blurry in my head but I remember Momma going to see if she could leave me with some lady who works for North Carolina. Now that’s a whole other mystery: How does someone work for a state ? The state is her boss? They say I’m the one who’s crazy but that’s what’s crazy. The lady came and talked to me like I was a baby, asking me did I know my own name and what is it and without looking in the mirror what is my hair color (like I’d need a mirror for the answer). She asked me all kinds of stupid questions and went out to have a word with Momma, who was outside the house pacing back and forth and smoking one cigarette lit from the last. Finally the lady got in her shiny car and drove away and Momma came in looking like a storm was brewing behind her eyes. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell she was hoping the lady would take me off her hands. She told me I was going to stay with her after all but things were going to change . The deal was I had to go with the lady every day to an office the next town over. It had a little room with toys and small chairs and finger paintings taped to the walls. The lady and me sat cross-legged on a hard carpet that left bumpy marks on my legs for hours after I left. But it was great on account of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. I got those free and the only thing I had to do was answer her questions and watch her scribble things down on a pad she held up against her chest like I was wanting to steal it. She told me I should think of her like a friend and that I could tell her anything at all but I don’t know any kid who’s best friends with a grown-up. Also, for all the time she talked to Momma you’d think she already knew the answers to the questions like:
“What was your daddy’s name?”
“Do you have a grandma? Where does she live, do you know?”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
That last one was where the trick of it was. Like I said, those days and weeks right after Richard died were real blurry to me. Itried real hard to concentrate like the lady said but my brain felt all mushy and loose. I remember feeling tired all the time but even with all that I knew she was up to something. I knew she was trying to get me to talk about my sister. She wanted me to say Yes, ma’am, I have a sister . That’s what she wanted to hear. I knew it even then. What’s more, I may have been eight but I knew if I talked about Emma I’d never see Momma or Mr. Wilson or Hendersonville again. I knew something bad would happen if I told the lady yes but I didn’t know what to do at first. Because the fact is, yes I believe I had a sister but something happened—she disappeared and I wasn’t supposed to talk about her ever again.
When Emma was a baby Momma talked about her. Her and Daddy both. No matter what Momma said when I was eight, no matter how close the state lady watched me when she asked if I had a sister, even when I was telling her no, ma’am , in my head I could hear Momma and Daddy talking about the baby. I can still hear it. What’s funny is that it was the state lady who reminded me of it when she asked if I ever heard anyone else saying I had a baby sister. Whammo! It came back to my ears like we were talking to each other with two tin cans and string, me on one end, Momma and Daddy on the other. When she was a baby I remember I lifted Emma up out of the drawer they used for a bassinet and took her over like she was a play doll. Momma didn’t mind. If Emma got hungry or needed changing I’d bring her over to Momma, who’d tell me to go somewhere to get out from underfoot . She hated people being underfoot so I’d have to leave baby Emma with her and get out of the way. But Momma knew how much I loved Emma so when I came back in she’d have already put her in my room on the middle of the bed where she couldn’t get into any trouble. That was back when Emma couldn’t even turn over, she was so little. Nothing better than
“What was your daddy’s name?”
“Do you have a grandma? Where does she live, do you know?”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
That last one was where the trick of it was. Like I said, those days and weeks right after Richard died were real blurry to me. Itried real hard to concentrate like the lady said but my brain felt all mushy and loose. I remember feeling tired all the time but even with all that I knew she was up to something. I knew she was trying to get me to talk about my sister. She wanted me to say Yes, ma’am, I have a sister . That’s what she wanted to hear. I knew it even then. What’s more, I may have been eight but I knew if I talked about Emma I’d never see Momma or Mr. Wilson or Hendersonville again. I knew something bad would happen if I told the lady yes but I didn’t know what to do at first. Because the fact is, yes I believe I had a sister but something happened—she disappeared and I wasn’t supposed to talk about her ever again.
When Emma was a baby Momma talked about her. Her and Daddy both. No matter what Momma said when I was eight, no matter how close the state lady watched me when she asked if I had a sister, even when I was telling her no, ma’am , in my head I could hear Momma and Daddy talking about the baby. I can still hear it. What’s funny is that it was the state lady who reminded me of it when she asked if I ever heard anyone else saying I had a baby sister. Whammo! It came back to my ears like we were talking to each other with two tin cans and string, me on one end, Momma and Daddy on the other. When she was a baby I remember I lifted Emma up out of the drawer they used for a bassinet and took her over like she was a play doll. Momma didn’t mind. If Emma got hungry or needed changing I’d bring her over to Momma, who’d tell me to go somewhere to get out from underfoot . She hated people being underfoot so I’d have to leave baby Emma with her and get out of the way. But Momma knew how much I loved Emma so when I came back in she’d have already put her in my room on the middle of the bed where she couldn’t get into any trouble. That was back when Emma couldn’t even turn over, she was so little. Nothing better than
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