Page 43 of Good Half Gone

Gran came out wheeling a cart piled so high she had to poke her head sideways to see around it. I held him while she unboxed the car seat and set it up. It took close to twenty minutes, and she was sweating by the time she was done. When he began crying, she held him in the back seat while I made his bottle. Gran talked me through mixing the formula with the water. He grunted and snorted as he ate. I couldn’t read her face as she bent over him. She was in go-mode—get it done and don’t complain mode. After his bottle, she patted his back until he burped. Then she laid him on a blanket in the trunk to change his diaper. Tiny chicken legs stiffed against the air, and Gran soothed him with her voice. A black knob was stuck to his belly button.

“That’s his umbilical cord,” Gran explained when she saw me looking. “It falls off about a week after they’re born.” I didn’t say anything else. I got back in the front seat and buckled my seat belt while she strapped him into his little chair.

We were on the freeway before Gran spoke.

“He’s Piper’s,” was all she said.

“I know.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her look at me. “He’s mine now,” I said. “She asked me to look after him.”

Gran nodded. “We can do it together.”

“Are we going to tell the police?”

“I’m still thinking on that,” she said. “Give me a few hours to screw my head on straight, and I’ll have an answer for you.”

“Piper’s alive,” I said.

Chapter15Present

My First Overnightwent something like this:

“I’m Benni, I’m the household manager. If you don’t know what that means, don’t sweat it. I don’t either.” She speaks over her shoulder as we walk—much like everyone else in this place.

Despite the fact she’s wearing a medical boot, I have trouble keeping up with her. Her hair is a hive of curls turned to frizz, and she wears the expression of someone whose entire life has been one endless shift of trouble. She leads me away from the older section of HOTI to the wide, well-lit hallways of the staff area.

The air seems to change the minute we step through the wooden double doors. She points things out as we walk: “That’s the kitchen—but it’s not a real kitchen, just a couple microwaves and a fridge. Everyone takes their meals in the dining room. But look here…” She leads me to a walk-in pantry; the shelves are stocked with noodle cups and instant mac and cheese.

“My favorite foods!” I’m only half joking.

Benni grins. “You and me both.” She nudges the back shelf of the pantry with her hip,and it opens to a tiny storage room. She hits a light switch on the inside of the wall, and I gasp dramatically at her reveal—it’s a Little Debbie stash closet. Satisfied with the look on my face, she closes the door.

“Speaking of the fridge! Always mark your food with your name,” she tells me. “Someone has been stealing everyone’s yogurt. There’s not a yogurt safe in this place—not even the nasty kind.”

I think all yogurt is of the nasty variety, but I keep my mouth shut about that too.

We leave the kitchen, and she points left. “That’s the lounge area. There’s a TV and a pool table. Everyone pretty much keeps to themselves.”

“Do you live on the island full-time?”

“Yep. Right-o, this is you…” She unlocks the door with her key card, and we step inside.

The dorms have high ceilings with cedar beams and finished concrete floors. Bunk beds form two rows along each wall with a broad center aisle down the middle. At the end of the aisle is the bathroom. It’s a large space while still managing to feel cozy.

“Like adult camp!” Benni waddles into the room on her booted foot, checking the temperature on the thermostat before adjusting it. “It gets cold in here at night—they were cheap with the insulation, is what I say. Bring warm pajamas.”

“Warm pajamas, check…” I adjust my backpack slung over one shoulder, and she points to various things before we stop to face the bunks.

I see her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “What are you anyway—nineteen? Twenty?” She sighs. “You young ones have no reason to be here. It’s not good. They’re selfish is what they are. This place eats people up, makes them disappear.”

“What happened to your foot?” I’m eager to change the subject. Ominous warnings are my least favorite way to start a job.

“Accident going down the stairs.”

I can tell that she’s lying, but who am I to complain? Lying is what women do to get by—not even for anyone else, just themselves.

“Find a free bunk, set the code to your locker. If you need anything like extra blankets or sheets, there’s a storage room to the left near the bathrooms. Toilet paper, toothpaste—everything you need is in that storage room. Keep your stuff in here.” She hands me a beige tote bag with the hospital’s initials on it.

“Don’t be shy about using the products, either. They take it out of your paycheck, so might as well lather up, if you know what I mean.”

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