Sisters in the Wind(34)

* * *



I wait until Daunis is on her nightly call with TJ to confront Jamie. He’s sitting on the sofa, watching TV. The Super Bowl was yesterday, and the evening news replays the game highlights.

“What do you know about the investigation that you’re not telling me?” I demand.

He instantly looks guilty.

I grit my teeth instead of reaching for a crutch to whack over his head.

He cracks wide open.

“It was a single pipe bomb with a simple timer. The blast originated in the kitchen on the other side of the bathroom wall.”

“That’s where the time clock and our lockers are … or where they used to be,” I say. “What else did the state police tell you?”

“They’re not talking to me,” Jamie admits. “I have a friend with the FBI who’s keeping tabs on the investigation.”

Neither of us says anything. The newscasters rave about Bruce Springsteen’s halftime show. Jamie flips through the channels until he comes across a hockey game. Detroit Red Wings.

I use my crutches to head into my bedroom. Just before I close the door, I ask whether Daunis knows about the bomb.

“No,” he says. “Do you want me to tell her?”

“No. But you’re bad at hiding things, so she probably already knows something’s up.”

There’s comfort in knowing why each person is sticking with me. At first I thought they were here because I wear a version of my sister Lily’s face. But now Daunis wants me to heal and not become a cautionary tale about opioid addiction. Jamie, an attorney who helps former foster kids, is doing for me what he was unable to do for my half sister.

The need to make amends for failing to save someone. I know it all too well.





WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN


2005

My second placement was with a family west of Mackinaw City, along Lake Michigan. The Sterlings lived in a modest two-story home with a view of the Mackinac Bridge beyond the ten-foot-tall wooden cross in the center of their backyard. The Sterlings were religious, but not Catholic. When I accompanied them to church, the younger Sterling sibling giggled when I said “amen” after “deliver us from evil” in the Lord’s Prayer. Everyone else continued with another sentence that I didn’t expect. Stacy’s mother elbowed her. The nine-year-old girl was immediately contrite.

After what Devery had said about some foster dads being perverts, I was on edge around Mr. Sterling. He was a quiet man who smoked a cigar and read the newspaper every night while Mrs. Sterling and Stacy watched television. When he did speak, the other family members listened reverently and followed his wishes without question. Even seventeen-year-old Steven replied, “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.”

When Mr. Sterling observed me staring glumly at my wristwatch, he asked if it was working.

“No, Mr. Sterling. It hasn’t worked right since I accidentally dropped it and cracked the glass cover.” My voice quivered. “It was my dad’s.”

“May I see it?” he asked gently.

I reluctantly handed it over, unsure what he could do.

“The glass cover is called the crystal. It must’ve been quite a drop.” He handed it back to me. “I know a little about watches, but I wouldn’t risk tinkering with something that important to you. Would you like to go to the local jeweler, Lucy?”

“Yes, Mr. Sterling. It’s just that … it might cost more than I can pay.”

Children in foster care received a small holiday allowance. I hadn’t spent much on Beaver Island. I was lucky to have any money since my backpack had been singed in the fire. It all would’ve burned if not for Devery.

“Let’s hear from the expert,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Sterling.”

I felt a glimmer of hope until his eyes landed on my wrist. The stick-and-poke tattoo looked exactly as sloppy as you’d expect from an amateur working by candlelight.

“Are you familiar with Leviticus?” he asked.

It was one of the books in the Old Testament. Some of its laws for living a moral life were harsh, like the penalty for blasphemy: death. Menstruation and childbirth were viewed as unclean and impure. Permanently marking your body was probably frowned upon.

I decided to plead ignorance. “No, sir.”

“We believe in providing a godly home for those we hope to show a better life. We ask that you behave as a role model for our daughter. Is this too much to ask?”

My dad had raised me to be a good person. I prayed. I gave thanks for my blessings. I asked for forgiveness when I sinned or caused harm. I knew right from wrong.

“No, Mr. Sterling. It’s not too much to ask,” I said solemnly.

“That’s good to hear, Lucy.” He smiled before adding, “How about Mrs. Sterling takes you to the jewelry store after school?”

I met Mrs. Sterling’s eyes. “Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Sterling.”

Mr. Sterling returned to the leather recliner and his cigar and newspaper. Mrs. Sterling and Stacy watched television. And I remained ramrod straight in my seat at the dining table.

My stomach clenched as a wave of nausea left me in a cold sweat. It felt as if I’d passed an initiation ritual to the Sterling home.

But just barely.