Jesus Land. Julia Scheeres
end of the cafeteria. David? He was wearing yellow today. I squint. No, it’s Mary.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Elaine.
She’s sitting alone hiding behind her long bangs, but she smiles as I walk toward her.
“Where you been at?” I ask her.
“I had strep throat,” Mary says, “but I’m not infectious now.”
I point toward the snack bar. “Me and this other girl are gonna eat outside, wanna come?”
She wraps her cheeseburger in a napkin and follows me across the cafeteria. As we wind through the blue tables, I spot David sitting in a corner with Kenny Mudd, a nerd from my Algebra class. Everyone calls him Casper because he’s albino; his skin is translucent, and his buzzed hair and eyebrows platinum blond. He wears bottle-thick glasses that make his red eyes bug out, and he’s brilliant. Sitting across from each other, David and Kenny look like each other’s photographic negative.
I watch David pick up a French fry and cock his head to one side as he listens to Kenny talk. He’s not looking in my direction, but I grin at him anyway. He’s eating proper and he’s found a friend, even if that friend is Kenny Mudd. The lunch monitor frowns at me as we walk by her, and I smile at her, too, happy that this big grumpy woman is watching over my brother.
We’re okay, we both are.
We organized a “welcome home” party in the basement. Debra put David on the couch and Herb Alpert on the turntable, and while the rest of us boogied across the carpet, David screeched and bounced on the cushions.
Mother raced downstairs and turned off the music.
“No dancing for David,” she scolded. “It’s too much for him.”
He was almost three years old, but he couldn’t walk, and he couldn’t talk. He scooted around on his hands and knees. Such was the legacy of his foster-care “families.” When he wanted something, he’d point at it and scream. If we didn’t understand him, he’d hurl himself to the floor in shrieking frustration, and he’d do the same if he didn’t get what he wanted.
He had other residue from his family services days. He’d bang his head against his crib board and fall asleep in his high chair, face-planting in his oatmeal.
I appointed myself his warden and his keeper. I pulled him around by his arms until he took his first teetering steps alone, and clapped my hand over his mouth until he learned to pronounce the names of the objects he wanted.
My name was too difficult for him. He followed me around chanting “Ju-la-la,” and I called him “Baby Boo-Boo” because he was constantly tripping and falling and scraping his skin. I’d kiss away his pain and hush his cries.
He was my baby.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.