Sanctuary
Her name is Jo Ann, Mary Ann, Mary Jo, one of those names that don't sound like anything. I can't keep it straight, and I'm hoping I won't be here long enough to have to.
At first she reminded me a little of my mother; masses of curly hair, and a liking for bright blues and greens. But Mamá never did the things this woman does. Mamá wouldn't tell you off for things you didn't know you weren't supposed to do, and she wouldn't do it in that too-nice voice, smiling and smiling, as if to let you know she's above shouting at you. And Mamá never screamed the way this woman does at her husband, crazy screaming, her face all red and twisted up, and if she did she wouldn't have done it in front of me, let alone in front of little Ashley, who's only nine.
Ashley runs to her room, once it's obvious that Mary Jo Ann has forgotten we're there, and even after she shuts the door I can hear her crying. She has the right idea, I think. But I sleep in the basement room, only about six feet away, and that's no escape at all.
Instead I duck out to the garage, where it's quiet, with the thick walls blocking out the noise. I've half-found, half-made a nest there, in the far corner, behind an old broken sofa -- these people have more junk stashed away than I've ever seen. Old blankets and carpet scraps to cover the concrete floor; stacks of plastic crates and magazines that hide me from anyone who might come in. An empty tool chest, its catch broken off, to hold the handful of my things that I've spirited out here. A forgotten scarf or shawl or tablecloth of Mary Jo Ann's, printed with splotchy turquoise flowers, that looks like Mamá and smells like dust.
It's their junk, but the place I've made is mine, as much as any place is. Hidden away there, I don't have to pretend I'm okay. I just have to be reasonably quiet.
Sometimes I talk to my parents, quietly, or more often now, in my head. It's a babyish thing to do, I know that; but I don't know anyone else I can talk to. I can say everything, what I've been doing, who I've made friends with. Other times I pretend I'm someone and somewhere else altogether, locked in a dungeon, hiding in a cave in the forest. Sometimes I swipe the flashlight from the shelf by the door, and read.
My own place, and it keeps me from going crazy, until the night I accidentally fall asleep out there. Nobody misses me until next morning, when I'm woken up by Mary Jo Ann hollering.
I don't actually remember much of what she says. Nothing comes clear until afterwards, when I find myself sitting on the front steps in the clear sunshine. Ashley is curled up on the lawn, rocking, with her face hidden, the way she does when she's scared; and Mary Jo Ann's husband has his arm around my shoulders, saying over and over again that it's okay, they were just worried, she didn't mean it. I think she must have hit me, because my face feels sort of hot on one side, but I don't remember when.
"You know," he says, "she's got a temperament. She just blows up. She gets over it."
"Yeah, I know." And then after a minute I think to ask, "Is Ashley okay?"
He doesn't answer that.
After that I stay out of the garage. Before the week is out, I'm missing it as badly as I ever missed home. But I don't have time to look for another place to hide out, because it's not long afterwards that Mary Jo Ann loses it in front of the lady from the school, and the lady from the school calls the lady from the State, and pretty soon they come to take Ashley and me away again.