Little Mercies

Chapter 8

Jenny was a bit disappointed as the bus made its way into the town of Cedar City. It looked identical to what she knew of Benton. She had been hoping for something new, something greener, maybe. More flowers, more trees, maybe a cornfield or two. Instead, there was just a whole lot of swaying power lines, stores and restaurants with desperate weeds poking up through the cracks of the gray cement.

The bus pulled into the bus station and Jenny hesitated. Should she get off the bus now or continue on to Dubuque, maybe try to find Matthew, her father’s friend? With a hiss the bus shuddered to a stop and several passengers stood, gathered their belongings and disembarked. Jenny looked down at her father’s overstuffed duffel at her feet and knew she wouldn’t be able to drag it very far. Quickly she examined the contents one more time, searching for items of value. In a side pocket she found some loose change and a pack of gum. She shoved these into the front pocket of her jean shorts. Buried beneath a pile of her father’s socks and underwear was a charger for the cell phone and as Jenny slid it into her backpack the driver made one last call for anyone getting off the bus.

With one last swipe, Jenny grabbed her father’s favorite t-shirt from the duffel and held it briefly to her nose, inhaling the familiar, slightly smoky scent that was her father. The t-shirt was washed and had been worn so many times that it was faded to a water-washed indigo-blue, and the motorcycle emblem on the back was cracked and peeling. Finding no more room in her backpack, Jenny tied the t-shirt around her narrow waist, wiggled into her backpack and, holding tightly to the envelope, made her way up the aisle toward the exit.

“Hey,” Dave called after her, “take care, niece!”

“You, too, Uncle Dave.” Jenny smiled in return. She felt slightly better knowing that she had Dave’s number in the cell phone, but knew she would never use it. On shaky legs, Jenny descended the bus. The air outside was warm and thick with moisture. Jenny squinted up into the sky where white horsetail clouds filtered the sun. Jenny tried to remember the real name of the clouds, cumulo or nimbus something or other. She couldn’t quite recall. But Jenny did remember how her teacher described the wispy clouds as resembling the tail of a horse. Jenny had visions of spectral-like white ponies galloping through the skies.

Jenny tried to push down the anger she felt toward her father for getting her into this mess—allowing her to be swept away all alone on a bus only to land in a strange town, hundreds of miles from anything that was familiar. But she couldn’t keep the hot tears from gathering in her eyes or keep the panic from nesting within her rib cage. She didn’t know what to do. Immediately get a ticket back to Benton? Call one of her father’s old friend-girls to come and get her? Connie came to mind again. She pictured her friendly face. Everything about Connie was big. Big hair, big smile, big chest, big heart. She was the only one Jenny could bear calling. Or maybe she should go to the nearest police station. Jenny knew she needed to make a plan. This was something her special education teacher, Ms. Lugar, always said. When in doubt, make a list, think it through and make a decision.

Jenny’s stomach rumbled loudly with hunger and she looked around in embarrassment to see if anyone had heard. She made her way around the side of the bus station, the weight of her backpack already causing her shoulders to ache and slump, a small question mark standing on the corner. She decided to start by getting a snack from the vending machine inside the bus station and finding a place to sit down and make her list. Then she saw the most welcoming of sights just across the busy intersection: a slowly rotating yellow-and-blue sign that spelled Happy Pancake Restaurant in large bulbous letters. Jenny scurried across the busy street, not waiting for the flashing green light that signaled that it was safe to cross, ignoring the blare of car horns and shouts of irritated motorists.

Yanking open the heavy glass doors, Jenny inhaled the sweet, buttery scent that greeted her. This was only the second Happy Pancake that Jenny had ever been to, but she was relieved to find that it was exactly the same as the restaurant she and her father had visited the night before in Benton. The same high ceilings, crisply painted white walls punctuated with large framed photos of stacks of steaming pancakes topped with pats of melting butter and dripping with amber maple syrup. Jenny’s stomach grumbled again and she placed a hand over her midsection as if to shush it.

She tentatively looked around for the Happy Pancake mascot named Stack who handed out crayons and children’s menus printed with tic-tac-toe grids and word searches and dot-to-dots. Jenny found Stack vaguely disturbing with his oversize pancake-shaped body and oversimplified features: wide staring eyes, a yellow mound of butter for a nose and an upturned strip of bacon for a mouth. Only the mascot’s legs and arms sticking out from the vast costume gave any indication that something human resided beneath. Apparently, Stack didn’t work the 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. shift at the Happy Pancake in Cedar City.

A weary waitress with a white ponytail and freckles dotting her nose approached, looking past Jenny’s shoulder toward the front entrance as if expecting an accompanying adult would step forward. She was wearing standard Happy Pancake fare, a navy-blue skirt and a blue-and-yellow-checked blouse and a matching scarf tied at a jaunty angle around her neck. Black, thick crepe-soled shoes completed the outfit.

“I’m meeting my big sister here,” Jenny lied effortlessly.

“Will it just be the two of you?” the waitress asked, leading Jenny to the table nearest to the door.

“Can we sit in the back there?” Jenny asked, turning slightly so that the waitress could see her backpack hanging from her shoulders. “Homework,” she said by way of explanation. If the waitress thought that it was odd that a young girl had homework in the middle of July, she gave no indication. Maybe they had year-round school in this town; maybe the waitress thought that Jenny was some kind of genius student who took college classes.

“Summer school, eh?” the waitress asked, her voice tinged with sympathy. “That’s no fun.”

“No,” Jenny rushed to explain. “Gifted and talented. I skipped third grade.”

“Good for you,” the waitress said as she led Jenny to a large booth in the rear of the restaurant. “No one can ever take your education away from you. What are you reading?”

Jenny blinked, drawing a blank. She wasn’t much of a reader, though she loved it when her teachers read out loud to her or when her father took the time to read her a book from the small stack of picture books that she brought home each week from the school library.

The waitress was looking at her with interest, waiting for her tell her the name of the genius-level book she was currently reading. Jenny’s mind worked furiously trying to recall a title of a book, but all she could think of was Little Turtle’s First Day of School and she could hardly say that. “The Bible,” Jenny finally blurted out. “I go to a very religious school. I’ve already read half of it.”

The waitress looked duly impressed as she set a large, glossy menu on the table. “I’ll be back with some water for you. Can I get you anything else to drink?”

Jenny wriggled out of her backpack, slid into the high-backed booth and set the pack next to her on the midnight-blue faux leather seat. The smell of coffee made her think of her father.

She had come to love waking up to the pungent smell of her father’s morning coffee. This meant that he was trying, that he was functioning well enough to get out of bed, to face the day, to go to work. The two of them would stand together at the kitchen counter, each sipping the black, caustic liquid. At first Jenny had winced, sticking out her tongue, rolling her eyes back in her head and making a gagging sound in response to the bitter taste, causing her father to laugh. Eventually she grew accustomed to the acrid sensation on her tongue, reveling in the bloom of warmth that flooded her mouth and coated her throat and to the zing of caffeine that nudged her into wakefulness. But most of all she loved the quiet moments with her father, both of them bleary-eyed, crunching on burnt toast and sipping their coffee from mismatched mugs.

“Coffee,” Jenny said with confidence. The waitress stood there for a moment, pen poised over her order pad while Jenny busied herself with scanning the menu, trying not to blush beneath the waitress’s puzzled gaze and realized her mistake. A waitress would easily remember a ten-year-old who ordered a cup of coffee and read the Bible for summer school. “It’s for my sister,” Jenny explained. “She’ll be here any minute. I’ll have milk.” The waitress raised an eyebrow at Jenny, her green eyes unwavering. “Please,” Jenny added contritely.

Soon the waitress returned, set the glass of milk in front of Jenny and poured a stream of black coffee from a stainless steel carafe into a ceramic white mug that she situated on the place mat across from Jenny. “No sister yet?” the waitress asked, tucking a loose strand of white hair behind her ear.

“Nah,” Jenny said casually. “She’s always late. I’ll just go ahead and order.” At the waitress’s skeptical look Jenny dug into her backpack. “I’ve got money. See?” Jenny pulled a wad of cash from the manila envelope.

The waitress’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money, you better put that away,” she warned, glancing left and right to see if any unsavory types were lurking around. “What can I get you?” she asked as Jenny shoved the money back into the envelope.

Jenny tapped her finger on her chin as she had seen her father do numerous times when trying to make a decision. “I think I’ll have that,” she said, poking her finger at a picture of a pile of oddly colored, red-tinted pancakes flanked by fluffy scrambled eggs and two strips of bacon. Please,” Jenny added after a beat.

“Velvety Red Pancake Platter. Good choice,” the waitress murmured, writing down the order with a flourish. “I’ll get that right in for you.”

“Thanks,” Jenny told her. “I’m not going anywhere until my sister gets here anyway.”

After the waitress retreated, Jenny pulled the coffee cup toward her and breathed in the coil of steam that rose from the thick liquid. She could almost imagine her father sitting across from her in the booth, cracking jokes about the other passengers from the bus. How ’bout that guy and the girl with the veil. Who would take their new wife on their honeymoon in a bus? Jenny would have laughed right along with him, but inside she would zing back with, At least he married her. You couldn’t even do that. Jenny often wondered how her life would be different if her mother and her father ever got married. Maybe her mother would never have run away; maybe her father wouldn’t drink so much.

She swallowed hard and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears that threatened to spill. While she waited for her food, Jenny covertly counted her money beneath the table. She lost count three times before determining that she had $633.42. She was rich. She had never seen so much money in her entire life and was a little miffed at her father for holding back on her. She had always thought they were broke. There never seemed to be enough money for new clothes or a trip to the movies; even groceries were iffy. But all along he had all this cash stashed away.

Next, Jenny pulled the photographs from the envelope. There was one of her smiling brightly up at her mother. Her mother looked back down at her, just a whisper of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Jenny stared hard at the photo, trying to remember the day the picture was taken. She must have been around three years old, taken before she went to live with her father. She carefully placed the picture back in the envelope when the waitress approached again.

“Here you go, dear,” the waitress said, setting the plump stack of deep-red-colored pancakes in front of her. “The Velvety Red Platter.” Hands on her hips, the waitress looked around. “No sister yet, huh?”

Jenny rolled her eyes as if this was to be expected. “She’s always late—my dad’s going to kill her.”

“Maybe you should give her a call? Do you need to use a phone?”

Jenny waggled her father’s cell phone. “I just called her. She said she’s on her way.”

“Okay, then. You just let me know if you need anything else. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.” Jenny nodded, and was already forking up large pieces of pancake with one hand while pouring maple syrup over the stack already covered with cream-cheese icing and whipped cream when two police officers entered the restaurant and started moving toward her.

Chapter 9

My hands, now empty of my daughter, feel numb and are shaking violently. I paw at Jade, trying to retrieve my daughter’s wilted form. “No,” Jade says sharply, blocking my efforts. She has Avery lying on her back on the cracked concrete of the sidewalk and for a moment I imagine that it must be so uncomfortable for Avery, lying there, the ground hard and unyielding. Jade leans over, tilts Avery’s head back and lifts her chin. Oh my God, she’s not breathing, I realize as Jade presses her mouth over my daughter’s lips and pushes her own air into Avery’s lungs.

I notice Anthony standing near his mother, tears running down his cheeks. I have little to offer him. No comfort, no reassuring words, but without thinking, I reach for his hand and he tumbles into me, burying his face in my knees. Jade presses two fingers on Avery’s breastbone and pushes down in quick, purposeful thrusts. I should be doing this. Giving my daughter CPR, saving her life. This is something I know how to do automatically, without even thinking. Clear airway. Two breaths. Thirty compressions. Two more breaths. Place your ear against the child’s mouth. Listen for breathing. Can you see the rise and fall of the chest? Can you feel the tickle of breath against your cheek? Check for a pulse. Still not breathing? Still no pulse? Repeat. I know how to do this. Every social worker knows how to do this. It’s part of our training. But I just stand here, swaying on wobbly legs until a pair of hands steadies me. I do nothing. Nothing. It occurs to me that I am watching my daughter die.

Again and again, Jade breathes, presses, checks, breathes, presses, checks until finally, finally she looks up at me. “I’ve got a pulse,” she says with relief. In the distance I hear more sirens. An ambulance.

Jade must have learned CPR in the parenting class she was required to take by the Department of Human Services, required by me to complete in order for her to regain custody of Anthony and I am so grateful. So indebted to this woman who was unable to care for her own child for a time. That his suffering has become my salvation. I fall to the ground, barely noticing my knees scraping against the jagged concrete. I reach out and lift Avery’s tiny hand into my own and whisper a prayer for my daughter, who, to me, remains terrifyingly still.

Again I am nudged aside, this time more gently, by two paramedics. “Tell me what happened,” one says, her voice clipped and businesslike. I can’t answer her. I have absolutely no idea what has happened here. I close my eyes and run the events of the morning through my head over and over again. Did I put Avery in the car? I would remember, wouldn’t I? Such a crazy morning. Overslept, showered, got dressed, kissed the kids goodbye, ran back upstairs to get my bag. No, I definitely did not put Avery in the car. It must have been Adam. I rarely take the kids to the sitter in the summer; this is one of Adam’s tasks because he doesn’t teach during the summer months and typically spends his days at home with the kids. If he has baseball practice or another commitment he takes the kids over to the babysitter’s house. But still, how could I miss her sitting right behind me in her car seat? She is under a year old—we still have her in a rear-facing car seat, making it harder to see her and know she was behind me, I rationalize. Little consolation. I realize I’ve hesitated too long.

The paramedic looks to Jade, who quickly explains. “The little girl was in the van. Old John, there—” she nods at the wizened man watching them “—broke the window and they pulled her out.” The entirety of what has happened seems to settle on Jade and her voice quivers with emotion. “She stopped breathing for a minute, but I did CPR.”

“Heatstroke?” the female paramedic asks aloud, then turns to me. “Are you the girl’s mother?” I nod dumbly. “How long was she in the van, ma’am?” I try to shake the confusion and disbelief from my head. I check my watch, the one that Adam and the kids presented to me last Christmas. The watch band, custom-made with each child’s name spelled out in in tiny, delicate silver beads, hangs loosely on my wrist.

“See,” Adam had said when he placed it around my wrist and lightly kissed the palm of my hand, “there’s room to add more names.”

“Ma’am,” I hear again, this time more incessantly. “How long was she in the car?”

“Forty, forty-five minutes, I think,” I say, the words sounding rough and jagged, as if they lost the fight to stay unsaid. Forty-five minutes where no one was watching over my daughter. Forty-five interminable minutes where she sat, ensnared within a rear-facing car seat, unseen and unable to free herself, while the temperature around her climbed.