What I've Done Page 2

  Sometime during my middle school years she began bringing random men home from the bars. She doesn’t know which one fathered my little sister Rose, but that didn’t stop her from trying to take a few different men to court to get child support. I heard the lady from Human Services tell my mother none of them passed the blood test proving they were the father.

  After my thirteenth birthday she announced we were moving into a house with David, a boyfriend she had just met the week before. We weren’t there long before he started beating her. I didn’t know what to do the first time I saw it happen. I just stood there in shock and began shaking until it was over. My mother limped over to my side and held me after he left. She continued to put up with David’s abuse toward her for a few weeks until he picked Rose up by her arm and threw her across the room. I will never forget the image of her little body smashing into the dining room table and then laying lifeless on the floor. I was sure that she was dead and had screamed until my voice gave out.

  Our mother immediately called 9-1-1 and we were put into foster care for the very first time. We never saw David again. Rose had some broken ribs from the incident so she spent almost the entire time in the hospital while I stayed with an elderly couple who liked their alcohol and cigarettes more than having a child living with them. Fortunately our mother cooperated with the social workers and was able to get us back in her care within a few months.

  We are past the Colorado border when Rose falls asleep on my lap. Her chest rises slightly with each little snore she makes. I don’t know how long I sit and watch the darkness pass us by while stroking my little sister’s head until sleep eventually finds me, too.

  When I wake again, the road signs show we have crossed the California border. Rose plays with an old, somewhat unscathed Barbie doll wearing a pink party dress that I once found in the good will dumpster. It is one of the few toys she has been able to keep and has become her favorite treasure.

  Most of the people on the bus are also awake at this point. Looking to where my mother is sitting, I discover her to thankfully still be asleep. The last thing I need is for her to wake and decide she needs more of whatever her current drug of choice is. I don’t know how I would begin to calm her down on a bus full of strangers.

  “How did you sleep?” I ask Rose, brushing her wild curls away from her face.

  “Good,” her little sing-song voice answers as she continues playing with her doll.

  My heart breaks when I think of how my little sister has grown up so poor, without knowing the love of a real mother or father. I do the best I can to keep her clean and well fed, but the rest of the things she needs either don’t come easily or not at all.

  It wasn’t until around my seventeenth birthday that our mother’s drug use began. At that time we had been living in the same small apartment complex south of the metro area for almost a whole year and I was beginning to feel happy for the first time in what seemed like forever.

  I had taken an interest in sewing, thanks to a home economics class and the caring teacher who let me use the school’s sewing machine after school hours. With items I found at the Salvation Army I was able to make somewhat fashionable things for myself and Rose to wear.

  Our mother was already a raging drunk when she switched over to drugs and rarely left the apartment, so I never brought anyone home. There was always the danger that someone would find a pipe laying around the house or notice that far away, vacant look in her eyes she got just after smoking whatever white powdered drug she was using at the time.

  But when I was at school and knew Rose was safe at a county-paid daycare, I was a totally different person, surrounded by a handful of pretty good friends who, at one time anyway, I was able to keep my secrets from.

  It was always fairly easy to plan stories about my home life. I would pretend my parents were still happily married but said that both were total workaholics to explain their lack of presence at school functions. I maintained the fantasy that we still lived in a pretty little house with a puppy and white picket fence.

  Some of my friends’ parents would let me come over often without asking a lot of questions about why I didn’t spend more time at my own house. For a time, I even got to experience what it would feel like to have a normal family that loved me and ate meals together. My grades continued to stay pretty decent, despite everything, and I never did anything that could be considered illegal or immoral.

  Last week I had convinced my mother to let me attend the semi-formal winter dance at school. I arranged for our neighbor Adele to watch Rose, knowing my mother would be off on another drinking and drug binge for the night. Although we have been living entirely off of the welfare system, my mother has always found a way to get the alcohol she needs. I try not to actively think of the ways she goes about procuring it.

  My best friend Tasha Fryman invited me to her house that night where we spent hours getting ready for the dance. She has always been shy to the point of it almost being painful and had never really asked questions about me, even though I knew they were weighing heavily on her mind.

  We shared many afternoons in her bedroom over the past few months, listening to Jack Johnson—my favorite musician who also became Tasha’s once she discovered him—and talking about boys we had crushes on. Her room was the only place I was ever able to feel like a normal teenage girl. It was there I was able to fantasize about becoming a musician like my father. I do not have a singing voice made for the public to hear, but I share his love of the guitar and hope one day I will have enough money to buy one and learn how to play.

  Everything about that night of the semi-formal had been magical, from the growing circle of friends I was surrounded by to the way I felt like any other kid and even somewhat popular. Tasha had curled my dirty blond curls and let me borrow her glittery pink cocktail dress that sparkled in the disco lights.

  That night I even experienced my first long and slow kiss with Tommy Rogers, another friend I had spent a lot of time with. The kiss was somewhat awkward at first as I had only kissed with closed lips in the past and wasn’t sure what to do, but Tommy was a good kisser and gentle about teaching me.

  I was able to laugh and goof around with my classmates like a typical teenage girl at the dance, nearly forgetting what was waiting for me at home.

  But I should have known it was too good to be true, long before the police came toward the end of the night looking for me. Tommy and Tasha both stood with their mouths agape as the officers explained Rose had run away after the sitter had fallen asleep and that my mother had been arrested for starting a fight at a bar downtown. I was so embarrassed that I stood there in total silence, wishing I could crawl under something and hide away from the world.

  As I was escorted outside by the officers, my friends looked back at me with blank expressions. I don’t think they knew what to say to me. I had lied to them about my life. They had always been there for me and maybe would have understood if I had told them the truth from the start, but it was too late—all the lies I had told them about having a perfect family had been shattered by that one incident.

  With my help the police officers were able to find Rose a short while later. She was inside an ice cream shop she always stopped to look in the window of, just blocks from our apartment. We were once again taken to an emergency foster care since our mother would be spending the night in jail. When she came to pick us up the next day, I knew she was still under the influence of something other than alcohol.

  That night I couldn’t sleep with the burden of knowing my life would never improve. I decided Rose would be better off with some kind of foster family rather than having to deal with the drama our mother’s lifestyle brought with it. Later when I knew my mother and Rose were asleep, I swallowed down a bottle of my mother’s pain killers, hoping to put a stop to the misery.

  My mother found me shortly after I became unresponsive and called an ambulance. I am told that I was actually dead for part of the ride to the hospital. Once there
they pumped the pills out of my stomach and I was put on a suicide watch.

  When I think back to that night I regret what I had done, and not just because of all the added problems I brought to our family. It is clear to me now that my little sister needs me, and foster care isn’t the best option as I had once thought it would be. From experience I know foster parents aren’t always loving or pleasant. It was selfish of me and I am embarrassed that I gave up—it wasn’t fair to either one of us.

  As the number of miles to San Diego becomes less, the snow has completely disappeared from the ground outside. Rose sits alert on her heels to see better out the window. I can tell the way her big eyes take in the palm trees and blue sky that she is amazed by what will be our new home. Excitement has yet to find me since I don’t know if our mother has even arranged for a place for us to stay.

  I lean into the aisle to check on our mother once again but she still appears to be soundly sleeping. Her head flops roughly on her shoulder with each bump in the road the bus lulls over. There is almost something eerie about the way she bounces around in the seat, but I remind myself there have been times she was sleeping so soundly after coming down from a high I was sure she was dead. She most likely either ingested something before we got on the bus or took some pills during the night.

  “Is this where we’re gonna live?” Rose whispers to me.

  The sun is just beginning to rise over the land, revealing the new state and all its beauty to us as we ride along the highway. There are very few resemblances to Minnesota. It is green in California, unlike the dreary dark colors of winter back home, and there seems to be a million more people. The cars all look brilliantly clean without the slushy snow and mud to deal with. Everything in general is more brilliant here. The flowers pop in brighter colors, the trees are a vibrant green and even the roads appear to be cleaner, although they are more complex and the traffic moves at a much higher rate of speed.

  “I think so, babe,” I finally answer, my voice soft.

  I often wish I was a little girl again and that my father hadn’t died in a car accident. Things were simpler back then. My father’s death broke us; my mother cried for days on end after it happened. At first she would hold me and stroke my hair as we cried together, but after a while she started locking herself in her room. I would sit in front of the television for hours, waiting for her to come out.

  The bus pulls into a large and bustling station, causing Rose to squeal with excitement. I wait until most of the people are off so I can rouse our mother without making a scene. When I begin to shake her, Rose hums a song from the radio behind me. Some of the last people walk past all at once so I pretend to be busy gathering our things. It is embarrassing enough that our mother gets high to the point of passing out—I don’t want to draw any more attention than necessary.

  “Com’mon, mommy,” Rose sings while twirling her Barbie doll by its arm. “Time to wake up.” She dances around between the aisles, oblivious to the fact that our mother’s condition is not quite the same as usual.

  The more I shake our mother, the more her body slouches over to the side. Panic stirs inside me when I let my fingers rest against her neck. This can’t be happening. Not now.

  Her skin is cool to the touch and I cannot feel a pulse.

  Our mother is dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  I snap my fingers away from my mother’s lifeless body as if I have been given a shock of electricity. My hand flies to my mouth when I think a scream will escape, but Rose looks up at me and I know I have to keep my cool for her sake. I inhale deeply and will myself to breathe.

  My eyes dart all around us to see if anyone is watching, but the bus driver has exited by now and the only ones other than us to remain are an elderly couple who is trying to unfold some kind of walker in the narrow aisle and pays no attention to us.

  It was inevitable the day would come when my mother would finally poison herself to death, but I hadn’t expected it to be in the middle of a move to another state. My head is filled with a string of questions.

  Where will we go? What will we do for money? What will I do with my mother’s body? What will happen to us now?

  We have no other family. My grandparents all died when I was little and my parents didn’t have any siblings. If anyone finds out we are all alone, I will surely lose my little sister this time.

  I am not about to let that happen.

  “We’ll just let momma sleep a little longer,” I tell Rose in a calm voice, hoping she cannot detect the panic behind it.

  If I tell her our mother is dead she will only freak out and make the situation even more complicated. I can’t take that chance. We have no other choice than to leave our mother behind.

  “Won’t she be scared when she wakes up and we’re not here?” Rose asks.

  I look down at our mother’s lifeless body, holding back tears that fight their way through. “She’ll know where to find us.”

  Eventually I will have to tell Rose the truth.

  I throw our mother’s bag over my shoulder, but surprisingly it feels much heavier than I had expected. My shoulder buckles from the added weight. Wanting to see if there is anything inside we can leave behind without giving her identity away, I slide the bag down onto the seat behind me.

  My stomach lurches when I unzip it to discover a sea of cash.

  I can’t even begin to fathom how my mother would have been able to get her hands on so much money. My trembling hand runs through the bag, discovering it to be completely full of stacks upon stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  All at once it is clear to me why our mother had wanted to leave in such a hurry—the money is quite obviously not hers. Someone will certainly know she took it and want it back, at any cost.

  I clutch the seat to my right when I feel my knees go weak underneath me.

  “I have to go potty,” Rose says, dancing around behind me.

  The stale air seems to grow thinner inside the bus and my stomach turns wildly in fear. With this kind of cash we are like a walking target. If it is discovered we are on our own, it would be taken away and I may even be accused of stealing it.

  “In a minute, babe,” I answer mechanically.

  Certainly this much cash had not disappeared without someone noticing. The owners of it are most likely not law-abiding citizens, either. Whoever my mother had stolen the money from is going to come looking for it. I need to hide it until I am sure Rose and I will be safe.

  Despite the fact that I am totally freaking out inside, I am able to gather our things and the cash in slow and steady movements before leading Rose off of the bus. We weave our way through the mass of people waiting for their luggage to be unloaded.

  I stare at the families we pass, most of which seem to be arriving for a vacation. They play around and chat excitedly in anticipation of the fun that is to come. A girl around my age stands with her arms crossed and headphones pushed into her ears as her mother barks out rules for their trip at her younger siblings. The girl rolls her eyes with a smirk as I pass by. I’m sure she means it as a gesture of solidarity for being a teenager with an overly doting mother, but the act is lost on me. I have only ever dreamed of going on a real vacation with a real family—it is not anything my parents could afford, even when my father was alive.

  Although it is early morning and the sun is fairly bright in the sky, we are able to sneak away from the station without anyone giving us a second glance. I forge ahead, still holding tightly to my sister’s hand. When we reach a busy highway that we have to cross I scoop Rose into my arms and begin the task of dodging through traffic that literally seems to be flying past.

  “I’m scared!” Rose cries into my ear. “Where’s Momma?”

  Her little arms are wrapped so tight around my neck I am sure that I will choke to death. I manage to dart past the traffic unscathed before prying Rose’s hands from me and setting her down on the sidewalk.

  It is so hard not to break down in front of my sister. We are
in a big city I know nothing about and have such a small handful of our own money I had been saving for emergencies such as this one. I have heard things in California are supposed to be more expensive and guess the little amount of money I brought with wouldn’t last us more than a couple nights in a cheap motel at the very most.

  But under no condition can I spend the money my mother had stolen. If the owners of the cash ever find us, our only chances of survival may be if I can return every last cent to them.

  The fact that my mother is truly dead and that I have left her on a bus where strangers will take her away has not fully registered in my mind.

  It will probably take extra time for the police to figure out who she is since I took her license and everything else that she had on her. But once her identity is revealed, they will come looking for us. I am not sure which to be more afraid of—the social workers who would separate us or the owners of the money who would possibly do us physical harm.

  I kneel down in front of my little sister for our first heart-to-heart since leaving home. The sidewalk we are on is busy with people rushing about so I pull her close and take her sweet, innocent little face in my hands.

  “Rose, look at me,” I whisper. She is still crying but obligingly does as she is told. Her big brown eyes pull me in as they always do. “Momma is gone. She’s not coming back. It’s just you and me now. But I promise you we will get through this and everything will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Rose takes in little gasps of breath between her sobs. “Why…is Momma…gone? Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

  My heart feels as if it will shatter into a million pieces. I don’t know the proper way to tell a six year old that her mother is dead and wish I knew the right things to say. “Momma loved us very much, but she has gone up to heaven now.”