Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy (20 page)

I closed my eyes and tried to think about that YouTube video I watched on calming down. It didn't help much, but I breathed as relaxingly as I could, letting my stomach move up and down with each inhale and exhale.

“Footer.” Dad's voice rumbled through the tiny curtained space, sounding relieved and worried at the same time. “How's my girl?”

My eyes popped open.

Dad grinned at me, sort of real and sort of fake, like he was trying really hard to make me feel okay. I didn't say anything, because if I tried to talk, I'd cry, and that would tick me off, and all of a sudden I was ticked off anyway, and I didn't even know why.

Dad gazed at me like he was waiting for me to say something.

All that came to me was, “Cissy and Doc?”

“They're here,” Dad said. “The doctors are checking them out, and Stephanie Bridges is with them. Cissy won't let go of her. She says you told her Steph would help her, so she doesn't want to talk to any other DCFS worker.”

I nodded.

“Honey, how are you?”

Leave me alone.
It almost came out, but it didn't. What was wrong with me? Was this some kind of new crazy coming after me now, when I thought everything was finally okay?

No. I'm not crazy. Not yet, anyway.

Dad kept looking at me with that weird grin on his face. “How long did you know those kids were in our basement?”

I thought about my puzzle list, the one I sent Peavine. I had been right about most of them things on it, but about Mom setting the fire and Cissy and Doc being dead I had been so wrong, and I was glad. “I didn't figure it out until tonight, but I should have known sooner.”

Dad's eyebrows came together. “Why?”

“All the food disappearing. I thought I was eating it in my sleep, but I just should have known I couldn't pack away
that
much.”

Dad kept his eyebrows still this time, but his jaw worked, and I could tell he was surprised and maybe confused. “You thought you were sleepwalking and sleep-eating? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why would I?” My voice came out loud enough to make me twitch, so I clamped my teeth together. “You didn't even notice all the food getting disappeared.”

Dad would probably get mad now and lecture me for hollering at him, and ground me. Whatever. I was
too mad to care, and I still didn't know why.

“Footer—”

“You think I'm sick, don't you?” I yelled again, but I couldn't help it. “Sick like Mom. You think it's happening to me.”

Dad raised both hands. “I—no. That's not it.”

“You're lying. You think I'm crazy, and that's why you didn't believe me when I tried to tell you about Mom and the fire and everything.”

Dad's hands came down, and he gaped at me. A bunch of emotions moved across his face. I saw more surprise and a little bit of mad, then sadness. Each feeling seemed a thousand times bigger because it was Dad and not Mom, and Dad didn't usually show that much emotion.

“That's . . . not it,” he said again, in a quiet voice, almost weak sounding, and I didn't believe him, and I don't think he even believed himself.

“I'm in the hospital like Mom was before she got sent to Memphis.” Not yelling. Better. But not by much. “Are you going to have me sent to some unit like that somewhere, for kids?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

“The way you're looking at me right now!” Anger rushed through me, so hot it doubled the sweat running down the back of my neck. “You didn't believe me when I tried to talk to you, and I'm mad about it and I'm yelling, so you think I'm going crazy and you have to be all careful with me.”

“No.” And now Dad's face showed more misery than I had ever seen before in my life, so much that it smushed my anger to nothing and made my heart hurt almost as much as my broken wrist.

“I don't get to be mad at Mom because she lied to me and didn't tell me stuff and almost blew up our lives,” I said, more to the covers than to Dad. “Being mad at her doesn't help anything, and she won't even remember half of this mess when she's better. I don't have her, sometimes. I don't have her a
lot
of the time. What am I going to do if I don't have you, either?”

Dad sat on the edge of my bed, on the side with my bad arm. He did it slow and easy so he wouldn't hurt me. I stared into his face and saw lines around his eyes and his mouth, and he looked older than I remembered. My heart hurt a little worse. Dad had always seemed like Captain Armstrong—big and powerful and indestructible. Right now he seemed as breakable as Mom and me.

He kept his gaze on the floor for a time, and I let him, even though I didn't feel mad anymore and I just wanted to cry and hear him make stupid jokes again, and this time try to make jokes back so he wouldn't be sad anymore.

“You're right,” he said in a voice so quiet, I had to lean forward to hear him. “Sometimes I don't notice things I should. I think I do that because I'm scared, Footer, and I'm sorry.”

That made my mouth come open. My father was a
soldier and a policeman. He wasn't afraid of anything. He was like my anti-scaredy-cat Superman. “What are you scared of?” I asked him, not even having to try to sound nice now.

Dad kept right on staring at the floor, and I saw his shoulders shake when he breathed. He stayed quiet so long I thought maybe he wasn't going to tell me, but then he said, “I'm afraid of losing your mother, just like you are. I'm afraid of losing you—my family, everything I love.”

Before I could say anything, he raised his head and looked at me. “I want to promise you something. You'll never lose me, Footer. No matter what, I'll always be right here. Give me another chance, and I'll do better about listening to you and believing you—and believing
in
you.”

I kept staring at him.

He really looked like he meant it. Then tears rolled down both of his cheeks, and the hurt in my heart made me cry too.

Once the tears started, I couldn't stop them, and I couldn't stop my mouth, either. “Will I ever get to stop worrying about losing my mind? Because sometimes I worry about it a whole lot, and when you worry about it too I can't stand it. I get so scared. I'm tired of being scared.”

“Me too.” He faced me and lifted one hand to stroke my cheek and brush away my tears. “For what it's worth, I don't think you're sick like your mother. I think you're
perfect and smart and pretty and strong, and nothing else matters. Whatever comes down the road later, we'll deal with it—but for now I think our biggest problem is that busted purple wrist of yours.”

The agony in my chest eased, and my tears slowed. My busted purple wrist kept right on hurting, though. I moved it just enough to get Dad to look at it. “I don't know about this wrist being our biggest issue. Have you seen your face lately? Do they make wrinkle cream for guys?”

“I don't think it's called wrinkle cream, but yeah.” Dad's grin made everything hurt a little bit less.

“Good, 'cause you look way older than you should.”

“That's cold, Footer.”

I managed a grin of my own. “Truth is hard, Dad.”

“Keep it up,” he said, wiping away the last of my tears. “One more crack and I'll feed you walrus sticks for breakfast when we finally get home.”

The face I made must have been epic, because Dad was still smiling about it when the nurse came to take me to the cast room.

From the Notebook of Kay Malone

Because Peavine Let Me Read His Detective Notebook and Angel Let Me Read Her Astronaut Notebook and Doing Interviews Looked Like So Much Fun, Even If I'm Talking to Myself. Hey, It's Safer Than Hunting Walruses.

Already Lonely Teacher: How I will miss you next year, Footer Davis. Fifth grade won't be the same without you. You are braver than five people put together. At least you made it back before the year ended, so you'll get to come to all the cupcake parties. That makes me happier than all the reporters skulking around. Are you rethinking this journalism thing yet? You did pretty great on the detective part, you know.

Happy Teacher: I'm glad I got to sign your bright-yellow wrist cast before everybody else did!

Grateful Teacher: I'm very glad your mom may get to come home next week. The police were right not to charge her with anything when she was just trying to help two abused children. Stephanie Bridges was a plague to you, but she seems to be doing okay by Cissy and Doc, driving them down to Pearl every week to see their dad, getting me to tutor them on all the lessons they missed during
the homeschooling that didn't happen, taking them to counseling, and she got them a foster home right here in town. There might be hope for that girl as she grows into her job.

Totally Nosy Teacher: Now, if I could just get you talking to Peavine again, the world might start turning like it's supposed to. Some things take time to heal, I suppose. But come on, Footer. It's been long enough.

Critical Thinking: Rewrite of My Last Paper

Footer Davis

5th Period

Ms. Perry

I am rewriting this paper because Ms. Malone and Stephanie Bridges said I shouldn't write about serial killers just to upset you. They said I could make my point better by being thorough and forthright, whatever “forthright” means. They also said I was being impolite and sort of mean. I guess they are right, so I'm sorry. Just because you are mean to me and my mother doesn't make it okay for me to be mean to you. Here is a real critical-thinking paper. I hope.

People who are mentally ill are violent and should only live in institutions. Is this always true, sometimes true, partly true, or false?

Only 4 percent of violent crimes are committed by people with mental illness, like my mom. That means 96 out of 100 violent crimes are committed by completely normal people like you, but everyone thinks my mom is the scary one. My mom isn't scary. When she's sick, her thoughts move so fast, she can't even concentrate enough to think or move or make any sense. She can't plan anything. She doesn't even remember to eat if somebody doesn't help her.

My neighbor Captain Armstrong is right. Television and the movies don't really tell the truth about stuff like war and death and sickness. On television and in the movies, all the mentally ill patients slaughter people. If there's a crime show and somebody has a disorder, you can bet that person will turn out to be guilty. That's why I don't watch crime shows anymore. They just make me sad. I do read about serial killers, though, because they are truly scary, and I want to know if I run into one, so I can get away fast.

Walruses scare me too. Walruses weigh 4,000 pounds, and they have big tusks.
They can kill polar bears. It is reasonable to be afraid of walruses (and clowns, but that should be another paper). Walruses are a lot more dangerous than people like my mom, but I bet you never see a crime show where a walrus did it.

1. The hypothesis that people who have mental illness are violent and should live only in institutions is false.

2. Nobody should believe television, movies, or stuff people put on the Internet about war or death or sickness. None of that shows life or mental illness or serial killers or even walruses like they really are.

3. My mother belongs home with us, whenever she is able to be there.

“I can't believe you invited Peavine.” I steadied the starter slingshot's wooden frame with my left hand. I could grip with the cast, which would probably come off next week, so I used my good hand to pull the pouch back slowly, slowly, just like Dad had been teaching me to do.