How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? (29 page)

“Rhea, listen.” She's pulling the scarf tight at each end. “I called Jean last night, told her about you, to see if I could persuade her to take on someone else to help me with the art classes. It's a lot for me now, all the kids.”

She's smiling, holding the edges of her scarf, like this is great news. The wind has picked up a little and it's flapping her page. “I'm so excited, Rhea, because Jean said that we could sort something out. That if you can take on some of the other stuff—cleaning maybe, things like that—you can come out too.”

Over the city there's grey clouds now, like smoke.

“We'll have to share a room, there are no extra ones, but that's fine with me.”

“What if I don't want to?”

She looks confused. “Share a room?”

“What if I don't want to go? What if I want to stay here?”

She shakes her head. “You'll love it, Rhea. The money's not great but the food is always amazing and it's right on the beach, you can go swimming every day.”

“I can't swim.”

Her eyes glance towards my stump and back to my face. She thinks that's why I can't; even after everything I told her last night, she thinks that's why not.

“That's okay, maybe you'll learn. Say you'll come.”

She moves closer to me on the bench, so her board falls onto the ground, banging off the concrete. She bends down to pick it up and she notices the daisy I've had in the lacehole of my Docs since the park. She points to it and smiles.

“So this woman—this Jean—she's just going to offer me a job, just like that? Without even meeting me?”

“She wouldn't be able to meet you anyway, she's out there already, getting the place set up. But once the background checks are okay—”

“Background checks?”

“You know, just the usual stuff. We're working with kids, they have to make sure—”

“No, no way. I'm not doing that.”

I stand up and my charcoal falls on the ground.

“Rhea—”

“Aunt Ruth has probably been to the police. She must have. If they run a check, she'll probably find out. She'll probably find me.”

Winnie's standing up too, reaching for my hand, but I fold my arm across me, put it in my armpit.

“Rhea, you're eighteen. She can't make you go back.”

“No!” I stamp on the charcoal but it's too thin to break.

“Come on, don't mess this up. Even if it wasn't for the background check, I'd be suggesting you contact your aunt, let her know you're safe.”

A drop of rain falls on Winnie's picture, then another one.

“Mess this up? I thought you got it, Winnie. I thought you understood.”

“I do understand—but you're not listening to me, Rhea. You don't have to go back there. No one's going to make you go back. Just let her know you're okay, that's all.”

There's more rain. The charcoal is starting to smudge. Winnie unclips her paper, rolls it up. I scrunch my toes tight inside my Docs. The daisy from earlier is turning to mush in the rain, it's already dead.

Winnie's got everything back in the bag, boards, paper, charcoal. She has her scarf over her head now. “Come on, we're getting soaked.”

I hesitate, lean against the railing. As if I have another choice, as if there is somewhere else I can go.

“How do I know you're not going to call my aunt, tell her where I am?”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Rhea. You know I'm not going to do that. You're an adult. You're the one who gets to decide what happens next. Not me.”

We don't talk anymore after that, just hurry back to the subway station, both of us trying to stay dry walking close to the buildings. And we don't talk on the train on the way home and I hate that things can change, from the way they were on the way here to being like this, with no warning at all.

She's out now, at an AA meeting and she's probably telling them all what an ungrateful bitch I am. And I thought about leaving while she's out—about taking my clothes off the shelf she made for me and packing them in my backpack again, but it's still raining and it's nice in here, listening to it on the window with the violin music upstairs and Olivia scrunched in next to me.

And I'm looking at your photo, the Columbia one, and I'm wondering what you'd do, what you'd want me to do. She hasn't said it, but I think she'll let me stay, till Thursday, if I want to. That's six days of food, six nights of sleep on this couch. Sometimes Dad would go on about principles, how they weren't worth sacrificing, and I don't know if I stay if I'm sacrificing mine because Winnie betrayed my trust by telling this Jean person about me. But I've nowhere else to go, no money even, not anymore. And it feels like I'm all out of options. That for six days of food and sleep, it might be worth the sacrifice, just this once.

Maybe, if I asked you, you might tell me that.

Rhea

Dear Mum,

I am copying out the letter I'm sending to Aunt Ruth because if she writes back I want to remember what I wrote. It's way harder writing to her than writing to you. I hope I'm doing the right thing, sending the letter, going with Winnie—I hope I'm not making a mistake.

As soon as I tell Winnie what I've decided she hugs me and then she runs out to phone Jean to start the background check. And I nearly change my mind then, after everything, I nearly take the red Converse she'd bought me and the shorts with all the pockets and the second-hand Walkman and put them all in my backpack and run, before I can think about it. But I don't run, I sit and stroke Olivia, and listen to her purring, and then Winnie's back, smiling, telling me everything we need to do next.

I didn't decide to go because she bought me that stuff, Mum, that wasn't it. It was all from the Salvation Army and it only came to six dollars. I decided to go because she's buying it for me anyway—the Converse and the shorts and the Walkman—whether I go with her or not. It's not a bribe and that's what makes me trust her.

The place we're going is called Turning Tides and I like the name and that it's on Long Island, in between a town called Amagansett and a town called Montauk. Winnie showed me where it is, on the map, and it's near where Aunt Ruth told me you used to spend your summers, where the ice cream place is, and that's another reason I decided to go, if you want to know the truth.

I don't think Aunt Ruth must have liked going there, because she was weird the time we talked about it in Jaxson's, but maybe that's because of Nana Davis having an affair with Granddad Davis' boss—at least I think they were. But I bet you liked it, Mum. Winnie told me about all the beaches on Long Island, some of the best in the country, she said. I bet you went swimming every day.

I'm not going to post the letter until Thursday morning, right before we leave. I know I don't need to worry about her finding me—the letter has the soup kitchen's return address on it because Chrissie is going to forward on anything that comes. And even if Aunt Ruth jumped on a plane straightaway, she wouldn't get here before we left no matter when I send it. But posting it on Thursday feels better all the same.

Making decisions is hard sometimes, isn't it? I wish I knew how to tell in advance if it was the right decision or a mistake, but they both feel the same, I think they do.

If you've figured it out up there, a way to tell the difference, do me a favour and let me know, will you?

It might be a handy thing to know.

R

16th June 1999

Dear Aunt Ruth,

How are you? I am writing to you because I want to let you know that there is no need for you to worry about me. I am fine. I have a job in a summer camp so I'll have somewhere to live and I'll be earning money. It's not in New York, so don't bother looking for me there.

I would like to know if Columbia responded to my application. I don't expect you to pay my fees now, but I would still like to know if I was accepted.

You can write back and let me know using the address on the envelope and they will send the letter on to me. Please don't come to the soup kitchen again to try and find out where I am. They won't be able to tell you and by the time you get this, I won't even be in New York and no matter what happens, I'm not going back to Florida.

I'm sorry for everything that happened and for causing trouble for you and your family.

Yours sincerely,
Rhea Farrell

Dear Mum,

It's the first time I've had a chance to write to you and even now I should be in bed but I can't sleep. We have to start work at 8:00 a.m. here—not get up, start work—and after the kids come on Monday, we'll have to start at 7:30! It's like a prison camp here, Mum, there's so many rules.

I'm not even meant to be down here on my own, on the beach, after dark.

The best part so far was the train journey, with me and Winnie playing poker and the conductor walking through shouting out the name of each station. I'm winning—I would have won—if I hadn't got distracted when he calls out Bridgehampton and I lay down the wrong card. I want to play another game, but Winnie insists on packing the cards away to get ready to get off, even though we don't get to the Amagansett station for ages after.

Jean and David are waiting on the platform and it turns out Zac and Matt were on our train as well. Zac and Matt are twins who are a year younger than me but twice as tall. Both of them are starting at Brown University at the end of the summer and, so far, that's all they've talked about. Laurie would love them, especially Zac, because he plays football and you can tell he's the one who's the leader of the two of them, because he speaks first and laughs more and Matt looks smaller, the way he rounds his shoulders, even though they're the same height.

At first I don't know who she is, the woman who's hugging everyone—it takes me a minute to realise it's Jean. For some reason, I don't expect her to be black or to be wearing shorts and flip-flops and a neon pink T-shirt. She looks too young to be the boss, especially when she's wearing her Oakley sunglasses, which she is most of the time. When she hugs Winnie, they kind of rock back and forth, hugging for so long it's kind of embarrassing. I'm next and it's weird but it's like she somehow knows that I don't want to hug her because she only squeezes my shoulder and says that I'll be a great addition to the team.

David's the cook and the van driver and he has a long ponytail and a beard. He gives me a big handshake with his left hand and says he likes my Hendrix T-shirt. He's wearing a tie-dye one with someone called Jimmy Buffett on it and I pretend I've heard of him and I say I like his T-shirt too.

He drives really fast, David does, and we're all thrown around in the back when he takes the sharp turn off the road in through a tiny gateway. It's like a dirt track in Ireland—grass up the middle and trees and bushes scraping the sides of the van—but then it suddenly opens up and there's the house, with the sea, crystal blue, right behind it. This house is nothing like beach houses in Florida—it's old, white wood and four storeys and a big wooden deck that wraps all the way around.

Me and Winnie are staying on the top floor, in the attic room, up four flights of stairs with no air conditioner because apparently the window is too small for one. The only people who have their own rooms are Jean and Gemma, the other therapist who smiles a lot but hardly says a word. Zac and Matt are sharing, and Amanda is sharing with Erin, some kind of trainee therapist who's not here yet.

Amanda's the lifeguard, by the way, we meet her after Jean gives us the tour of the house. The pool is in the back, down the opposite set of steps than the sea, and when we get there it looks like it's empty until we see the bubbles and then Amanda bursts through the surface of the water, her cheeks puffed out.

“Talk about a dramatic entrance,” Jean says, and everyone laughs. Jean laughs too, at her own joke, and her laugh is louder than everyone else's, loud and annoying.

“Sorry,” Amanda goes, wiping her hair out of her eyes. “I was seeing how long I could sit on the bottom.”

Jean laughs again and gets down on her hunkers next to where Amanda has propped herself up on the edge.

“This is Amanda, our trusty lifeguard who keeps all the kids safe in the water. Amanda, meet the troops—Zac, Matt, Winnie and Rhea.”

We all say hi at the same time.

“Do you surf?” Zac goes. “I hear the surfing is awesome out here.”

Amanda's wearing one of those lame necklaces with her name on it in loopy gold that's supposed to be handwriting and it glints in the sun.

“No,” she goes, scrunching up her nose, “but I boogie board.”

“Good enough,” Zac goes. “David said he has a long board, I'll show you how.”

Jean must have noticed the total flirting going on because she does this thing to bring the rest of us into the conversation.

“Maybe you can teach us all how to boogie board, Amanda,” she goes. “I'd like to learn too.”

“Sure, why not.” She fiddles with her necklace, sliding it back and forth on its chain.

Winnie puts her hand on my shoulder and I think she's going to say something nice. “You can start with teaching Rhea how to swim. That can be your first challenge!”

She laughs, like it's a joke, and I can't believe she's said that in front of everyone, and I hate how they are all looking at me and at my stump and feeling sorry for me, like I'm some kind of victim.

“You can't swim, Rhea?” Jean goes.

“I hate the water, I've never wanted to learn.”

She nods. I can't see her eyes behind her Oakleys. “I used to be scared of the water too, but I got over it, out here. No better place to learn.”

I don't know if I already didn't like Jean or if that's when I decided fully.