CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jane Mendoza
Paige is her usual chatty self during breakfast.
She doesn’t seem affected by the nightmare, which is a relief to me. I’m extremely distracted by what happened after. Why did I let him touch me? Why did I want him to touch me?
After stuffing ourselves with waffles and syrup and butter, we put on our hoodies and socks and shoes and head outside. There’s other warm clothing for her—mittens and scarves and hats, but I’m determined to do only what is possible and not stress over what’s not.
We have something of a routine by now.
I pick up her set of paints and brushes. She grabs a square-bottomed basket we found in a large shed out back. By the time we return, it will be filled with painted rocks, fallen branches, interesting leaves and the occasional snail shell.
This time when we reach a selection of smooth, wide rocks, I have a plan.
We set up on a dry patch of grass, the rocks arrayed around us. Out come the paint brushes and selection of colors. Normally we do swirls and stars and hearts. Occasionally we dive into the more ambitious designs—such as painting the kitten. Kitten comes with us, stalking through the forest like a grown-up on the hunt while we work.
I pick up a fine-tipped brush and draw on a dark rock with white paint. 1 + 6 =
Without saying a word, I pass the wet rock to her.
She becomes very still, staring at what I’ve done. Children are smart. Smarter than most adults think. I learned that in foster homes, when social workers and foster parents would speak to us like we couldn’t see what was in front of our eyes. It’s not about adding up numbers, though she’s that kind of smart, too. It’s about understanding what I’m doing and why. About knowing that I’m trying to help her, even if she’s fighting me tooth and nail. About doing the hardest possible thing instead of lying on the ground in pain.
She lets out a breath.
The same way it’s happened for other children who’ve experienced trauma at a young age, school has become the no-fly zone. It’s become the enemy territory.
Another shaky breath. Then she draws a shaky seven in cerulean blue.
I’m almost afraid to move, afraid to break the spell.
She draws the seven with that line through the middle. Where does that line come from? I’m not sure, but that’s not how I draw my sevens. I wonder if it was her mother or father who taught her how to write it like that.
I remember enough about the caterpillar worksheet to write all of them on stones. It’s embedded into my mind. I’ll probably turn eighty and still remember clearly that time Mr. Rochester said, And here on this worksheet, you add up these numbers and put the answer in the caterpillar’s asshole. They’ve got a real garden theme going on here, don’t they?
I pick up another stone and write another equation. 9 + 9 =
She doesn’t stop to think about it this time. Her small hand writes the number 18.
Words dance on my tongue. That’s amazing. You’re doing it. Thank you so much. I know this was hard for you, but you’re strong and smart and so brave.
Also, would it be possible for you to write this on paper?
I keep my lips pressed together as we make it through the whole worksheet using rocks instead of paper and paint instead of a neatly sharpened number 2 pencil. When we’re finished I pass over a blank stone, and she immediately begins doodling her designs.
Pulling out my cheap phone, I snap photos of each of the equations.
Some shift in the light makes me look up. A shadow stands at the window of his study. His office looks down on where we spend our time.
Does he see what’s written on the rocks? Does he even care?
Fuck her education, he said, but I don’t think he meant it.
Right there, outside, using the Wi-Fi beaming from the house, because Lord knows there’s no signal up here on the cliff, I email the photos to the teacher with a note. I explain that due to her grief, this is the way she can express herself, and if they are concerned with concept understanding, she’s proven that in this form.
Now I understand how mama bears feel. I would fight off hunters for her. I didn’t even birth her from my body. I’ve only known her for six weeks, but I feel protective of her.
That evening after dinner I call Noah.
“This is a surprise,” he says above the sounds of a pot clattering. I can imagine him standing at the rusted cream-colored stove in his apartment, his roommates playing something on the Xbox in the living room. “Usually I’m the one calling you. And getting your voicemail.”