“You need to make something. To take,” he added like I was too dumb to read between the lines.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t know how to cook. Why is it I can remember that pepper trees attract birds, yet I can’t remember what goes in Rösti Casserole?” I asked through a sleepy yawn. Both feet resting in Paxton’s lap.
“I have no idea how you know what a pepper tree even is, and I have no idea what the hell Rösti Casserole is. You’ve never made that.”
“I haven’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes. I’ll figure something out to take in a little bit. I just need to rest for a while.”
Paxton didn’t speak with words. He flipped on the television, still rubbing my sore foot. I don’t even know what he watched. I didn’t care. All I cared about was closing my eyes and sleep. Deep sleep without all the confusion.
~~
“I’m scared, Izzy,” I whispered from her side.
“It’s okay, Gabby. She’s okay,” Izabella promised, her voice trembling as much as mine.
“But what if they take us again? I don’t want to go with a social worker.”
“We won’t. She promised,” Izzy reminded me. I didn’t believe her. She said that the last time, too.
Izzy and I sat all alone in the waiting room while the doctors took care of our mom. Again—
“Hi, I’m Rosie Swartz. Wow! You are twins. Which one is Gabriella?”
I looked to the lady on my right, squeezing Izzy’s hand. Neither of us answered.
“I know this is scary, but you’re going to be okay. I promise. Your mommy is a little sick right now. She needs to get some treatment in order to get better.”
“We’re staying together,” Izzy assured her. She knew what was about to happen as sure as I did.
“Honey, it’s hard to find a place that will take two eight-year-old girls. There just isn’t room,” the gray-haired lady explained with a soft smile.
“Please let us stay together,” I begged. I didn’t want to be without Izzy. We’d only been apart a handful of times. Times our mom had gotten, “sick.” The last time had only been a few months ago. I stayed with a nice couple with one daughter about my age for an entire month. Izzy didn’t get so lucky. She was placed with a lady with a whole bunch of kids. One of them hurt Izzy. He was older and a lot bigger than Izzy. I didn’t want them to take her away from me.
“It’s only for a little while, and I promise. If anything comes up where I can get you back together, I will. I won’t stop looking until I find a place for both of you. Okay?”
I shook my head, back and forth with wide eyes. No way. I wasn’t having it. The entire room stopped what they were doing and turned toward the screams. Me and Izzy cried.
“Where are my Clydes? Let me out of here! Get the fuck off me!” our mother called loudly, the desperation heard in her tone.
“Come on, girls. Let’s get you out of here and fed. Do you like tacos?”
We didn’t answer. We clung to each other while the social services lady ushered us from our chairs, hand in hand.
“She needs us,” Izzy protested, feet stopping with mine. It didn’t matter if she needed us. If I needed Izzy. If Izzy needed me. Nobody cared. We were ignored. Coaxed inside a car with a lady we didn’t know.
Izzy and I huddled in the middle of the backseat, afraid to let go.
“Your mom can’t take care of you right now. Please try to understand,” she said through the rearview mirror.
“She can take care of us. You didn’t even check our seatbelt,” I yelled.
“I knew you were big enough to take care of that. Try to make the best of it, Izabella.”
“I’m Gabby. You don’t even know who we are.”
We had to endure another fifteen minutes of her positive attitude bullshit. Let her go live with strangers. See how she liked it at the end of the day. None of it mattered. Izzy went one way crying her eyes out, and I went the other, doing the same thing. My heart hurt and I wanted my mom and Izzy. I worried about them. What if someone hurt Izzy again? What if my mom couldn’t find us? What if I never saw Izzy again?
I cried the entire way to my new home. Mrs. Bartley. She was my fourth foster home. I didn’t understand it. Why would anyone choose to be a foster parent? Mrs. Bartley didn’t want a foster kid. She wanted a maid. She was a short, plump woman with ankles the size of Texas. She didn’t care about me one bit. She cared that I catered to her, cleaned her house, and did her laundry. I didn’t even know how to do my own.
Thank the good lord above it was a quick visit. We escaped the very next week. Five days, I think. Rosie took us to see our mom at the crazy house. She was much better. Sort of. She didn’t like taking medicine, but they made her. I liked it because she didn’t go all coo-coo and act like a fool. This particular time was for being naked. She decided to do that in the middle of a county fair. I don’t know why, or what went through her mind. One minute we were listening to the band, and the next she was in front of the stage, dancing, and taking her clothes off.
Rosie left me alone in the park for five minutes to make a call. That’s all my mother needed. My mom wasn’t like her other cases. My mother was a pro at this. We’d be gone before this lady could blink an eye. If Izzy hurried up, that is. She hadn’t gotten there yet, but Rosie promised she would be there.
“Listen to me, Gabby.”
“No, Mom. Just get better,” I begged. I knew what she was about to say before she ever said it.
“I am better. Now listen to me, baby. I’m so sorry for getting you into this mess again. Was she good to you? You look a little thin. Are you hungry?”
“No, it was fine. I’m fine. I just want you to get better.”
“I’m fine, sweetie.”
“Mom! Gabby!”
Izzy ran toward us at lightning speed. My mom snatched her up and squeezed us in one big hug. God, I’d missed her. Although we didn’t match, Izzy wore a pink t-shirt and jean shorts. Just like me. She even had white flip-flops and pink toes. Just like me. Izzy and I had always done stuff like that. Say the same thing at the same time, or dress alike without knowing what the other one wore. Like we were two, but one. Telepathic.
“Izzy, listen to me, baby.”
“Mom, no,” I pleaded. “Can’t we just wait until you’re all better? We want you to get well.”
“Shhh, you worry too much, Gabby. I’m fine. I promise. There’s a blue ball cap on the picnic table next to us. Put it on and walk to the bathroom. Gabby, you pick up the duffle bag behind us and follow her. Look for anything you can put over your clothes. It doesn’t matter what it is. Go.”
The bag ended up belonging to a man or a grown boy. The shirts fit us like dresses. Even my mom’s. After directing us toward a street, she followed, never looking back. We crossed the busy road, holding her hand, and hid in a ten-story parking garage. The cops even strolled through looking for us once. We ducked behind a dumpster in the corner and waited. They didn’t even get out of the car. Even I knew they didn’t try very hard. Lucky us.