Sisters in the Wind(88)

“Hey, you want any of these books?” she called out.

After she brought the box over to me, I went through each one. Sure enough, another note had been slid between the pages of a random book.

By the time this note is found, I will be dead. Not by my hand. Murdered somehow by Mr. and Mrs. Hoppy.

On June 7, I gave birth to a baby boy who is 19 inches long and weighs 9 pounds. I wanted to breastfeed him, but I came down with some sort of bug. Mrs. Hoppy said I was too sick, and the medicine would taint the breast milk. I think she did something to make me sick and keep me away from the baby. By the time I felt better, my milk dried up.

I signed the adoption paperwork after what seemed like the millionth time they reminded me that I could change my mind anytime until it’s finalized. They still say it. The more they keep saying it, the less I think they’re saying it TO me but ABOUT me.

I’m supposed to leave as soon as I turn 18. Mr. Hoppy said he would drive me to Lansing. I’ll be getting living expenses for 6 months. He showed me pictures of the apartment and it looks nice. I’m not supposed to mention the car to anyone. He said the car needed separate paperwork and was taking a bit longer to get the title. He asked what color I liked best, but it was after he mentioned the title. I don’t believe there is a car. They make me feel like a cow kept around to provide a calf. Once I serve that purpose, I will be slaughtered.

I wrote these notes and hid them in books. Mr. and Mrs. Hoppy aren’t book people, and neither are young Mr. and Mrs. Hoppy. It’s my best chance to tell what happened to me and the baby boy I wanted to name Gordon after my Grandpa Gordy.

Mona Hix

July 13, 1982



The date shocked me. There had been a previous generation of Hoppys taking babies and discarding the birth mothers. There had been a girl named Mona Hix who had a baby boy in 1982. The baby was a grown man now. I did the math; he would be twenty-five years old. The same age as Allen Hoppy.

I gasped.

Mona Hix gave birth on June 7. Baby Allen had been brought home from the hospital on Allen Hoppy’s birthday. June 7.

Mister and Missus had adopted Mona’s baby.

I knew adoption was a loving choice. It wasn’t a crime. But coercing a young woman into giving away a baby was wrong. And if she had gone missing, murder was most definitely a crime.



* * *



The next weekend, I rode with Bruce to Alpena. He talked the entire time about a video game, Battle of Thermo-something. I struggled to pay attention, nodding every so often and saying “Really?” and “Wow” at various points. It sounded complicated—Persians versus Spartans, with a religious festival and political scheming. By the time we reached Devery’s apartment, I figured out that he was talking about the historical accuracy of the movie 300.

Devery and Bruce were going to see a movie called The Reaping.

“Sounds dark,” I said.

“Just your basic rom-com about a biblical plague,” she said.

“I don’t think it’s a romantic comedy,” Bruce said.

“You’re right, boo,” she said. “I was trying to trick Lucy into watching a horror flick.”

“I think I’ll see 300 instead. Bruce made it sound interesting,” I said.

I bought the movie ticket and went inside but left after the previews. The public library was right around the corner. I used one of the computers to search for information about Hoppy Farm. Adding keywords like “missing” and “runaway” yielded only a few hits—many fewer instances than I had anticipated. It seemed possible, especially for the older Mr. and Mrs. Hoppy’s generation, that the local authorities didn’t alert newspapers each time a foster teen “wandered off.”

I ended up returning to the theater and sitting through the last hour of the movie. When it was over, Bruce was in the aisle.

“Hi, Lucy,” he said. “I didn’t like the Satan movie, so I watched 300 again. I called out your name, but you didn’t answer.”

“I’m sorry. I, um, had to use the restroom and it turned into something kind of gross. I was gone for a bit.”

Devery-Beth had waited for us in the lobby since her movie had finished before ours.

“Hey, boo,” she said, hugging Bruce. “I don’t feel so good. Can you take me back to my place? I don’t wanna blow chunks at your dinner table.”

“Vomiting is a symptom of pregnancy. Is that why you don’t feel good?” he asked.

“God, no,” Devery said quickly. “I don’t think that’s it. Just ordinary puking from a bad burrito or something.” She laughed. “I am going to hug you now and I want you to hug me back, if you want to hug me back.”

Bruce stood still and accepted her hug. He smiled to himself before hugging her.

This was their communication style. It worked for them.

After we dropped her off, Bruce continued driving home.

“Have your parents been foster parents for a long time?” I asked him.

“Yes, but I don’t know the year they started. Do you want me to get the answer for you?”

“No, that’s okay, Bruce,” I said. “Hey, whenever there’s a new foster and we introduce ourselves, you always give the same answer for what you like best about the farm.”

“I like working on the trucks and the equipment.”