nerve it took to walk into the store. Once inside, he even forgot what he thought he wanted.
“Are you looking for a gift?” Vivian set her box down and started toward the gift-set section assuming, wrongly, that Leif was there at someone else’s request.
“Uh, no.” Leif pointed toward the watercolor crayons. “What are those?”
Vivian paused and changed direction, recalculating. She recognized the curiosity and spark of delight in Leif’s eyes. “Let me show you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Misty slid the mailbox key into the slot and pulled out the usual daily stack of bills. More doctors she didn’t know were present in her crisis. More surgeons who were there at the hospital during those dark days. More medications she had to take or else. Everyone needed, no … wanted, a piece of her. Their share of dollars she didn’t have. Her parents didn’t have. Despair choked her.
The hall light was out again. Smoke from apartment 3B’s daily burned meal coated the back of Misty’s throat. The stairs reeked of dog poop and old garbage. Unfortunately, the tiny apartment her family shared didn’t smell better, or appear much brighter, on the inside. There was nothing homey about her home.
Misty paused outside the apartment door. Was Papa laid off? Did he keep his job, his measly insurance? Or were the rumors true? Foreign-born workers, even legal ones, were always the first to go.
I hated it here. The smells of humanity living on top of each other. The desperation that seeped from everything. I wanted to shower and forget Misty lived like this. I knew she wanted to forget too. The start of voices arguing forced me back a step. I didn’t want to hear this. Misty stepped forward.
If there was better insulation in the walls, maybe any in the door, Misty might have been forced to press her ear against the metal to hear bits of the conversation going on inside. As it was, all she had to do was stand outside; the yelling was easily decipherable, even in highly accented English. Misty didn’t understand much of her parents’ native language; she refused to acknowledge it on the grounds that her grandmother refused to learn English. So some of the words were impossible to understand for either of us, but the tone was crystal clear.
I cringed. No one needed to speak the language to know they were at it again. Ear-splitting curses, table-pounding fists, and shouted demands. Every time I was here, I left depleted.
Misty wilted further inside herself with each screech. Their neighbors came and went, stepping around her, paying no attention to the commotion behind the walls. Scenes like it seemed to populate every floor of this building.
No wonder she lives at the library on Aston and Edison
.
“… she’s your daughter too …”
An overused and obviously useless argument by Misty’s mother
.
“How are we supposed to feed the family …”
“They never should have talked us into allowing the surgery.…”
She would have died without the transplant, you idiots
.
“How am I going to find work that pays enough?”
“… insurance will lapse …”
Misty listened to every word with her eyes closed and her face blank.
Her crazy grandmother shouted encouragement and frankly egged on the fighting. I felt as if this family was spiraling downthe drain with Misty caught in the undertow. With a choked sob, Misty stuffed the mail into her backpack and turned away from the apartment. She headed for sanctuary, and even I relaxed when her feet hit the pavement and left the screaming behind.
Once on Aston Boulevard, Misty used the little-known side entrance and returned the security guard’s wave. They knew her here. No one knew her name, but book people recognized themselves in others and accepted her presence among them. It was as if everyone here understood that covers told them nothing about what happened inside.
Misty kept her head down and wove through the white marble pillars in the grand lobby of the
“Are you looking for a gift?” Vivian set her box down and started toward the gift-set section assuming, wrongly, that Leif was there at someone else’s request.
“Uh, no.” Leif pointed toward the watercolor crayons. “What are those?”
Vivian paused and changed direction, recalculating. She recognized the curiosity and spark of delight in Leif’s eyes. “Let me show you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Misty slid the mailbox key into the slot and pulled out the usual daily stack of bills. More doctors she didn’t know were present in her crisis. More surgeons who were there at the hospital during those dark days. More medications she had to take or else. Everyone needed, no … wanted, a piece of her. Their share of dollars she didn’t have. Her parents didn’t have. Despair choked her.
The hall light was out again. Smoke from apartment 3B’s daily burned meal coated the back of Misty’s throat. The stairs reeked of dog poop and old garbage. Unfortunately, the tiny apartment her family shared didn’t smell better, or appear much brighter, on the inside. There was nothing homey about her home.
Misty paused outside the apartment door. Was Papa laid off? Did he keep his job, his measly insurance? Or were the rumors true? Foreign-born workers, even legal ones, were always the first to go.
I hated it here. The smells of humanity living on top of each other. The desperation that seeped from everything. I wanted to shower and forget Misty lived like this. I knew she wanted to forget too. The start of voices arguing forced me back a step. I didn’t want to hear this. Misty stepped forward.
If there was better insulation in the walls, maybe any in the door, Misty might have been forced to press her ear against the metal to hear bits of the conversation going on inside. As it was, all she had to do was stand outside; the yelling was easily decipherable, even in highly accented English. Misty didn’t understand much of her parents’ native language; she refused to acknowledge it on the grounds that her grandmother refused to learn English. So some of the words were impossible to understand for either of us, but the tone was crystal clear.
I cringed. No one needed to speak the language to know they were at it again. Ear-splitting curses, table-pounding fists, and shouted demands. Every time I was here, I left depleted.
Misty wilted further inside herself with each screech. Their neighbors came and went, stepping around her, paying no attention to the commotion behind the walls. Scenes like it seemed to populate every floor of this building.
No wonder she lives at the library on Aston and Edison
.
“… she’s your daughter too …”
An overused and obviously useless argument by Misty’s mother
.
“How are we supposed to feed the family …”
“They never should have talked us into allowing the surgery.…”
She would have died without the transplant, you idiots
.
“How am I going to find work that pays enough?”
“… insurance will lapse …”
Misty listened to every word with her eyes closed and her face blank.
Her crazy grandmother shouted encouragement and frankly egged on the fighting. I felt as if this family was spiraling downthe drain with Misty caught in the undertow. With a choked sob, Misty stuffed the mail into her backpack and turned away from the apartment. She headed for sanctuary, and even I relaxed when her feet hit the pavement and left the screaming behind.
Once on Aston Boulevard, Misty used the little-known side entrance and returned the security guard’s wave. They knew her here. No one knew her name, but book people recognized themselves in others and accepted her presence among them. It was as if everyone here understood that covers told them nothing about what happened inside.
Misty kept her head down and wove through the white marble pillars in the grand lobby of the
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