Sisters in the Wind(3)
The card has a black bird graphic and unfamiliar words: Gaagaagi Noodin. The back of the card lists a cell phone number and an email address, and there’s a handwritten message: Lucy, come home where you are loved.
THE DAY OF
JANUARY 2009
Yesterday when Mr. Jameson admitted to following me, but for only two days, I didn’t want to believe him. Because if he was telling the truth, then it meant someone else was stalking me. Last week at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party, I’d felt the hairs on the back of my neck stick up like porcupine quills. Instinctively, I’d removed the plastic gold tiara with 2009 emblazoned in purple sequins and looked for the exit. Even without a midnight countdown, the party was over for me.
After Mr. Prada Boots left, presumably with a souvenir mug, I spent the rest of my shift trying to figure out a way to stay in Mount Pleasant.
My furnished apartment was the first space I’d had to myself in years. It was one of several apartments in what had once been a lumber baron’s mansion. According to my landlord, a history buff, the original owner had swindled local Native American families out of their land with the help of a corrupt Indian Affairs superintendent. The grand three-story home was somewhat decrepit now, especially the exterior. I navigated piles of unsalvageable lumber, broken bricks, and discarded metal pipes to reach my unit at the back of the redbrick manor. Slanted steps led to my private entrance, where a butler’s pantry had become an entry hall and galley kitchen. The mansion’s dining room served as my living and sleeping area. A closet had been converted into a tiny bathroom.
Every scenario I played out in my mind led to the same conclusion. I needed to remove all traces of myself from the space I’d rented and loved for the past six months.
I’d always kept the place tidy. Miss Lonnie, my first foster parent, had taught me that housekeeping was one of many basic survival skills. Channeling red-hot rage, I rubbed Liquid Gold into the cherrywood paneling and ornately carved trim. Bar Keepers Friend and a soft toothbrush made the brass light fixtures shine. Distilled white vinegar had the bathroom looking its best, as if the secret to keeping my cozy little life were hidden in the grout. A paste I’d concocted from baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, and a few drops of ammonia showcased the exquisite veining in the marble countertops and windowsills. I saved the curved wall of stained-glass windows for when my mood had cooled into the soft, pale aqua of resignation.
By this morning, the apartment was an exquisite jewel that my landlord would rent for twice what he charged me.
Leaving, I lock the door behind me for the last time. I brush away boot imprints from each snow-covered step I descend. Wearing my backpack and holding a trash bag in one hand, I walk backward through the side yard to the front while dragging a rusted rake to erase my tracks from the freshly fallen powder. The snow makes it easier to imagine the elaborate gardens that once surrounded the mansion. I focus so intently on a broken-limbed, headless statue atop a cracked fountain that I roll my ankle on a slippery metal pipe.
Limping and wincing, I climb the front steps to the main entrance. In the front hall, opposite the staircase leading to the second and third floors, is a tarnished brass cabinet with eight mailboxes. I check my mailbox before sliding a fingernail to lift the label marked 1D—L. SMITH. Finally I slide an envelope with my keys, a goodbye note, and my final rent payment in cash into the landlord’s mailbox.
People think the key to making a clean getaway is to plan every detail. It isn’t. A perfect escape requires an element of chance. After work today, I’ll walk to the Greyhound bus station and purchase a ticket for the farthest destination. Then I’ll get off somewhere along the way. A random place that is a secret even from myself.
I leave the haunted-looking mansion, slinging the trash bag over my shoulder. Foster kids always leave places this way. In the child-welfare system, trash bags serve as luggage. Mine is filled with cleaning supplies and excess possessions I’ll donate to the thrift store after my shift. Paying it forward for the next person starting over.
My backpack contains the barest of necessities: deodorant, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, two changes of clothing, and a pair of running shoes tied to the top handle. It also holds my most valuable possessions: the last of the books my dad gifted to me each birthday. I started with thirteen cherished books.
I’ve become so good at leaving places that I’ve even created a goodbye ritual.
This time, it’s my hardcover copy of A Wrinkle in Time that I leave behind. After kissing the inscription (To Dolce Lucy on her 8th Birthday), I place the book in the Little Free Library a few blocks from where I used to live. I limp the rest of the way to work in the predawn darkness, my lashes stiff with mascara and frozen tears.
If my coworkers notice my backpack bursting at the seams, no one mentions it. I change into my running shoes and leave my snow boots inside the locker. Each time I wear the top-quality boots, I recite a silent prayer of thanks to whoever donated the Sorels in my size to the Salvation Army.
* * *
Nancy doesn’t understand why I blink back tears at the mini cake she presents to me after I clock in.
“Oh, sweetie. It’s just a silly little treat for after work,” she says with a sniffle. Nancy doesn’t let anyone cry or laugh alone in her presence. “Your six-month anniversary here at the diner. It’s just that…” She pauses to dab an eye with a tissue. “You’ve come so far. Remember, sweetie? You never smiled or made chitchat with customers. Some of them were scared, but you got regulars now.”