Runaway (16 page)

         

Nobody likes feeling like dirt.

Nobody wants to be swept away.

Nobody wants to be hidden under a rug and forgotten.

         

It wasn't just the manor that got swept today. It was the whole town, including the church parking lot where the rescue wagon pulls up.

When I arrived, the rescue-wagon woman was hurling wrapped sandwiches through the service window.

“Stop that!” one of the policemen yelled at her.

“You stop it!” she yelled back. “When's the last time you've been hungry, huh?” She hurled another one.

“You're the reason this town's got a problem!” the policeman yelled, coming toward her.

“
I'm
the reason?” She snorted and sidearmed a sandwich. “You've got a skewed view of the world, mister!”

“I'm warning you, ma'am. Stop throwing sandwiches or I will have to put you under arrest!”

She stopped and looked at him. “You're going to arrest me for feeding hungry people?”

“No, ma'am. I'm going to arrest you for interfering with police business.”

She thought for a second, then managed to rapid-fire about ten sandwiches before he charged the rescue wagon and handcuffed her.

Meanwhile, the church pastor was striding across the parking lot, shouting, “What is the meaning of this? These people are in our care. You have no right to do this! This is private property!”

I couldn't hear what the cop who intercepted him said because I was keeping my distance, looking at all this go down from behind a tree near the church. But the cop showed him some papers and talked a bunch, and even though the pastor argued with him, the cops went ahead and did the same thing they were doing at the manor: checking IDs, letting a few people go, but putting most of them in a paddy wagon.

I lost track of what happened to the rescue-wagon lady. I think they took her away in one of the police cars. But when the parking lot was cleared and the cops were gone, the pastor circled the rescue wagon a couple of times, then closed the service window and went back inside the church.

The rescue wagon might have been closed, but I was pretty sure it wasn't locked. And since it was 2:00 and I hadn't eaten all day, I snuck across the parking lot and tried the back door. It opened with a creak, so I climbed in quick and stuffed my backpack full of as much food as would fit.

Now I'm safely back under the beach house, with enough food for the next few days. But the truth is, I'm worried. If they've shut down the rescue wagon for good, my plan is in the toilet. I'll be back to scrounging food and just surviving.

I wonder how thoroughly they're planning to sweep.

I wonder if they'll check the corners of town.

And the beaches.

And under porches.

         

Still Friday, 8:30 p.m.

This is really stupid, but I've been thinking about Venus.

What happened when she came home from school? Were there cops waiting for her? Did she freak out when she found out everyone was gone? Is she there now? Does she know what happened to her mother?

I thought about going over to the manor to see if she was all right, but see? That's stupid.

What do I care?

         

Saturday, September 11
^th

I walked from here to the manor, to the church, and back. The beaches and boardwalks are packed with people, but I didn't see one homeless person. Not on benches, not at the park, not panhandling at the corners, not at the manor…not one.

All of a sudden I'm scared.

What am I going to do if they find me?

And what is my plan so they don't?

         

Tuesday, September 14
^th

For three days I've been on the run, cursing the do gooders who discovered me under the porch. “We want to help you,” they said. “You shouldn't be living like this!”

They weren't cops or social workers, but I didn't even have the chance to ask, Uh…what do you have in mind? before one of them moved toward me, saying, “There are social programs that help runaways just like you!”

I'd heard enough. I tore up the embankment and cut across the street before they could catch me.

“Wait! We want to help you!” they called after me.

No, you want someone
else
to help me. Some social worker somewhere who helps runaways just like me.

Gee.

How kind.

So all I've been thinking about for the last three days is what I don't have. No home, no family, no food, no
soap
…And I've been mad. Really, really mad.

But tonight I was in a market scamming supplies, and just as I'd slid a can of chili into my jacket, one of those gimpy wheelchair guys rolled down my aisle. He was probably about my age, and his mom was pushing him along, putting groceries in a little basket attached to the wheelchair.

The boy's hands were all inward on top of his tray, and his head was lolling to the side as he made gurgling sounds. His mom could have passed for his grandmother, but I don't think she was actually that old. She just
looked
old. Old and tired.

I got out of there, found a safe spot on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and ate cold chili. And all I can think about is how ungrateful I've been. I can walk, I'm healthy…. I've got a lot more than I think I do.

Why is what you
do
have so much harder to see than what you don't?

         

I think it's Friday, but I'm not sure

This road I'm following winds along the coastline, and it's really busy with cars driving at crazy speeds, but other than that it's got nothing. No trees, no grassy areas, no place to
hide.
It's just cliffs down to the sea on one side and cliffs straight up on the other. I don't even know where it's taking me. All I know is I'm going north.

I've run out of my rations from the market. (This is not a complaint, just a fact.) And since I'm hungry and feeling pretty worn out from walking so much and not sleeping enough, I almost said, Sure, when this man pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride.

A ride would have been SO nice.

But, like I said before, I don't hitchhike.

My mom and I used to hitchhike once in a while when the van wouldn't start, and we never had any problem. People were nice and friendly and helpful. Then came the day that Eddie crashed the van. Mom and I had been hiding out in the woods for hours and hours and hours, but Mom was in a bad way. She was shivering and having the dry heaves, and finally she said, “Baby, I need to get to a doctor.”

So we walked back to the road, and Mom put out her thumb. After a while a dark blue SUV pulled over, kicking up a big cloud of dust. The driver rolled down the passenger window and said, “You need a lift back to town?”

He was friendly and nicely dressed, and my mom managed to smile and say, “Yes. Thanks so much!”

I got in back, she climbed in front.

Everything looked tidy. New. And it smelled like vanilla inside the car. I remember really liking the way it smelled.

But after we'd been driving along for a while, the guy reached over and started playing with my mom's hair.

My mom had beautiful hair. Long and thick and curly. That day it was tied back because it really needed washing, but he didn't seem to notice. He reached right over and undid the clip.

I remember thinking that was weird. I remember feeling very uncomfortable.

My mom tried to take the clip back, but he just laughed and put it aside. Then he started stroking her hair, which made me
really
uncomfortable.

My mom whispered, “Stop it!” and pulled away from him.

He clamped a hand around the back of her neck and yanked her toward him, saying, “Don't you tell me to stop.”

She whimpered, “Please…,” as she looked at me between the seats. “My daughter.”

He looked at me in the rearview mirror but didn't let go.

“Please,” my mom begged.

“You're hurting her!” I cried and tugged on his arm, trying to get him to let go of her.

He did let go, but his hand flew back and smacked me in the face. He hit me square in the nose, and I remember being freaked out by the amount of blood that was gushing out of it.

My mom screamed when she saw the blood, and it seemed to set something off in him. He started hitting her with the side of his fist, yelling awful stuff as he beat her again and again and again.

“STOP IT!” I screamed and tried to get in between them. My hands were covered with blood from my nose, and when he saw that it was getting all over his clothes and his car, he slammed on the brakes and swerved to the side of the road. “GET OUT!” he shouted, and before we'd even finished stumbling out of the car, he was peeling away.

The first thing Mom did was hold my cheeks and say, “Baby, did he knock out your teeth?”

“No, Mom,” I told her. “It's just my nose.”

“Did he break it?”

“I don't know.” It was tender, but I couldn't tell if it was broken. I pinched it to stop the bleeding.

Mom looked right in my eyes and whispered, “I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry.”

“Why did he do that?” I asked her. “What did we do wrong?”

“We did nothing wrong.” Her hands had moved down to my shoulders and she said, “Promise me something, baby. Promise me that when you get older, you will never, ever hitchhike.”

I nodded, but that wasn't good enough. She shook my shoulders a little and said, “Promise me!”

So I let go of my nose and said, “I promise.”

And that's why no matter how tired I am of walking, or how nice or friendly the person acts, I won't hitchhike.

Ever.

It's the only promise she ever asked me to make.

         

I should stop writing now, but I can't. That day was probably the second worst day of my entire life. The knife fight behind the van. Eddie crashing the van and flying through the window. Hiding in the woods. Seeing my mom so sick. Hitchhiking. Being attacked by a madman…It was a nightmare, and I want to get to the end of it. If I can just get to the end of it, maybe I can get it out of my mind.

So, okay. By the time we'd walked into town, my mother was back to shivering and dry heaving. I remember asking her, “Why are you sick again, Mom? You seemed to be better for a while….”

She didn't answer. She was too busy concentrating on finding a doctor.

We wound up in a really scary part of town, with barbed wire and graffiti everywhere, and the building she went to didn't look like a doctor's office at all. It was a tall brick walkup with bars on the windows and garbage strewn all around.

Inside the front door she planted me in a corner on the floor and said, “Wait right here. Don't go anywhere, you hear me?”

I nodded and I stayed put, but the corner smelled bad, and the people who went up and down the stairs scared me. They looked mean, and I remember thinking that their eyes looked smoggy. Hazy and dirty and yellowed.

Mom took forever to come back, but when she wobbled down the stairs, she told me that she was feeling much better. I was starving and exhausted, and it was dark outside. “Where are we going to sleep?” I asked her, but she collapsed at the foot of the stairs.

“Mom?” I cried. “Mom? Are you all right?”

Her eyes opened about halfway, and that was the first time I noticed that my mom's eyes were smoggy, too. “It's all right, baby,” she said. Her voice was airy. Real happy-sounding. “Why don't we sleep right here tonight.”

“Here?” I looked around. “Mom, wake up! We can't sleep here…!”

But she wouldn't budge.

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to ask someone for help, but there was nobody around. And I had this awful feeling that the people in that big brick building couldn't help me, anyway.

I shook her and I did cry some, but after a while I started looking around and I found a closet. It was a broom closet, so it wasn't very big, but it was better than sleeping out in the hall. So I woke my mom up enough to drag her into it and shut us both inside.

I was very uncomfortable, but I finally fell asleep sitting up.

She didn't seem to mind. She fell asleep with her head in my lap.

         

I have no idea what day it is

It's been another day of endless walking. Walking and thinking. I hadn't made the connection before, but now I see that the story I made up about Louise K. Palmer has a little of me in it.

Louise waits for her children, and I used to wait for my mom. I used to pretend that she was still alive and that she'd come back for me. I could see her in my mind, arms out, smile big and bright, hair flowing in beautiful curls behind her. “Baby!” she'd cry, running toward me. “Baby, I found you!”

I saw her in my head so often. I heard her voice in my mind. I pretended so hard that I almost believed it. Some days I think I actually did.

Counselors have really tried to get me to talk about my mom, but I've always refused. I didn't like thinking about what had happened or why. I didn't want to face the fact that she was gone forever. I've never talked about any of it, at all, ever.

But now it seems that's all I'm able to do. I finally let myself think about it a little, and talk about it (well, write about it) a little, and now it's like a flood that I just can't stop.

So I walked and thought today, but the truth is, I cried a lot, too. I didn't even try to stop it, or beat myself up for doing it. I just sat on boulders above the pounding surf and let the tears come crashing through.

I didn't know she was a junkie. I just thought she was sick. But she was a junkie, and it's a cold, hard, cruel fact that she loved heroin more than she loved me.