“ Danielle, aren’ t you cold? Danielle, come in, the bugs are biting,” and my mother’ s silence was my ticket to stay outside as long as I pleased. We exhausted the neighborhood and still my pumpkin was not full. My legs weren’ t cold enough to complain just yet.
I don’ t know whose idea it was to cut through the golf course behind the brush— mine was not a mother in the sense that anyone is, and she was very open to suggestions from my ballsy four-year-old self. I had been home with her for less than a year, and I’ m sure she was eager to keep me happy, hoping that being the‘ fun mom’ would win my silence to the cold-eyed social worker. Regardless of whose idea it was, we cut through the brush, crossing a corner of the lush golf course quickly. We came out near the train tracks, behind the big cow statue and the beer store, a warehouse with cement floors and corrugated tin walls. Twice a week we walked there: my mom, me, and her boyfriend Gary, carrying Amanda. He preferred the beer with a leaf on it; she was more of a Budweiser girl. I was never patient while they made their selections and usually got lost in the towers of beer cases, but at the end the cashier always let me pick a Saf-T pop, never grape, watermelon if they had it. Now, I think of all the times my friends have stopped there for beer, not knowing about the secret world of train tracks and low-income housing lying just behind the tree line.
The beer store was out of lollipops, so we headed back home. It was dark and cold, and I began whining.“ I’ m cold.” My mom wasn’ t the comforting type, and simply yanked my arm.
“ Hurry up, then.” She walked faster, pulling on my arm as we crossed the train tracks. The sky was quickly turning from a brilliant turquoise to thick black, and we could only see a few feet ahead of us at a time. I tripped and lost a shoe, but she was still going. My other shoe fell off as I chased her, terrified of being lost in the dark expanse between the beer store and the golf course. When I caught up to her, my heart pounding with fear, I grabbed her hand and held on tightly.
I didn’ t go to school that week. When my foster mom picked me up that Friday for the weekend, she waited until I got into the car to crane her neck around the driver’ s seat of her minivan and ask where my shoes were. I didn’ t look at her, hoping I could avoid answering. I knew, by then, that the aching look in her eyes would feel worse than the silence.
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