Gone for Good
Page 38
I pushed away the pain and listened closely because these kids deserved that. This place meant so much to me. To us. And when we had doubts about our success, about how much we were helping, we always remembered that it was all about the kids. They were not cuddly. Most were unattractive and hard to love. Most would live terrible lives and end up in jail or on the streets or dead. But that did not mean you gave up. It meant just the opposite, in fact. It meant we had to love them all the more. Unconditionally. Without a flinch. Sheila had known that. It had mattered to her.
Sheila’s mother—at least, I assumed it was Mrs. Rogers—came in about twenty minutes into the ceremony. She was a tall woman. Her face had the dry, brittle look of something left too long in the sun. Our eyes met. She looked a question at me, and I nodded a yes. As the service continued, I turned and glanced at her every once in a while. She sat perfectly still, listening to the words about her daughter with something approaching awe.
At one point, when we rose as a congregation, I saw something that surprised me. I’d been gazing over the sea of familiar faces, when I spotted a familiar figure with a scarf covering most of her face.
Tanya.
The scarred woman who took “care” of that scum Louis Castman. Again I assumed that it was Tanya. I was fairly certain. Same hair, same height and build, and even though most of her face was covered, I could still see something familiar in the eyes. I had not really thought about it before, but of course there was a chance that she and Sheila had known each other from their days on the street.
We sat back down.
Squares spoke last. He was eloquent and funny and brought Sheila to life in a way I knew I never could. He told the kids how Sheila had been “one of you,” a struggling runaway who’d fought her own demons. He remembered her first day here. He remembered watching Sheila bloom. And mostly, he said, he remembered watching her fall in love with me.
I felt hollow. My insides had been scooped out, and again I was struck with the realization that this pain would be permanent, that I could stall, that I could run around and investigate and dig for some inner truth, but in the end, it would change nothing. My grief would forever be by my side, my constant companion in lieu of Sheila.
When the ceremony ended, no one knew exactly what to do. We all sat for an awkward moment, no one moving, until Terrell started playing his trumpet again. People rose. They cried and hugged me all over again. I don’t know how long I stood there and took it all in. I was thankful for the outpouring, but it made me miss Sheila all the more. The numb slid back up because this was all too raw. Without the numb, I wouldn’t get through it.
I looked for Tanya, but she was gone.
Someone announced that there was food in the cafeteria. The mourners slowly milled toward it. I spotted Sheila’s mother standing in a corner, both hands clutching a small purse. She looked drained, as if the vitality had leaked out from a still-open wound. I made my way toward her.
“You’re Will?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Edna Rogers.”
We did not hug or kiss cheeks or even shake hands.
“Where can we talk?” she asked.
I led her down the corridor toward the stairs. Squares picked up that we wanted to be alone and diverted foot traffic. We passed the new medical facility, the psychiatric offices, the drug treatment areas. Many of our runaways are new or expectant mothers. We try to treat them. Many others have serious mental problems. We try to help them too. And of course, a whole slew of them have a potpourri of drug problems. We do our best there too.
We found an empty dorm room and stepped inside. I closed the door. Mrs. Rogers showed me her back. “It was a beautiful service,” she said.
I nodded.
“What Sheila became—” She stopped, shook her head. “I had no idea. I wish I could have seen that. I wish that she’d called and told me.”
I did not know what to say to that.
“Sheila never gave me a moment of pride when she was alive.” Edna Rogers tugged a handkerchief out of her bag as though someone inside were putting up a fight. She gave her nose a quick, decisive swipe, and then tucked it away again. “I know that sounds unkind. She was a beautiful baby. And she was fine in elementary school. But somewhere along the way”—she looked away, shrugged—“she changed. She became surly. Always complaining. Always unhappy. She stole money from my purse. She ran away time after time. She had no friends. The boys bored her. She hated school. She hated living in Mason. Then one day she dropped out of school and ran away. Except this time she never came back.”
She looked at me as if expecting a response.
“You never saw her again?” I asked.
“Never.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What happened?”
“You mean what made her finally run away?”
“Yes.”
“You think there was some big event, right?” Her voice was louder now, challenging. “Her father must have abused her. Or maybe I beat her. Something that explains it all. That’s the way it works. Nice and tidy. Cause and effect. But there was nothing like that. Her father and I, we weren’t perfect. Far from it. But it wasn’t our fault either.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I know what you were implying.”
Her eyes ignited. She pursed her lips and looked a dare at me. I wanted off this subject.
“Did Sheila ever call you?” I said.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“The last time was three years ago.”
She stopped, waiting for me to continue.
I asked, “Where was she when she called?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“What did she say?”
This time it took her a long while to respond. Edna Rogers began to circle the room and look at the beds and the dressers. She fluffed a pillow and tucked in a sheet corner. “Once every six months or so, Sheila would call home. She was usually stoned or drunk or high, whatever. She’d get all emotional. She’d cry and I’d cry and she’d say horrible things to me.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “Downstairs. What that man with the tattoo on his forehead said. About you two meeting here and falling in love. That true?”
“Yes.”
She stood upright and looked at me. Her lips curled into what might pass for a smile. “So,” she said, and I heard something creep into her voice, “Sheila was sleeping with her boss.”
Sheila’s mother—at least, I assumed it was Mrs. Rogers—came in about twenty minutes into the ceremony. She was a tall woman. Her face had the dry, brittle look of something left too long in the sun. Our eyes met. She looked a question at me, and I nodded a yes. As the service continued, I turned and glanced at her every once in a while. She sat perfectly still, listening to the words about her daughter with something approaching awe.
At one point, when we rose as a congregation, I saw something that surprised me. I’d been gazing over the sea of familiar faces, when I spotted a familiar figure with a scarf covering most of her face.
Tanya.
The scarred woman who took “care” of that scum Louis Castman. Again I assumed that it was Tanya. I was fairly certain. Same hair, same height and build, and even though most of her face was covered, I could still see something familiar in the eyes. I had not really thought about it before, but of course there was a chance that she and Sheila had known each other from their days on the street.
We sat back down.
Squares spoke last. He was eloquent and funny and brought Sheila to life in a way I knew I never could. He told the kids how Sheila had been “one of you,” a struggling runaway who’d fought her own demons. He remembered her first day here. He remembered watching Sheila bloom. And mostly, he said, he remembered watching her fall in love with me.
I felt hollow. My insides had been scooped out, and again I was struck with the realization that this pain would be permanent, that I could stall, that I could run around and investigate and dig for some inner truth, but in the end, it would change nothing. My grief would forever be by my side, my constant companion in lieu of Sheila.
When the ceremony ended, no one knew exactly what to do. We all sat for an awkward moment, no one moving, until Terrell started playing his trumpet again. People rose. They cried and hugged me all over again. I don’t know how long I stood there and took it all in. I was thankful for the outpouring, but it made me miss Sheila all the more. The numb slid back up because this was all too raw. Without the numb, I wouldn’t get through it.
I looked for Tanya, but she was gone.
Someone announced that there was food in the cafeteria. The mourners slowly milled toward it. I spotted Sheila’s mother standing in a corner, both hands clutching a small purse. She looked drained, as if the vitality had leaked out from a still-open wound. I made my way toward her.
“You’re Will?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Edna Rogers.”
We did not hug or kiss cheeks or even shake hands.
“Where can we talk?” she asked.
I led her down the corridor toward the stairs. Squares picked up that we wanted to be alone and diverted foot traffic. We passed the new medical facility, the psychiatric offices, the drug treatment areas. Many of our runaways are new or expectant mothers. We try to treat them. Many others have serious mental problems. We try to help them too. And of course, a whole slew of them have a potpourri of drug problems. We do our best there too.
We found an empty dorm room and stepped inside. I closed the door. Mrs. Rogers showed me her back. “It was a beautiful service,” she said.
I nodded.
“What Sheila became—” She stopped, shook her head. “I had no idea. I wish I could have seen that. I wish that she’d called and told me.”
I did not know what to say to that.
“Sheila never gave me a moment of pride when she was alive.” Edna Rogers tugged a handkerchief out of her bag as though someone inside were putting up a fight. She gave her nose a quick, decisive swipe, and then tucked it away again. “I know that sounds unkind. She was a beautiful baby. And she was fine in elementary school. But somewhere along the way”—she looked away, shrugged—“she changed. She became surly. Always complaining. Always unhappy. She stole money from my purse. She ran away time after time. She had no friends. The boys bored her. She hated school. She hated living in Mason. Then one day she dropped out of school and ran away. Except this time she never came back.”
She looked at me as if expecting a response.
“You never saw her again?” I asked.
“Never.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What happened?”
“You mean what made her finally run away?”
“Yes.”
“You think there was some big event, right?” Her voice was louder now, challenging. “Her father must have abused her. Or maybe I beat her. Something that explains it all. That’s the way it works. Nice and tidy. Cause and effect. But there was nothing like that. Her father and I, we weren’t perfect. Far from it. But it wasn’t our fault either.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I know what you were implying.”
Her eyes ignited. She pursed her lips and looked a dare at me. I wanted off this subject.
“Did Sheila ever call you?” I said.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“The last time was three years ago.”
She stopped, waiting for me to continue.
I asked, “Where was she when she called?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“What did she say?”
This time it took her a long while to respond. Edna Rogers began to circle the room and look at the beds and the dressers. She fluffed a pillow and tucked in a sheet corner. “Once every six months or so, Sheila would call home. She was usually stoned or drunk or high, whatever. She’d get all emotional. She’d cry and I’d cry and she’d say horrible things to me.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “Downstairs. What that man with the tattoo on his forehead said. About you two meeting here and falling in love. That true?”
“Yes.”
She stood upright and looked at me. Her lips curled into what might pass for a smile. “So,” she said, and I heard something creep into her voice, “Sheila was sleeping with her boss.”
