One for the Murphys, Page 2

  CHAPTER 3

  Orange You Glad You’re Here?

  At night, the house is quiet. Too quiet for sleeping.

  The digital clock reads 2:34 a.m.; I like the consecutive numbers. I watch and wait for 2:35 because two plus three will be five. At 2:36, two times three will be six.

  The number six makes me remember my mother’s favorite vase. How I filled it with six big, clear marbles with deep blue swirls inside, even when she told me not to. How my elbow sent it to the carpeted floor, and how when we cleaned it up, there were six pieces. We glued the vase back together, but it was misshapen and couldn’t hold water anymore.

  I’m afraid that’s the way my mother and I will be now. I’m afraid that no matter how many times I apologize for messing things up with her new husband, Dennis, we will remain misshapen and unable to hold water.

  I so wish I’d been able to see her before leaving the hospital. I think back to my last night there—just twenty-four hours ago. About how I tried to sneak out of my room and find my mother in intensive care. How I kept thinking that if I was any daughter at all, I’d be able to find her.

  When the nurse caught me, I blurted out to her how sorry I was for making Dennis mad. Like by telling her, my mother would know too.

  The nurse walked me back to my room and told me to get some sleep. I don’t know why, when things are horrible, people always tell you to get some sleep. I bet it’s because if you’re asleep, they know you’ll leave them alone.

  When she turned to leave, I remember thinking that I was afraid to be alone.

  The nurse turned out the lights before she left. And I was in the dark.

  Just like I am now.

  The next morning, I sip orange juice. Good, ordinary, boring orange juice with no added kiwi or pomegranate.

  Mrs. Murphy went out last night to get it for me after I told her I only liked it plain. I think it’s freakish that she got it just because I’d asked for it. Whenever I’d asked my mother for orange juice, she’d ask me if I were a Rockefeller. For years I’d thought that a Rockefeller was a person who really loves oranges.

  The back door slams and there’s instant screaming and crying; now this place finally feels a little like home.

  Michael Eric comes in with his hand tucked into his armpit. His mother drops to the floor like someone has kicked her behind the knees, but she lands gently, holding out her arms, and he melts into them. He tells how Adam smashed his hand. She takes his hand and kisses it. “My poor ole boy,” she whispers. “Does that feel better?”

  His crying stops.

  She wipes his tears away and he spins and runs back outside. Then Mrs. Murphy goes to the door and calls Adam.

  Again she kneels and asks him if he hit his little brother. At first he denies it. Then she poses a simple question. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  She’s got to be kidding. If there’s half a brain in his head, he’ll stick to the story.

  He pauses and says, “I whaled him, Mommy, but he deserved it.”

  I think that it’s funny to have “whaled him” and “Mommy” in the same sentence, and I decide that I like Adam.

  She tilts her head. “What have we said about this?”

  “I’m supposed to protect him ’cause he’s my brother.”

  “That’s right. Brothers stick together, right? Family looks out for family.”

  I stand in a place with no space.

  My stomach has such a longing in it that I want to throw up. The tone, the look on her face and the look on his, a gentle brush of his hair. A kiss on top of the head. I struggle to decipher a foreign language. She’s looking at him like she’s seeing the best thing ever. Even though he’s done something wrong.

  I no longer have the stomach for this juice that she bought for me. I go to the sink and pour it out. I don’t belong here. I begin to think that a foster mother who smokes cigars and makes me sleep in the basement would be a relief.

  CHAPTER 4

  Are You There, God? It’s Me, Carley

  When Mrs. Murphy comes back into the kitchen, she looks nervous as she studies me. She seems to think about things a lot before she speaks, which makes me wonder what she doesn’t say.

  “So,” Mrs. Murphy begins, in her perky voice. “Do you know what you’d like to do today?”

  I shrug. What’s with her? She makes it sound like I’m on a vacation.

  “Would it be okay if I go shoot baskets?”

  “You play basketball?” Perky Murphy asks.

  “Yeah, I was on the team back home.” I remember how my mother would come to the games and yell for me. How she’d tell the refs to go back to reffing blind man’s basketball when they made a call against me. How I thought it was funny, but the other mothers used to tell her that it was inappropriate, which only made her louder.

  “Well, you and Daniel should get along really well.”

  “Great,” I say, thinking that I’ll be back with my mother before that could even happen.

  “You can borrow my coat,” she says. “It’s cold.”

  I can’t because she suggested it.

  She glances at me and then glances again. “You may borrow that, if you’d rather,” she says, motioning toward a gray hoodie. I put it on.

  Outside, I find a basketball right away. It’s green with shamrocks. Can’t anything just be the way I expect around here?

  It’s cold outside. Not like Vegas. I can see my breath, and it reminds me of the smoke in the casinos when my mother would leave me in the lobby to wait for her. She’d do a few of the slot machines just inside the door where she could see me waiting on the bench. How she’d do a thumbs-up when she won, or yell “Send me luck!” when she didn’t.

  Standing there in the cold, in front of the house that’s the color of dirt, I decide to ask God a question.

  I close my eyes and turn the ball in my hands. I say in a whisper, “Okay. If I make this basket, then my mother still loves me.”

  Bending my knees, I shoot, watching the ball spin in the air. It gets wedged between the board and the back of the hoop. I know that means something, but I don’t know what.

  “Wicked good one,” says a voice behind me. At first, I think it’s God. Like he has time to talk to me.

  I turn around.

  It’s Daniel. “You going to get it down now?” he asks.

  “What do you mean? I did the work of getting it up there; you get it down.”

  I hear a car. Daniel waves to a guy pulling into the driveway in a pickup. It must be Mr. Murphy.

  Stellar. Just stellar.

  The door of the truck squeaks when he opens it. He slams the door, messes Daniel’s hair, looks up at the ball, and says, “Good shot.”

  “It was her,” Daniel says, pointing.

  Mr. Murphy comes toward me, faster than I would like. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Carley,” he says, but his face says that I’m here to infect his family with malaria. He makes me want to run.

  Mrs. Murphy comes out through the garage. Mr. Murphy kisses her on the cheek and whispers something. She smiles at him. Then he grabs a small duffel bag from his truck and heads inside.

  “Mom,” Daniel says, pointing. “Look what she did.”

  Mrs. Murphy’s smile falls away, and now she’s rattled. I hear worry in her voice. “So get it down, Daniel. Problem solving, right?”

  Clearly, he wanted a little of my blood instead of a suggestion to do it himself. I hardly know Daniel, but I hate him anyway. I have this feeling, though, that if I don’t lay off the prince, Mrs. MacAvoy will be back for me.

  CHAPTER 5

  I Should Have Licked the Anthill

  I came up to the fireman room after Daniel complained that I’m wearing his sweatshirt. I hate having to wear his clothes, but I’m glad the sleeves cover my bruises. No more pity face from his mother.

  I sit on the floor, holding the giraffe that came in my Family Services backpack, rubbing my finger back and forth along its soft bro
wn mane.

  Michael Eric walks in.

  “Don’t you knock first?” I ask.

  “But this is my room,” he says.

  Oh yeah.

  He marches over and sits down. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Why would you be doing just that?”

  I almost laugh at how little he knows of the world. “Sometimes you can’t help but think, even if you don’t want to.”

  “Like when you pee in your pants?”

  I laugh now. Maybe he knows more than I thought. “Yeah. Kind of like that. Not so messy, though.”

  He giggles this laugh that comes right from his belly. If a sound could dance, this is what it would be like. He reaches for the giraffe, and I let him take it. He holds it against the side of his face. “Who is this?” he asks.

  “Just a stuffed giraffe.”

  “Well, what’s his name?”

  “He doesn’t have a name,” I say.

  He looks at the giraffe like he doesn’t recognize it anymore. Then he hugs it to his stomach. “Mr. Longneck.”

  “Mr. Longneck, huh?”

  “Yeah, ’cause he’s got a long neck.” He holds it in front of my face. “See?”

  “Funny. I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “Silly Carley. Of course a giraffe has a long neck. That’s what makes him a giraffe!”

  Funny how something can be defined by the one thing that makes it different from everything else. Like “the foster kid.”

  I turn to him and act confused. “I thought a giraffe had a trunk.”

  “No,” he says like he feels sorry for me. He leans over and whispers in my ear. “That’s an elephant.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks for setting me straight.”

  He sits up. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  I have to smile. I like Michael Eric, too. How can he and Adam possibly be related to Daniel?

  “Can I keep Mr. Longneck?” he asks me.

  I’m surprised. I mean, I know I should give it to him because he’s a little kid and everything, but besides the clothes I’m wearing and my high tops, Mr. Longneck is pretty much all I have in the whole world right now. “Sorry, bud. I don’t think so.”

  He shrugs. “Oh,” he says. Then his eyebrows jump. “Can you play with me?”

  I feel like I should, but I really just want to sit. “Can we another time maybe?”

  He stands and then bends over so his face is upside down. “We’ll play on Friday. Oh, and Mommy wants you to come down for lunch now.”

  I’d rather lick an anthill than eat lunch, but I nod, and he is out as fast as he was in.

  Perky Murphy stands near the sink making sandwiches. She turns to me. “Chicken, ham, or tuna?”

  “I can make it myself.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “Let me make it for you.”

  I don’t want her to make it for me.

  “So, which one do you think?” she asks.

  “I really don’t mind making it myself.” I don’t want her to wait on me. It feels wrong.

  “I really don’t mind, Carley. I mean, c’mon, it’s only a sandwich. Chicken, ham, or tuna?” Her eyes widen.

  I am dying to say roast beef.

  “Perhaps you’d prefer something from the cabinet? There are some microwavable meals in there.”

  I almost feel sorry for her. She’s so pathetic. Like the world would come apart if everyone doesn’t get a perfect little lunch. I think of how watching my mother talk to her would be like watching a kitten play with a ball of yarn.

  But the feeling in my gut whispers that maybe I’m a little mad about all the gallons of chicken noodle soup I’ve eaten right out of the can. Still though, this Perky Murphy is as fragile as they come.

  She wouldn’t last a second in my world.

  I open the cabinet looking for a can of chicken noodle soup, so that I can feel like I’m in my own place. The first thing I notice are the Oreos. My mother’s favorite.

  I almost burst out laughing, though, when I see how everything is arranged by size with the labels facing forward. I mumble to myself, “And on the third day, God created the seas and the mountains and this freakish cabinet in Connecticut.”

  Yet looking at it, something creeps across my scalp. So while Mrs. Murphy is distracted by Michael Eric stuffing his entire sandwich in his mouth at once, I mess everything up, turning the cans around and upside down. The earth should fall off its axis when she opens this.

  I sit down, holding a can of soup, trying to decide if I should eat it cold or not. Daniel shows up; he and his mom discuss what he should eat. Like the leaders of two nations have come together to work out something actually important. These people are too much.

  The prince decides on cheese ravioli, so she goes to the cabinet. When she finds my redecorating, she lets out the longest sigh ever and says, “You know, Daniel, there is no need to leave things in such a mess. I try hard to…”

  Could I possibly be this lucky?

  “I didn’t do it!” the little creep interrupts. And then they both stop and look at me, and I hold up a newspaper on the table to hide my laughter.

  “Well, I guess we have a little prankster in our midst,” Mrs. Murphy says.

  “Oh that’s great!” he yells. “I get in trouble, but if it’s her you say”—he raises his tone to sound like a girl—“we have a little prankster in our midst.”

  “Daniel… ,” she says.

  “Just forget it!” he shouts and he’s gone. A door slams, and it looks like it hurts her inside, and maybe I feel a little bad. Maybe.

  Suddenly there is more crying, as Michael Eric bursts through the door. Why do these people cry so much?

  “Mommy!” he yells. “Jimmy Partin hit me.”

  “Now, why would he do that?”

  “For breathing, he said.”

  “He did, huh?” she says, squatting. She ruffles his hair. “You look okay, pal. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from his yard?”

  My mother used to call me pal. She even had a song about it.

  He nods.

  “Well, Michael Eric, if you go looking for trouble, you’re sure to find it.”

  I wish someone had told me that.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lettuce Pray

  That night, Mrs. Murphy appears in my doorway.

  “You know, Carley,” she says, sitting on the bed, “it seems that you may be here awhile. We’ll probably have to enroll you in school, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think it will be long. My mother will be out of the hospital soon.”

  She clears her throat. “Well, she will be okay, but it might take some time. A couple of months.”

  A. Couple. Of. Months. Those words took a long time to come out. Like she drew them as a line in the sky. I can’t stay here a couple of months. There must be something in my face, because she tilts her head and asks, “Carley? Haven’t you been in school since you’ve been in Connecticut?”

  I think for a second to lie but decide there’s no point. “My mother said that I would learn more about the real world by living life rather than sitting at a desk.”

  Worry is written on her face. “Well, I’ll give you a few days to settle in, Carley, but I think it’s important that you go to school.” She pauses, then asks, “Why don’t you come down and help me make dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Now, I thought we agreed that you’d come to the table tonight.”

  I nod. And it turns out that “helping” with dinner is easy. She pours me a glass of milk while I sit on the counter. I am surprised to find she cares if I want a small or big glass and if I’d like a squirt of chocolate.

  I swing my feet, but seeing her glance over at my foot hitting the cabinets stops me. I can’t sit still, though. I try to come up with something to say that doesn’t sound dumb, but I can’t help thinking about my mother. Imagining her face and hearing her voice. Wondering if she’s going
to be okay.

  Mrs. Murphy glances over at me. I know I should say something, but I worry about saying the wrong thing. I worry that I’ll make her mad. I worry that I shouldn’t have messed up her cabinet today. The only bright spot is that her husband is staying at the firehouse tonight.

  “So… uh, Mr. Murphy is a fireman?”

  “Yeah. And he’s like a little boy about it. Loves it. That… and the Red Sox.”

  “Does he usually stay there overnight like this?”

  “All the firefighters do. Actually, Jack’s the captain, so sometimes it’s a few days at a time.”

  I am relieved. “Does he get mad?” I blurt out.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I broke his picture upstairs. I was thinking he’d be mad.”

  She waves her hand in the air. “Honestly, Carley. Jack didn’t even notice that the picture disappeared.”

  I bite down on the rim of the glass. “But does he get mad about things?”

  “Jack? No.” She puts down the knife. Then she takes a step and reaches toward me. I lean away quick.

  “I’m sorry, Carley. I sense you like people to stay away from you.”

  My head wishes that, but the rest of me doesn’t.

  “Carley. Jack is a very good guy.” She tries to make eye contact. “You’re safe here.”

  She seems to believe I’m safe, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again.

  Mrs. Murphy measures out water for some sauce on the stove. She adds a little, holds the measuring cup up to study it, pours a little out, studies it, adds a little, adds a little more, studies it, and finally pours it into the pan.

  I guess a little extra water would be deadly for us all. We didn’t even own measuring cups at home. My mother always said that one of those highball glasses from the casino was close enough to a cup.

  “Do you want help?” I ask, pointing at the lettuce. I am nervous about doing it the way she wants, but I ask anyway.