Catherine
Madison slowed to a stop in front of the Juniper, and Sam leaned forward, looking up at the dusty windows and chipped paint.
“Wow,” Sam said, his mouth hanging open.
“Thanks, Maddy. I know your dad doesn’t want you around me, so I appreciate you giving me a ride. I hope you don’t get into any trouble.”
Madison turned in her seat to show her disgust in its full glory. “It’s two degrees below freezing, and Elliott isn’t allowed on campus to pick you up. Of course I’m going to give you a ride home.”
I smiled. “Thank you. Mrs. Mason offered, but I saw her to-do list for this evening, and it was two pages long.”
“Want me to walk you to the door? Or inside?” Sam asked, peering out the window in awe.
“Sam! God!” Madison scolded. “Not the time!”
“No, thank you,” I said, gathering my things.
Madison touched my arm.
I carried my backpack inside and went upstairs, folding my clothes and placing as many shirts, pants, socks, and underwear as I could fit in the luggage my dad had bought me years before. I’d fantasized a hundred times about using it for the first time, but never in those fantasies did leaving the Juniper for just another place in Oak Creek cross my mind.
Different scenarios played over and over in my mind, Mama’s reaction, saying goodbye, and hoping it would all be okay in the end. Still, nothing I could imagine made me regret helping Elliott. He was good, like Althea and Dad were good. Elliott had been pushed into a corner and then fought his way out, but there weren’t many things he wouldn’t do for those he loved. I just happened to be one of the lucky few.
Cupboards slammed downstairs, and then someone called my name—someone young and impatient, but it wasn’t Poppy.
“Hey,” I said, rounding the corner and sitting on the island.
“You look terrible,” Cousin Imogen snarled. She set a cup of tea in front of me and crossed her arms.
I sat with my coat on at the kitchen island, holding my hands over the cup of steaming tea like it was a campfire. Imogen seemed unaffected, wearing her favorite peace sign T-shirt, her hair tucked behind her ears. She stood with her backside leaning against the counter, watching me. Nearly all the cupboards were wide open, left that way after she’d rummaged through them looking for the tea bags.
She usually offered an olive branch in the form of tea after her dad treated me terribly, but before, it had always been a day or two after it happened. Mama had never forbidden anyone to come back before, and until that moment, I’d held out hope that she could actually make them stay away.
Imogen glared at me. “Well? Are you going to drink the stupid tea or not?”
A thick silence followed Imogen’s question, allowing the whistling wind sneaking inside the weak parts of the Juniper to be noticed. A door slammed upstairs, and we both looked up.
“Duke?” Imogen asked, unsettled.
“Change in pressure. It’s just the wind.”
The curtains were pulled, only allowing slivers of silver light into the dining room and kitchen. The clouds outside seemed to have moved over Oak Creek and unpacked, happy to stay for the rest of the winter. Allowed but unwelcome, just like the guests at the Juniper.
“You never said. Why are you so sad? What happened today? Your mama was telling my dad about a girl who went missing. Did you hear anything about her today?”
The thought of Uncle Toad being here made me angry. He wasn’t supposed to be allowed back. Her failure to stand her ground was just another sign Mama’s depression was getting worse. I picked at the chip in the cup in front of me.
“No.”
“No?” Imogen asked. “You haven’t heard anything about her?”
“Just that she’s still missing,” I said, taking a sip. “Imogen . . . where’s Mama?”
Imogen fidgeted. “Upstairs. Why?”
“You need to have her come down. I need to talk to her.”
Imogen snarled. “About what?”
“I want to talk to Mama. Not you. Tell her to come.”
Imogen crossed her arms, her expression set in a stubborn smirk.
“Fine,” I said, taking another sip. “I’m leaving. Today.”
“What?” Imogen said, walking around the island. “What are you talking about?”
“Elliott got suspended today. I told Mrs. Mason about the Juniper to keep it off his record.”
Imogen leaned down, looking at me from under her brows. She kept her voice low. “Told her what about the Juniper?”
I stared ahead, unable to see the fear I knew was in Imogen’s eyes. “That Mama’s sick, and I’ve been taking care of things.”
“That’s a lie,” Imogen hissed. “Aunt Mavis takes good care of you.”
“Not for a long time,” I said, picking at the mug, avoiding her eyes.
“Take that back. Take it back!” she screamed in my ear. I winced, leaning away from her.
“You need to get Mama,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Who?” she shrieked.
“DHS.”
Imogen’s face twisted into disgust. “What’s that?”
“Department of Human Services,” I said, the words absorbing into my chest and weighing me down. I’d done what I promised I would never do.
Imogen seemed to panic and then whimpered, running upstairs, calling for Mama.
“Mavis!” she cried. “Mavis!”
Someone pounded on the door, and I scrambled to open it. Elliott was on the other side, finally wearing his coat, his breath puffing out in white clouds with every exhale. He looked surprised to see me, holding up a torn envelope and folded paper.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“What did you do?” Mama said, stomping down the stairs. She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.
Elliott pulled me back, standing between us. “Whoa, whoa . . . wait a minute. Let’s calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down?” Mama asked, her voice shrill.
I closed my eyes. “She hates that.”
“How could you do this to me?” Mama asked, pushing Elliott aside. “You told that . . . that bitch counselor about us, and now what? You’re going to live in some dilapidated foster home with ten other kids? With strangers? For what? For him?”
“What?” Elliott asked, turning to me. He looked betrayed, and I could see the hurt in his eyes at the realization that she knew and he didn’t. “You told Mrs. Mason?”
“I told her enough.”
“Enough for what?” Elliott asked. He held up the envelope. “For this?”
A black van slowed to a stop next to the curb in front of Elliott’s Chrysler, a police cruiser behind it, and I broke free, running upstairs.
Elliott looked at the van, down at the paper, and then at me. “You’re leaving? Where are they taking you?”
“I can’t say right now.” I grabbed two bags and my backpack, taking two steps at a time until I was at the front door. Mama grabbed my coat in her fist and held on.
“No. You’re not going.”
“Mama, you have to get better. You have to close down the Juniper—”
“No!” she yelled.
“You have to close it down, and everyone has to leave. Then I’ll come back. I’ll stay with you. But . . .” When I realized she was gawking at the van and not paying attention, I gently pulled her by the chin to face me. “Mama? I need you to listen. They’re going to ask you who you’d prefer I stay with. You need to tell them Mrs. Mason. Rebecca Mason. The school counselor. You have to say it’s okay that I stay with her.”
A woman and a man stepped out of the van and walked toward our house.
“Mama? Mrs. Mason,” I repeated, emphasizing my counselor’s name. Mrs. Mason told me DHS would need Mama to sign paperwork okaying my move to her home. Otherwise, I would go to the DHS office and wait for placement.
“No!” Mama said, trying to pull me inside while she attempted to close the door.
I met her terrified gaze. “I’ll be back.”
“When? W—what am I going to do? I’ll be alone. What am I going to do?” Mama said, tears spilling over her cheeks.
After a quick knock, the screen door swung open, and the man smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie. Elliott was standing behind them, unsure and worried.
“Mrs. Calhoun, I’m Stephanie Barnes,” the woman said. She was in her midtwenties, the same build as Mama, but shorter. She seemed nervous. “I’m here with Steven Fry from the Oklahoma Department of Human Services and Officer Culpepper from the Oak Creek Police Department. We’ve come to transfer Catherine to a safe environment until we can get some further information on what she’s shared with her counselor at school today.”
“Where are you taking her?” Mama pleaded, holding my coat with both fists. The panic and fear in her voice were heartbreaking.
The police officer stepped between us. “Mrs. Calhoun, we have a court order. You’re going to need to step back and let Mr. Fry and Miss Barnes do their jobs.”
“Mama, do as he says,” I said, letting them pull me away from her. “Be sure to eat. There’s bread, peanut butter, and jelly for Poppy.”
“Catherine!” Mama called, staying behind with the officer and Miss Barnes.
“Hey! Wait!” Elliott said, pushing his way through the front door. Mr. Fry pulled me with him off the porch and over the uneven sidewalk.
Mr. Fry paused at the gate and held out his arm to keep Elliott away, but I pressed it down.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s a friend.”
“Where are you going?” Elliott said, panicked. “Are you leaving Oak Creek?”
“To Mrs. Mason’s. I’m going to stay with her for a while.”
“Really?” he asked, relieved. “Is that . . . is that okay?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “It was necessary.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Catherine, you didn’t do all this for . . .” He looked down at the envelope in his hand.
“Yes,” I said. “And I’d do it again.”
Mr. Fry gestured for me to follow him to the van, and I did, looking over my shoulder once.
Elliott jogged over, stopping just short of the gate. “Can I come see you?”
“Yes,” I said, climbing into the back seat.
“You said Mrs. Mason’s house?” he asked.
I nodded.
Mr. Fry closed the door and rounded the front to the driver’s side. He slid behind the wheel and met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Everything’s going to be okay, Catherine.”
Miss Barnes passed Elliott as she pushed through the gate. She opened the passenger door and sat in the seat, buckling her seat belt.
She turned to face me with a warm smile. “You have everything?” she asked.
I nodded. “Is Mama okay?”
“She’s going to stay with Officer Culpepper until she calms down. Buckle up, please, Catherine.”
I waved to Elliott, watching him get smaller as we drove down Juniper Street to the other side of town.
I wondered if I would ever feel like I hadn’t just betrayed my family, if it would be enough to know that my absence would mean the end of the Juniper and the darkness inside. I worried Mama would stop being sad and hate me, but I worried more that Althea and Poppy would feel I’d turned my back on them. More than anyone, I wanted them to understand my choice.
Mr. Fry parked the van in the driveway of Mrs. Mason’s charming Craftsman-style home. The wraparound porch reminded me a bit of the Juniper, but that was the only similarity. The warmth from inside radiated from its large windows, even on a frigid winter’s day. The outside was welcoming, with muted green shingle siding and white trim, greenery and multicolored lights climbing the porch beams, and a Christmas wreath hanging from the door.
The shallow pitch of the gable roof made it seem less looming than the Juniper and more like a cozy home.
Mrs. Mason stepped out from under her porch light, wrapped in a sweater and wearing a smile that didn’t hide her nerves or relief.
Miss Barnes walked with me to the porch, carrying one bag.
“Hey,” Mrs. Mason said, touching my cheek. She stepped to the side, allowing Miss Barnes and me to enter.
I used the toe of each boot to pull off the other, leaving them on the hardwood floor and stepping onto the plush, beige carpet of her living room in my socks. Mrs. Mason took my coat, hanging it in the front closet before escorting us through a wide entrance that led into the living room.
An artificial Christmas tree stretched to the nine-foot ceiling, leaving only a few centimeters above the glass-angel topper’s head. The branches were adorned with red and green ornaments, some homemade. White lights glistened behind the synthetic needles, and a red-and-green skirt covered the tree stand, two dozen or so presents already under the tree.
“Have a seat,” Mrs. Mason said, gesturing to her couch. It was a taupe microfiber sectional, with floral and solid teal throw pillows—so immaculate, I hesitated.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mrs. Mason said, sitting in a leather rocking recliner. “I have a niece and nephew covered in ice cream who climb all over it every Sunday. That’s why I went with the microfiber.”
Miss Barnes sat, so I sat next to her.
“How did it go?” Mrs. Mason asked, peeling off her sweater.
“Mavis was understandably upset, but it went better than expected. The room is ready?”
“It is,” she said with a relieved smile.
“I know you had to scramble to get things ready,” Miss Barnes began.
“Don’t we always?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were a regular foster parent, Mrs. Mason,” I said.
“I’m not. I mean, not until now. Miss Barnes and I just work together frequently. And I’m just Becca here,” she said, twisting her chestnut hair into a bun and then pulling the ends through into a knot.
I’d never seen her in lounge clothes. She looked much younger in her heather-gray cotton pants and faded navy-blue University of Central Oklahoma sweatshirt.
Miss Barnes gestured to the room. “Is this okay?”
I blinked, surprised by her question. I’d left a cold, rickety, nineteenth-century Victorian for a warm, immaculate, cottagelike home. “Uh, yes. It’s great.”
Mrs. Mason and Miss Barnes shared a chuckle, and then the social worker stood. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two to it.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Mason said, hugging Miss Barnes. The door closed, and then Mrs. Mason clasped her hands together.
“Is it um . . . is it just us?” I asked.
It took a moment for my question to register, and then she nodded once. “Yep. Yes. Just us. Would you like to see your room?”
I nodded, gathering my things, and then followed her down the hallway.
“Guest bath straight ahead. I’m to the right at the end of the hall.” She pointed. “You’re to the left at the end of the hall. You have your own bathroom.”
Mrs. Mason flipped the light on to reveal a full-size bed, a wooden dresser, and a desk. An open door led to a small bathroom. Everything seemed so bright and new. The walls were a dusty purple trimmed with white, the carpet a light gray. Instead of heavy, blackout curtains that hung from dark iron, sheer panels outlined the window.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
She scanned the room, pride in her eyes. “Seven years, three months, two days.” She smiled at me. “But who’s counting?”
“Did you remodel? Everything looks so new.”
She nodded, taking one of my bags to the bed and setting it on the purple-and-gray plaid quilt. “We did.” The rest of her answer lingered in the air, unsaid. The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason’s eyes brightened. “Oh! That’s the pizza! C’mon!”
I followed her to the living room, watched her tip the delivery boy, thank him by name, and then carry two boxes to the kitchen.
We padded to the dining table, and I watched as Mrs. Mason opened the boxes, breathing in the amazing smells of grease and spices just as I did.
“Plates!” she said, jogging to the kitchen. “Here you are.” She set one in front of me, pulling out a slice and taking a bite while encouraging me with her free hand to sit across from her. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m starving.”
I looked over my choices. One pizza was half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The other was half-supreme, half-sausage.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” she said, chewing. “I guessed.”
I took a slice of each, piled them on my plate, and looked up at Mrs. Mason.
“Attagirl,” she said.
I bit the tip off the pepperoni slice first, humming as the melted cheese overwhelmed my senses. I hadn’t had delivery pizza in years. My eyes closed, and my body instantly relaxed. “That’s good,” I said.
Mrs. Mason nodded, giggled, and took another slice.
My enjoyment didn’t last long, as the thought of Mama eating alone—if she was eating at all—infiltrated my mind. Suddenly the pizza tasted like guilt instead of satisfaction.
“It’s okay, Catherine. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s normal.”
I looked down. “It’s normal to feel trapped even when you’re free?”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “It’s part of the process. It takes people years to navigate something like this. The guilt, the uncertainty, regret . . . the loss. But it’s okay. Try to live in the right now and take it one second at a time. And in this second, you’re allowed to enjoy your pizza and feel relaxed here with me. Being happy away from the Juniper doesn’t mean you love your mother any less.”
I took another bite, trying to digest her words as I did my food. “It’s hard to relax. My mind is still going through lists of things that need to be done before the morning.”
“Also normal. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with the process.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the Christmas tree glistening in the living room. “That’s pretty.”
“Did you have a tree at home?”
I shook my head. “Not since Dad died. He use to do all that. Put up the tree and the lights. They never really looked right on the Juniper anyway. But I like to look out my window at the neighbors’.”
Mrs. Mason checked her watch. “Well, you’re in for a treat.” She whispered a countdown and then pointed to the ceiling. The lights outside flashed on, and two blobs in the front yard began to inflate. Seconds later, a huge, glowing snowman and Santa Claus were standing upright on the lawn, swaying in the wind.
“Wow,” I said flatly.
Mrs. Mason clapped and giggled. “I know, right? Completely ridiculous.”
The corner of my mouth turned up. “It’s pretty great.”
The doorbell chimed again, and Mrs. Mason struggled to keep a smile on her face. “Stay here.”