem, um …”

“Mad? I've heard worse. Nah, she was mostly worried about you. And of course she wants you to come home.”

“I plan to,” I said. “Go home, that is. I'm ready to go home.” Part of me is hoping this admission will be enough for Officer Hanley.

“That's good to hear. If you don't mind, I'd like to know how your friend got hurt and how the two of you ended up here. It doesn't seem like the two of you are involved in any criminal wrongdoing but with you being a minor and all …”

I take a deep breath and tell G's story pretty much the way she told me to. I can't tell if Officer Hanley believes me or not, but he notes a few things down on a little pad of paper he pulls from his breast pocket and seems willing to accept my story for the truth.

“Okay,” he says when I'm done. “So you don't know the names of the folks who gave you a ride?” I shake my head. “And they didn't stick around to see if you and your friend were okay?” I shake my head again.

“I think they were heading somewhere for the holidays,” I offer lamely. And then a sudden burst of inspiration hits me. “Truthfully, I don't know what they were doing out there, but they smelled a little funny and they seemed kind of nervous about us being minors as well.”

Now Officer Hanley nods his head like I've said something that makes sense. “There's a lot of oddballs out here. People like the weather and the desert. The area tends to attract some strange types. I'm just glad they were decent enough to give you and your friend a ride.”

“Yeah, I don't know what would have happened if they hadn't come across us.” I might be laying it on a little thick, so I change the subject. “Do you know if my mom is coming out here to get me?”

“Yup, she said she'd be on the first flight out. I imagine she'll get into Albuquerque sometime around noon. Of course, she'll need to rent a car and drive down here.” I do a little mental math in my head and figure I have about seven to eight more hours until it's confrontation time. “You're lucky you have someone like your mom,” Officer Hanley adds. “I haven't been able to contact anyone who's willing to take custody of your friend Maria. She'll have to go back to the state for at least one more year.”

“G? But she's nineteen.”

He picks up a manila file folder and flips through the pages. “Not according to the New Jersey Department of Social
Services. Your friend is sixteen until the end of the month. She probably just lied to you to protect herself. Most runaways aren't too trusting.”

I flash back to the night of the meteor shower, when G told me the story of the trapeze in the sky and how she had ended up running away.
Is anything I know about her true?

“Son?” Officer Hanley breaks my recollection. “Normally I'd have to stay with you until your mom gets here, but given what you told me about your willingness to go home, do you think you and I could agree that you're going to sit tight here at the hospital until she gets here?”

I nod, still a little stunned about G.

“Good.” He grins. “Then I'll go home just long enough to eat some ham, miss out on church, and be back later this afternoon to check on you.” He looks like he wants to ruffle my hair or maybe even hug me. I stick out my hand, which he shakes awkwardly before leaving. I hear him tell the nurses at the station that he doesn't think I'm a flight risk and to make sure I get some food.

It's only when he's gone that I notice the file he's left behind on the table next to him. Written in pencil on the manila tab are the words
Deluca, Maria Regina
. I know I shouldn't open it. I know what's in there is definitely none of my business. I know all these things, and still I open it up and look. The first page is just a brief description of G's injuries and the date and time that we showed up at the hospital. The next two pages have black lines along the edge indicating that they were probably sent through a fax machine. The letterhead is the New Jersey Department of Social Services. I've never seen a case file for a foster kid before, but it looks a lot like I imagine a criminal
rap sheet would. There's an old picture of G in the upper right-hand corner where she's maybe ten or eleven. Her hair is messy and her eyes are dark and blank.

To the left of this is basic information like her date of birth, parents' and siblings' names and the words
relinquished into state custody
. There's a date, six years ago, when G would have been about the age she is in the photograph. Following this is a list of six foster families, and the dates that G lived with them show she wasn't anywhere for more than nine months. She lasted only three weeks with the last family. Underneath the list of names and dates is a short paragraph that suggests that the youth in custody, G, is a runaway risk and a possible arson risk. She should not be left alone in the house and should probably not be placed in a home with younger siblings.

I feel sick and close the file. I wish I'd never opened it. What I've read is so far from the person I've come to know in the last few weeks. I have a home to go home to; the last few weeks have been a blip in my life, a crazy adventure sure, a momentary rebellion maybe. But for G, this is her whole life. The Freegans were her whole life.

The look on G's face in the moment after she hit the ground, right before she passed out from the pain, is something I don't want to remember but will probably never forget. Even worse than that was the sound. There was a thud and a snap. It's the snap I can't get out of my mind, worse than the sight of jagged bone poking through the wound in her thigh. Everyone swarmed around her as soon as she fell. Luckily there was a kid who had taken an EMT class, and he knew how to pull her leg into traction. I couldn't watch as he instructed one person to pull on her foot while the other held her hip. Then he tied long pieces of fabric around her leg to stanch the bleeding.

I stepped back away from the scene. People were crying, and some people were debating whether it was faster to drive her to the hospital or call an ambulance. Lyle was standing off to one side, holding the ropes in his hand. He was looking down at them as if there was an answer there. Bile rose up in the back of my throat. I went over the knots in my mind. I was certain I had done it correctly, and even G had checked it. Somehow I had screwed it up, but how?

That's when I looked up. Across the fire circle, on the
other side of the people kneeling down around G, I saw Emily's face. It was ashen. Our eyes met, and what I saw there is the only evidence of what I think I know about what happened that night.

***

I drop the file off at the nurses' desk and tell them that Officer Hanley left it behind. There's a lot in that file I wish I'd never seen. Particularly that last set of dates—the last family she stayed with where she lasted only three weeks before running away. I don't think I can ever tell G about it. It's a little like sneaking into someone's bedroom and reading her diary.

I sink back down into the chair next to her hospital bed. It's odd to think that I may never see Tim or Jesse or Lyle again. It's even more bizarre to think that I'll never see Emily again. I try to conjure all of the good images of her I have in my mind: Hula-Hooping in the bus station, our late-night chat in the bathtub, swimming in the hot springs pool, snuggling close to me in our Cub-Scout tent, but none of them last. The one that keeps returning is the sight of her face across the circle of people, her face filled with sorrow and shame. I want to tell her that when I think about the good things I already forgive her, and that I loved her, maybe I even still do. Because ultimately I think that's what Emily was looking for and wanting. Maybe she just didn't know it, or know how to ask for it. And then suddenly I have a weird feeling. It reminds me of the end of a stomach flu when you get your appetite back. I realize I'm actually looking forward to seeing Mom, and even Dad. And it hits me again, like it hasn't in days, that Mima is gone. There's a choking feeling in my throat, and a couple of hot tears roll down my
face. When I brush them aside, the choking feeling is gone and I'm able to take a deep breath.

An orderly comes in with two trays of food: grilled cheese sandwiches and a watery-looking tomato soup. I gulp mine down and wait twenty minutes, staring at G's tray. When she doesn't stir, I polish off her food too. I figure she can always order some more. With my belly full of food, I twist the blinds shut and lie down on the plastic visitor's couch. I fall immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

***

When I wake up I hear Mom speaking in hushed tones. I'm curled up on the couch with my back to the rest of the room, so I lie there for a minute, bracing myself for what I assume is going to be an onslaught of anger and guilt-tripping. But Mom sounds calm.

“I can't thank you enough for what you did, Maria,” Mom is saying.

“It wasn't really that big a deal,” G responds. “Just a couple of phone calls.”

“Well, maybe not to you, but it meant the world to me to know that Andrew was okay.”
Is that Mom crying?

“I know what it's like to be cut off from your family,” G says. “But if it's all right with you, I'd like to tell him myself when the time is right.”

“Of course,” Mom says. There's a pause, and I decide that now is a good time to pretend to wake up. I fake a big yawn and roll over dramatically on the couch to face the room. G is sitting up, eating off a hospital tray and looking better than she has since we got here. Mom is next to her with a large plastic cup of ice water in one hand.

“Hi, Mom. It's good to see you.”

Her face is pink and tear-streaked. “It's good to see you too, Andrew,” she sniffles. She walks over to the couch, and I scoot over to make room for her to sit. She runs her hand through my new shaggy hair and pats my head the way she did when I was home sick from school.