Wiser (5 page)

Once the boys were dry and clothed, I carried them one by one to the couch, pulling Miki up to accommodate the three youngest of us.

“I can take my own shower,” Miki murmured, so tired she didn’t resist me as I pulled off her oversized pajamas. They used to be mine, I noticed, fingering the faded pattern.

“I know you can,” I said, smiling and gently pushing her under the shower’s spray. “But I want to do this. You’re not feeling well and I want to take care of you.”

I tried not to get choked up as I helped Miki get cleaned up. It was getting clearer and clearer to me what needed to be done, even if it broke my heart. Like it or not, my brothers and sisters needed real parents and I wasn’t capable of being that for them. I couldn’t hold a job and still take care of them—no more than my parents could actually be parents.

I knew that I needed to seek out help for my siblings.

I dressed Miki in another one of my old T-shirts and sweat pants and settled her down on the floor next to the couch.

The bed was a mess, but I didn’t think about it as I ripped the sheets from the mattress, bundling them up with the mess on the inside. I rinsed them out in the sink before stuffing them in the hamper. We only had that one set of sheets for my bed, so I tucked an old quilt over the mattress, not stopping to think for a moment that I might take the sheets from my parents’ bed for my siblings to sleep on. I’d rather them sleep on vomit than on my parents’ sheets.

I carefully carried each of my brothers and sisters back to the bed, arranging them in the order I liked before retrieving the arrangement of afghans and throw blankets from the couch. They all smelled like cigarette smoke, but it couldn’t be helped. My siblings needed to stay warm. I woke each one of them up with a spoonful of Pepto Bismol and a kiss before sending them back into slumber.

I took the trash out, dumping the puke-filled bags out in the receptacle behind the trailer. The streets were clear, even if I half expected my parents to be swerving down it, angry at me for threatening them and saying everything I said. I guess I couldn’t really be surprised that they’d just carried on drinking after my outburst. It wasn’t like they had a house full of sick kids to deal with.

I walked inside, out of the frigid air, and checked once more on my brothers and sisters. They were all sleeping peacefully, their skin feeling normal and cool. I tucked the blankets tighter around them and hoped the virus—or whatever it was—would pass soon.

Then I stood over the telephone for a solid ten minutes, looking at the numbers, tracing the receiver, following the cord from the phone to the wall, wondering if I was truly prepared to do what I’d decided.

Before I could lose my nerve—or before my parents could come home—I took up the phone and dialed a number I’d memorized a long time ago.

“Child Protective Services.”

I swallowed carefully. The woman on the other end of the line sounded professional and capable. Why was I so nervous? This was the right decision.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” I said finally. “Sorry. My name is Sandra Webber. I need help for my younger brothers and sisters.”

It felt surprisingly good to tell someone about everything that had been going on. I didn’t leave out a single moment, needing to make my case against my parents. It was important that they sounded exactly as bad as they really were.

Having a plan was good, I decided as I waited for the squad cars to find their way to our trailer. My siblings were going to be taken care of. And now I just had myself to worry about.

Working quickly and quietly, I packed a small bag of what few clothes I had. Hesitating a moment, I stuffed a couple of sketchbooks, as well as a set of watercolors and some pencils and pens in the bag. If I was really going to start taking care of myself, I needed to be true to myself, too. Art was my true calling. I realized that.

The last thing I grabbed was a roll of money held together by a rubber band. It was my savings—everything I’d squirreled away from working at the bar. My looks probably had a little to do with how much I’d been netting in tips, but I didn’t mind using them to earn cash. From the beginning of my job, I’d always tried to set a few dollars aside each night to stash away in case of emergencies.

Maybe I’d known all along how I was going to use it.

Red and blue lights were flashing in through the windows by the time I was ready. I met the officers outside so they wouldn’t beat on the door.

“I’m Sandra Webber,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I’m the one who called.”

I shook hands with a couple of the officers before they all went inside with the representative from Child Protective Services. Another cop stood outside with me.

“It’s a brave thing you’re doing, kid,” he said, his eyes dark but kind in the night.

“It doesn’t feel brave,” I said, shivering as the wind cut through my coat. “It feels like I’m giving up. Like I’m running away.”

“Believe me, it’s brave,” the cop said. “You’re giving your brothers and sisters something they’ve never had in their lives—a chance at having good, loving parents. Something you know you can’t give them.”

The tears came then, even as I irritably wiped my eyes. “I wanted to give that to them,” I said. “I wanted us to be a family.”

“Even if it doesn’t feel like it,” the cop said, “you’re doing the right thing. You’re the wisest eighteen-year-old I’ve ever met.”

I laughed shortly, and stopped as a car skidded to a halt on the gravel at the road. My mother and father came tumbling out, leaving the doors gaping open as they ran up toward the squad cars.

“What’ve you done, you bitch?” my father shouted. I noted, with a small amount of satisfaction, that his speech was significantly impeded with whatever damage I’d done to his tongue.

“Sir, have you been drinking?” the cop said, uncrossing his arms and starting to walk toward my father.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” my father snarled, raising his hand to push the cop away and get to me. Instead, the cop grabbed my father’s hand and wrenched it around behind his back, sending my father to his knees.

“That’s an attempted assault on an officer,” the cop said calmly, cuffing my father’s hands together before hauling him back on his feet.

“My babies,” my mother sobbed suddenly. “My babies!”

I turned around, back toward the trailer, and saw the officers carrying my brothers and sisters out, all wrapped tightly in blankets. Miki’s eyes were slit open, but the other three were asleep.

My mother tried to run to them, but the same cop who’d cuffed my father grabbed her before she could take more than a few steps.

“There was a chance for them to be your babies,” the cop said. “From what I’ve heard, you blew it.”

I could’ve kissed him for the look on my mother and father’s faces, but I had eyes only for my siblings, getting tucked and buckled into the squad cars. Miki’s eyes had shut again, and something about that relieved me. I hoped none of them thought I was abandoning them.

“Where are you taking them?” my mother cried.

“The hospital, first,” the cop said. “While they’re there, getting the care they need, you and your husband will be talking to us at the station so we can try to figure out why you all thought it was a good idea to leave four sick little children in your home all by themselves—among other things.”

I went to talk to the Child Protective Services representative while a couple of other officers came to collect my parents.

“Don’t worry, Sandra,” she said, the blue and red flashing lights reflecting in her glasses. “We’ll take care of everyone. They’re finally going to get the care they need.”

“I’m really glad,” I said, trying to ignore the tearing of my heart into exactly four pieces as I saw my brothers and sisters sleeping in the backs of the squad cars. If this was truly the right thing, why did it hurt so badly?

“Honey, you’ve done well,” the woman said. She’d told me her name over the phone, but I’d forgotten it immediately afterward. “This is what needed to happen. Somebody’s going to love and care for each of you siblings now. Everything’s getting better—from this point on.”

“I believe you,” I said, using the end of my scarf to wipe my nose. “I do. I believe you.”

“And what are you going to do?” the woman asked. “What can I help you with, Sandra? You know you can’t go back to work at the bar, right?”

“I know,” I said. That part of life was over. In fact, a huge segment of my life was ending right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t help but think of my art teacher and wonder what she’d think about this entire situation. I’d like to think that she’d give me a hug, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I’d already thrown my life away by missing the opportunity to go to school.

“You’re eighteen years old,” the woman said, very nearly lifting my thoughts right out of my brain. “You can go anywhere. Your life is just beginning. If you need assistance or housing, we can help with that, too.”

I smiled at her. “A ride to the bus station would be nice,” I said.

On the way, the woman from Child Protective Services told me that I could keep in contact with my brothers and sisters through her. She’d give me updates if I didn’t feel like contacting my siblings or their new families directly, or she’d help put me in direct contact with them. Whatever I wanted. That’s what she kept saying.

I hadn’t even given a backward glance toward the trailer—or my parents.

“What are you going to do in New York?” she asked, pulling up to the station and putting her car in park. “Do you have friends up there?”

I opened my door and pulled my bag to my chest. “More like a dream deferred,” I said, waving goodbye.

And that’s how I got to the Big Apple. I saw the school I was supposed to be going to around this time, which was painful but important. I couldn’t afford to allow opportunities like that pass me by anymore. Applying again crossed my mind, but I wanted to get on my feet first.

I started off staying in hostels while I looked around for a job. The hostels were cheap and usually had free breakfast—sometimes free dinners, too. I met many, many friends there, though most of them were travelers. As soon as I really got to know a person, they’d be moving on to the next destination, always promising to keep in touch. Without a permanent address, I got a post office box and became a voracious pen pal. I had stamps from all around the world, thanks to my international friends.

When I accompanied these same people to clubs and parties, I met other people—real New Yorkers or, like me, people who’d come to New York in pursuit of their dreams. These new friends broke my heart a little less than the ones I came to love and had to let go to continue their travels around the globe.

After a while, I stopped blowing my cash at the hostels and started shacking up with my new friends—sometimes, in all senses of the term. I thrived here, no longer “Weirdo” or “Webbed Feet” or “Dyke.” New York was my city. Everyone was weird here. Every day, I realized that I hadn’t been weird at all. I was just too big for my tiny hometown in Tennessee. New Yorkers were my people. They pursued their dreams no matter what. They said what they wanted, they screwed whom they wanted, did what they wanted.

Following all of my responsibilities in Tennessee, I went a little wild, at first. I bounced from couch to couch, overstaying my welcome in some places and slipping out before first light in others. I had sex for the first time with a sweet poet, the guest of honor at a party celebrating the first time he got published in a magazine.

“I’m a virgin,” I warned him beforehand. “You’re going to have to show me the ropes.”

“It’s the most natural thing in the world,” he said, brushing my hair away from my face. “Men and women are made to fit together. And men and men. And women and women. It all depends on who you love.”

He touched me all over, rubbing me in spots I’d never thought of, kissing me every time I moaned. I’d heard horror stories about girls losing their virginity in bathrooms or against a tree in the middle of the woods or something equally terrible, but my time with the poet was more than perfect. He was thoughtful and funny, putting what few fears I had at ease.