Sisters in the Wind(22)

His eyes land on me. He leans forward, giving me his full attention.

His smile, the one that goes beyond his usual politeness, is more of a grin. He seems like he could be a hell-raiser or a heartbreaker. Probably both. I’ve met more than my share.

Daunis rejected him. Twice now.

“Good morning, Lucy. Did you sleep well?”

I smile because I should. “When can I leave?”

He laughs, and I find myself smiling for real.

“Let’s wait for your doctor to make rounds. Or do rounds. Whatever it’s called,” he says.

“You said my backpack was at the crime scene. How soon can I get it back?”

He pauses before answering. It’s enough time for me to know I’m acting strangely, at least by his former-federal-officer standards.

“Michigan has its own forensics lab, and the state police do their own investigations,” he says. “So it’s quicker than if they had to wait for the FBI. But, still, it will take a few weeks at least.” One eyebrow rises. “Why so eager?”

I want to blurt the truth: The bomb was meant to show how far they’ll go to get what they want. Before they try again, I need to be long gone.

But the truth has a long explanation. It’s a story without any heroes.

“I’m feeling much better.” I add a carefree shrug. “Just want everything back to normal.”

“It’ll get there. Just be patient,” he says.

“Share some coffee, will you?” I cajole, reaching out for the thermos. “It smells better than hospital coffee.”

Jamie pauses just before I take the thermos from him. His brow furrows.

“Wait. Are you sure you can have some?”

I laugh, roll my eyes, and reach out more insistently. It tastes like bitter sludge. I add a satisfied, “Ah,” for dramatic effect.“This from Central Roasters?” I ask.

“Yeah. Great place. I’m on my second bag of Ethiopian dark roast.”

“No way this came from a drip coffee maker,” I say, feigning admiration.

“Pour-over,” he admits. “My secret is to pour a second time from the glass carafe over the strainer into the cup. Well, thermos.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I tell Jamie before swigging a second mouthful of the vile muck. This time it tastes like success.

Devery told me about bonding with foster parents. That way they’ll be more likely to keep you.

Bonding?

Yeah. Fake like whatever they like. Start dressing like them. Fix your hair like your foster mom; they like that. Do anything to get in good with them.

How long do you have to do that? I asked.

Do it till they give you away. My foster sister rubbed her eyes as if suddenly tired. She cleared her throat before ordering me to go read a book.

It was always better to give Devery her alone time.



* * *



Daunis arrives with shopping bags of clothes and stuff. There’s an awkwardness between her and Jamie that’s almost too painful to watch. Their eye contact with each other lasts a second or two before they look away. He stares at her only when she’s talking to me.

Here I was rooting for those lovebirds.

“I picked up a few things for you,” she tells me. “Leave the tags on. Anything that doesn’t fit or you don’t like, I can return.”

I rifle through the bags. Daunis purchased underwear, a sports bra, a pajama set that could pass for casual wear, snow boots, and an olive-green winter coat that I would’ve selected myself.

Another bag is filled with shampoo, fragrance-free facial cleanser, and other personal-care items. The sight of deodorant triggers the memory of Bridget sniffing obnoxiously whenever I forgot to use it.

I grip a handheld mirror. It’s my first time seeing myself since someone tried to explode me. There’s a purple bruise across my forehead with two butterfly bandages spanning a single cut. My hair normally needs gel to mimic my cowlick bangs. Today it’s naturally spiky from being unwashed. I scratch my suddenly itchy scalp. The back of my head feels tender but not dented.

I smile. Not bad for surviving an attempt on my life. Not the first attempt, which I jokingly considered Bridget’s “cooking” to be. My chronic stomach issues went away at Miss Lonnie’s, as soon as I stopped eating a steady diet of overly processed food.

My dad had selected Bridget to keep me safe. In the end, she was the one I needed protection from. Daunis was betrayed by her brother. Lily was murdered by the guy who claimed to love her.

The ultimate survival game is for girls to survive into adulthood. For the prey to avoid the predators. It’s a wry thought that turns somber when I remember my sister.

Some girls don’t survive.





POST-BLAST DAY SEVEN


JANUARY 2009

It’s been four days since Nancy woke up. According to Daunis, who spoke with Nancy’s daughter, she has no memory of the blast. I get Daunis to ask if I can speak with Nancy. The daughter, a family nurse practitioner, declines my request. She wants to move her mother to Grand Rapids and look after her. A hospital there has a burn center.

Daunis explains that the daughter was concerned that Nancy seeing me might trigger painful memories of the explosion.

“It wasn’t anything personal,” Daunis adds. “She wouldn’t even let the police question her mother.”