Sisters in the Wind(29)

“You gotta have an escape plan, Clancy. Even when everything seems good,” she said.

As spring gave way to summer, Devery’s plans expanded to include me. “We” could ditch Miss Lonnie at the library. We could be “true sisters” looking out for each other.

“We could hunt Bridget down,” she offered as incentive for me to come with her.

I had already searched for Bridget using the computers at the library. With the weather getting better, Miss Lonnie brought us every week. She sat in a corner reading the latest magazines or, occasionally, had a friend visit with her.

My ex-step-adoptive mother had disappeared. I couldn’t find any mention of Bridget Mapother Smith, not even on the St. Francis Xavier website. I assumed she was still making monthly payments to the court because my social worker never mentioned anything during our monthly check-in.

“Once we find her, we’ll make her pay for what she did to you.”

Devery seemed very sure of herself on this matter.

Searching online for Bridget was one thing. Exacting revenge was a different matter entirely. My only plan was to find out where she was in the world so I could avoid her. I never wanted to see her again.

Plus, I wasn’t too sure that “we” could survive on the streets. Most likely, I’d end up in another placement while Devery aged out. Her stories about her previous placements scared me. Since home was no longer an option, Miss Lonnie’s seemed like a good home.

To console Devery when I turned down her offer to escape together, I let her give us matching tattoos, as long as mine was small enough for my watch to cover it. The letters C and D smushed together looked like a sideways oval with a line down the middle.

I felt safe at Miss Lonnie’s, where my bed had a hand-stitched patchwork cover for the plump, down-filled duvet that kept me toasty. I loved sitting by the woodstove and reading each evening. Her home library introduced me to Zora Neale Hurston, Harriet E. Wilson, Natsume Sōseki, and Isabel Allende. Miss Lonnie worked on puzzles at her special puzzle table. Every morning when I’d greet her at the breakfast table, her face was always washed, silver hair braided down her back. Sometimes, she would ask questions about a book she noticed missing from the shelf. But most days it was taking in the weather, discussing the division of chores. I liked the routine of knowing what the day had in store for me.

Living with Miss Lonnie until I turned eighteen was fine by me. I could see myself staying on Beaver Island even longer than that. I suspected Devery liked the island more than she let on. She kept delaying her escape. First, she wanted to stick around for my fifteenth birthday. And then for the different festivals that filled the rest of the summer because, according to Devery, it was the only time the island was fun.

As summer turned to fall, I stopped asking Devery about her escape plan. Instead I prayed each night for my foster sister to stay. God hadn’t listened to my prayers about keeping my dad healthy. Maybe he’d listen this time.

Instead, the cabin was destroyed in an early morning fire on Thanksgiving. We all survived, but Devery needed medical care for smoke inhalation. She had gone back inside to retrieve my backpack where I kept my birthday books. She saved eleven books. I had been rereading the novel my dad had given me for my thirteenth birthday. To Kill a Mockingbird was lost to the fire.

The foster-care system didn’t recognize foster-sibling bonds to be a thing. Devery and I were separated and sent to different homes.





POST-BLAST WEEK THREE


JANUARY 2009

It’s January 26. My dad would be thirty-nine today. I add carrot-cake mix to the shopping list.

Daunis looks over the list while I sit on the sofa and use Google Earth. Using the satellite-view option, I view Misho Abe’s house in Charlevoix.

“Earth to Lucy,” Daunis says with a gentle laugh. “I said, ‘Did you forget to add cream-cheese frosting to the list?’”

“My dad liked carrot cake without the frosting,” I say, resuming my vigil.

“Mine liked carrot cake too, but with globs of cream cheese frosting. He died when I was seven. How old were you?”

I’m taken aback. People usually avoid the dead-dad topic.

Staring at her, I respond with “Thirteen and a half.”

Daunis sighs wistfully and walks to the accent chair across from me.

“I was playing on hockey leagues by thirteen. Wish he could’ve watched me.” Then, as if mentioning the weather, “How old was your dad when he passed away?” After a beat, she adds, “If you don’t mind talking about him.”

“He was thirty-three,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Why do you ask?”

“My dad was twenty-six. I’m twenty-three,” Daunis shares. “They say children who lose a parent have grief milestones. Like, when you reach the age that your parent was when they died.” She smiles sheepishly. “Just wondering. Maybe I’m preparing for that milestone. It’s not something I can talk about with just anyone.”

Besides Abe Charlevoix, I spoke about my dad with only one other person. Devery tried to get me to open up about him. I told her about Bridget instead.

Can I trust Daunis? My half sister Lily did. Jamie does.

“My dad played baseball his first two years at CMU,” I say.

“Really? He went here? That’s great.” Her face brightens. “Hey, we should go to one of their home games this spring.”