THIRTEEN
All afternoon my mind reeled. I couldn’t stop thinking about graveyards and buried legs and Sonnet sitting in a car, waiting for my daddy to come back, not knowing he’d been killed, and me all the way down in Georgia, not knowing anything about him at all. At dinner I pushed food around on my plate.
“What’s got you so sour tonight, little missy?” Mama said, stuffing a lump of tuna casserole in her mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve barely said a word since you got back from that boy’s house. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they brainwashed you.”
“No one brainwashed me. I’m just tired. There are so many people in that family. I’m not used to all the noise.”
She settled in her chair, satisfied, and nodded. “Well, there should be a law about how many kids a person can have, even the Catholics.”
“Four of them are adopted, remember?”
“No, sugar, three. That dark-skinned girl is a foster—that’s what the boy said.”
“Hello, that makes you sound racist!”
“Excuse me, it does not. I’m simply identifying the one I’m talking about. And don’t speak to me that way.”
“Then don’t call her that. Her name is Kendra.”
“Okay, Kendra, then. She’s a foster. I can’t keep all the names straight, even that boy. He has the reddest hair I’ve ever seen. And that leg situation. I just don’t know what to think about that. Did they tell you how that happened?”
“James. And, no, I don’t know how it happened.”
“Did you meet the mothers?”
“Just for a second.”
She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “What do they look like? I mean, can you tell?”
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly across the floor. “You really just said that? Was there something in particular you wanted me to look for?”
Mama’s head flew back like I’d slapped her. Her eyes welled up, but I saw for only a second because she looked away quickly and started picking at her casserole.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was rude of me.”
Mama’s mood swings were as much a part of my life as one-hundred-degree summer days, but this sounded like a genuine apology. This was new. I didn’t know what to say, so I sat down again and watched a hazy, red sun hover over the tops of the trees in the distance. Finally, she picked up both our plates and took them to the sink. I slipped away silently to my room.
After nine o’clock I was still sitting on my bed, reading From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler for the third time, when Mama knocked on my door.
“Come in.”
She poked her head inside. “You didn’t get dessert. Want some? Butterscotch pudding.”
“No, I’m okay, thanks.”
“If you change your mind, there’s a cup of it in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, then,” she said, hesitating. “Good night, sugar.”
“Good night.”
Her head disappeared and the door started to close. I jolted upright.
“Mama? Wait!”
Her head came back. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Just one? That’s not like you, but sure, shoot.”
Big gulp. “You never told me why you and my daddy got a divorce.”
Mama straightened up and crossed over to pull my curtains closed, like she had to think for a minute to remember.
“Why would you want to know that?”
“I was just wondering. I mean, I know we were here for a while, but I never knew why we didn’t stay.”
Something funny crossed her face, but she was still soft. “Let’s put it this way: your daddy shouldn’t have gone to fight in a war. It did something to his head. When he came home, he was different. He wanted to make it work, but he couldn’t handle it.”
“He couldn’t handle me?”
“I didn’t say that. He wanted us, but he was damaged.”
“Damaged like sick?”
As fast as I could snap my fingers, the soft mood was gone. She shook her head and frowned. “I knew you couldn’t do it,” she said abruptly. “That’s more than one question. Now forget about all this and go to sleep.”
Before I could say anything else, she strode to the door and slipped out.
When the doorknob clicked shut, it was like a key opened a different room in my head. A room that had been waiting to be found for a long time. It was full of questions, and suddenly I needed answers.