All the Little Lights
Page 76

“Yes,” I said, climbing into the back seat.
“You said Mrs. Mason’s house?” he asked.
I nodded.
Mr. Fry closed the door and rounded the front to the driver’s side. He slid behind the wheel and met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Everything’s going to be okay, Catherine.”
Miss Barnes passed Elliott as she pushed through the gate. She opened the passenger door and sat in the seat, buckling her seat belt.
She turned to face me with a warm smile. “You have everything?” she asked.
I nodded. “Is Mama okay?”
“She’s going to stay with Officer Culpepper until she calms down. Buckle up, please, Catherine.”
I waved to Elliott, watching him get smaller as we drove down Juniper Street to the other side of town.
I wondered if I would ever feel like I hadn’t just betrayed my family, if it would be enough to know that my absence would mean the end of the Juniper and the darkness inside. I worried Mama would stop being sad and hate me, but I worried more that Althea and Poppy would feel I’d turned my back on them. More than anyone, I wanted them to understand my choice.
Mr. Fry parked the van in the driveway of Mrs. Mason’s charming Craftsman-style home. The wraparound porch reminded me a bit of the Juniper, but that was the only similarity. The warmth from inside radiated from its large windows, even on a frigid winter’s day. The outside was welcoming, with muted green shingle siding and white trim, greenery and multicolored lights climbing the porch beams, and a Christmas wreath hanging from the door.
The shallow pitch of the gable roof made it seem less looming than the Juniper and more like a cozy home.
Mrs. Mason stepped out from under her porch light, wrapped in a sweater and wearing a smile that didn’t hide her nerves or relief.
Miss Barnes walked with me to the porch, carrying one bag.
“Hey,” Mrs. Mason said, touching my cheek. She stepped to the side, allowing Miss Barnes and me to enter.
I used the toe of each boot to pull off the other, leaving them on the hardwood floor and stepping onto the plush, beige carpet of her living room in my socks. Mrs. Mason took my coat, hanging it in the front closet before escorting us through a wide entrance that led into the living room.
An artificial Christmas tree stretched to the nine-foot ceiling, leaving only a few centimeters above the glass-angel topper’s head. The branches were adorned with red and green ornaments, some homemade. White lights glistened behind the synthetic needles, and a red-and-green skirt covered the tree stand, two dozen or so presents already under the tree.
“Have a seat,” Mrs. Mason said, gesturing to her couch. It was a taupe microfiber sectional, with floral and solid teal throw pillows—so immaculate, I hesitated.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mrs. Mason said, sitting in a leather rocking recliner. “I have a niece and nephew covered in ice cream who climb all over it every Sunday. That’s why I went with the microfiber.”
Miss Barnes sat, so I sat next to her.
“How did it go?” Mrs. Mason asked, peeling off her sweater.
“Mavis was understandably upset, but it went better than expected. The room is ready?”
“It is,” she said with a relieved smile.
“I know you had to scramble to get things ready,” Miss Barnes began.
“Don’t we always?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were a regular foster parent, Mrs. Mason,” I said.
“I’m not. I mean, not until now. Miss Barnes and I just work together frequently. And I’m just Becca here,” she said, twisting her chestnut hair into a bun and then pulling the ends through into a knot.
I’d never seen her in lounge clothes. She looked much younger in her heather-gray cotton pants and faded navy-blue University of Central Oklahoma sweatshirt.
Miss Barnes gestured to the room. “Is this okay?”
I blinked, surprised by her question. I’d left a cold, rickety, nineteenth-century Victorian for a warm, immaculate, cottagelike home. “Uh, yes. It’s great.”
Mrs. Mason and Miss Barnes shared a chuckle, and then the social worker stood. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two to it.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Mason said, hugging Miss Barnes. The door closed, and then Mrs. Mason clasped her hands together.
“Is it um . . . is it just us?” I asked.
It took a moment for my question to register, and then she nodded once. “Yep. Yes. Just us. Would you like to see your room?”
I nodded, gathering my things, and then followed her down the hallway.
“Guest bath straight ahead. I’m to the right at the end of the hall.” She pointed. “You’re to the left at the end of the hall. You have your own bathroom.”
Mrs. Mason flipped the light on to reveal a full-size bed, a wooden dresser, and a desk. An open door led to a small bathroom. Everything seemed so bright and new. The walls were a dusty purple trimmed with white, the carpet a light gray. Instead of heavy, blackout curtains that hung from dark iron, sheer panels outlined the window.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
She scanned the room, pride in her eyes. “Seven years, three months, two days.” She smiled at me. “But who’s counting?”
“Did you remodel? Everything looks so new.”
She nodded, taking one of my bags to the bed and setting it on the purple-and-gray plaid quilt. “We did.” The rest of her answer lingered in the air, unsaid. The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason’s eyes brightened. “Oh! That’s the pizza! C’mon!”
I followed her to the living room, watched her tip the delivery boy, thank him by name, and then carry two boxes to the kitchen.
We padded to the dining table, and I watched as Mrs. Mason opened the boxes, breathing in the amazing smells of grease and spices just as I did.
“Plates!” she said, jogging to the kitchen. “Here you are.” She set one in front of me, pulling out a slice and taking a bite while encouraging me with her free hand to sit across from her. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m starving.”
I looked over my choices. One pizza was half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The other was half-supreme, half-sausage.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” she said, chewing. “I guessed.”
I took a slice of each, piled them on my plate, and looked up at Mrs. Mason.
“Attagirl,” she said.
I bit the tip off the pepperoni slice first, humming as the melted cheese overwhelmed my senses. I hadn’t had delivery pizza in years. My eyes closed, and my body instantly relaxed. “That’s good,” I said.
Mrs. Mason nodded, giggled, and took another slice.
My enjoyment didn’t last long, as the thought of Mama eating alone—if she was eating at all—infiltrated my mind. Suddenly the pizza tasted like guilt instead of satisfaction.
“It’s okay, Catherine. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s normal.”
I looked down. “It’s normal to feel trapped even when you’re free?”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “It’s part of the process. It takes people years to navigate something like this. The guilt, the uncertainty, regret . . . the loss. But it’s okay. Try to live in the right now and take it one second at a time. And in this second, you’re allowed to enjoy your pizza and feel relaxed here with me. Being happy away from the Juniper doesn’t mean you love your mother any less.”