turn on my heel and hurry out of the kitchen. “Ellen,” Adam calls after me, “I’ve got a game in Cherokee tonight, you’re going to pick up Avery after work, too, right?” Adam’s muffled words continue to follow me to the second floor but are blanketed by the buzz of my phone.
“Okay,” I yell from the stairs. Maybe it’s my mother again, or maybe Caren, my supervisor, wondering where I am. We have a staff meeting every Tuesday at eight and once again I’m running late. Not recognizing the number, I press the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say breathlessly. Nothing. No one is there. I shake my head in frustration and grab my bag teeming with notes and case files.
I skitter down the steps, weighed down by my bag, and fling open the front door meeting Adam on his way back in the house.
“Bye, guys!” I shout, blowing kisses in the direction of the kitchen. I am immediately met by the day’s heat; already it must be eighty degrees. As I open the van door my phone rings again and I fumble for it in the depths of my purse. Tumbling from my sweaty fingers to the driveway the phone bounces beneath the car. “Dammit,” I mutter, and try to tuck my skirt tightly around my knees as I lower myself to the ground. The ringing stops as I snake my hand beneath the van’s carriage, but the phone is not quite within my reach. Sharp pebbles bite into my knees as I try to angle my way closer. Again my phone rings. I slip off my sandal and, using the heel as a hook, I snag the phone, pulling it within my reach and it falls silent. Sweat has soaked through my blouse and my skirt is dusty and wrinkled. I glance at my watch before getting up. I’m late as it is. The meeting has already started and I will be lucky to get there before it even adjourns. No time to change my clothes. I slide into the driver’s seat and the heat seeps through the fabric of my skirt.
Sweetly, Adam has started the van for me and lukewarm air from the air conditioner strikes ineffectually at my face. From the front steps Adam is waving. I catch snippets of what he is saying, practice, day care, kids. I wave back and give him a thumbs-up as my phone trills once again. “Hello,” I say breathlessly into the receiver as I brush my sweaty bangs from my forehead.
The voice on the other end is young and frantic sounding, unintelligible. “Slow down,” I urge as I put the van into Reverse. “I can’t understand you.” I back out of my driveway and head toward the office.
I listen for a moment finally realizing that it’s Kylie, a seven-year-old client of mine. “Where are they now?” There is no answer. Just heavy, frantic breaths. “Where are you? Are you safe?” I ask. In the bathroom, I don’t know, she answers uncertainly, more of a whimper actually, and a nugget of fear settles in my chest. Across the phone line I hear a heavy thud. “I’m calling the police and I’ll be right over. I promise,” I say, but the line is already dead. I stop the van in the middle of the road to dial 911 and I’m vaguely aware of cars honking at me from behind. I give the emergency operator the address, tell her who I am and what little I know about the situation. Cool air is finally puffing through the vents, but I barely notice it as I wrench the steering wheel to the right and pull into the nearest driveway so I can turn around.
Jenny gradually awoke to the not so unpleasant feeling of being gently swayed back and forth. Disoriented, her mouth sticky and dry, she sat up in her seat, stretched and looked around. With dread she realized that she was not in the musty-smelling hotel with her father snoring loudly in the bed across from her, but all by herself on a bus traveling through the countryside.
A few new passengers must have boarded while she was sleeping. In the seat across the aisle was a scraggly man wearing a camouflage jacket, eyes closed, headphones covering his ears; in front of her and to the right was a plump man wearing khaki pants and a striped button-down shirt. The bride and groom had gotten off the bus somewhere along the way as had the businessman. Remaining were the crabby old woman and the lady with the white hair.
Jenny looked out the window where fields painted with gold and green rolled past. She had no idea how much time had gone by, though the sun had risen, and had no inkling as to where she was. A spasm of anxiety filled her chest and tears bunched in the corners of her eyes. The man in the khakis glanced back at her, a look of concern crinkling his friendly face. Jenny bowed her head and she began rummaging through her book bag until she found the bottle of water she had tossed in when she packed her few belongings. The quickest way to find your way into foster care, Jenny knew, was to gain the attention of some well-meaning adult. She blinked back her tears, twisted the lid and tilted the plastic bottle so that the warm water filled her mouth. After replacing the lid and returning it to her bag, Jenny turned her attention to her father’s duffel bag, which lay on the floor beneath her feet, and wondered what had happened to him. Remembering the wail of the sirens and the policeman yanking her father to his feet, she figured he was in a jail cell back in Benton. Jenny realized she had abandoned him by remaining on the bus, too scared to move. Jenny’s face reddened in shame and she felt the weight of her father’s cell phone in her pocket.
She could call the Benton police department and tell them who she was and what she had seen, that it was the three men who had attacked her father. But what would that mean for her? Maybe it would be best if at the next bus station she just hopped on a bus back to Benton. Then she could talk to the police in person, or maybe by then the whole misunderstanding would have been worked out. Jenny had the feeling it wasn’t going to be that simple.
She could call her father’s former friend-girl. Connie would know what to do. But what could she possibly say to her? Connie and her dad hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Her father wasn’t mean. He got grouchy once in a while when he got one of his headaches or when his hands started to shake, but he always went right to bed or out for a little while and then he would wake up or come back and be just fine. But Jenny knew that something wasn’t quite right about her father. He couldn’t keep a job; they never stayed in one place for more than a few months, sleeping on couches and floors of friends, moving in and out of run-down apartments and hotels. Plus he had so many friend-girls that sometimes he would confuse their names.
Even if she could explain to Connie what she had seen, what if her father went to jail for a long time? Then what would happen to her? Why would Connie care? Back to Benton? Back to another foster family. Maybe back to the same foster family she was with when she was little, before she got to live with her father all the time. Never.
She tried to think of who else she could call. Her mother? No. She didn’t know where she was, hadn’t heard a peep from her since she ran away with Jimmy. When she tried to bring up the topic of her mother with her father, his lips would press into a thin tight line and he would pull Jenny close to him. “You don’t want to think about that now. You’re safe. No one will hurt you ever again. I promise.” Jenny thought about telling him that she wasn’t ever really afraid of her mother. Her mother’s boyfriend, yes. And even he wasn’t always such a bad guy, but when he was mean he was really mean. Besides, she wanted to tell him, there were many kinds of hurt. There was, of course, the pain of being beaten, but there was also the ache that stretched itself across your belly when you realized that your mother was never coming back. Jenny also wanted to tell her father, but wasn’t quite sure how to put it into words, that the very worst kind of hurt was the kind that wasn’t there yet, but you knew was slowly creeping toward you.
In the seat across the aisle, the rumpled man wearing the camouflage jacket stood, his knees crackling as he rose and stretched his arms above his head. Unsmiling, he nodded at her as he stepped into the aisle and wedged his way through the narrow bathroom door.
Jenny bent over and unzipped her father’s duffel bag, hoping to find something, anything that would help her get out of this mess. She riffled past two pairs of jeans, four shirts, underwear, a pair of dress pants that she’d never
