Patricia
Kevin showed me his math homework and then went back to reading a book about dinosaurs. He had a laptop on the desk in his room. I guessed that the minute I walked out, he’d open it up and start playing games. He seemed like a nice kid, even though I suspected that he took full advantage of being the boy and the favorite.
Not really my problem, was it?
I picked up the plate and glass he’d carried to his bedroom and headed for Christina’s room.
Taking care of the children was supposed to be my job, and I needed to keep it for now. But there was some part of me that enjoyed interacting with them—that wanted them to like me. Particularly Christina.
Crazy.
Christina sat at her desk, her laptop open to a lesson in French. But she hadn’t answered any of the questions. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t trying to, either. She was just sitting there, kicking the floor. She’d eaten the apple and the cookies.
She did look more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt.
I asked if something was wrong.
“I hate French.”
“Do you want some help? I was good at French in school.” Not a complete lie. I was good in school, but I also had a mother who was French-Canadian and spoke French to me as often as she spoke English. Her name had been Camille LaBerge, which I always thought was a lot more interesting name than my father’s name—Brian Scott.
I always thought that my father should have taken my mother’s last name instead of the reverse. Patricia LaBerge sounded much cooler and more sophisticated than Patricia Scott. My husband’s name, Rick Jones, was even worse, so even for the short time that we were married, I kept my own name.
Now I was Mindy Black. For the next week or so.
Maybe I’d change my name to LaBerge when I finally went home. If I ever went home.
I glanced at the screen. Christina’s homework was verb conjugations. Not difficult but what a boring way to learn a language. That seemed to be her main problem. Boredom was the real enemy to learning. I knew that from personal experience. Mine. And Ashley’s.
Both of us had ADD. Mine wasn’t diagnosed when I was young. I did great in school at things that interested me. I flunked math. Everyone just thought I was a fuck-up. I probably was, too. It was why I decided to run my parents’ farm instead of going to college.
But by the time Ashley came along, they knew about ADD. After she was diagnosed, I started to wonder about myself. My doctor tested me and said, yep. Like daughter, like mother.
I was determined that Ashley would have the opportunities that I didn’t. I knew a lot of stuff because I read a lot, but no college. That’s why I worked so hard to help Ashley succeed, developing strategies to cope with the ADD. I wanted her to go to college, as I wished I had.
She did. On a scholarship. I got what I wanted, and she wound up in fucking Texas where the anti-abortion laws killed her.
Be careful what you wish for.
But, there in the Phillipses home, I wondered if Christina had ADD too. That would make two strikes for her. Overweight and ADD. Three strikes. ADD. Overweight. Female.
Four if you considered her parents.
I waited for her to reject my offer.
She didn’t. “You don’t mind helping?”
“Happy to.” I had liked helping Ashley with homework. Christina wasn’t Ashley; in fact, she was the child of the woman who’d helped kill Ashley. But she was also an unhappy kid. I’ve always been a sucker for children and animals who were hurting.
We went through two irregular verbs—to go—aller—and to be—etre.
The exercises were stupid. I don’t know how the school hired French teachers, but they needed someone who could make the language interesting.
I go home. Je vais chez moi.
You are home. Tu es chez toi.
We filled out two pages of mindless garbage. I even got Christiana to giggle by imitating Pepe Le Pew, the famous French skunk from the cartoons. Christina finished the homework and sent it to her teacher.
To my surprise, she was smiling by the time we finished. To my surprise, so was I.
“Do you like your school?” I asked as she closed the laptop.
“No. I get teased at school for being fat. I look stupid in my dresses, and they’re too tight. Kids tell me I look like a stuffed sausage.”
Her tone was completely different from what it had been just a few hours ago. The hostile and angry little girl had disappeared. Instead, she acted as if she liked me. Even more important—she was open and vulnerable. “Have you talked to your mother about maybe changing schools? Or buying different clothes?”
Christina shook her head.
“Maybe your Dad?”
“My mom takes care of clothes and stuff. I know she loves me, but she doesn’t have time. And she’s so beautiful. She doesn’t understand what it’s like. I like my jeans, and I had to fight her just to be allowed to wear them at home. I can’t wear them to school.”
“Better fitting dresses? That might help.”
“Can you take me shopping?” Her voice was both wistful and hopeful. “My mother is so busy.”
It had been a long time since I took a young girl shopping. “Ask her.”
“I will. Tomorrow.”
“Good.” I checked my watch. “Now I have to start dinner. Come down in half an hour.”
Strange how horrible people can have nice children. Brenda didn’t deserve this child, and Christina didn’t deserve a terrible mother. But would losing even a terrible mother be worse than living with one?
I hadn’t considered the effect of killing Tom Martin on his son. But then, I hadn’t met the boy. In a few hours, I had formed something of bond with Christina. I even liked Kevin, although he didn’t need my sympathy the way Christina did.
I contemplated abandoning my plan, packing up, and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Mindy Black would disappear, except on the dark web, where her identity would be up for grabs by the next person willing to pay.
But Ashley had been vulnerable, too, and Brenda had been comfortable with letting her die.
Still… I liked Christina.