Chapter Sixteen

I wake with a start. Tiny shafts of light peek through the rusty brown metal of the recycling dumpster. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes. I force them shut and fight back the sobs that rise into my throat. No Mom. No car. No home.

I concentrate on the rusted metal and take a deep breath, letting it out slow and steady. Even now, it’s too dark to see how dirty the place is. It’s not like whoever owns dumpsters expects people to live in them, so I can’t imagine they scrub these things out, but it doesn’t stink.

The gray of early dawn seeps through the holes and cracks in the metal. With one hand, I ease my phone out of the front pocket of my backpack and check the time. Seven thirteen. I stick my phone back in the pocket and zip it shut.

I lie back and close my eyes. Jack’s face swims through my mind. It’s silly, but just having his phone number written across my palm makes me feel less alone. I tighten my arms around Meg. We’re safe. We made it through the night. Now all we have to do is find Mom.

Mom didn’t call us because she can’t. She must be in a coma or so hurt she can’t use a phone. Shivers shoot through my body. I ignore the fear building in my head long enough to work on a plan. First, I need phone numbers for every hospital in the area, so I can call around and see if Mom was brought in as a patient. I won’t let myself think about anything worse.

The creeps from the parking lot could have found her, beaten her, and done horrible things to her. My feet and hands turn numb. What if she’s somewhere alone, too hurt to cry for help? I wipe away that ugly thought; instead, I picture the cops showing up, giving her first aid, and taking her to the hospital.

Meg needs sleep, but I can’t lie still. “Meg.” I shake her shoulder. “Wake up.”

Meg groans and clutches me tighter.

“Wake up,” I say. “We need to move before the grocery store opens and someone finds us.”

I pry Meg’s hands away, sit up, and reach for the lid to the dumpster. The top seems farther away and heavier than it did last night. I pull myself to my knees and crouch under it, pressing up. The boxes wobble and threaten to slide out from under me. The metal grinds together, but I push harder until the lid gives way and I can peek out from under it.

There’s enough early morning light to give me a view of the area. I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean much. Somebody could be standing a couple of feet away and still be out of my line of sight. I glance at the library. No one is lurking behind the building. I turn and study the alley, but no one is hanging out in that direction either. I ease up the lid of the dumpster until I can flip it back against the wall.

The metal clangs as it hits the concrete. I hold my breath and wait, but no one comes out of the store or from the back of the library. It’s the best time to leave the safety of the dumpster, before the city wakes up and we’re found.

Meg sits beside me cross-legged on the pile of boxes. Her face wrinkles and her lips form a rumpled line. “Where’s Mommy?” Her words come out just short of a wail.

I sit back down and gather her into my arms. “We’ll find her.” I breathe the words into Meg’s hair, kissing her head and hugging her close. “We’ll find her today.” Saying the words out loud gives them shape and form, strengthening my determination.

I force myself to sit still. Meg needs my hug, but all of my nerve endings seem to twitch, anxious to launch us out of the dumpster and start our hunt for Mom. I can’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds before I shift my weight and the boxes slide. We’ve got to climb out before the store opens.

“We need to start looking, Meg. Right now.” I pull away and struggle to my feet on the wobbling pile of boxes.

I grab Meg’s hand, pulling her up. “You go first.”

There aren’t any footholds inside the dumpster. I help her climb to the edge. Her legs have to get over the rim so she can balance there until I can get her turned around. That way, I can hold her hands so she can slip down the outside of the container.

Meg starts to cry. “I’m scared, Mattie.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

It’s hard to turn Meg around to face me. Once I get her over the top, I hold tight to her hands so she can slide down the metal side. When she’s almost to the ground, I let her go. She lands on her feet, and I scramble out, dropping beside her.

Meg holds up her hands, turning them back and forth so I can see them. “I’m all dirty.”

I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt down and try to scrub away the filth. “Me too, baby sister. Me too.”

I close the lid of the dumpster, and we head out to the street. No rain, and luckily the pale-gray sky is clear with only a few thin clouds. It would be a perfect fall day if Mom were right here with us.

Meg wraps her arms around herself and shivers. “I’m cold.”

A ripple of cold hits me too. “It’s chilly, but once the sun gets higher, we’ll feel better.” I flip Meg’s hood up and zip her jacket to the top. “We’ll walk around to warm up.”

Meg and I need a bathroom, but the library won’t be open for hours. The bus station isn’t open either, even though some buses are pulling in for their first Sunday runs. We start walking. Three blocks away from our dumpster, I spot a Porta-Potty outside a construction site.

“Look,” I say. “A bathroom just for us.” I paste a cheesy grin on my face, hoping my goofy attitude will cheer up my little sister.

Meg wrinkles her nose and looks at me with watery blue eyes.

“We rate it one to ten, okay? Ten is as clean as Mom can scrub a bathroom”—I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes—“and one is the dirtiest, ickiest toilet we’ve ever been in. Got it?”

Meg grips my hand a little tighter. “Got it.”

We squeeze through a gap in the construction fence to get to the Porta-Potty. I pull open the door and gag at the smell.

Meg holds her nose with her fingers. “One?”

“Minus five,” I say. “Maybe even a minus ten.”

The minute we close the door, the smell slides down five more notches into the negative stink scale. I help Meg get her pants down and hold her on the seat so she doesn’t have to let go of her nose. I try not to breathe, but when it’s my turn, I have to gasp for a quick breath. The smell chokes me and seeps into my clothes, my hair, my skin. I hurry and pull up my jeans, wishing the hand sanitizer dispenser wasn’t empty.

We break into the fresh air and slam the door behind us. At another time, one when we weren’t living on the street and trying to find Mom, I might be able to laugh and giggle with Meg at how disgusting the place was. Now all I do is slip back through the fence, grateful we won’t pee our pants while we wait for the library to open.

Walking the city streets tires Meg out, but it keeps us warm and feels better than waiting outside the library like we did last night. On a quiet side street, I find a bench in the sun where we can sit for a while. I dig in my pack, pull out my leftover peanut butter sandwich, and hand it to Meg.

“Do you want some, Mattie?”

Looking at the sandwich makes my stomach cramp. I tell myself the pain is from worry, but I know hunger has plenty to do with the sharp spasm tightening my gut. Yesterday’s Big Mac was the last bit of food I’ve had, but if I remind Meg of that, she’ll give up the whole sandwich without taking a bite.

“I’m not very hungry,” I say, combing the tangles out of Meg’s hair with my fingers. “You eat. I’ll get something later.” I don’t tell her that we only have one dollar and twenty cents left from the money Mom gave us, which isn’t enough for two bus fares, much less food.

A few cars drive by, and a couple of early morning walkers stroll along the sidewalk like it’s a normal, sleepy Sunday morning. Their calmness chases away some of my fear. It’s daylight. Nothing bad happened last night, and nothing bad is going to happen now.

To find Mom, I need to call the hospitals, which means getting their phone numbers. Our cell service plan is the cheapest one Mom could find, so every month we get a set amount of minutes for data, texts, and calls. I can buy more time, but I’ve never done it on my own.

I pull my phone out of my backpack, scroll to the icon for my service plan, and check the call minutes I have left on my cell plan. Fifty-nine minutes for calls, thirty-seven for texting, and twenty-three for data. The numbers are so low I feel queasy with worry. If I wait to look up hospital phone numbers at the library, I could use their computers to save time on data usage.

Meg nibbles on her sandwich and takes forever to finish. We’re not in a hurry to get back to the library, but I get nervous a cop or a nosy person might notice us and turn us in as runaways. The fact that Meg and I don’t look like sisters never worried me until Ebony said how much we stand out.

I pull the hood up on my sweatshirt, trying to hide the color of my skin, but I don’t leave it up five minutes before I pull it right back off. I hate being paranoid, but Mom says hoods are scarier to some people than brown faces. Meg finally finishes the sandwich and hands over the plastic sandwich bag for me to tuck into my pack.

“The library doesn’t open for a while, Meg.” I stand and motion for her to follow my lead. “Let’s walk around.”

Meg plants her feet and won’t move. “Mommy will look for us at the library.”

How do I tell her Mom isn’t coming? I smooth her hair and comb out a couple more tangles. “We’ll go to the library, and we’ll find Mom. Don’t worry.” My words sound flat and hollow, like deep, deep down I know I’m lying—not only to Meg, but to myself.

I take Meg’s hand, and we continue walking down city blocks. We pass a church with a parking lot full of cars. People dressed in coats, dresses, and nice-looking clothes hurry toward the big double doors. Young parents carry babies and hold toddlers’ hands; older people chat with clusters of friends.

Meg and I could go in, sit down, and listen to the service while we wait for the library to open. If it were raining or the weather were nasty, I wouldn’t worry that our hands are dirty or that we’re not wearing our best clothes. I wouldn’t feel self-conscious that Meg and I are alone when other kids have at least one parent with them. I’d waltz right in holding Meg by the hand like we came every Sunday. We’d sit in a pew where it was warm and dry and listen to the music, soak in the words, and be glad for the chance to rest. But today is dry, and we have too much work to do.

Meg and I walk back toward the library. We cross the street and walk past the grocery store by the dumpster where we spent the night. The store is open now. Meg just ate, and I’m not ready to spend my last bit of cash on food, but the store might have a computer I could use to look up hospital numbers.

I push open the door.

Meg squeezes my hand. “Are we buying food?”

“No,” I say, “but maybe I can get some phone numbers.”

There are a couple of customers at the counter buying coffee and milk, so we have to wait our turn. The clerk is a young guy and wears a faded gray t-shirt that reads “Quack Attack” in big yellow letters. He finishes up with the person ahead of us and turns to Meg and me.

“Can I help you?”

I point at the laptop sitting on the counter. “Could you look up a couple of phone numbers for us?” I hold up my cell. “I could check, but my battery is getting low.” Not true, but I’m not about to tell him I can’t afford to use any more phone or data minutes.

Grinning he says, “I know how that goes.” He leans on the counter with one elbow and flips open his laptop. “What do you need?”

“The hospitals.”

The guy’s head whips up. His eyebrows draw together and form a dark V over his nose.

“A friend had an operation yesterday,” I say, “and I forgot which hospital it was.” Yesterday was Saturday. Do doctors even do operations on Saturdays? The excuse is so lame I know he doesn’t buy it. I try to think of something smart to add, words that would make my story sound halfway real, but my mind is nothing but an empty, black pit. All I can do is give the guy a weak smile and hope he helps us.

The clerk types in the words and studies the screen. I can see Meg out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t dare look at her, or I’ll lose my nerve. I use the time to dig a pen and a scrap of notebook paper out of my pack. The clerk reads off the numbers for two hospitals, and I write them down.

“Thanks.” I hold up the paper I’ve written on. “Thanks a lot.”

His eyes take on that quiet, sad look that people get when they know you’re not telling them the truth. “Anything else I can do?”

I shake my head. “No. But thanks again.”

My knees are so weak I can hardly make my legs work. What do I expect him to do? Call the cops? The guy probably will forget us the minute we’re gone. I keep right on walking out the door and don’t breathe until I’m standing on the sidewalk.

“You lied to that nice man, Mattie.”

Meg spits the words out so they aren’t just a statement of fact, but an accusation. I take a quick breath and bite my lower lip. “Yes, I did.”

Meg’s blue eyes shoot darts through me. “Mommy said we’re supposed to tell the truth every time. Every single time.”

An intense sense of grief and sadness washes over me, making it hard to breathe. Mom is gone, and I miss her so much every muscle and cell in my body hurts.

“Mom’s right, Meg. We’ve got to be honest. Especially to each other.” I plant a kiss on the top of her head. “But sometimes we have to do things that don’t seem right, even though we don’t want to.”

My words sound lame, like people can wash away guilt by tacking on that flimsy phrase. As if there is no real right or wrong in the world, just all this gray fuzz in the middle that never allows for a straight path.

I swallow the grief welling in my throat. “If I tell everyone the truth, Meg, we could get taken away from Mom and put into foster care.”

The anger on Meg’s face mixes with these new worries and builds up in her eyes. It’s too hard for me to keep looking at her, so I grab her hand and we walk up the block to the front of the library. I’m anxious to call the hospitals, but I take the time to settle Meg on the bench out front so I can concentrate on making the calls. Meg swings her legs back and forth while I pull a book out of her backpack. She looks at the book but doesn’t reach out and take it. I lay the book on the bench beside her and pull out my phone.

The clerk gave me two numbers. I start with the first. A receptionist answers, “McKenzie-Willamette Medical Center.”

“Could you tell me if a Rita Rollins was admitted last night?” The words fly out of my mouth in a rapid stream.

Meg’s face wrinkles and her eyes zero in on me. I try to smile at her while I wait for the answer, but forcing a cheery attitude is too hard. I turn away and study the cars passing by on the street.

Even if Mom couldn’t tell the doctors who she was, wouldn’t someone look through her backpack and find her wallet and phone? That scenario only works if Mom had her pack with her. Those scumbags from the parking lot could have taken it to cover up the crime.

The receptionist comes back on the line. “No. We don’t have anyone listed by that name.”

“Did a woman come in without a name?” I say. “She’s thin and not very tall and white with long, light blondish-brown hair, and she’s only thirty-three.” I take a breath to slow myself down. “Did anyone like that come in?”

The receptionist hesitates. “I’m sorry. There were no unidentified patients admitted either.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

I end the call and punch in the number for RiverBend Hospital. A recorded message in three languages instructs me to press one or stay on the line if I speak English. The same voice says all the operators are busy, and my call will be answered in the order it was received. I wait, picturing the seconds adding up to minutes of call time clicking off my phone.

Meg grabs the sleeve of my sweatshirt and tugs it back and forth. “Is Mommy sick?”

I keep my phone pressed against my ear and slide my other arm around Meg’s shoulders. Why didn’t I tell her what I was doing? Did I think she couldn’t handle the thought of Mom being too sick or hurt to get to us? Meg spent the night in a recycling dumpster. She can handle the truth.

“Is that why you’re calling the hospitals, Mattie?”

“I thought Mom got in an accident and couldn’t call us,” I say.

Meg studies me with serious eyes that seem too old for a six-year-old. “But she didn’t?”

“She’s not at the first hospital,” I say. “We’ll see about the second one.”

The recording repeats, “Thank you for your patience. All of our operators are busy. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

More minutes tick off my phone. What if I run out of cell time and Mom isn’t able to call me? When we got short on minutes before, Mom would buy enough extra to get us to the end of the month, but I don’t know how she did it. Plus, it takes money I don’t have.

I’m startled when an operator says, “RiverBend. How may I help you?”

Precious seconds tick by before I think of what to say. I drop my arm from Meg’s shoulder and clutch my phone to my ear. “Do you have a Rita Rollins as a patient?

“Let me connect you with the front desk,” the woman says.

Meg scrambles to her knees so she can lean her head close to mine and hear what’s being said. “RiverBend. How may I help you?”

I repeat my request, but there’s no Rita Rollins checked in. “What about somebody that doesn’t have an ID on them and isn’t awake enough to give their name? Like a Jane Doe person.”

“That would be an unidentified trauma patient,” says the receptionist. “I’ll check to see if we have anyone like that, but there is no way to know if the patient is Rita Rollins.”

The word trauma makes my mind spin through pictures of bloody gunshot wounds, grizzly car accidents, and horrific beatings. Just hearing the receptionist say the word scares me so much I can hardly reply to thank her.

The woman comes back and says, “We do have an unidentified person checked into the ER.”

My hand shakes. “A woman that’s not very tall and has light blondish-brown hair and blue eyes and some week-old bruises on her face?”

“I’m sorry,” says the receptionist. “I don’t have that information, but I can call down there and see if the patient is a man or a woman.”

The tremors in my hand move through my entire body making it hard to hold my phone. “Thanks.” I glance over at Meg. Her mouth puckers and twists back and forth like she wants to cry but won’t let the tears run.

The receptionist takes several minutes to get back to me. “The patient is a young woman,” she says.

I don’t know whether to be happy that the woman lying in the emergency room might be Mom or terrified because she’s hurt so bad she can’t tell the doctors who she is.

Somehow I manage to blurt out, “Thanks. How do we find out if this person is … ” I almost say our mom, but catch the words before they spill out of my mouth. “Rita Rollins?”

“You will have to come down to the hospital to identify her.”

“Thanks,” I say. “We will. We’ll come right now.”

I end the call and turn to Meg. We stare at each other, our eyes wide and only inches apart. “Is it Mommy?” Meg whispers so softly I barely hear her.

Hope and fear battle inside my head. I want this unidentified person to be Mom, need her to be Mom, so Meg and I can stop worrying. But thinking of Mom so badly hurt she can’t talk or think terrifies me. “It could be. We’ll just have to go and see.”

A dollar and twenty cents is all the money I have for bus fare. I turn away from Meg, dig my wallet out of my pack, and count out the money. “We’ve got bus money for me, but you’ll have to pretend you’re five.” I raise my eyebrows and twist my mouth to the side. “There is no other way to get there. Besides, the bus driver probably won’t ask your age.”

Meg sets her lips in a straight little line and nods her head. “Mommy will say it’s okay to be five for a while.”

“You’re right, Meg. Mom would understand.” I grab her hand. “Let’s go.”