going into a room where there’s a baby’s happy to see you. I loved it when Emma was itty bitty. I can say she never existed till I’m blue in the face but I swear I remember her.When she got older I kept taking care of her—because at some point Momma stopped talking about her or doing anything for her at all. Momma had a lot on her mind back then, even before Daddy died. He wasn’t home all that much, my daddy. Which I guess is why Momma was sad all the time. So Emma and me, we were all we had. We stuck up for each other.
Then, years later, after Richard died and the state lady came, Sheriff and Momma and her all watched me real close when they said the name Emma. They asked if I knew an Emma, like did I know if she even existed. Momma said no she never did . The lady hushed Momma and asked me if I thought there’d been an Emma. They seemed happy when I slowly shook my head no but because I was staring at Momma when I answered, the state lady had to ask Momma to give us some time to visit, just Caroline and me alone . The more she asked if I was sure there was no such person as Emma and the more I said no, ma’am , the happier the state lady got so I guess you could say I passed the test. Then something super-incredibly weird started to happen. I started to forget what Emma looked like. The harder I tried to remember, the worse it got. I knew her hair was near-white blond only because mine is the opposite, a dark mousy brown that matches my eyes. But her face was fading in my memory. Then it was her voice that left me. I wanted so bad to hear her in my head but it was like someone was turning a knob on a radio real low, where you know there’s music playing but you cain’t make out what the song is. I remember feeling terrible. Like I was betraying my sister. Leaving her to die or something.
After a few more times like that where the state lady asked if the name Emma rang any bells and who did I play with when I was growing up, they said I didn’t have to go to see her no more. Momma said she was this close to putting me in the loony bin for good and back then I didn’t know what a loony bin was so Momma drew a circle in the air by her ear and told me it’s where they lockup crazy people. She said they have loony bins for kids and that I’d fit in perfect there. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich since I stopped meeting with the state lady, but at least I don’t have to go to the loony bin.
I count to a hundred with Mississippi in between just to make sure Momma’s good and gone across town to find a job, but I don’t need to—she never doubles back. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. It’s brighter outside than I thought it’d be and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes used to the sunlight. I take care to keep as far from the edge of the road as I can and I will myself invisible just in case someone from the Loveless happens to see me. I’m hungrier than a sow full of babies. Momma only brought the whiskey home last night but it was okay because I still had four ketchups I saved aside thinking she might forget food again.
Ketchup’s free at this place down the road called Wendy’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first went in there the other day. They got hundreds of packets of ketchup plus millions of paper napkins, which come in handy for toilet paper when we run out—Mrs. Burdock won’t give out more than our fair share . And Wendy’s has food just out there for anybody to take. Bowls of all kinds of vegetables and lettuce and stuff.
Any day of the week you’ll find at least ten ketchup packets in my pockets, thirty if it’s a good day. It’s not like I’m stealing or anything but I do try to hurry about it when the businesspeople dressed real nice line up for lunch. Or when the moms come in for early supper with their strollers, hand-holding little ones. It’s always so busy no one notices me taking fistfuls of ketchups and plus I’m small because I
Then, years later, after Richard died and the state lady came, Sheriff and Momma and her all watched me real close when they said the name Emma. They asked if I knew an Emma, like did I know if she even existed. Momma said no she never did . The lady hushed Momma and asked me if I thought there’d been an Emma. They seemed happy when I slowly shook my head no but because I was staring at Momma when I answered, the state lady had to ask Momma to give us some time to visit, just Caroline and me alone . The more she asked if I was sure there was no such person as Emma and the more I said no, ma’am , the happier the state lady got so I guess you could say I passed the test. Then something super-incredibly weird started to happen. I started to forget what Emma looked like. The harder I tried to remember, the worse it got. I knew her hair was near-white blond only because mine is the opposite, a dark mousy brown that matches my eyes. But her face was fading in my memory. Then it was her voice that left me. I wanted so bad to hear her in my head but it was like someone was turning a knob on a radio real low, where you know there’s music playing but you cain’t make out what the song is. I remember feeling terrible. Like I was betraying my sister. Leaving her to die or something.
After a few more times like that where the state lady asked if the name Emma rang any bells and who did I play with when I was growing up, they said I didn’t have to go to see her no more. Momma said she was this close to putting me in the loony bin for good and back then I didn’t know what a loony bin was so Momma drew a circle in the air by her ear and told me it’s where they lockup crazy people. She said they have loony bins for kids and that I’d fit in perfect there. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich since I stopped meeting with the state lady, but at least I don’t have to go to the loony bin.
I count to a hundred with Mississippi in between just to make sure Momma’s good and gone across town to find a job, but I don’t need to—she never doubles back. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. It’s brighter outside than I thought it’d be and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes used to the sunlight. I take care to keep as far from the edge of the road as I can and I will myself invisible just in case someone from the Loveless happens to see me. I’m hungrier than a sow full of babies. Momma only brought the whiskey home last night but it was okay because I still had four ketchups I saved aside thinking she might forget food again.
Ketchup’s free at this place down the road called Wendy’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first went in there the other day. They got hundreds of packets of ketchup plus millions of paper napkins, which come in handy for toilet paper when we run out—Mrs. Burdock won’t give out more than our fair share . And Wendy’s has food just out there for anybody to take. Bowls of all kinds of vegetables and lettuce and stuff.
Any day of the week you’ll find at least ten ketchup packets in my pockets, thirty if it’s a good day. It’s not like I’m stealing or anything but I do try to hurry about it when the businesspeople dressed real nice line up for lunch. Or when the moms come in for early supper with their strollers, hand-holding little ones. It’s always so busy no one notices me taking fistfuls of ketchups and plus I’m small because I
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