Dedication

ToCherie,Camille,Norman,andRoseanne—

maywealwayscontinuelaughinganddancing,

together.

TothehundredsofthousandsofchildrenintheU.S.

whoareeitherabused,infostercare,orhomeless.

Thejourneyislongandoftendarkbutyoumustbelieveinyourlight—youhaveso

muchtooffer.

Contents

DedicationAuthor’sNotePrologue1BittenBones

2BuildingSandCastles3 And Then There WereThree4BreakingPact5FailuretoThrive6HousesofSand7KeepingPact8EmptyEmancipation9OutofIdaho10AgingOut11TheHappyHouse12AChildatAnyAge

13BeaconsofLightEpilogueAcknowlegmentsAbouttheAuthorCreditsCopyrightAboutthePublisher

Author’sNote

ETCHED IN SAND is the truestory of the experiences Isharedwithmysiblingsfromour childhood to the presentday.Mysiblingsconsentedtothe publication of Etched in

Sand and the use of theirproper names in theforthcomingpages.However,some people’s names havebeen changed in order toprotect their anonymity,including but not limited topast foster parents andrelatives both living anddeceased. Specifically worthnoting is thenamechangeofthe character represented asmybiological father,whomI

refer to with the pseudonymof Paul Accerbi. For ease ofdescription, my many socialworkers were consolidatedinto a fewcharacters andarerepresentedwithpseudonymsas well. Also changed is thetown that my youngersiblings resided in when inIdaho.

Prologue

IHADN’TSEENNewYorkCitythis still since 9/11. LowerManhattan was a ghost town—therewerenoplanesinthesky, no boats on the EastRiver, no buses, no trains

rumblinginthesubway.ThiswasWallStreet,normallythemost bustling street in theworld...butwhereIstoodatthe Wall Street Heliport, Iwastheonlyonepresent.Because there was no

trafficonmydrivefromLongIsland to Manhattan, I wasthe earliest to arrive for thefirst official helicopterflyover after HurricaneSandy. Soon everyone began

toemergefromtheirvehicles:the governor of New YorkState, Andrew Cuomo; NewYork’s two United Statessenators,ChuckSchumerandKirsten Gillibrand; seniorgubernatorial cabinetofficials; and my colleaguesfromNassauandWestchesterCounties. We greeted oneanother in a manner bothsolemn and cordial, takingnoteofhowa tragedymakes

professional interactionsseem much more personal.Wearing jeans,windbreakers,and boots, we exchangeddetails of the storm, ourobjective intensely clear. Itwas up to us to try and healthis region after Sandy’sdestruction.Within moments three

military helicopters brokethrough thefogasassuredaseagles. With the press and

security now present, therewereacoupledozenofus,allstanding quietly as thecopters whipped the vinyl ofourcoatsand finally toucheddown on the pad. I felt acollective awareness amongus that not even the roar ofthe propellers could cutthrough the heaviness of thatmorning. It struckme as oneoftheeeriestmomentsinmylife:Thesilencewasactually

louderthanthenoise.As the chief deputy

executive of SuffolkCounty,Iwaitedmyturntoclimbintothe helicopter and by chancewoundupinaseatthatwouldgivemeasolidviewofLongIsland after we surveyed thedamage in New York City.Wetookthemilitaryaviator’sinstructions and placed theheadphones over our ears.When the helicopter took off

for Breezy Point in Queens,where a fire had ravaged aneighborhood during Sandy,the silence loomed again.Blocks of homes werecharred. Families had losteverything. For me to havebeen managing the stormcrises in Suffolk Countywhile hearing the reports ofhow these Queens residentsweretryingtoescapetheareawas one thing. Now to

witness the damage wherehomes and lives had beendestroyed was a completelysurrealmoment.My heart pounded as we

nearedSuffolkandIpreparedto address my county’sdevastation for this group ofelectedofficialsIrespectedsogreatly. “Which town inSuffolk had the mostdamage?”oneofthemasked.I hurried to push the

microphone button on theheadset as our aviator hadshown us. “Lindenhurst,” Ianswered. The group noddedand gazed back out thewindow, as though theyunderstood why Lindenhurstholdsaspecialsignificancetome:It’swhereIwasborn.It’salso the place where threedecades later, I learned mybackground from family I’dnever known existed. My

mother left behind scorchedearth with the same totalitythatMotherNaturehadsweptmyisland.Foryears,SuffolkCounty transported me backto the pain and darkness myfour siblings and I enduredthroughout our fatherlesschildhoodswithaprofoundlytroubled mother. Now, as Iexamineditfromthesky,myemotionsswelledwitha lovefor this place—how the

experiences of growing uphere made me who I am.HoveringaboveasaleaderintheaftermathofSandystruckme deeply. Aside from thelove I shared with mysiblings, this county was ouronly sense of home—aplacethat did its best to protect usfrom the unpredictable. Inever could have imaginedthatoneday I’dbecalledontoreturnthesamesecurity.

WHATDREWMEtoacareerinpublic service was myappreciation forgovernment’s purpose: It’sthe body that decides whoreceiveswhichresources,andhow much of them. Mychildhood on Long Islandgave me a very personalawareness for how people inpowercanimpactthelivesofothers. Growing up here I

faced extraordinary strugglesthat would have tested anychild’s strength andendurance. Somehow, withoptimism and determination,my siblings and I couldusually manage to findsomeonewhowas willing toliftustohelp.My cast of resolute

charactersiscomposedofmyolder sister Camille, who isforever my closest

confidante; and our threesiblings—Cherie, the eldest,who found escape from ourchildhoodinateenmarriage;Norman,fourthinbirthorderjust behind me; and ouryoungest sister, Rosie. As ascrappy pack of homelesssiblingswandering the beachcommunities of Long Island,sometimeswe’d sneak off totheLongIslandSoundor theAtlantic’s shore—the wild,

windy places where it didn’tmatterwhowewere,whatwewore, or how tousled weappeared.Withourhandsandemptyclamshellsasourtools,we’dbuildsandcastlesbythewater, or etch out all five ofournames

CherieCamilleReginaNormanRosie

and enclose each with aheart.We’drun,squealing,asthe waves roared upon the

shore and rolled back inrhythm, unsentimentallywashing away our work.Then we’d run back towardthe water and create it allanew.Wedidn’tknowitthen,but

that persistence wouldbecome the metaphor topredict how we’d all chooseto live our lives. Noaccomplishment has takenplace without trial, and no

growth could have occurredwithout unwavering love.This is the story of how ittook a community to raise achild . . . andhow that childused her future to give hopeback.

1

BittenBones

Suffolk County, LongIsland,NewYorkSummer1980

THEAREAWHEREwe live sitsbetween the shadows of thecocaine-fueled, glitzyHamptons estates and NewYorkCity’sgritty,discopartyculture. Songs like Devo’s“Whip It” and DonnaSummer’s “Bad Girls” blastthrough the car courtesy ofWABC Musicradio 77, AM.Gas is leaded and the air isfilthy.Long Island lacks a decent

public transportation system—to get anywhere, you needeitheracaroragoodpairofshoes. Our shoes aren’t thebest.Ourcarisworse.My mother’s thick arm

rests on the driver’s-sidewindow ledge of her rusty,gas-guzzling Impala—thekindyoubuyforseventy-fivedollarsoutofajunkyard.Herwild hair blows around the

carassheflickshercigaretteinto the sticky Julymorning.Theashesboomerangbackinthrough my window,threatening to fly into myeyes and mouth in franticgusts. Squinting tightly andpursingmylipshard, Iknowbetterthantomentionit.My seven-year-old baby

sister, Rosie; our brother,Norman, who’s twelve butstill passes for an eight-year-

old when we sneak intomovie theaters; and me—ReginaMarieCalcaterra, agethirteen (personal facts I’mwell accustomed to givingstrangers, like socialworkersand the police)—aresmooshed into the backseat.Likemostofourrides,thecarsuffers from bald tires,broken mirrors, and oildripping from themotor. If Iliftupthemats,Icanseethe

broken pavement movebeneath us through the holesintherearfloor.We rarely travel the main

roadsliketheSouthernState,SunriseHighway,ortheLongIsland Expressway. ForCookie—that’s what we callmymom—thescenicrouteisthe safest because she’salways avoiding the cops.Cookiehasmorewarrantsoutonherthanshehaskids.And

therearefiveofus.Her offenses? Where to

start?She’swantedfordrunkdriving; driving with asuspended license and anunregistered vehicle; stolenlicense plates; bouncedchecks to the landlord,utilitycompany, and liquor storetotaling hundreds of dollars;stealing from her bosses (onthe rare occasion she getswork as a barmaid); and for

our truancy. And if therewere such a thing as awarrant for sending her kidstoschoolwiththeirheadsfullof lice, we could add that tothelist,too!In the car,wedon’t speak.

It’s not by choice—it’sactually impossible to hearone another above the loudgruntingoftheImpalaanditsbroken muffler. Embarrassedby the car’s belches, I slump

downinmyseat.InthefrontseatnexttoCookie,myoldersister Camille’s doing prettymuch thesame thing . . .butif our mother detects ourattitude, we’ll find ourselvessuffering nasty bruises. Theonly comfort is the physicalspace we now have toactually fit in thecarwithoutpiling on top of one anotheraswehadtoforyears.That’sthanks to thefact that,atage

seventeen, our oldest sister,Cherie, has finagled anescapebymovinginwithhernewhusbandandhisparents,since she’s expecting a babysoon.In the backseat, Rosie,

Norman,andIstayoccupied,scratching our bony, bug-bitten legs and comparingwho has the most bites andbiggest scabs.We take turnspointing to them as Rosie

usesherfingersasscorecardstoratethemonascaleofoneto ten.There’snever really awinner . . . we’re all prettyitchy.None of us bothers

hollering to ask where we’regoing. With all ourbelongingspackedingarbagebags in the trunk, we knowwe’reheadedtoanewhome.Our short-term future couldtakemanyforms—atrailer,a

homeless shelter, the backparking lot of a supermarket,inthecarforafewweeks,inCookie’s next boyfriend’sbasementorattic,ordarewedream: an apartment orhouse. We know better thanto expect much—to us,running water and a few oldmattresses is good living.We’ve managed with a lotless.Most girls my age idolize

their sixteen-year-old sisters,but Camille is my cocaptainin our family’s survival.She’s the only person in mylifewho’s totally transparent,and we need each other toomuch for any sisterlymystique to exist. For years,thetwoofushaveworkedtosetupeachnewplacesothatitfeelsatleastsomethinglikea home, even though wenever know how long we

mightstaythere.Wejustresteasier knowing, at nightfall,that the younger ones have asafe spot to rest their heads.Together.WithoutCookie.Ifwecancontrolthat.Cookie puts the brakes on

ourwordlessgameswhenshepulls into a semicirculardriveway, gravel crunchingunderthetires.We’remetbythe imageofagray, severelyneglected two-story shingled

house surrounded by dirt,dust,andweeds.Therearenobushes, no flowers, nogreeneryatall;butthelackoflandscaping draws a squealfromme.“Nograss!”Rosie and Norman smile

and nod in agreement,understanding this means wewon’t be taking shifts toaccomplish Cookie’sdefinition of “mowing thelawn”—using an old pair of

hedgeclipperstocutthegrasson our hands and knees.Camilleand Iusuallycut thebulkofthelawntoprotectthelittle ones from the blistersandachywrists.Cookie turns off the

ignition and coughs her dry,scratchy smoker’s cough.“This is it,” she announces.“Slutsandwhoresunpackthecar.” Then she emits a loud,sputtering, hillbilly roar that

neverfails toremindmeofamalfunctioning machine gun.As usual, she’s the only onewho finds any humor in thedegrading nicknames she’spinnedonherdaughters.Igazecalmlyat thefacade

before me. It’s a house . . .ourhouse.Even if itendsupbeing only for a few days,I’m relieved thatmy siblingsandIwon’tbeseparated.Since the interior car-door

handle ismissing,exiting thecar isalwaysanoccasion forembarrassment.Itakemycueas Cookie reaches out herwindow, pulling up the steeltab that opens her door withher right hand while shepusheswith her left shoulderfromtheinside.It’smyjobtostepout andpull the exteriordriver’s-side door handle forher,especiallywhenshe’stoodrunktogetthedooropenon

her own. This normallyresults in me falling on mybony bottom as the heavysteel door comes barrelingout toward me from mymother’s force. I quicklyjump straight up like NadiaComaneci at the MontrealOlympics—landing withlocked legs and armsextended skyward—and lookbackat the three little judgesin the car to rate my

performance.As always, thisleads to giggles from Rosieand Norman and an I feelyour pain wince fromCamille,whosebehindisjustasscrawnyasmine.Since my dismount lacks

originality, my score isalwaysthesame.Rosieisthemost generous, flashing tenstretched-outfingers.Normanoffersanunderwhelmedfive;Camille gives me two

thumbs-up,whichfromherisequaltoaten.Cookie usually just snorts

in my direction, but not thistime.Todayshe’sinahurry.She

lurches out of the driver’sseat while the car lets upbeneath her weight. We allwatch her hulking five-foot-two, size-18 figure staggeraround the front of the carand toward the gray house

with a six-pack of Schlitzbeer stuffed under her arm. Irestmyhandsonmyhipsandlook around, relieved therearenoneighborsoutside.The dampness of Cookie’s

white Hanes T-shirt exposesher quadruple-D over-the-shoulder-boulder-holdersand,for God’s sake, too much ofthe boulders—they’restrugglingtostayinthecups.Her appearance gives me a

suddenurgetocoverthelittleones’ eyes, but by now, forthem, the sight of ourmother’s unmentionablesholds no shock . . . insteadNorman and Rosie areshaking in silent giggles. Anold pair of cutoff jean shortsthat should be six incheslongerandwiderinthethighscompletesherlook.Shepeersinside the house’s windowfrom the front stoop then

pushes open the door, whichobviously bears no lock.Hastily she turns and waves—“Come on, kids!”—signaling urgency for us tounpackthecar.Whileouryoungersiblings

remain in the backseat,Camille leans over from thefront passenger side of thecar, reachesdowntoward thesteering wheel, and fingersthe keys Cookie left in the

ignition. She looks back atme, and we understand thesignificance of the keys’position. As usual, Cookiedoesn’t plan to stick aroundournewhomelong.We spring into action.The

fasterweunpackthecar,kidsand all, the quicker ourmother will head out onanother long binge.We haveto move with speed,convincing Cookie our

motive isallaboutsettingupournewhome.She’dbeatussenseless if she ever foundout how eager we are to getridofher.Through the backseat

window I peek at Norman,who’s used to my MovingDaychoreography.“Takeherinside with you,” I tell him.He helps Rosie climb outfrom the middle; his brown,bowl-cut hair uncombed, his

face calm. Camille and Iwork hard to raise him likeonewould raise any curious,carefree,twelve-year-oldboy.Hissweet,slantedbrowneyesare barely visible below hisuneven haircut, and I pledgehimasilentpromise:I’ll findnew scissors for next time.Sometimes I reason that ifI’ve gotta raise a kid who’sonly a year and a halfyounger than I am, then

surely I have the right toexperiment my self-taughtsalon techniques on him . . .but thatDorothyHamill lookonapreteenboy is justplaincruel.Norm shuffles into the

house with Rosie, stillwearing her pink pajamas,close behind. I pause fromunloading the car to take inher presence; a little flash oflife scampering barefoot

across this gray scene. Herinnocencepiercesmyheart.After they’re inside,

Camille scurries around withthekeysandopensthetrunk,thenpassesthemofftomesoI can insert themback in theignition. We’re careful toconduct themove-inwith nodetail that could keep ourmother here longer thanabsolutely necessary. She’sprobably inside having a

drink rightnow,whichcouldbe enough to disorient herfrom recallingwhere she putherkeys.The trunk of the car is

stuffed with green garbagebags that Camille, the kids,and I packed: There’s a bagfilled with each of ourclothes, a near-empty bagwith our collective toiletries(half a bar of soap; an oldtoothbrushwe share; a bottle

ofperoxide;andadull, rustyrazor),abagstuffedwitholdtowels,andabagpackedwithall the groceries we cleanedoutofourlastplace.Wehavea prevailing unpacking rule:Youunpackthebagyoupick.Thiswaywecan’tfightaboutwho unpacks Cookie’sclothes. I can tell that I’mcarrying our nonperishables,which I always make suretravel with us: vinegar,

mustard and ketchup, andother essentials like coffee,flour, sugar, and powderedmilk. From the other side ofthe trunk, I can smellCamille’s cargo—it reeks ofstale cigarettes. She cringesdespairingly. “Finderskeepers,” I tell her. “I havekitchen duty, you’re onCookieduty.Justbegladshelikesyoubetter.”It’s always been clear that

Cookie prefers my oldersisters tome.Becauseweallhavedifferentfathers,ourlastnames are as varied as ourfirst names. Cherie is theluckiest.Shewasnamedafterthe Four Seasons’ song“Sherry” thathitnumberoneon the Billboard charts in1962, the year shewas born.(However, Cookie found theFrenchspelling,Cherie,tobemuch more sophisticated.)

Mymothernamedherseconddaughter after herself—Camille. Her famous line isthat she named me Reginabecause it means royalty. “Iwas right,” she always says,“becauseyouturnedouttobea royal pain in my ass.”Normanwas named after hisfather, and Roseanne wasnamed after my great-grandmother, RosaliaKunaGunda Maskewiez,

whom none of us has evermet.Camille and I shuffle the

bagsinside.“Whoa,”Camillesays.“Thisplaceactuallyhasfurniture.”Rosie’sclimbedontoasofa

in front of the bay window,andisstretchedacrossitwithherfeetasfarastheycango,mimicking Cookie’s positiononthecouchacrosstheroom.“There’s even a TV!” she

exclaims, pointing to thelargeunitinthecorner.“Wow,” I tell her,

crouching down and twistingher pigtail aroundmy finger.“Didyoutryitout?”“Yeah,itworks!”Ismileandstealaglanceat

Cookie. She looks pleasedwith herself, smoking acigarette with her right armwrapped across her waist.Motherofthefreakin’year.

“My room is next to thekitchen,” she says to no onein particular, then waves hercigarettetoastaircasebehindher.“Youkidscanfightitoutupstairs.”I find three rooms on the

topfloor.Theroomtomyleftisfilledwithacotandanoldwooden desk. All the deskdrawers are missing handles;a broomstick holds up thedeskwhere a legonce stood.

The room straight ahead hastwowindowsoverlookingtheside yard and part of theextension that houses theroomCookieclaimed.Ithasamattressandaboxspring,butno frame. This will work, Icalculate, because NormanandRosiecansleephere.Onecanhavethemattressandtheothercanhavetheboxspring—kind of like two separatebeds.

Although there are nopillows or blankets in sight,this arrangement is animprovement over sleepingthree in thebackseator inanopen car trunk, which we’vedone before. I peer aroundinto the narrow, one-windowed room to the right,whichfeaturesamattressandbox spring atop a real metalbed frame. Viewing fartherinside I find a shelf for

clothes. This will beCamille’s room. She’s theoldest one here and deservesarealbed.I take the room with the

cot, resting my garbage bagon the floor and digging outmy plastic Jesus figurines.This will signal to mysiblings that this room ismine.When I turn back toward

the door, Norman brakes

fromrunningdownthehalltostop in Camille’s room andlooks out over the gray,gravelfrontyard.“Youlikethenewplace?”I

askhim.“Like it? I love it!Think I

canhavethisroom?”“Nope, it’s Camille’s.You

and Rosie get to share theroomattheendofthehall.”He runs there, pokes his

head inside, smiles back at

me,andtakesoffdownstairs.“I’llsetyourroomupwhen

Cookie leaves,” I yell afterhim.“DigoutTroublesoyouandRosie canplaywhileweclean.”I find Camille at the car,

unloading Norman andRosie’s stuff. “Cookie’s inherbedroom,”Imutter.“Shebetternotpassout.”“I made sure she won’t.

Norman’s setting up Trouble

outsideherbedroomdoor.”“Genius!” The popping

bubble in the middle of theboard game, combined withthe kids’ chatter, will beenoughtodriveherout.While getting to work

downstairs, it occurs to methatit’stoolateinthedayforRosie to stay inherpajamas.While she’s playing Troublewith Norman on the livingroom floor, I sneak over,

kneel down, and smooth thewisps of her sandy coloredhair away from her moistface.“Mia bambina amore,” I

whisper. My baby love.“We’ll get you dressed aftershe leaves.” She pushes herheadbackagainstmyhandtoacknowledge my affection.Throughout the years, we’vesharpened our nonverbalcommunications in this way,

exchanging affection andunderstanding with the sameevolved understanding assomeofthewildlioncubswewatchonWildKingdom.Thelesswe speak, the less likelyit is that we’ll throw ourmother into a rage withoutknowingwhy.Camille and I set out to

scrub the first floor of thehouse, where we’ll bespendingmostofourtime...

but more important, it’swhere our mother’s restingnow. The sooner we getcleaning around her thesooner she’s sure to leave. Iattack the kitchen around thecorner from Cookie’sbedroom while Camillebeginsinthelivingroom.“Psssst,” my sister hisses

from the other side of thehouse. I stretchmy neck outof the kitchen to meet her

gaze. “You’ll help me withherroom?”I nod and mouth to her:

Aftersheleaves.Awhite Formica table sits

betweenthreecabinetedwallsand a block of windows thatoverlooks thedustybackyardenclosed by a chain-linkedfence. When I move thescummy dishes, bowls, andpots that the previous tenantleft in the sink, I’m met by

rivalstooursurvival.

“WHAT’S WRONG?” CAMILLEyellswhen the dishes clatter.Rosie’sheadturnstowardthekitchen.“Nothing.Camille,canyou

come help me load thefridge?” Camille willunderstand this code for thecockroach solution welearned longago: If there’saworking fridge with a door

that shuts, every bit of ourfood goes inside it, whetherornotitneedsrefrigeration.I’musedtoants,mice,and

maggots, who, as creepy asthey are, will scatter in fearwhentheysensemypresence.But cockroaches! It’s noteventheirspinylegsandlongantennae that gross me out;it’s the way they work inpacks and maneuver in thedark, attacking our food like

looters.I join the others in the

living room just as Cookie’semerging from her bedroom,wearing a pair of Jordachejeans, Dr. Scholl’s sandals,andaman’sHanestanktop.Rather than bathing,

Cookie tries to mask hercigarette and alcohol stinkwithacheap,toxicmixtureofJontueandJeanNaté.Asherfigurecastsashadowoverthe

room, I quicklyworkout thecost implications of herensemble: One pair ofJordache jeans equals oneweekofoilforhotwater;Dr.Scholl’s equals eight loavesof bread, four boxes ofspaghetti,threebagsofwheatpuffs, and twoweeks’ worthof powdered milk. Jontueperfume and Jean Natéalmostequalbailafteranightin jail, since Cookie had

Camille and me steal themfromthefive-and-dime.Cookie fluffs her hair and

rubs her lips together,remindingushowgratefulweshouldbeforhavingamotherwho can score such a nicehome. “I’mgoing to find thehair of the dog that bit me.Feedthekids.”“We always do,” Camille

mumbles.“What?”

Camille looks up. “Wewill.”“Norman, you’re the man

ofthehouse.”In response to Cookie’s

attention, Norman scramblesto his feet and follows heroutside.Rosie,Camille,andIstep out to join him on thestoop just in time to observethe car sinking beneathCookie’sweight. “Whenwillshebeback?”Normanasks.

Rosie takes his arm. “Notbeforewefinishourgame!”The screendoor claps shut

as they dash inside. CamilleandI turn towatch thecloudof dust disappear as thethunder of Cookie’s carmotorgrowsdistant.And just like that, she’s

gone.

2

BuildingSandCastles

Summer1980

THE KNOT IN my stomach

untwists as Cookie’s cargrinds out of the drivewayand heads toward busyMiddle Country Road. AsRosieandNormansettlebackin to their game, Camilleturnstomewithaslysmile.“How long do you think

she’ll be gone this time?” Iwhisper.“Depends on how much

money she has,” she says,starting inside. “And who

she’sshackingupwith.”In a traditional home, the

childrendependontheparentfor the means to live. InCookie’s world, she dependson us. Her roster of kidsmeansshecanbreezeintotheSuffolkCountywelfareofficeand get money for housing,electricity, and food. Myangst risesagainasmyusualquestion surfaces: How canthey give her this endless

stream of cash without everchecking up on where shespendsit?Camille and I figure

Cookie must have used thewelfare housing voucher topay the landlord the firstmonth’s rentand thesecuritydeposit to get us into thehouse.Butsheprobably tookthe heating and electricallowance with her. I’dflicked a switch to discover

theelectricitywasalreadyonwhen we moved in, so thelandlord never had it turnedoffafter theother tenant left.Cookie must haveinvestigated that when shelooked at the house. Andsince we wouldn’t need heatin themiddleof the summer,she decidedwe could get bywithwhateveroilisleftinthetank if we took quickshowers. Cookie actually

believes she deserves theheating and electric moneyforbooze. Inhermind, she’sgotussetupprettygood.Thescreendoorslamshard

behind me as I followCamille inside. “Rosie,honey,let’sgetyoudressed.”Rosie rises and lets meshepherdherupstairs.“I’ll scrounge for money,”

Camillecallsfrombelowus.Istoponthestairs.“Norm,

help Camille.” He hops offthe couch and stacks thecushions to searchscrupulouslyforlostgoldthatprevious tenants may haveleftbehind.I show Rosie her room

upstairsattheendofthehall.Ipullthemattressofftheboxspring to make two separatebeds. “You’ll sleep on this,okay? Norman will get theboxspring.I’llgetyoueacha

blanket.”“A towel is enough,” she

assures me. I wish I coulddebatewithher,butthefactisa towel’s probably the bestwe’vegot.We’ve been trying to get

her to sleep on her own,rather than with Camille orme, so enticing her with themattress asopposed to a lesscomfortable box springshould help our efforts. I

reach into her garbage bagand pull out a polyesterromper that I used to wearwhen I was about the sameage. Ithasblueshortswithacuff and a light bluesleeveless button-down topthat’s attached to the shorts.Rosie steps in through theunbuttonedneckopeningasIhold it up. We button it uptogether, taking turns.ThenIpullherhairbacktohelpcool

her face, fastening it with arubber band I’d had on mywrist.Ikissherforeheadandpat her tummy. “Go helpCamille and Norm findmoney. I’ll be down in aminute.”Rosie’s long ponytail

swaysbackandforthwithherskip.Thedirt that’scollectedin the foldsbehindherkneesand her black-bottomed feetmake me cringe as I try to

recall the last time any of usbathedinarealbathtub.(Gasstation sinks don’t count.)Rosie disappears around thecorneranddescendsthestairstojointhehuntforourdinnerfare. I fold her pajamas, putthem on her bed for later,then move from room toroom, opening up thewindowsinanattempttocooloff the floor. Somehow, Iresolve, we’ll get to eat and

sleeptonight.At a skinny five-foot-two,

Camille and I are the samesize. Her thick brown haircurls from the summer heat,framing her round face andalmond eyes. “Look what Ifound stuffed into one ofCookie’sbras,”Camillesays,unwrinkling a five-dollarfoodstamp.Isquishmynose.Herbra?

“It’s a wonder it survived.

Have you checked thebasement?”Camille reasons that five

dollarswill be enough to getus through the grocery storewithout creating anysuspicion.Weknowthatkidsas disheveled as we are willbe pegged as shoplifters; butalso,ifwedon’tactcorrectlythey’ll suspect worse: thatwe’reunsupervised.Thenthestoremanagerwillcall in the

police, then the police willbring inchildwelfareagents,and the agents will instantlysee through our lies andrealize that we are on ourown. We’ll lose any controlthat we have over our lives. . . and worse, we’ll loseRosie and Norm. No matterwhat horrible circumstancesCookiedumpsusinto, itwillalways be better than beingseparated and put into foster

care.Over theyears,Camilleand I have perfected ourfood-shopping routinebecause we understand theconsequencesofanypossiblemisstep.By now it’s three in the

afternoon, and all thechildren’s shows are for kidsyounger than Rosie. I turnedthe TV knob to our favoritesoapopera,GeneralHospital.Camille changes from her

jeans into her parachuteshorts with lots of pockets,and a long top. I pull on abaggy T-shirt whose bottomfalls in line with the hem ofmygymshorts.We kiss the kids. “Stay

put,” Camille tells them.“We’regoingtofinddinner.”For two teenage girls who

don’tyetdrive,CamilleandIhave developed a strongsenseof direction.Nomatter

whereweare,eitherofuscanaccess any main road onLong Island. Rememberingthe Pathmark grocery storewe spotted on the drive outhere, we hike downWashington Avenue andmake a left on MiddleCountryRoad.Theseoutingsto rummage for food arewhenIfeelmostconnectedtoCamille—not just becausewe’re literally partners in

crime but also because it’sduring these moments away,justthetwoofus,thatwecanjustbesisters.“After we feed the kids, I

want to find a pay phone tocallDoug.Ihaven’tseenhiminafewdays,”shesays.“Why?You’restayingwith

ustonight,right?”“Hey, look,” Camille says.

“We’realmosttoPathmark.”We wander into the store

and immediately assume ourroles. I head straight backtoward the stockroom,whereI locate a teenage stock boyand tell him the usual story:We’removing,andmyfathersentme in to get boxeswithlids on them. Do you haveanyextraslayingaround?Bynow Camille will bewandering the food aisles tosee what she can slip downher shorts and into her

pockets.Since the boxes need to

appear empty as I wanderthroughthestore,Ionlyslidelight things into them: a loafof bread, a carton of eggs, afew boxes of macaroni andcheese mix, a box of puffedrice cereal, and a package oftoilet paper—which isimpossible to steal without abox. Even one roll is toobulkytoslipdownourshirts.

Our toilet paper and eggcarton–lifting techniquerequiresustoplacetheitemsbetween two stacked, emptycardboard boxes. Casuallybut carefully, I buzz straightoutofthestoreasthoughI’mminding my own businesswith my armful of movingboxes.InthegiantparkinglotImeet upwithCamille,whoused the five-dollar foodstamp to score peanut butter,

jelly, and a half-gallon ofmilk.Wehaveastrictsystemof purchasing anything weneed that won’t fit in ourclothes. Camille slides Kraftcheeseslicesoutofhershortsand takes a thin box of Jiffymuffinmix from her pocket,whileIshaketwolittleboxesofJell-Oandpuddingmixoutof my underwear. “We canstretch this for at least twoweeks,” she says. She places

hertreasuresandgrocerybagin one of the boxes, and wetake off toward our newhome, balancing the weightofourloadbetweenus.As we turn onto

WashingtonAvenueandedgecloser to home, I notice ournew neighborhood lacksactualneighbors.Thistimeofyear, residents are either atthe local beach or insidewhere it’s cooler, keeping to

themselves.Therearenokidsplaying ball in the street orridingbikesupanddownthelane. The air is quiet andempty with no friendlyconversationor laughter.Thefew homes we do pass sitwith bare lawns andneglected landscaping in away that suggests passers-byshouldsimplylookawayandmindtheirownbusiness.Thiswe appreciate. We aren’t

comfortable with eyes on useither.Isolationisn’tforeigntous.

A fewyearsearlier,we livedtogetherinthetowncenterofSaint James, about eightmiles from here. Ourapartment then, in a buildingat 621LakeAvenue,was onthesecondfloor,aboveagluefactory.Acrossthestreetwasthe Saint James FireDepartment—a giant white

buildingthatlookedoutatusas if it were watching oureverymove.We lived abovetheintersectionofthreemajorroads, not among the storiedhomes in the wealthyneighborhoods thatoverlooked the Long IslandSound with views ofConnecticut. Living separatefrom our better-heeledneighbors ensured that wecould stay “under the radar”

inSaint James. Iwouldwalkthrough the kitchen door outto the black tar roof of thegluefactory,whichservedasour patio. There I’d observethe townspeople as theyhurried along the quaint andpreserved main street to thelocal butcher or Spage’sPharmacy. No matter howlong or hard I stared, justdaring for someone to catchmy eye, no one ever noticed

me.Thatwasactuallythehome

where we lived together thelongestasafamily.At that time, Cherie was

still with us. She, Camille,and I would stroll up thestreet to the King Kullensupermarket to collect ourgroceries, but there wasanother spot we preferred togatherourmeals.A long walk led us to

Cordwood Beach. To us,Cordwood Beach was anamusement park—it had afloating dock anchoredoffshore, andwe’d swim outand jump off of it over andoveragain.To the leftof thedock stood the curved brickwall of a hollowed-out oldhouse that delighted us as aglorifiedjunglegymandplaycastle.But the best partwas,at Cordwood Beach we got

dinner for free! We’d walkhome with our shirtshammockingaheavy loadofclams, mussels, and oniongrass, which Cherie andCamille would steam fordinner.Itwasasimplewaytolive, but we were together.That’swhatwasimportanttous.

“HEY!” I HOLLER. “We’reback!”RosieandNormanare

stretched out on oppositecouches, watching the news.Rosie looks up,waves to us,and turns back to the TV.Norm meets us with a grinand his arms held wide tohelp when he sees we’retoting food. I take out thedishesI’dfoundearlierintheafternoon—a few pots,mismatched plastic plates, afew forks, and a spoon—andrinse them in the sink as

Camille searches formatchesto light the pilot on the gasstove to boil macaroni andcheese.“How long you think this

hot water’s going to last?” Iaskher.“Gi, I need to have a

serious talk with you,” shesays.Istillmyselfandlookather, but she’s avoiding myeyes by busying herself withdrying the dishes. Her voice

is low: always a sure signortrouble.“Whatisit?”“I want to stay at Kathy’s

forthesummer.”“Forthesummer?”“Yes. I think Doug’s

parents will let me stay ontheircouchforanightortwountil Kathy convinces hermom to let me stay at theirhouse.”My heart sinks into my

flip-flops.“It’snotforever—”“I thought you would be

here more!” I tell her.“Camille,youcan’t leavemealone with the kids again—you lived at Kathy’s thewholelastyear!”Cherie and Camille have

known Kathy since Cheriewas in second grade andCamille was in first. Sincemysistersaresocloseinage,

they shared everything,including friends. Oneafternoon during recess atSaint James ElementarySchool, Cherie got hit in thehead with a baseball. Kathyscooped her up, carried heroff the field, and stayedwithher until the school nursecame. From that moment,Cherie and Kathy—andCamille—becameinseparable. Kathy had a big

family and a mother whoworked a lot, so Cherie andCamille would just hang outat her house for days, orsometimes weeks. It wasduringthistimethatIbecamethe little mom to Rosie andNorman.IkepthopingCherieand Camille would walkthroughthedoortogether,butwhen Camille finally cameback, she was alone. Cheriegot married and moved into

her in-laws’ basement inBrentwood.Kathy and Camille stayed

close friends, and Camillelived almost all of last yearwithKathy’s family afterwewere kicked out of our lastapartment. There wasnowhere for the rest of us togo, so we lived out ofCookie’scarinasupermarketparking lot on HawkinsAvenue in Ronkonkoma.

When I’d see Kathy’syounger siblings at school,I’davoid them.Theyalreadyhad tons of siblings, so whydid they get to have mine,too?IpicturedKathy’swholegiant family gathered aroundthe table for dinner, mysistersclearingthedishesandhelping with homework,when they should have beenathomehelpingme!“Howdoyouexpectmeto

dothisonmyown?”BynowI’m sobbing muffled wordsinto Camille’s embrace.“Huh?”“Shhh,” she says, hugging

meagain.“DoesCherieknow?”“Gi,”shesays,“Ineedyou

tounderstand.Icangetajobwhile I’m living with Kathyand give you money to buyfood.”I pull away from her and

shove her across the kitchen.I watch her face turn fromsoft patience to red anger.“Youcanworkhere,too,youknow! There are stores allover Middle Country Road.You can work at Shoes ’NThings, or themuffler place,or get a job at thesupermarket.We justwalkedby a hundred places, whycan’tyoustayhere?”Shewrapsherarmsaround

meagain,tryingtosteadymeas much as console me.“Because I don’t want to,”she speaks softly into myhair. “I don’t want to be amom anymore. I raised you.It’syourturnnow.”“But I’ve been doing this

already.”Ipeelmyhairfrommy face, damp with sweatand tears, in a plea ofdesperationforhertolisten.Ithink of the possibilities—

intruders, landlords, police,social workers, having tomanage any of them all bymyself.“Ineedhelp,Camille.Don’t go. Please don’t leaveme alone again, you don’tknow what it’s like whenyou’renothere,Ineedyou,Ineedhelp—”“Gi,” she says, trying to

calm me down. “I promiseI’ll be back to check in onyou.I’llbringyoufood.You

won’t be out stealing byyourself. You’ll know whereIamandI’llgetyoudimestocallme.”“I need to callmy friends,

too, I need something morethan this.” I gesture into theair to refer to the desolationwe’re held up in. If I can’tnegotiateforhertostay,thenI have to negotiate for hermoney.“I’ll bring money every

week, I promise,” she says,wrapping me again in herarms.Westandthereawhile,just

hugging, and I hope that anysecond she’ll whisper, Hey.Do you want to come withme? But her silence cementsit:Kathycan’t takeallofus.Whenwefinallypullaway,Ilook around at the kitchenthat’s now all mine tomanage.

Finally I pull away fromher and stand over the stove,trying to concentrate on themacaroni and cheese,blendingthepowderedcheesewitha littlemilkandcoatingeach of the noodles in themix.Camillehelpsmespoondinneronto threeplates—shehasplanstoeatwithDoug,sothere will be more forleftovers tomorrow. Shepourstwoglassesofmilkand

carries them into the livingroom, while I cover theleftovers and hurry to placethebowlintherefrigerator.The kids sit up when they

see us carrying food, and InoticehowloudtheyhavetheTVcrankedup.It’scleartheyheardusyellinginthekitchenand turned up the volume totuneusout.Camille heads upstairs,

whereIknowshewillgather

her things. My appetite isgone, but if the landlord orpolicewere to discover threechildren staying here alonetonight,whoknowswhenmynext meal could be? I’ll eatnow. On the bright side, atleastwe’llhaveonemorebedto sleep in tonight.Camille’sroomwas the nicest, and I’llbeabletosleepknowingthatthe kids are right next tomyroom.

Norm and Rosie pile theirdishesinthesinkafterdinner,and Iwash them right away.Camille chases them upstairsto brush their teeth with thebottle of peroxide Cookieusestodyeherhair.Sincewesteal food to survive,toothpaste never makes ourlist. The peroxide is fizzy inmymouthandmakesmegagif I swallow even a little. Itdries out the corners of my

mouth,makingmylipscrackand scab up in the corners.“But it sure does make yourbreath smell fresh!” Camillelovestoteaseme.Back in the kitchen,

Camille rests the bag of herbelongings on the floor andgently kisses the side of myhead. “I’m going to thecorner to call Doug. Yougonnabeokay?”I nod in her general

direction.“Justgo.”“Loveyou,Gi.”At this, I turn and watch

hermakeherwaytothefrontdoor of the house that, justhoursago,I’dbeensothrilledfor us to share as a family.“Loveyou,too,”Isay,tryingtoforcethewordsthroughtheswellingcryinmythroat.Thenshe’sgone,too.

3

AndThenThereWereThree

SummertoFall,1980

I WAS ELEVEN the first time

CamilleleftandIhadtocarefor the kids by myself. I’mnot unfamiliar with thefeeling of isolation thatcomes with this unwillingbrand of single motherhood,buteverytimesheleaves,theworst part of lonelinessreturns:NomatterhowmanytimesIexperienceit,itnevergetseasier.Gently, throughout my

upbringing, Camille coached

mefor this role. It requiresasubtle balance betweensafeguarding the kids whilealways giving people aroundus the impression that it’sactually our mother who’scaring for us. “Never acthungry,neverlookdirty,”shesays, because if the kids arefed, clean, neat, and wellbehaved, we generally canslide under the radar. Thegoalisalwaystostaytogether

andoutoffostercare.We admit nothing, and

Rosie and Norman knowwhat’s at stake. We have tokeep quiet and not bringattention to ourselves, nomatter how bad it gets. It’sour code of silence, andthere’s a powerful trustamong us never to violate it.The system seems content tobe complicit in our charadebecausethesocialworkersof

Suffolk County are too busyto keep track of kids in ourtype of situation. This areathat until recently was ruraland blue-collar is rapidlyincreasing in population.People from the city aremovingouthere,turningFireIsland and the local beachesalongtheAtlanticOceanintosuburbanized bedroomcommunities of Manhattanandaplaygroundfor therich

and famous. Meanwhile,we’ve overheard our socialworkers murmur that almostfive thousand kids aremonitored by protectiveservices in our county alone.Someofthesekidsendupinthe children’s shelter, wherewe’ve learned that beatingsand rapes are rampant. Thestoriesspreadsofarandwidethat even the people in thecity read about it—in fact, I

heard about an article in oneof the city papers where thereporterreferredtotheshelteras“thechildren’sjail.”Soweknow tostick toour story. Ifsomeone asks us where ourmother is during theafternoons, we say she’swaitressing. At nighttimeshe’s working as a barmaid.Ifanyauthorityfiguresayshedidn’tseehercarintheearlymorning hours, then it’s

because she works for abakery and has to deliverfresh bread to restaurantsbeginning at three thirty inthe morning. Sometimeswhenwe’reasked“Wellthen,where is she during the latemorning hours?” we say sheworks at a deli peelingpotatoesforpotatosalad.Ourmother“works”alot,yousee—we have every hourcovered.

As long as we keep eachotherinthelooponthelateststory,we can remain in syncand untouchable. And since,at one time or another,Cookie did work these jobsandtookusalongwithhertohelp,we know enough aboutthem to talk intelligentlyabout thedetailsofherworktodeteranysuspicion.Therehavebeentimes,few

and far between, when

Cookieactuallydidtrytogetherselfontherighttrackwitha job. She’d fumble aroundgetting herself ready andshe’d announce, “I’m goingtowork,”asthoughitwereanormal, everyday outing.Weknew not to get excited.Herperiods of employment werealways short-lived, and oftenI accompanied her to help.I’vespententiredayspeelingpotatoes behind a deli

counter, shredding cabbagefor cole slaw, and choppingcarrots and radishes forsalads. For my work andCookie’s, the deli ownerwould pay us each fifteendollars.But insteadofgivingmeanallowanceorbuyingusgroceries or new shoes,Cookiewoulduse themoneyto take Cherie, Camille, andNorman to Adventureland orthe movies. “You can thank

your father that you’re stuckat home watching Rosie,”she’dsay.I’dstareatthedooras it closed behind her. Ididn’t know what she meantbecause I never knew myfather.I’ve always preferred

accompanying her when sheworksatabar,whereatleastthere’s usually music, andpeanuts to snack on. WhenCookieworkedasabarmaid,

it was her job to clean upafter a long night, and Ilearned fast that weekendswere the hardest! I’d be abletopayourrentifonlyIhadadollar for every Sundaymorning I spent mopping astickyfloorandwipingdowntableswhile the radio systemplayed Elton John’s “Levon”andBillyJoel’s“PianoMan.”Atseven, Ihadno ideawhatit meant to make love to a

tonic and gin, but I sureunderstood the song’scarnival of lonely souls. Mysalary for those gigs was asmany Maraschino cherriesand Shirley Temples as mybelly could take. It sure beatthe starchy smell of potatoesonmyhands.Once, I askedCamille and

Cherie why Cookie turnedout so mean, and just asCamille started saying “See,

her parents—” Cherieclapped her hand overCamille’s mouth.Immediatelyitwascleartherewas something they weretrying to protect me from.“Trust me,” Cherie said.“Youdon’twanttoknow.”So, as Cookie’s primary

aimistoputinaslittleeffortas possible to get what shecan from whom she can,including the system, my

primaryaimistokeepRosie,Norm, and me out of thesystem entirely. But withoutCamille to guideme throughthesummer,tohelpmethinkthrough the day-to-dayproblemsandtokeepfoodonthe table, that job is about togetalotmoredifficult.

AS NORM AND Rosie getacquaintedwith their room, Itakeaquietstrollthroughthe

house. Even thoughwe haveno idea how long we’ll behere, there’s a lot to do toorganizetheplace.Theday’sevents, themove,mymotherleaving, our food-shoppingtrip, and then Camille’sdeparturehavewornmeout.Istep onto the front porch tolookatthestars.That’swhenI realizehowmybodyachesforabed,andmymindachesfor peace, too. I want one

nightofthekindofsleepyoucan’t get while you’resleeping in trunks, backseats,and, for the short-strawdrawer, the back floor of thecar, over the hump. Rosieused to fit into the floorwellfine when she was three orfour. . .butnowshe’ssevenandtallforherage.Herlankylegs and torso don’t fold upthewaytheyusedto.I rest my forehead in my

handsafewsecondsandtakea minute on the porch todaydream...notaboutaboyor even a home for good. Idaydream about a pillow.They takeup toomuchroomin the trunk for us to travelwith,soCookiedoesn’tletuskeep them. I rise reluctantlyto head inside. It’s time tomakemyownpillow.I enter my mother’s room

withitsfull-sizemattressand

boxspring.Theboxspringisrippedononesideandalsoatthe foot of the bed, likesomeone took a razor bladealong the fabric to continueripping it. I make a mentalnote to check inside it laterfor loose change or othersurprises. Camille put awayall of our mother’s clothesbefore she left, sonothingofCookie’s is left out torummage throughor tosmell

up the place with stalecigarettesmoke.Iwalktotheclosettoseeif

there are any old sheets ortowels on the floor. A largelinen of somekindwould beperfect for a pillowcase.Nothing’sinsideexceptafewof Cookie’s shirts on benthangers. I crouch down andpeak under the bed anddresserforanythingIcanuse.Instead I find ant-, roach-,

andmousetraps,anddust-balltumbleweeds. At least thereare traps set, I decide, buttheylookreallyold!I peek in Cookie’s dresser

to see what I can find inthere. The small top drawercontains her huge bras withstretched elastic and brokeneye hooks. Her underwear islarge enough to serve as alampshade, if the house hadcome with any lamps!

Although her “privates,” asshe refers to herundergarments, coulddefinitely serve as thestuffing I was looking for, Icringe at the thought ofsleepingwiththemsoclosetomy face. I continue rifflingthrough the drawer for socks. . . then I happen acrosssomething plastic. I pull outtwo bags: one with “yellowjackets”—uppers that Cookie

takes when she’s feelingespeciallylow—andtheotherwith two food stamps. I’mshocked that she left homewithout these, and it quicklyoccurstomethatshemaybehome to retrieve them verysoon. I put them back fornow,exactlyasIfoundthem,butImightbebackforoneorboth if I really get desperatefor food. Cookie usuallykeeps an entire traveling

pharmacy, includingPercocet, tranquilizers,uppers, and downers. Herunderweardrawer is adreamcome true for anymelodramatic, extreme-mood-swinging woman. Shemust have forgotten aboutthesefew.I close that drawer and

open theonebelow it,whereI discover an old worn andgrayedHanesT-shirt.Ipullit

out, and, with somehesitation,Ibringituptomynose. It doesn’t smell ofsmoke, so it’s probably notevenhers...butjustincaseit is, I estimate I could put afew long stitches in thebandof the neck and arms thatwon’tbedetectedifIhavetoremove the thread later. Thebottomiswide,soI’llhavetotieitclosed,butitshouldstaythroughout the night. One

pillowcase resolved—two togo. I rummage a bit moreand, not finding adequatestuffing, I close the drawers,change course, and head outof Cookie’s bedroom to thesecondfloor.First I go to my room,

havingseenanold,torntowelthrowninthecorner.AsIgotopickitup,though,Inoticethe window, which I openedearlier for fresh air. Now, in

the evening light, I see it’swellpositionedforabreak-in.Being responsible for twolittle kids makes you seeeverything differently—especially windows anddoors. It’s right on top of apitched roof that hangs overthebackdoorandthebrokenconcrete patio. From myearlier time in the kitchen, Iremember there is enoughdiscarded equipment right

near the roof—a rusty dryer,some beat-up-looking motorthing—to act as a lift foranyone who might want toclimb on the roof and slitherhis way into the house bywayofthatwindow.As a reflex, I close the

window, then realize there’sno lock on it. This is very,verybad.Ifeelmyheartpickup its pace: This house is soold that maybe none of the

windows have locks. I go tothe kids’ room and see awindow with no locks, andthen to Camille’s room—same thing. I run into thehallway and see that thiswindow doesn’t have a lock,either. I race downstairs,where I find more locklesswindows.I have to switch priorities

beforeIgotobed.I head outside to collect

thickbranchesthatarestrewnon the grassless backyard.Thepileofjunkbackthereisfull of treasure, includingdiscarded broomsticks and abroken rake handle, which Igrab. As I shift the pilearound, I also spot an oldrusty saw. I return insidethrough the back kitchendoor,which—of course—hasa push-button lock that evenRosie could pick. I placemy

makeshift locking devices onthefloorandgofromdrawerto drawer in the pantry insearch of an old hammer oranything that resembles one.Finally, I dig out a few oldtacksandascrewdriver.ThenI race around the house,inspecting the walls for anynails or old tacks I can pullout.As Iwalk to the basement

door that leads downstairs,

I’m still short a hammer andnails. The door sits in avestibulebetweenthekitchenand the bathroom, wherethere’s a full-length mirror.AsIspotmyreflection,Ilosemy concentration. Therebefore me stands a stranger.She’s pretty, but so skinnyshe startlesme. I have to trytoeatmore.I stop and examine my

features: my skin that’s

tanned dark brown fromwatching Rosie and Normoutside in the sun; my hair,wavy and somewhat wild,lightened from black toauburn by the sun. My eyesare a bold shade that’s moreblack than brown . . . darkerthan the translucent browneyes all my siblings and mymother have. I cringe at thespace between my two frontteeth and the length of my

nose,whichistoobigformyface.I open the basement door

andeversocarefullytakethefirst three steps down.Fortunately, there’s a stringattached to an upside-downlightbulb that serves as alight, but when I pull on thestring,thebulbisburnedout.I takea fewmore slowstepsand notice that a windowleading into the basement is

broken.Thatmeans I’ll haveto figure out how to securetheinsidebasementdoorthatleads back into the kitchen.There’s no water heater insight; the basement is dankand empty, except for an oldwashing machine with itsplumbing yanked out in theback and a few boxescontaining nothing but old,smellymildewed clothes anda lampshade. At least, I

figure, the clothes can serveascurtainsorpillowstuffing.Then I spot gray metalshelves and feel around fornails . . . yes! My fingerslocateabouteightscrewsandnails toaddtomycollection.As I putmy hardware insidethe box of clothes andmakemy way back toward thestairs, I spot a filthyold ironandIgrabthat,too.I lock the back door and

leanachairunder thehandleso if someone tries to comein, the chair’s fall will warnus loudly. Then I move intothevestibulethat leadstothebasement, where I use thescissorstocutthecordofftheiron. Using the iron as myhammer,Ibanganailintothedoor frame and wrap thesnipped cord between thedoorknob and the nail,creating a tight figure eight

that would slow down anintruder trying to come intothe first level of the housethroughthebasementdoor.I place all the broom and

rake handles and tree limbsonthekitchentable,usingthesaw tocut themso they’ll fitdiagonally in the windowsand serve as window jambs.After securing all thedownstairs windows plus theone in my bedroom, I

rummage through the box ofclothes I found in thebasement. From window towindow on the first floor, Ipound nails on both sides ofthe windowpanes. I drapebutton-down shirts,sweatshirts, and T-shirtsacross each window forcurtains. Closing thewindowswill cut off any aircirculation through the house...butit’sbettertobesweaty

than sorry. During thisprocess I realize we’ll besleeping downstairs everynightbecauseit’scoolerthanupstairs, and because wecould runouteither the frontorbackdoorifsomeonewereto break in. With the twoliving room couches andCookie’sbed,we’lleachhaveour own place to sleep.Whew:goodwork!Nowthepillowdilemma. I

stuff the gray Hanes T-shirtand another shirt with thestuffing and close theopenings in the shirts. Thekids will have pillows fortonight. Mine will wait untiltomorrow.The kids agree to move

downstairs.When I checkonRosie in Cookie’s room andhearNorm’ssteadybreathingon the sofa, I take theemptycouch across from him. The

kidssleeplongandquietly—theylookcomfortableforthefirsttimeinweeks.I wait until the sun comes

up before I feel safe enoughtofallasleep.In the morning, Rosie

wakes Norm and me byturning on the TV. “Can wehave some cereal?” she asksme.“Ofcourse,” I tellher, just

grateful we made it through

our first night alone. “It’s inthekitchen.”She hesitates a moment,

then twirls her hair aroundherfinger.“Gi,willyougetitfor us? Cereal always tastesthebestwhenyoumakeit.”I smile, and ruffle her hair

as I head into the kitchen.Aftertheyeat,thethreeofussit down to play our favoritecard game to pass the time:fivehundredrummy.

I pretend to be engaged asthekidslaughandteaseeachother. There’s dust floatingaround us in the sunlight,collecting everywhere—onthewoodfloor;inthecornersof the cabinets and shelves.Rosie and Norm look at mewithlosteyeswhenIjumpupfrom the game and yank atowel from inside one of thepillows.Iopenthefrontdoorto let air in and sigh. “I’m

tired of being surrounded byfilth.”Cookie always wants the

place to be clean when shecomes home, and chronictidying up has become ameans of keeping peace.Fortunately, I only have thedownstairs to clean, becausethat’s the only part of thehouseCookiewilleverbothertosee.My eyes are on the sink

when I march into thekitchen. Dishes areperennially piled up and Ihatedoingthem.Myhabitofputting this chore off untillastisoneofthecausesofourcockroach problem, but Iknow that after they’ve beensitting for a while in thesummerheat, thishastobeapriority. I grab my bottle ofHeinz white vinegar fromunder the sink. We always

have it to clean with, butbecause it’s too bulky andheavy to steal, we have tospend food stamps on it. Isplash somevinegarover thedishes, hoping a thoroughwashingwilldeflectthearmyofcockroaches.Upstairs, I gather our dirty

clothesfromthefloorsinourrooms, run them downstairsto the bathroom, and run thetubfullofcoldwater.Iholda

half-bar of Ivory soapunderneath the faucet tocreatebubbles,thenscrubtheclothes with the soap andrinse them until they feelclean.Normally, Iwashonlya shirt or two at a time, butCookie or the landlord couldshow up any minute, and ifwe have to take off, it couldbe weeks before we seeanother bathtub. After everypiece I scrub, I stretch to

relieve the strain inmy backthatcomesfromleaningoverthe tub. I’ll wash everythingexcept the clothes we haveon.Afterwringing them out, I

carry the damp bunch andhang themeverywhere in thehouse: on doorknobs, hooks,and thebacksof the couchesand chairs. Then I open thebackdoor andun-jamall thewindows to let the air

circulate.

EACH DAY FOR the next twoweeks, the kids and I walkwith a packed lunch to thepark or the Middle CountryPublic Library. The kidsmoan about the swelteringforty-minute trek and arerelieved when we’re finallysituated at the library, whichmercifully blasts with air-conditioning. They don’t

know that I spent the two-mile trek watching forDoug’s brown Chevrolet orany possible hint thatCamille’sabouttoreturn.At a library table we play

Mad Libs and muse throughthe Highlights magazinestogether. When the kids arequietly wrapped in theirstorybooks, I find myselfliving with my favoritecharacters in the worlds of

Judy Blume novels. I don’tcare that I’ve already readDeenie,Forever,andAreYouThere God? It’s Me,Margaret. Camille frownedupon me reading Forever—“It’snotforkidsyourage,”shesaid—butthen,Camille’snothere...andI’mnotakidmyage.Anyway,asI’vetoldCamille, I’m not concernedwith the sex. I love the storybecauseoftheromance.

I also go through everybiography they have onAmeliaEarhart,myheroine.Amelia was brave and

courageous. She didn’t letothers limit her dreams andshe never took no for ananswer.AmeliaEarhartmadeherownrules.And unlike Cookie, she

wasn’t interested in beingdependent on aman. In fact,after Amelia broke off her

first engagement, she waiteduntil she was thirty-three tomarry George Putnam, whoactuallyhadtoproposetohersix times before she finallyagreed. Her husband wasjokingly referred to as “Mr.Earhart,”andon themorningoftheirwedding,Ameliahada friend deliver him a notethatread:

I want you to

understand that I shallnot hold you to anymedieval code offaithfulness to me norshall I consider myselfboundtoyousimilarly.

How thrilling! So fearless!When I’m searching for asolution or scared at night,I’ve begun to ask myself:Whatwould Amelia do? Theansweralwaysmakesmefeel

braver.

BY THE END of July, we’vesettled into a routine I’mconfident with, but myworries about getting foodnever end. With only mepresenttosearchforfood,myresolutiontoeatmoreisn’tsosuccessful. Since we don’thave enough food to goaround, I often skip meals.WhenIstarttofeelweakand

jittery, I take a swig ofvinegar.WhenIholdittomyface,thesmellremindsmeofpickle juice, with that saltyflavor,Ilovetodrinkstraightfrom the jar. Thinking aboutpickles makes the vinegarmore bearable, and for somereason, the vinegar alwayscurbsmyappetite.Whenthatdoesn’t work and I’m stillfeelingworn down, I know Ihave backup to keep my

energy going: the yellowjackets.I domy best to ignore the

signs ofmymalnourishment:thebruisesthatappearindullpurple on my limbs fromsimple chores around thehouse, theshallownessofmyskin,andtheemptinessinmyeyes.There’sconstantpaininmy gums, and I can’t drinkcold water because of thetinglingacheinmyteeth.

Finally, late one afternoon,Camille comes home for avisit, wearing a huge smilewhenshestepsoutofKathy’smother’s car. Through therolled-down window, Kathywavesasshepullsaway.Inmybare feet I steponto

the porch and foldmy arms,smiling.“Whyyoulookingsosmug?”“Here’s why.” Camille

opensaplasticgrocerybagto

reveal a whole roastedchicken.“Where’dyougetthat?!”“Today I made ten dollars

washing cars with Kathy’sbrother,” she says. “I wasworriedaboutyouguys.”“No way!” I hug her—

quickly,becausemymouthiswateringwiththeintensityofa fountain. “What else is inhere?” When I take thechickenoutofthebag,Ifind

ajarofmustardandaloafofItalianbread.Yum!“Norman!Rosie!” I yell. “Come andeat!”“Now?” Norm yells from

upstairs.“It’sasurprise.”The four of us sit on the

floor with the plastic tray ofchicken between us. “You’reeatingsofast!”Camillesays,giggling, and poking me inthe ribs. “Slow down or you

mightchoke.”We put mustard on our

plates and dip the chicken init.Whenthebonesarenearlystrippedclean,Camillesetsitaside and we pass aroundmore mustard and dip ourbread in it. Rosie and Normsit back to let their foodsettle, then run outside toplay. Camille smiles at me,seeinghowhappy they are. Ituck my hands behind my

head and smile back inagreement.With our bellies stuffed,

she and I stretch out on thelivingroomcouches.Itellherhowwe’vebeenspendingourdays and how I lock thehouse up at night. “Are yougoing to come back and livewithusagain?”“Howarethekidsdoing?”I understand this is her

answer.

Norman and Rosie havealways been “the kids,”because they’re “the kids” toour mother. She’ll say,“Who’s taking care of thekids?”andIknowshemeansNorman and Rosie. I haveneverbeenakid.Norman acts like a child,

even though we’re less thantwo years apart. He’s ourmother’s little prince, and heloves that we girls take care

of him. I tell Camille that,lately,Icanseehimgrowingmore loyal to me and morewilling to help out. “NormandIareactuallyclosenow,”Itellher.“That’s good,” she says.

“We need one another toomuch to fight like otherbrothersandsisters.”Rosie, of course, is my

solace. She’s what keepsmemoving ahead when I get

exhausted from the librarywalks,ourscantfoodsupply,and living in perpetual, utterfear of Cookie and the cops.Sometimes I grow suddenlyoverwhelmed to considerwhat her life would be likewithoutme.WhatifIweretojust walk out, leavingNormanincharge?Booksarethe only escape I have fromourstruggles.IknowonedayRosie will need that escape,

too, so I always sign outlibrary books to read to her.My favorites to share arefrom the Landmark Booksseries, about our country’sfounders. Before bed, Rosiesnuggles in as I read to herabout Betsy Ross, DolleyMadison,andPocahontas.I rise to turn on the TV.

Camille says the car washexhaustedher,soshe’sgoingto sleep on the couch. This

gives me an opportunity torun something by her. “Hey,Camille,” I say, “I need newpants for school. Will youandDougbemygetawaycaratBillyBlake’stomorrow?”She sighs with

inconveniencedhesitation.“Please? You’ve left me

here alone all summer. Ihaven’thadthechancetogetwhatIneedforschool.”She concedes. “Sure,” she

says. “I’ll call Doug in themorning.”Normally I’dwalk,but it’s

been so hot and I’ve beenfeelingsoweakthatevenjustthinking about making thetrip by foot makes me tired.I’d already been there twicein July. It’s a long walk,several towns away, downMiddleCountryRoad,whichis part of Route 25 andalways full of traffic, past

used-car lotsandgasstationsand the dramatic complexthat’sSmithHavenMall,pastfurniture shops and carpetstoresandCarvelicecream—miles and miles of exhaustfumes, honking horns, andthings I daydream aboutpossiblyowningoneday.Later, after I’ve locked up

for the night, even with ahouse with four bedroomsandlotsofbeds,Camilleand

I fall asleep on one of thecouches together while thekids sleepoppositeuson theothercouch.Wespendthenextmorning

watching reruns of Land ofthe Lost, The Monkees, andThe Price Is Right, laughingandguessingthepricesofthedetergent and furniture thatBob Barker’s assistantsshowcase. In the afternoon,CamilleandIteachNormand

Rosie how to play MotherMay I (threewordswedon’toften use). Then we feedthemchickensalad,usingthemeat we had pulled off thebones, before Doug pulls upin his father’s tan Chevysedan.Aftersomediscussion,Doug and Camille decide toseeThe Amityville Horror, amovieaboutahauntedhousethat happens to be a fewtowns over. As they debate

about whether the story istrue, I ponder what brand ofdesigner jeans I’m going tochoose.Doug leaves his car at the

far end of the parking lot soheandCamillecansearchfora newspaper that lists thetheater show times. Iwanderinto Billy Blake’s and headstraight back to the juniors’department,where I examinea rack of Gloria Vanderbilt

jeans. I find a bright orangepair that I love, imagininghow the kids at school willadmire my designer duds. Islip them under a larger pairand clip them both to thehanger. On the way to thefitting room I pick up a fewshirts;andwhentheattendantchecksthequantityofitemsIcarried in, she hands me aplastic card with the number4. I smile and close the

fitting-roomstalldoor. I takeoff my pants, step into theGloria Vanderbilts, and pullmypantsbackoverthem.MyoversizeT-shirt fallspastmywaist, successfullyhiding thedouble waistband. I pause tomake sure the orange hemisn’t visible abovemy shoes.Then Iwait a little longer tomake it seem as though I’mdeliberating,decidingwhattobuy of all the clothes I’d

carried in. When I exit theroom, I hand an armful ofclothes and my plasticnumber 4 to the attendant.“Bummer,” I say, shruggingather.“Nothingfit.”It’s actually no lie: The

jeans are too big onme, butthat doesn’t matter . . . nordoes the fact that they’re thesame color as a constructioncone. I saunter my waytowardtheexitbutinsideI’m

dyingtobreakintoarun.Myvery own Gloria Vanderbiltjeans! Just as I walk out thedoor, however, a voicebellows in my direction. Isprint out to the parking lotand, hearing the securityguardbehindme,dotheonlything I can think of: duckbehindacar.(Imadeit!)AsItrytocatchmybreath

in silence, I feel a growingconfidence that I’ve lost him

in the darkness. Just then Ispot the glow of a flashlightandhearhishard-soledshoesclicking up and down therows of cars. I slitherunderneath the belly of thecar I ducked behind, prayingthe driver doesn’t show up.From several rows away, Iwatch the feet of the manfrom Billy Blake’s walkfartheracrosstheparkinglot.AfterI’msurehe’sgoneback

inside the store, I crawl outand, crouching low, quicklymakemyway to Doug’s caracross the lot. After I’msafely lying down in thebackseat, I swear to myselfthatI’llneversetfootinBillyBlake’s department storeagain.

BYMID-AUGUST, IT’Sbeensixweeks since we’ve seenCookie, and one afternoon

Rosie and Norm are playingdown the road when thelandlord comes knocking.WhatwouldAmeliado?WhatwouldCamilledo?Instantly I hide in the

kitchen, ready to run out theback ifhecomes through thefront.Heknocksloudlyonce,twice,thenthreetimes.Iholdmy breath in anticipation ofthe sound of the doorknobturning.WhenallIhearisthe

buzzoftherefrigerator,Ipeeraround the corner to see ifhe’sstill standing there.He’snot, but his truck is stillperched in the driveway.Unfortunately, I straightenjust in time to see him walkpast the kitchen window,catchinghiseyeashecatchesmine.Shoot!Ifreeze.His face is creased and

round, andwhat’s left of hiswhitehair looks iridescent in

the afternoon sun. I steadymyself against the wall,bracing for an angryexpression, but instead,concern has taken over hisface. He motions for me toopen thedoor. Idebate it fora second. Then, having nochoice,Iturntheknob.“Your mother here?” he

asks.“No,” I tell him. “She’s

working.”

“Oh, I see. Shemustworkalot.”“Prettymuchallthetime.”Hefrowns.“Therentistwo

weeks late,” he continues, asthough I’d be shocked. “I’vestopped by here a few timesand haven’t seen anybody athome.” Now he’s studyingme,buthemakesnomovetocomeinside.I’mblockingthedoor with my hip, leaving itonly slightly ajar. I feel half

naked inmy striped tube topandcutoffjeanshorts.Awarethatheappearsinnohurrytoleave, I cross my arms overmy chest to make it clear Idon’t welcome any physicalcontact.“Everything in the house

workokay?”heasks,peeringbehindme.“Yeah.” I peek over my

shoulderandnodathim.“Nosweat.” Something tells me

this man won’t be easy tofool.Great.I’llhavetobeonthelookoutforsocialservicesfromnowon.“Okay then,” he says,

startingdown theback steps.“Good.Well,tellyourmotherIstoppedby.”Idon’t sayanything, sohe

turns and walks toward thesideof thehouse.Justbeforehe’s out of sight, I call afterhim.“Sheworkslate.”

He turns to faceme again.“I noticed the oil tank isempty.Anybodybeenaroundlatelytofillit?”“I’mnotsure,butwedon’t

needit.It’ssummer.It’snotabigdeal.”Afterheroundsthecorner,Iclosethedoor.ThenI sit down with my backagainst it, sighing in reliefashistruckpullsaway.The next afternoon, when

we return from the library,

Norman heads out with hisnew neighborhood friends toplay with someone’sskateboard. “Hey, Gi?” heyells. “There’s something onthebackporch.”“Whatisit?”Iholler,butI

know he’s already runningdownthestreet.Istepoutonthe porch to find a large,brown paper bag. It’s filledwith carrots with the rootsstill attached, a pile of

potatoes, some tomatoes, andat the very bottom, a hugewatermelon.Likethecarrots’roots, the tomatoes still havevinesattachedasiftheywerejust pulled from someone’sgarden.This kind of anonymous

charity is unusual. What’smore, I don’t know a singleperson who keeps a garden:Cherie doesn’t, and anyway,she wouldn’t drop off

something like this withoutsticking around for a fewminutes to see us. None ofourfriendsfromschoolcouldhavedone this, I think.Theydon’tevenknowwherewe’restaying. Could it be from aneighbor? I crack open thewatermelon with my trustyiron—it’s become myfavorite multipurpose tool—and scoop out some of thecenter, letting the juice drip

downmyarmsasIinhalethesweetflesh.Thesugargivesawild rush to my emptystomach, and, in moments,I’m so full I could be sick. Iloadtheuneatenpart intotherefrigerator and turn on thefaucet to rinse off my handsandarms.I lift thehandleallthe way to the left out ofhabit, hoping it will growwarm enough to melt mystickiness away. Instead the

water is instantly scaldinghot.“Oh crap!” I yell.

“Ouchouchouch!” I slam offthefaucetandshakethestingfrom my fingers, staring atmyhot-pinkhands...then,itall comes together: thelandlord!Hemusthavefilledthe oil tank while we weregone. What kind of landlordhelps people who don’t paytheir rent? It doesn’t make

anysense.Andhehastohavebeen the one who left thevegetables, too.Damn him, Ithink, skeptical about hismotives.Heneedstomindhisown business.Why didn’t hejust call social services andget it over with? Why’s hetrying to keep us here andbuy us food and oil? Whatdoeshewant?Whenyou’reakid with no one to protectyou,everythingcomeswitha

price.On the other hand, it takes

no time to grow accustomedtohavingahotshowereveryday. The best part abouthavinghotwaterisstayinginthere long enough to reallytake in thewarmth and rinsethe day’s dirt off. Oneafternoon in late August, Istep out of the shower andquickly slip on my bottomsand tube top. As I scoot out

of the bathroom, holding upmy underwear by theirunraveling elastic, I steal aglance in the full-lengthmirror. What I see lookingback at me makes me stopandgasp.I stand there. I try to

registerwhatorwhoitisI’mlooking at. I’m shrinkingaway.Thecombinationoftheyellow jackets and thevinegar has taken its toll.

Standing completely still, Iexaminetheconcavecurveofmy stomach and the bonessticking out against the skinof my hips. My legs arestraight lines interrupted bythe bump of my knees;nothing about them isshapely. I’m totally flat-chested, and my rib cage isclearly outlined underneaththe blue stripes of my tubetop. I have to look harder to

seewhatI’vealwaysseen—Ican no longer find the prettygirlthatusedtogreetmeasIwalked by. In fact, there areshocks of gray inmy hair infrontandinback,andwhenIreach up and touch the spotwhere my skull meets thenape of my neck, I find theraw, soft patches of baldnessthat I’ve been hiding withwhat’sleftofmyhair.Istareatmyself and, asusual, keep

mymouthclosedsothehugegap in my front teeth isn’tvisibleinthereflection.I don’t even recognize this

girl! She is notme. I’ll haveto start ninth grade like this. . . high school. Even if Icould go back to BillyBlake’s, there aren’t enoughdesigner clothes in theirentire girls’ department tomake me fit in. For the firsttime,I’mseeingwhatCookie

sayssheseeswhenshelooksatme:aragdoll.Cookie returns before

Labor Day weekend.Norman, Rosie, and I aresitting in the living roomwatching televisionwhenshewalks through the front dooras ifshe’sonlybeengoneanhour.She’scarryingaboxofCap’n Crunch, powderedmilk, and a six-pack of beer.She’sstillwearingthepairof

jeans she walked out in andher hair is still in a ponytail,with half of it red and thenewer parts dyed black.Before, Norman would haverun to her, given her hugs,and shouted “Mom! Mom!”but today he glances at mewith raised eyebrows andthen turns his attention backto The Electric Company.Silently,Ichalkupapointinmy favor: These last two

months have put himofficially on my side.Norman’s trust in me is thebest thing about myrelationshipwithhim...andthe worst thing for myrelationshipwithCookie.“Here’s your dinner,” she

says. Even with suchnonchalance, her presencealtersthefeelingintheroom,establishing a weight I canfeel inmychest.Shewaltzes

pastthestairwellandintothekitchen,where I hear her setthecerealandbeerdown,ripa can from its plastic ring,and pop it open. “You looklike shit,” she calls from thekitchen. Then she goes intoher roomand shuts the door.I’m in awe that, just secondsago, thishousefeltcleanandsafe. Her presence hasreleasedapollutionthatIcanfeel settling like grit on my

skin.

“COMEONKIDS,let’sgo!”Thenextmorningwewake

to the sound of Cookiehollering. I hurry Rosie andNorman to dress and shoothem both to the car asCookiestandswithherhandson her hips. “What time ofyear is it?” she says. “Youknow the drill.” We realizewe’re on our way to get

registeredforschool.I have no problem finding

clothes big enough tocamouflagehowskinny I amfrom the administrators—bynow, all my clothes arebaggy. I pull my hair backintoaponytail thatgathersatthe bald spot, tucking thegray pieces under the blackhair to hide them from theschool attendants’ view.Cookiestarts thecarandsets

offtowardthebackroads.Itonlytakesfiveminutesto

register me for my first yearofhighschoolinCentereach.Afterthesecretaryinformsusthatwearrivedlatetoregisterand they’ve already givenphysicals, they tell me toreporttothenurse’sofficeonthefirstdayofschool.ThisImakenote to “forget,”or I’llbefacedwithquestionsaboutmybag-of-bonesbuild.When

Cookie and I walk backoutside, I putmy head downto avoid being seenwith herand her car, even thoughthere are no schoolmatesaround. I have yet to say aword to her since she’sreturnedtous.While Cookie walks

Normannextdoor to registerhim at the middle school,RosieandIsitinthecar.“Wewon’t be on the same bus

anymore,willwe?”shesays.“No, but you’re going to

love thirdgrade.You’ll learnmultiplication and divisionand how to write Rosie inpretty script letters. Isn’t itexciting?” When herseparation anxiety is stillvisible,IpromiseherI’llhelpher with all of her scienceprojects. “Maybe we’ll evenbuildavolcanooutofmud!”Itellher.

“Yeah...”shemuses,thenstops and looks up at me.“You don’t have to pay formud,doyou?”“No, sweetie. You don’t.”

She nods and stares out thewindowwatching forCookieand Norman. My eyes wellwithtears.Atsevenyearsold,Rosiehascometounderstandthatwe’repoor.We head home andwait a

few hours before going

school clothes shopping.Onceduskfalls,Cookieflagsus back into the car and wehead out in search ofSalvation Army bins. Weknowitwill takeafewdivesin these Dumpsters to findenoughclothesforallthreeofus, and we’re familiar withCookie’s shopping spreestrategy: First she pulls thepassengersideofthecarnextto the Dumpster opening.

Then,withthewindowopen,I climb on the seat and stickmy head through the hole tolookdownintotheDumpster.Once my eyes growaccustomedtothedarkness,ifI see more clothes thangarbage and useless debris, Isteponthewindowledgeandsqueeze myself through thesloped metal opening in thebin to get inside. I beginthrowing clothes out through

theholeandintothecar.Using the car’s dome light

to see, the kids and Cookieroot through the clothes topick out the ones we couldpossiblyuse.Ilocateapairofjeans and a plaid skirt forRosie.“Gi!”shecries.“Look,this

pinkshirtstillhasthetagsonit!”“It’s brand-new for you to

wearonthefirstday!”

For Norman, I fold a nicepair of corduroys and acoupleturtlenecksintoapile,andformyselfIdigoutapairofkhakipantsthatIcanmakeasizesmallerbytakingtheminwith a few stitches. Then,once our options areexhausted, I pile all theexcess clothes on the floorand climb out, givingmyselfa leg up as I shimmy out ofthe bin, back into Cookie’s

car.Throughout the weekend,

Cookie shares the details ofthelifeshecreatedathernewboyfriend’s place as thoughshe’s telling us a great fairytaleofwhichwehavenopart.“Oh, the meals I cook,” shesays. “And you oughtta seehow well-behaved hisdaughter is—you three couldtake a lesson. She’s onlythirteen, lost her mother to

cancerlastyear...treatsmelike I walk on water. Talkabout appreciation. Instead,whatdoIgetfromyou?Igetbullshit.” Although I wishsomeone was taking care ofus the way her boyfriend’sthirteen-year-old daughter isbeing mothered now, I cantell Cookie’s happy becauseshe’sbeensoberfortheentireday. For the first time in aslong as I can remember, I’m

actuallynotafraidofher.Aftertheweekendtogether,

she announces that she’sgoingbacktoherboyfriend’shouse. In peace, I begin torifle through our newwardrobe, sorting the colorstowash in the tubbeforewestart school on Wednesday.As I start my hems andalterations, I flip on the TV,where Ronald Reagan isgiving a speech in New

JerseyaspartofhiscampaignfortheU.S.Presidency:

Andmostofushavebeguntorealizethat,solongasCarterpoliciesareineffect,thenextfouryearswillbeasdarkasthelastfour...IpledgetoyouI’llbringanewmessageofhopetoallofAmerica.

A newmessage of hope to

allofAmerica.That includesmy family. It includes me! Ineed a newmessage of hopeas much as I need a newwardrobe to start the ninthgrade. If my next four yearsare as dark as my last fouryears, I’ll never make it toseventeen. I hopeReagan, orCarter,orsomeone,couldgetme out of this, but I’m notholdingmybreath.On the first day of school,

it’sclearI’vemadeahorriblemistake with my outfitchoice. As I walk down thehalls, calls from the otherstudentsareallthatdrownoutthesoundofmybaggydenimseams rubbing together: “It’sthe Orange Ethiopian!” theyyell.IknowIhavemoremeaton me than the skeletalstarving Ethiopians I see onTV,butdid Ihave togoandhighlight myself with a pair

of fluorescent orange pants?Nothing like blending in atmynewschool.Aside from the orange-

denim disaster, the first dayinthisnewschoolisthesameaseverywhereI’veeverbeen.I don’t really mind walkingfrom classroom to classroomby myself—in a way, it’s areliefnot tohaveany friendsbecausethere’snoonewhoIhave to tell aboutmy family.

There are assignments tokeepmebusyandteacherstolisten to. Idon’tsaymuch inclass because I don’t wantany attention directed at me,butImakesuretofollowthehuddlesofstudentsinfrontofme toeachclassroomso thatIarrive righton timeandactalert when class starts. I’velearned to give straightanswers when the teacherscall on me, but that doesn’t

typicallystart tohappenuntilthethirdweekofschoolwhenthesocialbreakdownbetweenthe kids is clear: Teacherstake one look at me and gogentle.Leavingtheclassroomisalwaysthegiveaway:Iftheteacher standsby thedoorasthe class files into thehallway, my trademark is amodest, closed-mouth smile—a well-adjusted, friendlykid.

It’s the free times duringthe day that make my statusas the new girl painfullyobvious: lunch and recess,and also gym class, where IuseCherieandCamille’sfakecramps trick, even though Ihaveyettogetmyperiod.Most kids might complain

abouttheirteachers,butminegivemea senseofassurance—wrapping myself in mywork and obeying their

instructionsistheeasiest,bestway to stay safe. School hasalways been my escape andsolace, a place where anindependentkidlikemefindsstability. Because I keep alow profile, my teachersnever really know about mylife at home. I’m sure somehave detected that thingsaren’t exactly as they shouldbe, but most of them haveused any vulnerabilities they

sensed as a reason toencourageme.

ONSEPTEMBER17,1980, justa week after school starts,Cheriegivesbirth toher firstchild: a baby boy. I’m downthe street, greeting NormanandRosiefromthebus,whenI hear Cookie’s tiresscreeching into the drivewayand her hoarse voice blaringdown the block. “Regina!”

she yells. “Your sister had ababy—I’m a grandma!” Myfirstnephew.“CanIcome,Mom?Iwant

toseethebaby!”Rosiesays.Ilacemyarmthroughhersandpull her onto my lap on theporchstep.“I’mnotcomingbackhere

after,”Cookiesays.“Youcanmeet him after Cherie takesthe baby home to her in-laws’.”

Cookie stumbles throughthe front door one afternooninearlyNovember,holdingabox of macaroni and cheeseand a half-gallon of milk.“What’sgoingon?”Iaskher,meaning,Whatareyoudoinghere?“Well, by the looks of it,

I’d say I’m a single womanagain,”sheslurs.“Youcouldthank me for bringing homedinner. I’m in a shittymood.

Stayawayfromme.”Lackingthe care and the energy tocarry the food to thekitchen,sheplopsdownon thecouchandpromptlypassesout—hernew pair of clogs falling tothe floorwith a crack. Rosieand Norm burst into gigglesas Cookie’s snoring rattlesthe room. I hush them,stiflingmyownlaughter,andwatch her. I thought menliked women who are sweet

and attractive, but Cookie’sjustswollenandangry.We eat the macaroni and

cheese in the living roomwhile Cookie’s splayedunconscious on the couch.Together we stand to carryour dirty dishes to thekitchen, careful to be quiet.Rosieriseslast,balancingherempty glass on her plate,trailingbehindNormandme.I’ve just stepped into the

kitchen when Rosie’s glassfallsandshattersonthelivingroom floor, inches fromCookie’sear.No!My instinct moves me to

her as Cookie jolts from thecouch.Thiswillnotbepleasant.“You stupid little whore!”

Cookie shouts, grabbingRosie’shairinherfist.Rosie staggers and drops

the plate, which falls andcracks in half. Before I canstop her, Cookie slamsRosie’s body to the floor,inches from the shards ofglass.InstantlyRosiewails—first out of total shock atbeing pummeled, then as thepain shudders through herbody.Instinctively I jump on

Cookie’s back, clawing herskin with my fingernails.

“You’re not her motheranymore,” I scream in herear. “Let go of her! LETGO!” My blind rage hasfilled the room, the entirefloor of the house. It’s sofiery and fierce I’m sure theentire street can feel itsquake. I fight hard to bringher to the ground—if I canjust get her down, Rosie canclimb away. Instead, she liesstunned and crying on the

floor beneath us. Normsprints over and pulls Rosietoward the bottom of thestairs away from Cookie.There they both stand,screaming at me. “Stop, Gi,stop!”Butmymotherwillnothurt my baby, who’s finallythriving under my care. Andshe isn’t going to beat meinto submission either, thelunatic! I hardly flinch whenCookieflipsmeoverherback

onto the floor, on top of thebrokenshardsofglass.“You stupid little bitch,”

she grunts through her teeth,landing her first kick. “Youshould’ve never been born,slut! You were my biggestmistake, you stupid littlemotherfucker.”She’s barefoot, but all the

weight of her body lands inthesmallofmyback,thenonmy ribs and pelvis and

elbows. I roll on my side,trying to get out from underher. Instead she brings herheeldownintothesideofmywaist, then grabs me by myhair and slams my face intothe floor.Blood flows out ofmy nose, and I can feel itseeping from my back fromthe broken glass. I roll overonmysideintoaball—it’sashortopportunitytocatchmybreathbeforeIusewhatlittle

energyIhavelefttostandupand face her one more time.As I turn to rise, her footslams me full-force in thestomachandsendsme flyingtotheflooragain.“Youlittlefucking slut!” she screams,puffing hard and findinganother burst of energy tokick me again. I stagger tostandup,about to runather,whenshegripsmearoundtheneck and shoves me

backward. First I feel myheadmeet the floor, thenmyback—my legsandarmshadno chance to stretch out andbreakthefall. I feel thestingof the glass sticking in myhead and the blood tricklingoutofmyscalp.ButIfighttoscramble up fast, knowingthat if I stay down, her feetwillstartkickingblowstomyheadandribs.My will is stronger than

hers, but she’s drunk andmore than twice my bodyweight.Theforceofherarmssends me into the railing,where the kids are standingon the other side. I slide tothe floor, stunned.When herlegcomesinagain,Iswingatit to trip her, surprised shestumbled.ThenIscramble tomyfeetanddartpasther,outthefrontdoor.She turns around just as I

make it to the porch, hervoice thundering after me.“Get your ass back in herenow! I’m not finished withyouyet!”Somehow I’ve made it

across the yard. She can stillsee me, but so can theneighbors if they choose toopen their blinds to thecommotion. I slip into thedarkness and press myselfagainstthechain-linkfence.I

hear her voice echo in thecold air. “You get back inheresoIcanfinishwhatyoustarted. You’re gonna getwhat you deserve, you littlebastard!”Four months earlier, I

would have obeyed her andgone back inside to take therestofmybeating,especiallyknowing that if she hadn’texhausted her anger yet, shemaytakeitoutonRosie.But

something keeps me fromlistening this time. Shecontinuestoloomafewyardsfrom me. My hair and faceare caked with blood, myback stinging from the cutsand aching from thepounding. The only thingkeeping me from collapsingismywillnottosubmittoheragain. She yells one moretime.“Getbackinthisgoddamn

house!”Ishakemyhead,pounding

from the beating, andwhisper:“No.No!”Then I turn fromhervoice

and walk as fast as I cantowardMiddleCountryRoad.The cold concrete wall

outsideShoes’NThingsfeelssoothing against my back.Out of the reach of thestreetlight,Ipullmylegsinto

mychestandrestmyheadonmy knees. I catchmy breathfrom the tears and dig intooneofthegreengarbagebinsfor a few boxes. I pull themopen and line them upbetween the Dumpster andthe building’s back wall tocreateabed.It’s probably been an hour

when I open my eyes at thesound of her jalopy rollingdown the street. I peek out

aroundthecornerandseethecarturninginthedirectionofthebars.I wish these feelings were

new to me—the hurt, anger,rejection from the emotionalabuse, and the searingphysical pain—but for all ofthenear-fourteenyearsofmylife, this is the onlyconsistent,predictablepartofmy relationshipwithCookie.Tome, feeling securemeans

theoppositeofwhatitmeansto most kids. Children aresupposedtofindtheirgreatestsafety and comfort in thearms of their mothers.Instead, Cookie’shomecoming is our darkestdanger, like the worst stormanyone can imagine. I bracemyself and lock down mywitsassheenterswithastir.Wehavenocontroloverwhatcomes next as the tension

builds,thenit’sasthoughtheskies open up when shecomesdownonmeinarage.Whenshe’sfinished,shegoessuddenly . . . leaving thedevastationinherwakeastheonlyevidenceshe’severbeenhere at all. We’re alwayscomforted to know she’ll begone for a while—safe andcontent,asthoughit’ssafetostep out into the sun after atorrid rain. And we recover

fast, using our wits and willto stay together and rebuildourhome.I walk into a quiet house.

One of the kids has cleaneduptheglass,andthey’rebothsleeping toe-to-toe on thecouch. My heart swells as Ikiss their cheeks good night,andwhisperinNorman’sear:“You’re a goodbigbrother.”I rise and stand therewatching them . . . then the

tears stream down my face.Not for myself but for howpowerless we are over whatwill happen next. After aminute I secure the frontandback doors then head to thebathroom to try and soakawaymypain.

4

BreakingPact

November1980

THENEXTMORNINGisthefifthof November, four days

before my fourteenthbirthday.Igetthekidsupandreadyforschoolandputthemon the bus. In the house Iclosethefrontdoor,knowingthat,sooneror later,I’llhaveto attempt to face myself inthefull-lengthmirror.BecauseIgrewsothinover

the summer, the marks fromthis beating have taken ondimensions I’ve neverwitnessed. They’re so large

anddiscoloredthattheycovermy entire body like a singlemass of blue, black, and red.Insomeplaces themarksareso grotesque that it’s asthoughthebarrierofmyskinhascollapsedandmy insidesarepracticallyexposed.I ride the late bus to

Centereach High School,keeping my hair down so itcoversmyface.Ittakesallofmy concentration to ignore

thestaresIgetfromtheotherstudents. A long-sleevedsweatshirt covers my armsand back. After secondperiod,Mr.Brown,mysocialstudies teacher, pulls measide.“Now, Regina,” he says,

tryingtoholdmyeyeswhileIstare at my shoes. “I don’twanttohavetoaskyouaboutyour personal life—that’sbetweenyouandyourfamily.

You flunked the last testthough, and unless somemiraclehappensbetweennowand the quarter-end exam,I’mgoingtohavetofailyou.So whatever’s going on, ithastostop.”I continue staring at the

floor.He softens his voice. “If

you tell me where all thesemarks came from, there’s achance I can give you a

passinggrade.”Mr. Brown is bigger than

my mother but not at allthreatening. He keeps hishand resting softly on myarm, as though he thinks Imight run. But I can’t tellhim.When I finally raisemyheadtolookathim,heblinksto suppress a flinch. “I’mfine,” I mumble. “I can’t belateformynextclass.”Then,Ibolt.

When I arrive home fromschool that afternoon, there’sacar Idon’t recognize in thedriveway. The front door ishangingwideopen.Ohno!A social worker is rooting

through the kitchen cabinetsanddrawers.She’syoungandblond,wearingkhakisandnomakeup.Herfaceholdsaflatexpression: She’s definitelyon a mission. When shenoticesme,shestops,openly

looking at the bruises onmyface.Icanseeshe’stryingtocontrol her expression whenshe introduces herself.“Regina,”shesays.“I’mMs.Davis.” She motions for metoletherlookatmyarmsandgasps as she pushes up mysleeves. “Your school calledmy office today. I need toknowwhathappened.”My first thought is to give

her what’s become my

natural reaction when I’mconfrontedwithhowwelive:I lie. I lie for us. I say, “Mysisters and I wereroughhousing,” or “I fell outofthetreeIwasclimbing,”or“Ifelloffofmyfriend’sbikeonto the gravel.” I know if Itellher the truth,we’ll allbeseparated. “I fell down thebasement stairs holding aniron,” I tell her. My toeswiggle inside my shoes,

embarrassedtolooksoawfulwhile she looks sowholesomeandpretty.She looks at me crossly,

thencomesatmeandliftsupmy sweatshirt. I don’t flinchor fight her—it will onlymakethepainworse.There’sheartbreak in her face whenshe looks up from my ribs.“C’mon, Regina,” she says.“Make this the last time thatyou fell down the stairs, or

intoastove,oroutofatree.Ireadyourfile,honey.Youarealmost fourteen! You can bein control soon—you knowwhatthatmeans,don’tyou?”I know. It means I could

leave my motherpermanently. I’ve heard thismany times before from mysocial workers, truantofficers,guidancecounselors,and other street kids. Whenyou turn fourteen, you reach

theageofreason.Thatmeansyou can choose whether youwant to stay with yourbiological parents or chooseto emancipate yourself andbecomeawardofthestate.IfI opted to become award ofthe state, my mother wouldno longer have any controlovermydecisionsorme.All of them—the

counselors, the officers, thesocialworkers—seemedwell

intentioned at first, asking ifourmother hit us; if she fedus. They’d give theimpression of wanting tohelp, but then they’d talk toCookie,who seemed to havea sixth sense about thesethings and usually returnedhome when we were indanger of being taken away.It wasn’t hard for her toconvince them that webrought the bruises on

ourselves:Forsocialservices,it’s easier to keep childrenwith their mother than dealwith all the logistics,paperwork, and drama ofputting kids in foster homes.And then the cycle wouldstart all over again: Cookiewould move us into adifferent house, using a newcombination of names todelay the state in tracking usdown, and things would be

reallybadforawhile.“Regina, she’ll kill you if

you stay here. Your siblingsaren’t safe, either.” Shepauses, watching me, thenleans over and puts her armsonthecounter.“Ifyoutellmeeverything, we can get youaway. She will do to themwhatshehasdonetoyou.Doyou want Rosie to look likeyou in a few years, to feellike you feel?You owe it to

them to tell the truth. Stoplying for their sakes and tellmewhat has been happeninghere.”“What if I did tell you?

What would happen to thekids?”“They’ll be taken away

fromyourmotherandgotoafosterhome,too,”shesays.“Ipromiseyoutheywillbekeptsafe.”Before I can think twice, I

givein.WithoutCamillehereto run interference, and now,faced with the idea that mysilence could put my littlebrother and sister in danger,Ms. Davis’s invitation tofinally free us from this hellis too tempting to resist anylonger.ThroughcalmbreathsItell

her that the kids cannot goback with our mother. “Youneed topromiseme that they

willbesafe,nomatterwhat.”And then, before I can stopmyself, I’m talking andtalking and I can’t shut up.The stress and exhaustion ofthe past two years ofparenting the kids on myown; the cars, the shelters,and the struggle . . . theybreak me. It’s dusk by thetimeI’mfinishedspilling thetruth. I don’t leave anythingout.

Thekidsarrive justasMs.Davis is getting ready toleave. Norman eyes hertimidly as she places a dimeinmy hand so I canmake acallonthepayphone.“Norm,can you hold down the fortforaminute?”HewatchesMs.Davisexit,

stilltentative.“Yeah.”Iwalk to the corner phone

boothanddialKathy’shouse.“Cookie was about to beat

RosieandIsteppedin,”ItellCamille.“Whywouldshelayahand

onRosie?”“Because she accidentally

droppedaglass,rightnext towhereCookiewassleeping.Icouldn’t hide the marks andmy teacher must have calledsocialservices.”“Socialservicescame?”“The social worker was

standinginthekitchenwhenI

gothome!”“Youdidn’ttell,didyou?”“Camille—”“Gi,didyoutell?”“You weren’t here and I

couldn’t let Cookie hurtthem!”“I’ll be there in ten

minutes.”Cookie’s beating didn’t

make me cry, but losingCamille’sfaithinmehas.Onthewalkbacktothehouse,it

sinksin:Thisdidnotsavemyfamily. Instead, I haveviolated a pact among oursiblings by telling the truth.I’ve separated us again, andworse, I have exposedNormanandRosienotonlytoour mother, should shesucceed ingetting thembackfrom foster care, but towhomever they’ll find in thehomethey’resentto.I’m overwhelmed with

guilt. When Camille showsup, we stand on the porchfacing eachother.Tears startflowing until I shake.Becauseofme,noneofusaresafe now. Rosie won’tsurvive if I’m not there toprotecther;she’llbetheonly“little slut” and “whore”Cookie will have left. Shedoesn’tstandachance.The thoughtmakesme cry

harder, hatingmyself formy

selfishnessthatwillmakemybaby sister completelyvulnerable.CamilleandIputour arms around each other,both sobbing. “Do you thinkthere’s any way for me totakeitback?”She shakes her head. Says

nothing. We both knowthere’s no going back. I’vesaidtoomuch.ThatnightIdonotsleep.I

go to the couchwhereRosie

sleeps and watch herbreathing. I cuddle and kissand pray for her all night,knowing as daylight pushesinto the room that I’vecrushed any chance of herbeingprotected.Camille and I put the kids

on the early bus in time forthe school’s free breakfast. Itake the late bus. Camilletakes her post at home,waitingfortheinevitable.

It takes every ounce ofconcentration for me to getthrough school. I don’t eatmyfreelunch,nordoInoticewhom I’ve sat next to in thecafeteria.Ipaynoattentioninclass, especially Mr.Brown’s, where I keep myhead down and pretend towrite in my notebook. Iwonderifhewastheonewhosent social services to thehouse, and if they told him

whatIsaid.Threecarsfillthedriveway

whenIreachhome:twograysedans that I knowbelong tosocial services; in each, aman sits waiting behind thewheel.Ihurryintothehouse.The third car is a familiarorangerustbox.Thefrontdoorofthehouse

is standing open, and fromthe upstairs I hear the creakof a closet door followed by

theslamofanemptydrawer.Mysiblingsarepacking.In the kitchen I find Ms.

Davis and another womanwith my mother. Cookiedoesn’t even look in mydirection.“Whydon’tyougoupstairsandpackyourstuff,”she says in a sickeninglysingsongvoice.Thisistheactshealwaysputsoninfrontofthe social workers. I raceupstairs, aware of what’s

abouttotakeplace.IfindCamilleinmyroom.

When our eyes lock, I breakagain into angry tears.Working fast, I throw myclothes and two Jesusfigurines in the green HeftybagthatIkeepundermybed.ThenIsitonthebedwithmysiblings. I embrace Rosie,who’s also sobbing. “It willbe okay, baby, I promise.We’ll take care of you.”

Camille consoles Normanthroughhisheavingtears.When the four of us come

downstairs with ourbelongings, the socialworkersleadusoutside.Theyplace Norman and Rosie inone car, Camille and me inanother. A social worker’scheap guarantee was all ittook to lose mia bambina—my baby. What kind of bigsistergivesinsoeasily?

As they start the cars andprepare to pull away,Cookielumbers down the steps,pushing her hair back fromherface.She’sbreathlessandpale, attempting to maintainherversionofcomposure.Atthe bottom of the steps, shehoarselycallsafterus:“Don’tworry, kids, I’ll get youback!” Other mothers whosechildren are being rippedfrom their homes might

proclaim such a promisebecause they love their kidsbut I know: That’s notCookie.“I’ll get you back!”she’s screaming through thecar window, but not becauseshe’s lost what matters mosttoher. It’sbecause she’s losthermealticket.Norman and Rosie’s car

pulls out first. Cookie runstoward our car and standsstaringthroughthebackdoor

ofthedriver’ssidewheretheonly thing that protectsCamilleandmefromherisalocked car door. Lookingdirectly atme she yells: “I’llgetyouback!”“No,” I mouth to her

through the glass. “No youwon’t.”Andthenwe’regone.

5

FailuretoThrive

November 1980; 1971 to1974

MS. DAVIS AND the driver

havesetthemoodwithastiffsilence from the front seatofthe car.Aquick glance fromCamilleputsmemoreatease,but when I turn to look outthe window again, the treesand houses grow fast out offocus as tears collect in myeyes and drop down mycheeks. Social workersusually have a sixth sense;almost the ability to heartears fall . . . but when Ms.

Davis keeps her eyes lockedon the road in front of us, Iknow she realizes that we’retoooldforthe“Thisisallforthebest”speech.Atthispointin our foster care career, weknowit’snot.We’reseparatedagain,and

it’sbecauseofme.BecauseItold.Untilnow,we’veonlyever

been put in foster care forslips—for committing tiny

errors that gave away oursituation. By now, Norm,Rosie,andIhavelearnedthatwe’re stronger together thanapart. We’ve sharpened ourinstincts and it’s kept ustogether for six solid years,from the time I was in thirdgrade.When Iusemysleeveto wipe my eyes and noseswiftly and in silence,Camille reaches across theseat andgently setsherhand

on my shoulder. We bothunderstandthatouryearsasafamily will probably endtoday.Asthedrivermakesaright

offMiddleCountryRoad,

Ms.Davisfinallyturnstofaceus.“You’llbeatthisnextplacementfortwoweeks,”shesays,“untilwefigureoutanotherhomeforyouboth.”Foryouboth.DoesthatmeanCamilleandImight

gettostaytogetherforgood?Ms.Davisexplainsthatthistemporaryfosterfamilyhashadkidscomingandgoingformorethantwentyyears,andthey’vedecidednottofosterchildrenpermanently

anymore.Butwhentheyheardwewereteenagerswholivedinthesameschooldistrictthattheydid,theyagreedtotakeusuntilsocialservicesfoundusanewhome.Ipropmyelbowagainstthecar

window,partlytoblockmyearfromMs.Davis’snexttopic.Throughhalfamuffle,Ihearhersay:

“This family didn’t wantyoungchildren.”Why would she say that?

As if it’s not excruciatingenough to thinkofRosieand

Norm on their own—mostlikely holding each other,sobbing inconsolably, theireyesfocusedinterrorout thecar windows, completelyunsure of what kind ofquestions to even ask thesocialworkers.WhatdidIjustdo?Withintenstiflingminutes,

wepullintothedrivewayofatidy, red ranch house sittingon a manicured corner

property. Camille nudgesmeout of the backseat and weedge around to the trunk tounload our Hefty bags. Wefollow Ms. Davis to theporch,keepingoureyestothegroundall thewhile.When Ilookuptothestoop,I’mmetby the gaze of a blue-eyed,blond-haired lady, veryproperandpetite.Sheappearsto be near fifty. Her forcedsmile turns to a look of

horror, then a gasp escapesfrom her mouth. I supposethisisthefirsttimeshe’severmet a walking whiteEthiopian with cuts andbruisescoveringherface.Ms. Davis gestures for

Camilleandmetostandnextto her. “Girls, this is AddiePeterman.You’rewelcometocall herAuntAddie.” I stareatthecleancuffatthebottomof Addie’s pants, at her

shockingly white Kedssneakers. It takes allmywillto stop from blurting, “Whydon’t we call you what youaretous:Mrs.Rent-a-Kid.”Ialways hate this FosterMommyDearestbaloney.Addieopensthefrontdoor,

a wreath and a lace curtainhangingfromitswindow.Sheleads us inside and I gawkaround the living room.“Don’t touch anything,”

Camille whispers. As far asfosterhomesgo,thisisoneofthenicestwe’veseen.Addie looks down at our

feet and I understand this ispolite-lady code for Pleasetake off your shoes. My feetleave imprints across thefresh-vacuumed nap of hercarpeting.Addie’s décor is aquintessential 1970shousewife motif of ginghamfabrics and lace; scalloped

edges and spindle legs;braided rugs and silk floralarrangements. She leads usdown thehall, suggesting forCamille to set down her bagwhile she shows us into myroom.I restmy shins against the

Hefty bag, taking it all in.Addie’s generosity with herspace does not melt mynumbness to her home, nordoesherdomesticperfection.

What’sthepoint?I’llonlybehere two weeks. A floralwallpaper covers the walls,which are lined withbookshelvesandasinglebed(that includesbothamattressand a box spring), a dresseranda closet.Next to thebedis a white vanity desk thatmakes me imagine sittingdown with a stack of booksand some homework, untilmy eyes scan up to the huge

mirrorthat’shangingoverit:On second thought, why

don’tIavoidmirrorsfornow.There’s also a window—

complete with a lock andactual shutters, the woodenaccordion kind, for privacy.When Addie leads us intoCamille’s room, we find herspace is just as CottageCountry–esque asmine, onlya little bigger. I raise myeyebrows at my sister.Nice,

but let’s not get toocomfortable.After Ms. Davis tells us

she’s posted her number onthe pad hanging next to theyellow wall phone in thekitchen,Addie instructsus tomake ourselves at homewhile she prepares dinner. Ihead back into my bedroomand plopmy garbage bag ontop of the flowered quiltbefore it dawns on me that

my luggage will dirty thebedding.Itakeinthedelicacyof the patchwork comforter,along with the matchingpillowcase covering a cushypillow.IfAddiethinksshe’sbeing

generous with all thesedrawersand thecloset space,I’d like to inform her howridiculous it feels to befinished unpacking in twosmallarmloads.Inthebottom

of my bag I find my otherthree possessions: One is apictureofthefiveofuswhenRosie was just a baby, inwhich we’re all sportingmatching T-shirts from LakeHavasu, Arizona. Then therearemytwoJesusstatues.Thefirst is a plastic Baby Jesusfrom a Nativity scene. TheotheristhetranslucentLuciteheadoftheadultJesusonthecross.IholdbothmyJesuses

and tap my finger againstthem, pondering whichsurface is the most polishedfor their display. I turnwhenAddie walks in and nodstoward my hand. “There’s achurch two blocks away, ifyou’d like to go andobserve,”shetellsme.“Observewhat?”“Your religion,” she says.

“You’reCatholic,Itakeit?”I glance down at my

Jesuses.“Notsure.Idon’tgotochurch.”She eyesmy figurines and

looks back at me, confused.Now I get it. I jump in toclarify my position on Godand religion for this cluelesswoman.“If therewasaGod,he wouldn’t let bad thingshappentolittlekids.”Againherfacemovesfrom

softness to a look of horror.“Regina,Goddoesnotdobad

things to little kids—badpeopledo!”We look at each other in

silence for amoment. I raisemyeyebrows,waitingforherto dare saymore, before sheturns on her heels and huffsdownthehall.I’m strategizing the

moment I can put Addie inher place when my stomachrumbles from the smells ofmelted cheese and toast

grilled in butter. Camillecomes to my room and saysit’s time for dinner. “YouthinkIcanbringitinhere?”Iaskher.“Ialreadyasked,”shesays.

“She wants us to eat in thekitchen.”Addie’s husband, Pete, is

seated with his back to thewall, facing the room whileAddie buzzes around thekitchen,placingplateson the

table. We join Addie, Pete,and their foster son, Danny,who’s clearly annoyed we’rehere.It’snoaccident that theseat I scoot into is the onethat’sclosesttothefrontdoor—anybody pushes mybuttons, I’m outta here! Asshe sends the bowl ofsteamed broccoli around thetable,Addiefillsusinonthehouse rules. “Regina, yourcurfew is seven thirty every

night,” she announces. Thatsounds fine—besides thelibrary, where else would Igo?Then she adds, “Andwedon’tapproveofyourhavinganyboysinthehouse.”“Boys?” I laugh. “Look at

me, I’m less lovable than apunching bag. Besides,” Imumble,“I’monlythirteen.”Addie freezes and looks at

me.Insilence,Peteplaceshiswrists on the table. “That

doesn’t matter,” Addie says.“You’llturnfourteeninthreedays,andtherulehereisthatthere’snodatinguntilyou’resixteen. We’ve had that ruleinplaceforallourfosterkidsand our three daughters, andit’s worked out very well.”Then she looks at Camille.“We know you have aboyfriend.”Camille places her fork

quietly on her plate, as

though she’s been caughtsliding their good silver intoherpockets.“Tellhimthereisacurfew

of nine o’clock for you, andhehastocometothedoortopick you up and drop youoff. No horn-honking in thisneighborhood.”Ouch.OneforAddie.Thenshegoesontodiscuss

food distribution. “I’m onWeight Watchers,” she says,

“so please, hands off thedietetic food.” Camille and Ilook at her blankly: Has sheseen the size of our waists?We nod. No problem.We’reprobably the only twoteenagers on all of LongIsland who aren’t trying toloseweight.“And since there will

always be someone at home,you won’t need a set ofkeys.” I nudgemy knee into

Camille under the table, andshenudgesbackhard:Hereitis! The key conversation.Foster kids never, ever getkeys. The phrase There willalwaysbesomeoneathomeisto be translated as BeingRent-a-Kids, you are guiltyuntilproveninnocent,andweassume that almost certainlyyou are thieves who cannotbe trusted. Addie tells us ifthere’severnoonehome,the

porchisasafeplaceforustowait. It’s a really prettyporch, too, I want to gushinsincerely, but I stuff mygrilledcheese intomymouthinstead.Addietellsusshehasthree

grown daughters, Paula,Prudence, and Penny. I keepfilling my face with grilledcheese,findingithilariousalltheir initialsareP.P.Twoofthem clean houses in a

business with Addie everymorning and the third is anurse. They’re all married,and they’ve all decoratedtheirhomesjustlikeAddie’s.As she says this, it’s clearshe’s restrainingherself frombeaming.She tells us how she and

Pete met when they wereteenagers and married rightout of high school. Pete’sframeisshortandstrong,and

he’s made a career as acontractor and carpenter—infact,Addie says, he built thevery house we’re sitting in.This reminds her of theremaining house rules.Whatever Pete wants towatch on TV is what we allhave towatch.Who cares? Iwant to say. I’ll watchanything on cable. We haveto clean our own rooms anddoourownlaundry,whichis

no bother tome. “Youmeanyou have a washingmachine?”Iask.Addie looks at Pete and

folds her hands in her lap.“Yes,dear.Andadryer,too.”“Thenwhydon’twejustdo

all your laundry while we’reat it?” I ask her, lookingbetween the two of them.“It’snoproblem.”She dabs the sides of her

mouthwithherpapernapkin.

“Don’t you worry about ourlaundry—just know thewasheranddryerareyourstouseanytimethey’refree.”Addie informs us that she

andPetehadaskedtoseeourreport cards before they tookusin.CamilleandItransactapuzzled amusement: If ourmost recent grades wereacceptable,whatkindofkidshavetheyturneddown?ThenCamillehelpsclearthedishes

while I carry the leftoverbroccoli to the counter. Westand in the doorway of thekitchen and thank them forletting us stay there a fewnights, before heading intoCamille’s room where weshutthedoorand,sittingarmto arm, speak in whispers.“You want to sleep in heretonight?”Camilleasksme.I nod, getting ready to cry

again.“Yes.”

We both stare at theceiling, knowing thatsomewhere on this island,Norman and Rosie areprobably doing the samething.We wake early the next

morning and enter thebathroom together, mindfulnottohogitfromDannyandthePetermans.Addie’sleftuseachatoothbrush—“Youcanhave the purple one!” I tell

Camille. “I’ll take theorange.” I squeeze a longstrip of toothpaste froma fattubeonto thebristles; it feelslikeawildindulgence.“Don’t use so much, or

they’lltakeitaway!”Camillesays. I smile at her with amouthfulofmintyfoam.When we walk out to the

kitchen, looking for coffee—ahabitIdevelopedtogetmethroughlow-energymornings

in junior high, and which,accordingtolastnight’srules,is not off limits—we findAddie in the kitchen, stirringher own mug. “You’rewelcometocoffee,girls,”shetells us, pointing to thecupboard.“Wow,” I say, finding all

the shelves in the cupboardstacked with dozens ofMickey Mouse mugs.“You’re big fans ofMickey,

huh?”“Well, sure we are, we

don’tdriveourRVtoDisneyWorld every year to seenature!” She takes a sip ofcoffee and gets that gravelookonherfaceagain.“Girls,you should know, you’ll bestaying home from schooltoday.”Instantly,mystomachtightens—my face must betooscaryfor the littlekidsattheir neighborhood bus stop.

ButAddiegoesontoexplainthat, because it’s Friday andthey want to keep our casemoving into next week, Ms.Davis is on her way over tohelp us write ouremancipationaffidavit.“Canwecall our sister?” I

askher.“Rightnow?”“Yeah. She remembers a

lotof the stuff thathappenedto us. If the social worker’s

coming to get our story, weneedoursisterCherie.”Addierestsherarmagainst

the kitchen door frame andtells us it’s fine, as long asit’s a local call. For us, akitchen telephonehangingonthewallisusuallyjustagoodweapon waiting to bedismounted to help smashcockroaches and chase othervermin around the kitchen.“My only request is that

before you use the phone,please ask first,” she says.“We may be expecting callsandjustneedtokeepthelinefree.”Addie hands me the

receiver and I approach thebase to poke my fingersthroughtherotaryholes.Eachspin of the dial adds to mynervousnessbecauseIknowIhavetotellCheriewhatIdid.As I fill her in on what’s

happened over the past fewdays, I can hear baby A.J.murmuring under her chin.“The social worker says themoredetails I give, themorelikely the judge willemancipate me and takeCookie’s guardianship of thekids away.Can you get overhere?”I wait for her to respond

with annoyance, telling meshe has a two-month-old to

worry about and her in-lawswill give her a hard timeabout watching him, butinstead she says, “Hold on.Give me the address.” Bynine thirty she’s on the frontporch, introducing herself toAddie.Seehowstablemybigsister’s life is? I want to askAddie.Isn’tshegreat?Addieputsonanotherpotofcoffeeand some store-brand Oreoson a plate. I fill myself with

sugar and caffeine, thrilledthat Cherie and Addie arehitting it off with all thismother-to-mother talk. If wewere here for any reasonotherthantheaffidavit,I’dbedisappointedtoseethesocialworker arrive and interruptourbreakfastdate.On the table between my

elbows, Ms. Davis placespages and pages of linedpaper with carbon sheets in

between each page. Sheexplainsthattherewillbetwocopies of my affidavit—onefor my file and one for thejudge. She encourages us tostartattheverybeginning,asfarbackaswecanrecall.Sheinstructsmewhat towrite intheveryfirstparagraphoftheaffidavitI, Regina Marie

Calcaterra,doswearthattheinformationprovidedisatrue

description of my time withmy mother, Camille DianeCalcaterra. The truthfulnessof this affidavit is supportedby my older sisters Cherieand Camille. Dated,November1980.ThenMs.Davistellsusthe

restoftheaffidavitwillbeinour own words. At first wesearchoneanother’sfacesformemoriesanddetails . . .butitdoesn’ttakelongbeforeit’s

all flowing so fast that mypen can barely keep up withourwords.

July4,1971Fouryearsold

MAMAJUSTGAVEuseachourown watermelon slice andsentusouttothepicnictable,promising she’ll bringsparklers when we go intotown to watch the Fourth ofJuly parade. I take my

watermelon under theredwood picnic table to seehowmanyantsIcanattracttoour picnic. Mama alwaysteasesme,sayingI’dprefertolive in a mud-pie mountainwith ants, beetles, crickets,and lightning bugs as myneighbors over living withclean knees and fingers anyday. Four white-sandled feet—Cherie’s and Camille’s—swing in my direction from

the bench above. All theirtalkabout thisnewmomandanewhomedistractsmefrommyantcollecting.“If theyadopther, thenwe

won’t see her ever again,”Camillesays.“They can’t adopt her,”

Cherie says, “because Momwon’t let them. Either way,it’sbadforallofus.”“How can Mom say what

happens to Regina? Regina

doesn’tevenknowMom.”“Iknow,Camille.”“Mrs. G is her mom. I

mean, how do you take ababy away from the personshe thinks is her mom? SheevencallsMrs.G‘Mama.’”“Camille,knockitoff.Mrs.

G is not her mom. AndRegina’s not a baby—shestartskindergartenthisyear.”“She shouldn’t even be in

kindergarten yet, she’s only

four!”“Well,it’sthatorshestays

home with Mom all day!”Cheriesays.“It’ssaferforhertobeat school!Stoparguingwith me, wouldya? Reginabelongs with us.” Cheriepauses from all her insistingtosigh.“IwishMrs.Gwouldadopt all of us,” she says. “Iwishwecouldstayhere.”“Metoo,”saysCamille.“Metoo,metoo!”

Fromabove,mytwosisterslaughathowI’vechimedintothe conversation. Cherie’snicknamed both Camille andme “Me Too” becauseeverything our older sistersays,weyoungersistersagreewith.“Youlearned‘MeToo’at theHappyHouse,”Cheriesays, leaning down andbrushing dirt off my face.“Do you remember theHappyHouse?”

I shake my head. “What’stheHappyHouse?”For as long as I can

remember, I’ve lived withMama, Papa, and theirteenage daughter, Susan. Ilovemymamaandpapa,butI spend every minute I canaround Susan. She remindsmeof aprincess inher long,flowery dresses. I like tosnuggle up with Susan andplay with her silky light

brown hair or let my tinyfingersgettangledinherlongnecklaces of leather andwood.Cherie picks me up. She

and Camille take my hands,andwewalk to the house tofind Mama. “This is theHappyHouse,”ItellCherie.“No,Gi, this is theBubble

House.”“Huh?”When we walk inside,

Mama and Susan are cryinginthekitchen.“Whyyoucry?”“You’re going to go live

with your new mom now,”Susansaysthroughhertears.My head tilts with

confusion. “I have a mama. . .youmeanIhaveanothermama?”“You have two mamas.

And a little brother, too!”Mamasays.

“His name is Norman,”Cheriesays.I sort of remember calling

someone else Mommybecauseshewantedmetocallher that. I visited her houselastChristmas.Mamadressedme like a princess in acrimson velvet dress, patent-leathershoes,andcleanwhitestockings. Susan called theother mommy my ChristmasMama,becauseshewantedto

give us Christmas presents.ButIdon’tknowwhyIhaveto see her now—you don’tget gifts for the Fourth ofJuly. “Is it ChristmasMama?”Theyallstartlaughinguntil

it seems like Mama mightstarttocry.“Yes,honey,”shesays. “It’s your ChristmasMama.”I smile around at all of

them. “I get Christmas

presents?”Susan andMama pack for

my visit with ChristmasMama. Iwonderwhy I needso many clothes? As Mamatucksstacksoffoldedlaundryin a suitcase, she explainsthat, even though it’ssummer, we need to packwarmclothes,too.“Why?”“Just incaseyoustaywith

ChristmasMama.”

“UntilChristmas?”Mama stays quiet a

moment.“Yes.”I move in to help them

pack my bag of clothes, mydollsandstuffedanimals,andmytoyBabyJesus,restinginapileofplastichay.In the car, Cherie and

Camille are silent. I chataway, bubbling over aboutChristmasMama and hopingthere will be new toys, baby

dolls, and maybe even anEasy-BakeKitchen soMamaandSusancanshowmehowto bakewhen Papa comes topick me up from ChristmasMama’shouse.Papa slows the car, then

pullsintoalonelybuildinginthe middle of a three-roadintersection. “This is it?” hebursts. “This is where she’llhavethemliving?”Susan whispers in a way

that confusesme evenmore.“This is only a Christmasvisit,Dad,remember?”Papa snaps back. “Enough

with the fairy-tale talk,Susan.” His voice is startingto sound like he’s choking,likeafrog.“She’llfigureoutwhat’s happening as soon asweleave.”“Noleave,”Isay.Everyoneclimbsoutofthe

car, leaving Camille, Cherie,

andme in thebackseatwhilethey unpack the trunk. Iwatch closely as Papa walksin the front door of thebuilding and comes back outwithhisfaceallred.Hisneckis bulging. He looks scary.Then he yells. “This is agoddamn glue factory!” hesays.I’veneverseenPapasomad. “The apartment . . . isupstairs . . . fromagoddamngluefactory!”

“Dad,shhh—”“She couldn’t have found

an apartment in a normalcomplex? She had to pick adamn glue factory in themiddleofallthistraffic?”He tucks in his shirt like

he’stryingtocalmdown,andhe directs Mama and Susanwithourluggageupthesteps.Thenhewalks us to the sidedoor. Papa stoops down andwraps Cherie and Camille in

eacharm.Hehugsthemwithall his might, until he’scrying, and he collectshimself to stand over them.“Staystrongand takecareofone another,” he says.“Especially Regina. Sheneeds her big sisters nowmore than ever.” Then heturns tome, scoopingme upoffthegroundandlettingmenuzzle my head in his neckandshoulders.

“Papa,whydoyoulooksosad?”“You know you’ll always

bemyprincess,right?”“I know,Papa,” I tell him,

cupping my hand around hisneck.“Andyou’remyking.”He squeezesme against him,and Mama and Susan turntheir facesaway.Papagentlyplaces me next to my sistersand tellsMamaandSusan inhisfroggyvoicethathecan’t

go upstairs and he’ll bewaitinginthecar.Mamaclearsherthroatand

takes Cherie’s hand, thenCamille’s. The three of themnavigate the narrow staircasetogether, their shoes on thehollow steps the only noise.Susan holds on to my righthand, and I hold thewoodenbanister with the left. “Hey,Susan,watch!”Idowhatshe,Cherie, and Camille have

taught me to do whenever Iget scared or sad—I count.“Onestep,twosteps...”WhenI reach theplatform,

IlookupatSusan.Whyisn’tanyone skipping or smiling,orexcitedatall?Thenadooropens. Christmas Mama isstandingthere.She’s thin, and her very

black hair is in a tightponytail.Her eyes have a lotofmakeuplikealadyonTV.

Her dress is long and blackwith a belt around the waistand no sleeves, and when Ilook at her feet, she has onsandleswithalittleheel.Sheseems pretty, but somethingabout her is spooky, too. Atall, skinny man pops upbehindher.Behindhimwalksabig,gray,hairydog. IhidebehindCamille. The dog sitsnexttotheman.Cherie and Camille allow

Christmas Mama to hugthem. “Welcome home,girls,”ChristmasMamasays.Then she looks at me andpoints into thekitchenpast ayellow Formica table withaluminum legs. She says,“Regina, Iamyourmother. Ilove you, and here is a BigWheel.”ABigWheel?Mymother?IholdSusan’shandcloser.

Nobody here seems happy,andeveryoneiswatchingme.Like a robot on a cartoon,ChristmasMamastandstheresmiling,blinking,waiting forme to say something. Susanleans down and whispers,“Say thank you, Pumpkin.Lookatyourpresent.”I look at the Big Wheel

bike and then down towardthe floor. I startwhimpering,then it’s a full-fledged cry

into Susan’s flowing skirt.“But I don’t want it,” I say.“It’s not Christmas.” Mywhimpers continue untilSusan grasps me tighter.Finally, I turn towardChristmas Mama. I’m afraidtolookathersoIdon’t,butItell her through my tears,“Thank you for my BigWheelpresent.”Mamasays it’s time togo.

She shakes Christmas

Mama’shandandtellsher totake care of her little gifts.Afterweallgetfastbighugsfrom Mama and Susan, theyhurry down the stairs anddisappear.This visit feels different

thantheotherChristmasvisitdid. IwantMama andSusanback, and I start to yell forthem. Christmas Mamashushesmeand takesus intoa room with two little beds.

Mycries turn into a piercingwail. “Mama! Mama!Mama!”Then it lands on my right

cheek: a sharp front-handedslap. My head jerks towardmy left shoulderbut is joltedbackwith a backhanded slaptomy left cheek that knocksme to the floor. “Stopcryingor else I’ll really give yousomething to cry about, youlittle bitch!” she howls. “I’m

Mom. You got that? I’mMom.”No,no,no.IlookatCherie

and Camille. “This is ourmom,” Cherie tells me. Shelookssad.“Listen to your big sister,

you little whore. She’s right.Youcamefromme,seethis?From this belly. I’m yourmom.”No.No.

No.Idon’twantherformymom.“IwantPapa.”“Oh, you want your

father?” Christmas Mamasays. “Well, he didn’t wantyou, and it’snowonder, yougoddamn littlewaste of skin.And he didn’t want me,either, so you just shut thefuckupaboutanypapa.Yougot that?Youdonotwant toget me started on that man,the arrogant, self-absorbed

pieceofshit.”I almost cry again but

Camillerunsandputsherarmaround my shoulders.Christmas Mama commandsher and Cherie to go outsideand bring up all our stuff.“I’ll deal with this bastard,”she says. She looks mad atme,andIwanttocryagain.Ihaven’t done anything bad.MamaandSusanneveryelledatmethisway.

CherieandCamillestandinthe door, staringwith fear intheir eyes. “You two go,goddammit!” she screams.When they run for the stairs,ChristmasMamatellsmethatshewishes Iwasdead, that Ishouldhaveneverbeenborn.Then she bends over andgrabs my right arm to yankme upright. She slaps bothmy cheeks again, then slamsthe door and locks it behind

her.I’mlockedinthatroomfor

days. I’m only allowed outforpotty,baths,andtoeat.IfIstartcrying,mysisterscomerunning in and beg me tostop. They lead me incounting. We count. Theyleave. I sleep. I wake, and Isit there bored. I count. Icount.Icry.Theycomeback.Icount.The room is hot, so I take

myclothes off to try andgetcool.Iclimbontopofoneofthebedsandopenthesecond-floor window, waiting for abreeze. Outside that windowis a view of a big buildingwith noisy red trucks thatcome out. Every afternoonthere’s a loud, scary alarmthatcomesfromabigyellowhornontopofthebuilding.Istickmyheadoutthewindowand look for someone to

rescue me. When it’s clearthat no one’s coming, I restmychininmyhandsandseewhat else is around: lots ofparked cars along the tarreddrivewaydownstairs,a forestacross the street, a trafficlight, and lots of cars withfamilies driving by. I countthe cars parked downstairs,and the ones driving by, andthe shiny red fire frucks—aword Cherie and Camille

taught me. I say it a lotbecauseeverytimeIdo,theylaugh until they fall on thefloor, and that makes melaugh.Christmas Mama finally

tells me I can come outsideandplaywithmyBigWheel,as long as I stop calling herChristmas Mama. “ForChrissakes, I told you! Justcall me Mom,” she says. Inod.

Together my sisters carrymy Big Wheel downstairs,where I can play on thesidewalk with cars whizzingby. I learn to stay quiet andjustcount,andthiswayIcanstay outside all the time.Whenitgetsreallyhot,Itakeoff all my clothes and climbback on my Big Wheel,ridingaroundinbigcirclestocreate a breeze to cool off.Thegluefactoryworkers run

out and wag their fingers,stretching their necks formymother or tellingme I’m tooyoung to play Lady Godiva.Then my sisters dash downthestairsandoutside,chasingafter me with my clothes intheirhands.But I guess I’ve shown

Mom how well I can takecare of myself because onedayshetellsmeI’mgoingtolive in Baby Norman’s

bedroom.Shesaysshe’stiredfrom all thework she has todo with three messy girlsliving in her house now, andsomeoneneedstotakecareofher little prince. Mom tellsme I’ll need to cleanNorman’s diaper and givehimbathsandteachhimhowto go potty like I learned. Ifhe goes in his diaper it’smyfault, so Imakesurehe livesonthepotty.Whenhestands

upandtriestorunawaywithno pants on, I chase himdown the hall and lure himback with the toysMom gothim at the thrift shop. Momteachesmehow towash andwringouthisclothdiapersinthe tub. “You never know, Imight need them again,” shesays.Weallhavechores.Cherie

andCamillehavetocookanddo the dishes. I have to dust

and clean the bathroom. Allof us take turns caring forBabyNorman.At night, Mom’s husband,

also named Norman, comeshome and stumbles up thestairsinthedark.Ifhe’swithMomandthey’rehappy,theygo to sleep and the house isall quiet.But ifNormangetsmad, he beats Mom up, andthen we have to be really,reallygood.Ifwedon’tclean

the house or change LittleNorm’sdiaper the rightway,she beats us just like BigNormanbeatsher.Afterafewweeksheremy

sistersstopplayingwitheachother. They don’t even talkanymore, and nobody laughstogether.Ifdinner’snotreadyor a dish is still wet, Momwants to know whether it’sCherieorCamillewhoshouldget the beating. My sisters

point their fingers at eachother, and Mom stands withher hands on her hips,considering which one ofthem she’d like to hurt.Cherie andCamille don’t trytocheermeupanymore,andwhen I cry, they yell at me.“Shutup!”theysay.“Doyouwant Mom to beat youagain?” It’s every kid forherself, except for LittleNorman. Mom loves Little

Norman.This isn’t my family

anymore—they’re likestrange, scary ghosts. I usedto love Cherie and Camillemore than anyone in theworld, but in Mom’s housethey’re different people. I’dratherbebymyselfthanwiththem,sowhenMomandBigNorman are out one night, Idecide I don’t want to livewith all the sad people

anymore. I sneak out thedoor, down the thirty-sixsteps. I run across the streetand deep into the woods. Ihide.Istayhiding,evenwhenI hear the voices of Cherieand Camille calling out forme. Then Mom and BigNorman join them, and Iclose my eyes. I’m nevercoming out. They keepcalling and calling, but Iknowthey’llneverfindme.I

driftoff to sleepunderapileof leaves . . . until . . . do Ihear the sound of Susan’svoicecallingforme?“Little pumpkin! Fairy

princess!”Ihearher,againandagain.

I jump up. Susan’s come toget me to bring me home! Ijustknowit.Idashoutofthebrush and run toward hervoice, racing intoherarms. IhearCherieandCamilleyell,

“She was in the woods, wefoundher!”SusancarriesmebacktowardthestreetwhereIsee Papa’s car is parked . . .oh,Iknewthey’dcomebackforme!But she doesn’t stopat the car to put me inside.Instead she walks past it,carrying me toward the gluefactory.“No!”Iscream.She carries me into the

hallwayupthesteps,stoppingattheplatformwhereMomis

standing. “I’m so happyyou’re okay!” Mom says,smiling at Susan. “After anice bath I’ll give her someoatmeal and put her to bed.”She looks at me adoringlyand says, “You could havegottenattackedbyawilddog—orevenworse,hitbyacar,you silly girl.You scared allofus!”Susankissesmegood-bye, again, and walksdownstairs. I sob as she

closes the outside doorbehindher.Momstands therewith the

phony smile on her face.Then it turns mean. “Cherie,aretheygone?”Cherie stands by the

window and nods. I beg her,“No!” Doesn’t my big sisterknowwhatwillhappennow?InaninstantMomturnsher

energy toward me, grabbingmebymyhairandslamming

metotheground.Itfeelslikemyhairisbeingpulledallthewayoutofmyhead, and theskinonthetopofmyheadisbeingrippedopen.Itrytoputmyarms in frontofmyface,but she punches them downand grabs me around mywaist. Then she picksme upand throwsme into thewall,dentingit.AsIslidedowntothe floor and land on myback,shegrabsmyrightarm

and legand flipsmeoveronmy stomach. Then she kicksmy legs, back, and stomachuntil I’m all weak and myhead turns heavy. There’s aloud buzzing sound ringingfrommybrain.All I can seeis white, and I can’t fightback or move my bodyanymore.WhenIawake,I’mnaked.I

try to sit up, but my armscan’t cooperate. I raise my

headtoseewhyIcan’tmove,and I notice my arms areclasped together on my sideand tied to the radiator. Mylegsareboundtogetherabovemyanklesandtiedtotherailsunderneath my bed. When Isee this, I have to rest myneck.Mybrain feels like it’sswollen.Iclosemyeyes.I feel something cold.

When I openmy eyes again,Camille is holding a rag that

feels like it has ice inside.“Where’sSusan?”“Gi, Susan is only our

foster sister. We don’t livewithheranymore.”“Canwegoback?”“No.” Then she whispers,

“Not unless the police findout that Mom hurts us.”Camille tells me, still in awhisper,thatwhileMomwastying me up, she made mysisterstakeallmyclothesout

oftheroomsoIcouldn’trunaway again. “This is whathappens when you don’tlisten to Mom,” she says.Now I want to spit inCamille’sface,butIcan’tliftmyhead.After that, Big Norman

tellsMomthathavingababywasenough,hedidn’tbargainfor three little girls and theircrazybusiness, too.Hestartsspending more time away

from the house, and onemorningMom’scryingatthekitchen table, smoking acigarette,sayingBigNormanleftherforgood.She says she needs more

time to herself and I’ll startkindergarten in a few days,even though I’m only four.My birthday falls inNovember,afewdaysbeforethe cutoff, so she says I’llprobably be the youngest in

my class. She also tells methat I have to use her lastname when I go to schoolbecauseIdon’thaveadaddylike Norman does. “Becauseyou’reabastard,remember?”she says. “Yourdaddydidn’twant you.And I can’t blamehim. You’re a smug littlesnot, just like him.” Cherieoverhears Mom saying this,and later she tells me not toworryabouthaving the same

last name as Mom—Cheriehas the same one, too, andthat makes me feel better. Ilike sharing a name withCherie. “Cherie, where’s mydaddy?”Iaskher.Her only answer is this: “I

think he’s at the HappyHouse.”Where is the Happy

House?“Canwegothere?”“Well, maybe someday

when you’re bigger we can

finditagain.”I want to find the Happy

Housenow.Because my school day is

shorter than Cherie’s andCamille’s, I have to stay inthe school library untilthey’re ready to walk mehome. That seems okaybecause I flip through booksall afternoon, but it doesn’tworksowellwhenmysistersstart getting held up in

detention all the time. Theymiss school to take care ofNorman, and they’re notturning in their homework,and they said that it doesn’thelpthatthemanwho’sbeensneakinginourhouseatnightlikes Mom more than hiswife, who happens to be ateacher at our school. Whenthey’reindetentionandIstaytoo long at the library andcan’t watch Norman, my

sisters realize we’re all indanger of Mom’s beatings.They tell me I have to walkhomealone,aslongasIcrosswith the crossing guard andwalkalongthestorefronts.Thenextfall,Mommeetsa

new man named Vito, whoalwayswearsablacksuitanda thick belt around his waistthat we’re not allowed totouch.Vitoisnicetous,waynicer than Big Norman, but

the two friends who arealways with him are weird.They’re really quiet, andthey’re always wearingsunglasses—even at night. IknowthisbecausewhenVitosleeps in Mom’s room, hisfriends sit down in the carandwaitforhimsohealwayshasaridesomewhere.Mom begins to stay out

withVitoallthetime,andwelove to play house without

her. When the snow meltsfrom winter, we collect ourchange and bundle NormanupandtakealongwalktotheSaint James General Store,where we treat ourselves toapple,grape,andwatermelonswirled candy sticks andcandynecklaces.Then on the way to the

local King KullensupermarketwedropNormanoffathome,securinghimina

roombyhimselfsowecangoshopping with Mom’s foodstamps. Camille and Cherietaketwodifferentcarts,andIstand on the outside edge ofCherie’swithmy feet on thebottom rail, adding up thecost of the food items asthey’re placed in the cart tomake sure we have enoughfood stamps to cover ourgroceries. When we bag ourfood at the cash register,my

jobistohideanextrastashofbagsinourcart.ThenCherietellsthecashierwehavetogofind our sister, and shewheelsmebackintothestoreto look for Camille, whotakes the contentsofher cartand stuffs it all in my bagswhen no one’s looking.Camille’scartisalwaysbetter—she grabs Fluffernutter,peanut butter, frozen jellydonuts, and lots of cake

mixes. Then we zip out thedoorwithourstash.We prefer to be left alone.

WewatchSesameStreet,TheElectric Company, and TheFlintstones without anyinterruption from my mom’sboring shows like GuidingLight and As the WorldTurns. When it’s cold orraining outside, we take outthe games that Mom getsfrom the Salvation Army for

CherieandCamille.Weplayfive hundred rummy, chess,checkers, Connect Four, andBattleship. We take turnsfeedingNormanandteachinghim words for the objectsaroundtheapartment.Couch,we tell him. Television.Lightbulb.Ofcourse,wealsocontinuehispottytraining.When spring breaks,

Mom’sawayevenmore,soIgo out to the side yard to

make mud pies and chaseworms and ants. We missschool more days than weattend,whichfinallybringsatruant officer to our door.Thenwestartattendingagain,fornow.Whentheweatherheatsup,

Mom starts coming homemore. She’s always groaningthat her back hurts. “You’dbettergetprepared,”shesays.“You’ll have a new little

brother or sister byHalloween.”Mom says she and Vito

want to plan a vacationtogether, so she beginsworking across the street atthe deli. On weekends shebrings me to stock thefreezers. Her tummy is toobig for her to climb around,butI’msmallenoughtocrawlon the ground and stackjuices,milk,andsodasonthe

bottom shelves. Then I stickaroundandcleanthecountersandmop the floor before thedeliopens.After school lets out in

June, Cherie, Camille, and IputNormaninhiswalkerandwalk twowholemiles to ourfavorite spot: CordwoodBeach.We stroll past homesthatlooklikepalaceswithbigwrought-iron gates, finallyarriving at the beach. On

sunny days it’s filled withkids—splashing around,building sand castles, andscreaming when they see ahorseshoe crab or a jellyfish.We spatter in the sand andwater with them, takingbreaks to climb the remainsof an old brick house thatlooks like a castle andjumpingoffthefloatingdock.Even on gray days, we’dprefer to get caught in the

windandrainthanstayhomeboredinthegluefactory.Wesqueal, digging in the wetsandforclamswithourhandsand feet, hunting out musselbeds,andloadingupourarmsand pockets. On the wayhomewepickoniongrassforaspecialtreatatdinner.Rightafter Ibegin thefirst

grade,ourbabysisterisborn.We’re all thrilled to have ababy girl in the house.

Roseanne doesn’t look likeany of us,with her pale skinandblondhair—justlikeVitohas.Sometimes I like to

imagine that my daddy hasdark brown hair, just likemine.For Rosie’s baptism at

Saint Philip and James, wedress Rosie in a long whitegown.Vitolooksfunnyinhisdark suit and sunglasses, and

his two friends stay by hisside during the ceremony—even for the photos. AfterRosie’schristening,wegettotake care of her ourselveswhile Vito takes Mom on acelebration “baby trip” toLake Havasu, Arizona. It’sMom’sfirstplaneride.Whentheycomeback,MomtellsussheandVitohadagreattimeon his “going away” trip butthat he won’t be seeing us.

“Vito had to go livesomewhereelse forawhile,”shesays.It doesn’t take long before

Mom disappears, too. Shebegins to spend more timeaway at night, andwhen shereturns from her binges, shebrings home a man or ahangover . . . or both. Welearn to stay out of herway,because especially whenshe’s sadornot feelingwell,

we’ll catch a serious licking.Asmencomeintoourhome,though,theyalwayscommentonwhatpretty littlegirls shehas.Welookdownandwalkaway: If only they knew thetrouble their complimentscause. When the men leave,Mommakessureweallknowthat we’re just sluts andwhores, and Norman is herprince. “You think you’re sopretty?” she says when her

visitorsleave.“Getoverhere.You won’t be pretty whenI’mdonewithyou.”MonthsafterRosiearrives,

our mom doesn’t look likeourmomanymore.Shelocksusinherroomandcriesthat,at age thirty, her old go-godancer body is gone foreverand all the stress of raisingkids ismakingher face linedand puffy. “My life amountsto nothing, and it’s all

because of you kids!” shescreams. As her unhappinessworsens, so does herdrinking;andasherdrinkingincreases,sodoesherweight.It’s Cherie, Camille, or mewho take a beating duringthese tirades. And we neverallow her near Norm orRosie,butMom’susuallytootired to fuss with the babyanyway.WeteachRosietotalkand

walkandplaygames,andweshower her with beautifulexpressions of love likemiabambinaamoreandjet’aime.We don’t know how they’reso familiar to us, butwe usethemahundredtimesaday.AllourfawningoverRosie

freesMomupevenmore,butinstead of bringing menhome, she’s started bringingin animals to try and cheerherselfup.Wetiptoearound,

cautioningRosietoavoidthemonkeys, turtles, andchickens that Mom attemptstohidefromthelandlord.Thethree squirrel monkeys arekept in a cage, and Momremindsustoputonglovestofeed them—otherwise they’lleat our fingers as appetizers.Unfortunately, our yellowdishwashing gloves aren’texactly appropriate forprimate-caretaking: One of

the monkeys bites off arubberfingertipandchokestodeath, and Mom leads us inanemotionalburialserviceinthe side yard. We clean uppoop from the donkey thatlivesuponthetarroof,wherewe sometimes shower withthe hose since we can’t usethetub—it’sthehomeforourland turtles. They’re ourfavorite.Whenanyofusgetsgrounded in our rooms, we

take a couple turtles out ofthe tub and line up bits offood topit themagainsteachother in a turtle race. Butsince we only have onebathtub and need it for fivebaths and clothes washing,the turtles finally make amysteryescape in themiddleofthenight.Thechickensonlylastuntil

the landlord finds out aboutthem.Ienvyalltheseanimals

for their easy exits from ourmother’s domain. Pepper,Mom’s German shepherdmix, is the only creature inthis house who’s alwayshappy and loving. We takehimtotheschoolyardtorunaround for exercise, or onlong walks past the localfarms.Occasionallywe stagea disaster scene as thoughhe’srunlooseintothefields,and while we go “looking”

for him, we snatch corn andpotatoesforourdinner.By December of my

second-grade year, Mom hasgoneroamingagain.Thegluefactory workers, crossingguards, and firemen aresuspicious.Infact,sometimeswe see a parked police caroutside, and Cherie says weneed to be careful becausethey’rewatchingus.

WE ARE READY for the copswhentheycomeupthestairs.We realize they caughtNormanwanderingoutsideinthedark,atnight,inthecold,andthatthey’llbetheonestobring him back to us. Weknow they are watching andwaiting to catch us doingsomething wrong, andNorman innocently gavethem a tip. The two copscome in and grab all five of

us,still inourpajamas.Theyput Norm in the frontbetweenthemandallusgirlsin the back, with Rosie onCherie’s lap. They ask us tostay silent, but we are fivekids in a police car withoutour mother, and we don’tknow where we are beingtaken. We aren’t silent. Wearechildren.It’s mid-December and

they’ve decided to put the

four of us older kids in ahome together so we’re notseparated for the holidays—but Rosie, just a year oldnow, is going to anotherhouse.The foster family sets up

four sleeping bags for us onthe living room floor. Theparentsandtheir twoteenageboys force us to lie in thesleeping bags all night andday, never moving or

complaining. If we do, theyclose the bag around us byzipping it up over our heads,and theybeatuswhilewe’reinside of it. If we cry tooloudly, the punishment turnseven worse. One day thefoster mom grabs me by thehead and cuts off my longcurls with a giant pair ofscissors. When the socialworkerchecksonusandaskswhat happened, she answers

thatIgotgumallstuckinmyhairsoshehadtocutitout.Ihaven’t chewed gum sincethe last timemysistersand Iwent to the Saint JamesGeneralStore.One day a package of

Yodels cakes goes missing.The boys force me to openmymouth so they can smellmy breath, and they agreethatI’mtheYodelsthief.I’mbeaten again, this time by

them and their mom, whileCherie,Camille,andNormanare forced to watch and staysilent.Ifwetrytodefendoneanother, the kid getting thebeatingwillonlygetitworse.One night, while I’m

sleeping, I’m suddenly cold—somehowI’vegottenoutofmy sleeping bag. I wake totherealizationthatmypajamabottoms have been removedand the twoboysare looking

at my private parts. I beginscreaming,butbythenCherieand Camille are nowhere insight, and Norman—despitethe boys’ threats—startskicking them and screamingfor them to leave me alone.As they drag me into theirroom,theyyelltoNormantoshut up, telling him they’lllock him outside in thefreezing cold all night likethey just did to my sisters.

I’malonewithnoonetohelpme. Iwatch thesliceof lightfromthehallwaydisappearasthey close their bedroomdoor, trappingme alonewiththeminside.Ibegincounting.

BY NOW I understand whatfoster care means. Susan,Mama, and Papaweren’tmyreal family—they werepeoplewhowantedtogiveusa nice home after the cops

found out Mom hadn’t beentaking decent care of us.Now,after thebadhome, thefive of us are separated intothreedifferentfosterfamilies.Tome,beingafosterkidisalittlebitlikebeingadog:Youhavenocontroloverthekindof familywhowill take you.Even if you’re treated badly,it’spossiblenoonewill everfind out the truth and comerescueyou.

Rosie stayswhere shewasoriginally placed, andCamilleandCherieareplacedwith a family named theO’Malleys.NormandImoveto the Tenleys’ in a towncalled Dix Hills, with littlehouses on tiny lawns, that’sthirtyminutesfromwhereweused to live. The Tenleys’house is all wood paneling,and Mr. Tenley’s hairmatches the gray button-

down shirt hewears toworkevery day. Right away Mrs.Tenleygets intoanargumentwith the social worker—“Someone needs to buythesekidssomeclothes!”shesays, but she insists she’llsave the receipts and wouldlike the county to reimburseherforthepurchases.When the social worker

introduces me, she informsthe Tenleys that I’m the

troublemakerandNormisanangel,andthatthey’llhavetokeepanextraeyeonme.TheTenleysrelaythisinformationto my new teacher, whointroducesme tomy second-gradeclassonmyfirstdayofschool, right after Christmasbreak.“Class,thisisournewstudent.Her name isRegina,and shemay not be here forvery long—she’s a fosterchild.” I look at her, shaking

my head. She’s just ruinedanychance Imighthavehadof getting invited to myclassmates’ birthday parties.“We’ll welcome her for thetime she’s here, and she’llstartinthelowestreadingandmathgroups.”That’swhere I cut her off.

“ButIdon’tbelonginthelowgroups,” I insist. “Atmy oldschool I was in the highestgroup.”

After a week, she sees Iwas right and I’m placed inthe advanced class. The kidsatschooldon’tknowwhat tosaytoafosterkid,soIspendmost of my free time in thebedroom readingmy favoriteJudy Blume book, Are YouThere God? It’s Me,Margaret. That, and everylibrary book with AmeliaEarheart I can get my handson.

Ifinishsecondgradewhileat the Tenleys’ and only seemy sisters one day everyother month when socialservices coordinates a visitbetween both pairs of fosterparents. By the time I seethem in late August, Rosie’smoved in with them. She’dbeen losing weight andgetting extremely ill becausesherefusedtoeat.She’dalsobeen hospitalized with

dehydration. I overhear herfoster mom tell Mrs. Tenleythat the doctors said RosiewassufferingfromFailuretoThrive, a condition thatmakes it difficult for her toabsorb nutrition because,emotionally, she’s too upsetabout being separated fromher family. The socialworkers hope Cherie andCamille can comfort her andnurse her back to health.

Theysaidtheyhopethatwiththe love of her older sisters,she’llgainweightfast.Mr. Tenley’s always

talking about WalterConkrite, his favoritenewsman,whomhe refers toas the “most trusted man inAmerica.” He never letsNorm or me watch anythingexcepttheeveningnews,andIsitontheedgeofthecouchshifting my weight, staring

blanklyattheTVset.Onenight,afterI’vestarted

the third grade, Mr. Tenleycallsmeintothelivingroom.“Nah,” I tell him. “That’sokay, I’m busy withhomework.” That’s when hecomes into my room, picksme up, and carriesme downthe hall, plantingme in frontof their wood-encasedtelevision set. “This is anhistoric moment,” he says.

“President Ford is pardoningRichardNixon.Payattention.You will always rememberthis.”There sits the president,

looking friendly but serious,wearingablacksuitbehindadesk with a grand windowbehindhim:

IhavecometoadecisionwhichIfeltIshouldtellyouandall

ofmyfellowAmericancitizens...IhavepromisedtoupholdtheConstitution,todowhatisrightasGodgivesmetoseetheright,andtodotheverybestthatIcanforAmerica.IfeelthatRichard

Nixonandhislovedoneshavesufferedenough...Now,therefore,I,GeraldR.

Ford...havegranted...afull,free,andabsolutepardonuntoRichardNixonforall.

This Thanksgiving is thefirst time I see Mom sincelastDecemberwhenthecopsfound Norman roaming thestreets.Mr. Tenley drives usto Saint James, and I makehimpinky-promise he’ll pickusupafterdinner.

Mom tells me she won avisitwithNormandmeatherfair hearing. She talks allaboutanewguynamedKarland how she’s planning tobuyahouse inSmithtownsowecanalllivetogetheragain.I imagine having earplugs inmyears,untilI’mhelpingherprepare dinner and she startsaskingmeaboutMasterBate.“MasterBate?”Maybe she

meansMr.Bate?Butnoneof

myfosterfatherswerenamedMr. Bate. None of myteachersarenamedMr.Bate.I don’t know any Mr. Bate!MomasksmewhyI’vebeentouching Mr. Bate and myprivates at night, andwhen Istare at her in confusion, shetells me to stop with Mr.Bating.“Mrs.Tenleytoldthesocial

worker, Regina. And thesocialworkertoldme.You’re

only nine—that’s too youngtotouchyourselfdownthere.It’s a dirty thing for a littlegirltodo.”Inodmyhead,butI’mstill

lost. The only time I touchmyself down there iswhen Ihold my privates to protectthem from ever being hurtagain like in my last fosterhome.

6

HousesofSand

March1974to1977

IT SEEMS LIKE every fewmonths we get a new social

worker, so it’s not surprisingwhenanewladyshowsuptogetNormandme.WhileI’mhelpingherloadourbagsintohertrunk,Mrs.Tenleystandsat the front door. She callsbehind me, “Regina, it’s notspringquiteyet!Comeputonyour coat.” But Mrs. TenleytoldmethatallmysistersandIareabouttobereunitedinanew home, and theanticipation of this hasmade

me fearless against the cold. . . and pretty mucheverything.AsIwhizpastMrs.Tenley

withthelastofourthings,shesays, “Regina, the way youmove, you seem like youcan’twaittoleavehere.”I look up at her. “It’s not

that,”Isay.“I justcan’twaittoseemysisters.”In the backseat I hold my

newest plastic Jesus figurine

while Norman plays silentlywithaG.I.Joe.Westayquieteven as the social workerpulls into the smooth paveddrivewaywithfresh-cutgrassof a stunning colonial-stylehouse with a double doorentrance, large brassknockers, and two story-highcolumns flanking the frontdoor.“Whatarewedoinghere?”

I ask the social worker from

thebackseat.“This is the address your

mothergaveme.”Norm and I look

quizzically at each other.“Youmightwannacheckthatagain.”“Canyouhelpmegetyour

bags out of the trunk,please?”Isitstillinthebackseatfor

anothersecond.Thenmyfearof embarrassment to present

my garbage bags of luggagein front of this magnificenthome propels my plea: “Theaddress—please check itagain.They’regoingtotelluswe have the wrong place.”Rightthen,thedooropens.Standing in the entrance is

mymother.I take inher face, thenher

outfit. She’swearing a floralshirt and gauchos—withpleats. Her hair’s been let

downfromitsmessyponytailandcoloredasingleshadeofpurered,curledintoacarefulliltatherchin.Itwouldhavetaken an actual hairbrush tocreate such poofy, neatwaves.Irememberhertellingmewhenwe lived above theglue factory that the onlygood thing I got from myfather ismy hair, but for thefirst time ever, hers actuallylooks pretty, too. And she’s

thinner than I remember.CouldthisreallybethesamemonsterwholivedwithusinSaintJames?Anxietyfrommyconfusion

begins to rise inme until anunassuming,tallmanappearsinthedoorway.Fromthefirstmoment,Icansensethathe’sgentle. His hair starts at onetemple and is combed neatlyacross the front of hisforehead and pasted down to

theother side.Thinarms fallfrom a short-sleeved button-down shirt, and polyesterpantsare fastenedaroundhisbelly button with a brownleather belt. Black-rimmedglasses framehis face.Givenour mother’s romantichistory, I’m cautious to getmy hopes up about him. Islump back in my seat andmumble to Norm: “Guessthat’sthenewguy.”

As they exchange a fewseemingly polite words withthesocialworker,NormandIfile quietly out of the car.Whenourmother’seyesscantous,shefixesasmileonherface, like the mom in aHamburger Helpercommercial: Oh, you silly,adorable kids. The manextendshishand tomewhenwe reach the porch. “I’mKarl,” he says. “Pleased to

meetyou.”“Youtoo,”Itellhim.“Nice

house.”“Well, after I passed the

real estate exam,” Mominterrupts, “I worked fast toclosethisdeal.Youshould’veseen the pack of Stepfordwives lined up the block,licking their chops when Ipulled the Century 21 signoutoftheground.Insidedeal,see. That’s what happens

when you have the rightconnections.”Momactsas thoughwe’ve

all enjoyed a cheerfullyprepared breakfast of Frenchtoast, eggs, and bacontogether every day for thepast year and a half as sheshowsNormandme throughthehouse.Whatdoyou thinkoftheboyfriend?I’mdyingtowhisper to my brother.Instead,Iaskthemoreurgent

question: “Where are CherieandCamille?”“The bus should be

dropping them off from themiddle school any minute.And don’t even ask—you’realready registered in thirdgrade at Branch BrookElementary. I took care ofeverything.” Her voiceechoes through theexpansivefoyerwhenshesays,“Bytheway, you two can thank

Camille for your bedrooms.She helped pay for thehouse.”“Camille?” I ask her.

“How?”“With her broken legs.

Don’t you remember thestory?Shegotrunoverwhenshe was two. The driver putmoney ina trust fundforhertousewhenshegrewup.”We start up the grand

wooden stairs, following

behind her. “Sowhere is thetrustfundmoneynow?”“You’re standing in it,

darling.”Darling? Getting sober

turned her into a differentperson!“I talked the trust’s lawyer

into handing over the cashbecause I told him—get this—that the whole point ofbuying this house is to raiseCamille andher siblings in a

safe environment. SmartCookie, right?” Aha . . . theold Cookie Calcaterra peeksthrough the Beaver Cleaverfacade.“Comeonoutside,I’llshow you the swimmingpool.”Norm and I follow her in

silence, ogling at theinground pool with anawkward fusion ofexcitement and hesitation. Ican’t predict how likely it is

that we’ll even live in thishouse through thesummer toenjoyswimminginit.“Youwanttoknowthebest

part?”Welookupather.“I own the house with the

bank.Idon’thavetopayrentanymore.”The part of me that loves

this house cooperates easilywith my mother’s happy-family charade. While she’s

at work in the afternoons,Cherie, Camille, and I makedinner and then help Normwith his homework. Atdinnertime Karl sits at thehead of our rectangularkitchen table, coaching us tosaypleaseandthankyouandindulging our requests forstories about his work as anengineer at GrummanAerospace. “Don’t ask Karltoo many questions,” Mom

chides. “His work is topsecret.”“It’s not that secret,

Cookie,” he says. “It’s goodfor them to learn this stuff.”Thenheturnstousandsays,“Right nowwe’re building amilitaryaircraft thatAmericaneeds to keep us safe fromthe Communists in Russia.We’re in a Cold War, see.Theycanattackuswith theirnukesanytimesoweneedto

beprepared.”Karl thinks the reason I

listen in awe is because hisstories are so interesting, butreally I just can’t get enoughof having his attention.Sometimes I think of askingMom and Karl, “Say, how’dyou two meet anyway?” butit’s a more pleasant fantasyfor all of us to make likethey’ve been together allalong. Mom is much calmer

these days—she says it’sbecause Karl’s such a goodfather toherkids, butCherieandCamillesayhermaternaldemeanoristhankstothefactshe’s not drinking anymoreandthatherdoctorhasheronthe right medication.“Doctor?” I ask. “Is Momsick?”Cherie and Camille

exchange a sarcastic glance.“She’ssickallright,”Camille

says.“Sickinthehead.”The possibility that

Cookie’s been faking us outmakes me uneasy, like theday she showed me theswimming pool out back.“You know what they say,”Camillesays.“Ifitseemstoogood to be true . . . then itprobablyis.”At night, Mom and Karl

watchTVinthefamilyroomor Mom makes real estate

phone calls in the kitchenwhileKarl reads thepaper inthe recliner. Meanwhile,Cherie,Camille,andIallhelponeanotherputRosie,who’salreadytwo,tobedinhercribthat’s positioned against thewall in my bedroom. Then Isettle in for long talks inCherie and Camille’sbedroom and help them tapeTeen Beat photos of DavidCassidy and Leif Garrett on

their walls. Sometimes weinvite Norman to come in,under the condition he’llagree to put on purple socksso he can be my DonnyOsmond as I play Marie.Cherie and Camille join insinging and dancing, and thefour of us carry on just likethe old days at CordwoodBeach...together.I notice that not having

been able to rely on Cherie

and Camille at the Tenleys’housebroughtoutagrown-upside to me, and sometimes Ifindmyself still acting like amom toNorm . . . and eventhoughmybrother’s theonlyperson in the whole housewho doesn’t have to share abedroom, he still appearsmindful that it’s his sisterswho taught him survival. Inan effort to make up for theyearwelost,thefiveofusdo

everything together. Afterschool we take walks toBranch Brook Elementary’splayground and spend hoursswayinggentlyontheswingsand talking, or squealing aswe balance the weight of allfiveofusbetweenbothsidesof the seesaw. On cold orrainydayswetakeadvantageof the fact thatMomhas yetto find enough abandonedfurnituretofillourhouse.We

set up our radio inside whatMom calls “the greatroom”—our step-down giantliving room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors—and dancelikemaniacs as the songs onCasey Kasem’s Top 40countdown echo off thehardwood floor. WhenFrankie Valli’s “Swearin’ toGod” comes on, we crowdaround the radio to listencarefullytoallthewordsand

scribble them down. Momalways wants to be the firstperson she knows tomemorizeallthelyricstothenewFourSeasonssongs.Shesays she has a specialconnection to them from hertimeas ago-godancerwhenthey were just an up-and-coming band from NewJersey playing the LongIslandclubcircuit.One day she arrives home

from work and nonchalantlyinvites us out to the frontlawn to help her unload thecar, where we find threebikes, and a new BigWheelfor Norm, in the front yard.”Mom, wow!” we exclaim,instantly taking off for thepark on our new rides. Wewhiz past Karl, who’sstanding there, quietlybeamingwithhishandsinhispockets. I shout over my

shoulder,“Karl,thanks!”He shouts back: “You got

it,kiddo!”This is when Mom

suddenly gets wrapped upplanning a new project:havingaportrait takenofherwith her five kids. As ahobby, she’s started sewingdresses for all of us, havingpurchased cotton fabric withraised crushed velvet inyellow, pink, and blue. She

sits in concentration at hersewingmachine,creatingtea-length dresses with scoopednecks anddome sleeves.Shegrows so possessed by theendeavorthatwhenshehearsus walking past where hersewing machine’s set up inthe dining room, hints of theold Cookie begin to revealthemselves. “Stay the helloutta there!”sheshouts.Thisis my cue to begin spending

my afternoons in the schoollibrary. That old familiarundercurrentofuncertaintyisback.Mom insists that Cherie’s

and Camille’s hair remainstraight and long likeMarciaand Jan Brady, while mynaturalwaves are styled in atrendy shag—short at theears, long in the back. Momcuts Norman’s hair tohighlight his intense almond-

shaped eyes and chiseledcheekbones. Rosie’s wispyblond locks are always inlittlepigtails.Wekeeptakingbetsonwhenshe’llgrowoutof her blond hair, but so farshehasn’t. “She’ll alwaysbea blonde,” Mom says,lowering her voice in a waythatmakesithardtodecipherbetween melancholy andbitterness: “Just like herdaddy.”

Karl’s still at work whenthe photographer shows up.“Doweneedtowaitforyourhusband?”thewomanasks.Mom’sonlyansweristhis:

“He’snotmyhusband.”This simple phrase is the

pin inmyballoon, a carelessreminder:We’renotanormalfamily at all. Suddenly I’mnauseatedasMomcommandsusintopositiononabenchbythe great room’s shiny

wooden stairs: “Look happy,kids!”When the photographer

leaves, Mom turns asdramaticasasoapoperastar,gushingaboutherexcitementtohaveafamilyphototoaddtothelastone—theonetakenthreeyearsagowhenwewereallwearing ourLakeHavasuT-shirts. I know this isanother excuse for her tomentionVito.

“WhereisVitoanyway?”Iaskher.“He’s locked up,” Mom

says. “His enemies figuredhim out.” She tells usVito’sgarbagebusinesswassogoodthat he didn’t have to sharehis routes with anyone else,which pissed off othergarbage men, who told theFBIonhim.Thenhewenttojail. Mom brags that Rosie’sdaddy is famous because he

was the boss of the garbagemen. “Before they put himaway,” she says, “he was inallthenewspapers.”There’safaraway twinkle in her eyewhen she says, “He alwaysreminded me of a huskyRobert Redford.” When weaskherifthecopstriedtoputherinjailwithVito,sherollshereyesandlaughs.“Godno.Everybody knows girlfriendsandkidsarealwaysleftalone

—we’re protected by theMothers and Fathers ItalianAssociation.”Later that night, Camille

asksme,“YouknowwhattheMothers and Fathers ItalianAssociationstandsfor?”Ishakemyhead.“Thinkaboutwhatthefirst

lettersspellout:M-A-F-I-A.”“Ohhhhh...”The next day I ask Mom

out of curiosity: “How long

willVitobeinjail?”“Jesus, Regina, I don’t

know. Stop askingquestions,” she says. Thenshe takes a longdragoff herVirginia Slim. “Maybeanothertwoyears—whatwillRosiebe,five?Butitdoesn’tmatter anyway,” she says,using her bare ring finger toscratch her cheek. “Karl isRosie’sdaddynow.”

WHEN OUR FAMILY portraitarrives in the mail, Momflings it on the kitchen table.“Lookatthis,”shesays.“Allthatwork Idid—for abunchof fucking clowns.” Whenshe adds “What a goddamndisgrace,” it’s impossible totellwhethershe’sreferringtothephotoorherlife.In itwe’re linedup in two

rows, Cherie, Camille, andRosie in the front and Norm

and me kneeling on a benchbehind them. The only onesmiling is Norm. Cherie’sarmsarestraightout,holdingahystericalRosielikeshehasadirtydiaper,andCamille islooking over at the two ofthem as if she just sensed it.“And look at Regina,”Momsays. “Could you pretend tolisten to me for once?” Ididn’t bother to smile in thepicture; I never do. My

haircut is boyish and mygapped front teeth look likemini Tic Tacs screwed intomy gums. My expressionshows an intolerance toparticipating in a picturemeanttocapturethisfacade.Iknow that, just as fast as thephotographer’s flash, soonthiswillallbegone.While Mom and Karl are

working overtime trying tokeep our home, we get to

spendmoretimealone,inthisbig house, entertainingourselves. So we bake. Webake muffins, bread, rolls,cakes, and cupcakes. Andwhen we can’t bake becausethe pilot light is out, Cherieleans her head into the ovenwith a lit match, whileCamille turns the gas on.Luckily it’s almost summerwhen Cherie’s eyebrows,lashes,andhairaresinged,so

westopbakingandmoveonto more outdoorsy hobbies.We dive into the green poolwater and scrawl our namesonthealgae-coveredwalls.ReginaMarieCalcaterra, I

write.Regina+DonnyOsmondMrs.ReginaOsmondAll the letter O’s are

formedintheshapeofhearts.We swim to the bottom of

thepoolinsearchoftreasures

sitting on the floor, waitinglike shipwrecks for someonetodiscoverthem.

NORMAND Iarrivehomeoneafternoon in June to find apadlock and tape barricadingthefrontdoor.Allofourstuffispiledonthelawn.“Ohno,”I tell Norm. “Mom andKarlmust’ve had a fight!” Whenwe run aroundback to try toget in, Cherie’s fishing our

inner tubes out of the pool.She sees us and rests the neton the ground . . . signalingshe’s about to share badnews.“What’s going on?” I ask

her.“She forgot to pay the

bank,”shesays.Islumpdownandsitatthe

edge of the pool, somehowhaving known this wascoming.ForalmostayearI’d

managed to convince myselfthat this lifewas really ours.But just like that, it all wentup in smoke. I should’veknown better than ever tocountonCookieCalcaterra.Mom finds a house a few

blocks away on Terry Roadso we can stay in the sameschool,butKarlnever showsup. “Don’t look so fuckingmiserable,you littlewhores,”she tells us, swigging from a

can of Budweiser as westruggle through the frontdoor of our new house,heaving Hefty bags. “It wasgoodwhileitlasted.”It’s not long before she’s

fired from Century 21, andshe starts spending her daysatthebarsagain.Ifshecomeshome toRosie cryingor to acolddinneron the table,orafront yard that hasn’t beenproperly cut with our dull

scissors, then the drinkingturns into beatings. The newhouse gets broken in by mybody as it makes dents andholes through the panelingand Sheetrock walls. I avoidher because I never knowwhenshe’llfeellikegrabbingme by the back of the headand slamming my face intothe table, causing relentlessnosebleeds. I begin to runaway again, hiding in the

woods nearmy school or upintreeswherenoonecanfindme. Sometimes I disappearovernight, and at lunchtimethenextdayItellmyteacherI’mwalking home for lunch.Then I head straight for thewoods to search out saferhiding spaces. When I findthem, I stash books wrappedinplasticbagsthereformetoreadwhenIarrivelater.When I’ve finished a book

faster than I’d anticipated, Ipass the time spellingantidisestablishmentarianism,the longest word in thedictionary.My goal is to getall the letters in under sevenseconds. Then I shorten it tosix seconds, then five, andwhenIconquerthat,mymindbegins to ponder how else Icankeepitbusy.Every few weeks Mom

brings my siblings and me

with her to her mandatedpsychiatrist visit. When wewereinfostercare,shespenttime in what she called theloony bin—Pilgrim StateHospital. They onlydischarged her on accountthat she was good abouttaking what she calls her“happy pills,” and becauseshe agreed to fulfill regularvisits with a psychiatrist thatwould include a few visits

with us kids. Before wewalked intohisoffice for thefirst time, Mom bent downandwrappedherhandaroundmy arm so tight herfingernailsdugtinypinkhalf-moonsintomyskin.“Sohelpme Christ, if you blow it,Regina . . . He reads bodylanguage for a living. Liegood.”“Aboutwhat?”“You know about what—

aboutthelittletiffsyouandIhave sometimes.” She leansin so I’m breathing thecigarettes from her breath.“Or else, you know, Regina.You know what will happennext.”I knew: The state would

take us away again. I sitquietly in the psychiatrist’soffice, looking at my handagainstthebluecanvascouchand insisting with my nods

and smiles that life withCookieCalcaterra isadayatthe beach. The psychiatristseems to watch me closerthanhedoesmysiblings,andIknowheknowsI’mlying.

People look but don’tsee,why?People hear but don’tlisten,why?People touch, but don’tfeel,why?

After Iwrite a poem titled“Why?” my fourth-gradeteacher, Ms. Muse, suddenlyseemstotakeaspeciallikingtome.Sheasksmetoreaditto the class and then invitesthe other teachers from ourcorridortohearmereciteitasecond,third,andfourthtime.She begins to ask me, whentheotherkidsarebusy,“Howare things at home,Regina?”The day I tell her I’m

moving, I’m stunned whenher eyes suddenly fill withtears. “Promise me you’llnever forget that you’respecial,Regina.”Special?Iusuallygetdirty,

ugly, poor, bastard, gross,nasty, slut, rag doll, andwhore . . . but never special.Ms. Muse continues, tellingme I need to always makesureIhavealibrarycard,thatreading will help me

wherever I end up. “Staysmart, stay sharp, and never,ever stop reading,” shewhispersinmyear.Shehugsme so tight I think I mightcry,too.

“THEMOREEASTyougointhecold months,” Mom tells us,“the cheaper rents are.” Aswe drive near the shore, Inotice construction workerssecuring the bulkheads to

protect the beaches fromanother harshwinter. I try toimagine the bungalows wepassinSoundBeachburstingin summer with families,block parties, and barbecues. . . but when Mom finallymoves us into a place inRockyPoint,itremindsmeofa camp’s dark bunkhouse.The kitchen is a tiny galleywith a two-burner stove andthe furniture is broken and

cushionless.Icanseethroughthewornwoodenfloorplankstothedirtandweedsbelow.Mom leaves for a few

weeks,tellingusshe’s“goingtogetwarmedupbytheRedDevil.” We know the RedDevil because he’s spent thenight here before—he’s apale,freckled,lankyguywitha long red goatee that comestoasharppoint.“Good, go,” Cherie says

quietly when the front doorslams behind Cookie. “Welikeourfreedomwithoutyouanyway.”“Yeah,” I join in. “And

don’t bring that crusty scruffbackwithyou,either.”Cherieand Camille burst outlaughing.In the house, the only

sourceofheatcomesfromthesemiwarm air that’s pushingthroughonefloorgrateinthe

hallthatadjoinsthebathroomtotheonebedroom.Fromthehouse’s front windows wewatch icy snow fill the road,wondering how we’ll get aride to school—our onlysource of meals and warmth—when our bus driverinevitably gives up onattemptingournarrowhill.In between alternating as

caretakersforRosie,nowagefour, we go digging in

enclosed steel bins outsidethe Salvation Army and St.Vincent de Paul charities foritems to stuff between thefloor planks, insulating usfrom the wind and doordrafts, and any semblance oftowels or blankets to pile ontopofuswhenwesleep.“Snorkels!”Camillehollers

frominsideoneofthebins.Cherie snorts. “Get real,

it’s winter. What the heck

willwedowithsnorkels?”“No, no, look,” she says,

climbing out with her armsfull. “They’re puffy coatswith hoods that covereverything but your eyes.”Camille is our aspiringfashion designer, so we takeherwordthatsuchridiculous-lookingcoatscouldbenamedafter underwater facesnorkels.Wewearthesnorkelshome

with newfound mismatchedgloves, hats, and scarves,while we stuff our pocketsand pillowcases withundershirts, towels, sheets,washcloths,andsocks.When the snowdrifts

eventually grow taller thanus,we tunnel a hole throughthe snow to the street, thenwalk twenty minutes in thedrifts to get to Route 25where our bus driver said

she’d pick us up for school.Some days, though, theweather is so bad that wedon’t even bother. At home,wewearour snorkels all daywith our other findings piledon top of us for warmth. AtnightfallIunlatchtheexhausthose on the back of thewashroom’s clothes dryer,thenpositionthedryersothatthe back of it points towardthecenteroftheroom.AfterI

make sure the dryer door isclosed so Rosie can’t crawlinside, I press the on button.Warm air blasts into thewashroom, and we generatemore heat between us bycuddling up with our armsaround each other in oursnorkels piled with stuff.When we finally get sick ofsipping the sugar water weboil on the electric stove tofill our stomachs, Cherie,

Camille, and I wake uparoundfourinthemorningtowrapwhateverwe’resleepingin around Norm and Rosie.Thenweventureoutinsearchoffood.Our snorkels make it easy

to hide stolen candy andsnack cakes, and we realizehow much more we cansmuggle by cutting a hole inone pocket then rippingthrough the coat’s lining to

the other pocket. We knowthe bakery’s delivery guyarrives at the town marketjustafterfiveinthemorning.The minute his van hasdisappeared around thecorner, we fill the lining ofour coats with warm rolls,donuts,crumbcakes,andsoftbagels. Then we head to thedelithat’spasttheroadtoourhouse, to see if themilkmanhas made his delivery so we

canfeedRosie.We’reabletoeat for severaldaysafteroneouting.Onthewalkhome,wesnack as we savor oursuccessful hunt, and sing“Ain’t No Mountain HighEnough”—taking turns beingMarvin Gaye and TammiTerrell—since it symbolizesthe lengths we’ll go for oneanother.Each of the girls have to

miss at least one day of

schoolaweeksincesomeonealwaysneedstobeathometotake care of Rosie, whodoesn’t start kindergartenuntil next year. She’ll be thesmartestinherclasssinceherschoolingonpictures, colors,and numbers is inspired byour boredom—when shecounts to twenty, it’s avictoryforusall.Whenit’smyturntowatch

her, I fill her daywith songs

about optimism by teachingher the lyrics to Annie’s“Tomorrow” and my veryfavorite,“OohChild.”

Oo-ooh child thingsare gonna get easier....Oo-ooh child, things’llgetbrighter....

We fantasize about thesong’spromiseofwalking intheraysofabeautifulsun,in

abetterbrighterworld.I don’t care much for my

new fourth grade teacher,who’snothinglikeMs.Muse.Instead of listening to her, Idaydream, and on the daysI’m actually present, myclassmates and teacher actlike I’m not. Rosie’s not theonlyfactorthatkeepsusfromgoing to school: We’ve alsobeen dealing with heads fullof lice, ultimately followed

bya familydecision that it’dbe better to stay home andbuild snowmen, make snowangels,andgosleddingdownthe road on pieces ofcardboard.If thelibrarywerecloser we’d be there findingbooks of games, reading toRosie,and teachinghermorecolors, biggerwords, or howto stay inside the lines withcrayons.At home, of course,all this is tougher todosince

our fingers, numb inside ourmittens, have a hard timeturning the page or holdingworn-downcrayons.Inside, we spend our days

watching The Six MillionDollar Man, The Waltons,and Happy Days on oureleven-inch, black-and-whitetelevision.Maneuvering withourmittensmakesgameslikefive hundred rummy lastlonger. We save our new

favorite, The Game of Life,forlastandplayuntilkeepingourselves warm all day hasexhaustedusenough tosleepagain.One morning Cherie tells

Camilleandmetogolookingforfoodwithouther.“Ithurtswhen I breathe,” she says,worryingusbyadding,“Ifeellike no matter how much Isleep, I can’t stay awake.”Her coughs are deep and

long, and she feels hot withfever as her perspirationsoaks the clothes and sheetswe wrap her in. Somehow,though, she can’t stopshivering.Whenwegetoutsideinour

food-hunting gear, I askCamille, “Do you think it’stheflu?”“Idon’tthinkso,”shesays.

“You don’t cough like thatwiththeflu.”

Overthenextfewdaysandthen weeks, Cherie’s coughgrows stronger while herbody grows weaker. “Be themanofthehouse,Norm,”wetell him as we snorkel up—but this timenot in searchoffood. Our younger brotherhas to care for Rosie and aneldest sister who can barelylift her head off the couch.When we leave, he’spositionedhimselfbyherside

tomonitorherbreathing.Camille and I follow the

road into town, relieved allthetavernshavetheirsignslitup now that night falls soearly.WefindonecalledTheCornerstone thatwe’veheardMomtalkaboutbefore.“Hey,mister,” I ask the bartender,“have you seen CookieCalcaterraortheRedDevil?”The bartender turns to us,clueless.Wewalk in andout

of every pubwe find, tellingthe managers and bartendersthat the Red Devil says heknows everybody in all thebars in Rocky Point. Finally,oneofthemletsusbehindthebarandstandsoverthephonebook with us, pointing outnumberstoall theotherpubsanddialing the phone for us.“Oursisterissick,”Itelleachone. “Can you please see ifCookie Calcaterra is there?”

After a few hours ofsearching,wefinallygiveup,but on our way home, snowstarts to fall . . . andsomething about this makesCamille wonder out loud ifCherie is going to survive.“You think she’s dying?” Iaskher.Thelookonherfacetellsmeenough.We turnbackandhead for

one of the bars where werememberseeingapayphone

hanging on the wall. I fightthebutterflies inmystomachwhen Camille dials 911 andtells the operator in ashockingly steady voice,“Oursisterisvery,verysick.She’s weak and she can’tbreathe.” I purse my lips inworry as she answers thedispatcher’s prompts. “Yes,we need an ambulance. Ourmotherisworking.”We run home in time for

Camille to climb in theambulance with Cherie . . .and just as the police arepulling in. They questionmeabout our mom’swhereabouts.“Wheredidyousay your mother worksagain?”oneasks.“Some real estate agency,”

I say with a shrug. “I don’trememberthename.”The paramedics rush

Cherie to the hospital,where

she’s admitted for severepneumonia. When Camillereturnslatethatnight,gettinga ride from a social worker,she tellsme she had to keepherself from fainting whenthedoctortoldherwewaitedso long that Cherie couldhave died. “Her lungs aredamaged worse than anypneumonia case I’ve seen,”he toldCamille. “If she evergetsherlungstrengthback,it

willtakemonths.”We know what’s coming

whentwosocialworkerspullup to the house in twoseparate vehicles. CamilleandIaredriventoonefosterhome; Norm and Rosie areplaced in another. We’reseparated again . . . but thistimewithoutouroldestsister,who usually knows what todo when we don’t. Worse,she’sbyherself,withnoone

there to hold her hand whileshe fights for her life. “Canthirteen-year-olds get Failureto Thrive?” I ask Camille.Her face is expressionlesswhen she shrugs. “I hopenot,” she says. “I’ll bethirteennext year.”Then sheturnsandwipesthefrostfromherwindow.Camilleand I areobsessed

with what will happen toCherie when she’s finally

released from the hospital.“She’s a sick woman,” myolder sisters say about ourmother, and I’m coming tounderstand that’s the onlyexplanationforherchoicesinher manner of raising us.Beyond her heavy drinkingare her violent mood swingsand unpredictable outbursts,which we’ve been trying foryearstoacceptaspartofwhoshe is. Sooner or later she

always foundways to repentby taking my siblings to themoviesorbringingustoabarand giving us all the moneywe wanted for the jukeboxandShirleyTemples.But theruthlessabandonmentofusinmidwinter in a desolateneighborhood—with no heat,no food, and limited contactwith the outside world—haschangedCamille.The first outward sign of

hercontemptofourmotheriswhenwe’replacedinournewfosterhomeinBrentwood.“Idon’t want to be calledCamille anymore,” she tellsme.“What?Why?”“I don’t want to share a

name with Mom.” After afewdays,Camille announcesthat she wants me, andeveryone, to call her by hermiddlename:Deanna.

My task of having to callmysisterbyanewnameaftera decade knowing her asCamille is only furtherconfused by the fact that ourfoster parents, Nancy andFrank, named their son anddaughter Nancy and Frank.NancyandFrank,NancyandFrank, Deanna . . . andRegina.Like most twelve-year-

olds, Deanna is allowed to

playafterschoolwithfriendsfrom her new school, go todances,styleherhair,andeatwhatevershewantsaslongasshegoestoclassanddoesallherhomework.ButFranktreatsmelikehis

second son. He shares hisloveofboxingandSugarRayLeonard with me, and I findmyself liking Sugar Ray’sbaby face . . . and havingsomeone who acts like my

dad. We constantly watchboxing matches, interviews,and news on SugarRay, andasweprepareforamatch,wetalk about it fordays leadingup to it. Then we warnNancy, Nancy, and Deannawhat they’re in for if theydare to join us for the fight.This is the first foster homeforaslongasIrememberthatwe actually don’t want toleave.

Anytime Deanna mentionsMom, she refers to her asCookie.“Shedoesn’tdeserveto be called a mom,” sheexplains.IbegintocallMom“Cookie,” too—after all themonthsandyearsofgrowingupwithout her, she feels toounfamiliar and detached forthe name Mom. Nancy tellsus that Cherie’s beingreleasedfromthehospitalandthe court has permitted

Cookie to take Cherie back,aslongasCookielivesinthesame residence as Karl.DeannaandIrolloureyes.Not long after that, Nancy

learns Cookie’s won backguardianship of Norm andRosie, too. Nancy explainsthat the court only wantsCookie to take care of a fewkids at a time, and if sheproves she can, then we canreturntoher,too.“We’renot

in a rush,” I tell Nancy.“Trustme.”Our summer’s been filled

with inground swimmingpools, Slip ’N Slides, andwater balloons. Frank takesus to the communitycelebrationparadeandsharesour amazement over afourteen-year-old RomaniangymnastnamedNadiawhosescore showed up as 1.00because the Olympic

scoreboard makers neverimagined that they wouldneed room to post a fourthdigit,sincebeforeherroutine,no one had ever scored aperfect10.00.As our summer of

Olympic-size fun comes to aclose, so does our stay withNancy, Frank, Nancy, andFrank. With a new schoolyear coming, the court hasruledit’stimeforustoreturn

toourmother...or,aswe’vemade a pact to refer to herfromnowon:toCookie.Deanna and I hatch a plan

towrite a letter to the court,asking them ifwecanpleasestay with the Nancys andFranks,butwe finally reasonthatCheriewillneedourhelptaking care of Norm andRosie until her lungs getbetter.

September1977

THEMONTHBEFOREfifthgradestarts, Cookie and Karlreunite.Theyfindanicetwo-story home to rent, directlyacross the street from theSaint James EpiscopalChurch. “Does thismean I’llgettogobacktoSaintJamesElementary?”“No,Regina,”Cookiesays.

“I’m gonna send you to

schoolinTimbuktu.”Thehouse isnestledoffof

busy North Country Road,surrounded by dense woodsthat hide a secure tree housebuilt high into a group oftrees. Norm and Cherie aresettled in bedrooms on thesecond floor by the timeDeanna and I arrive. Cookieputsme in abedroomon thefirst floor with Rosie, rightnext to the bedroom she

shares with Karl. “Irememberyourlittletendencyto run away,” she explains.One night, very late, when Ihear strange noises comingfrom Cookie and Karl’sbedroom, I knock on thedoor. “Is everyone okay inthere?” I yell. Instantly thenoisescease,andthenextdayCookie tells Camille—whosenew name was dropped thedaywearrivedhere—tohelp

me move my things to thespareroomupstairs.I’m excited when I return

to Saint James Elementary,the school I loved attendingfrom kindergarten to themiddle of second grade. Myfifth grade teacher, Ms. VanDover, is known for beingnice,andmyoldfriend,BethNadasy, sits in thedesk rightnexttome.“I’msorryInevergottosaygood-byetoyouin

second grade,” I tell her onthefirstdayofschool.“That’s all right. Where’d

yougo?”Of course I can’t tell her

thatweweretakenawayinapolicecarinthemiddleofthenight because my littlebrotherwas foundwanderingthe streets in his pajamas, orthat we’ve been living withstrangers for the last threeyears. But what I tell her is

still the truth: “I thought ofyouallthetime.”Cherie begins high school

with her lifelong friendKathy, and Camille is inNesaquake Middle Schoolwith her old friends. Thesingle advantage about beingforced to live with Cookieagainisthat,forthefirsttimeinourlives,wedon’thavetowalkintoaschoolonthefirstday and fearwhether anyone

will sit with us at lunch orinvite us to play on theirdodgeball team. This makesgoing to school easier for allofus, andnowstayinghomeis easier, too: Karl’s insistedthattheonlywayhe’llstayisif Cookie stops drinking. Soshedoes.We’re even in walking

distance from our favoritespots like Cordwood Beach,Saint James General Store,

WicksFarm,andSaintPhilipand James Church whereRosiewasbaptized. It strikesmehowstrangeitisforlifetofeel so normal. Then, onenight at dinner, Momannounces that Vito, Rosie’sbiological father, has been“wasted.”“Wasted?” I ask. “You

meanhe’sdrunk?”“Wasted,” Cookie says.

“Smoked. Rubbed out.

Murderedbytheenemy.”I shut my eyes and hope

that theMothers and FathersItalian Association is stillwatching out for us. Then IturnandlookatRosie,whoseblond pigtails bounce as sheclaps and laughs in her highchair. She’ll never get toknow her real dad, whichmakes me lose my appetite.My wish to meet my fatherone day sometimes feels like

the only thing I have to lookforwardto.Cherie and Camille begin

studying foreign languages.WhenCherieasksherteacheraboutthephraseswe’vebeenusing for as long as weremember, we learn that jet’aime means I love you inFrench, and mia bambinaamoremeansmybabyloveinItalian. Both are muchsweetertohearthanCookie’s

old foreign words likevaffanculo (which I’m prettysure means something aboutthe F word) and puttana(which, based on Cookie’scontextwhen using it,we’vetranslated to mean whore). Ibegin writing je t’aime andmia bambina amore all overmynotebooksandtheninthedailylovelettersIsharewithJustin James, a boy whom Irarely speak to,butwho tells

mehethinksI’mpretty.ForagirlwhothinksherteethlooklikeTicTacsscrewedintohergums, this is irresistiblywooing.Everyday Ihidehislettersinashoeboxundermybed, tucking them in a darkspotsoCookiewillneverfindthem.When my classmates ask

me where we lived over thepast few years, I answer,“With my grandparents.”

Then I quickly change thesubject. And even though Ithink of this asmy school, Isometimescan’thelpbutfeellikeavisitor.Iobserveothersin the class—while theyhaven’t changed much, Idefinitelyhave. Iwonder if Iwould be as content andconfident as they are ifwe’dnever been taken away thatnight.WouldIfeeldifferentlyabout myself—pretty, clean,

and carefree, like myclassmates? I love to watchKathleen Totter in herdresses,knee-highsocks,andMary Jane shoes, how hersilky blond hair is neatlyparted into two perfectponytails that are tied withmatchingribbons.ButevenifI had nicer clothes andpolished shoes, none of itcould cover up the past fewyears of turmoil. So I dress

like I feel inside: stained,torn, wrinkled, andmismatched. The schoolmademegetthesebigsilver-rimmed glasses when theyfigured out I’d been hidingmy strained vision bymemorizing the eye chartevery year, and my haircutmakesmelookmorelikemybrother than my sisters. Butforme, thisactuallyworks: Iwant my awkwardness to be

clear to theotherkids.Prettymuch the only comfort I’veever felt is when I’ve beenliving in my own world,sending signals to others tokeep away from me so theyneverfindoutthetruthaboutmylife.Rather than bothering to

hinttomyclassmatesthatI’dlove to be invited to theirhomes,Ispendmyafternoonsstudyingintheschoollibrary

ornappinginthetreehouse.Ialsospendendlesstimeinmyroom listening to my littlevinyl records on myphonograph, always playingoverandoverthefunnysongson the Dumb Ditties albumwe got from the SalvationArmy.Since Karl was able to

retrievewhatfewpossessionswe’d left at the Rocky Pointhouse, I still have my Jesus

figurines.Now,withachurchacross the street, I’mintriguedtofindoutwhyI’vebeen carrying them aroundwithme for as long as I canremember. So every Sunday,Icrossthestreetbymyselftoattend all three morningservices at the Episcopalchurch, retreating to my treehouse after each one, until Isee people filing in for thenextservice.Idiscoverinthe

weeklybulletinthattheyalsoholdaSaturday-nightservice,and I begin attending that aswell.IhavenoideawhatI’mreading or singing about, butItakecomfortinthesafetyofthis space. It’s also the onlyplace I’ve ever been whereyou can be a stranger andpeoplestillsmileatyou.Fifth grade is going great

because my teacher thinksI’m special. The closer I get

toMs.VanDover,themoreIwant to please her. Even inwinter she smells like freshflowers,andherredcurlsandcreamy white skin make herbrown eyes stand out whenshe smiles. Even though shetreats every kid in the classnicely,I’mconvincedthatshefindsmomentstospendextraattention on me. She holdsweeklyspellingbees,mostofwhich I win;my prize being

thechoicebetweenaTwinkieor a Ring Ding, which Ialways scarf down on mywalkhome.Attheendoftheyear Ms. Van Doverannounceswe’llbevotingfor“superlatives,” and she givesme an inconspicuous winkwhen my class votes me“Nicest.”Unfortunately,mybudding

confidence is shaken whenthe end-of-the-year spelling

bee turns into a showdown:me versus Susan Kominski,the president of the fifthgrade class (whom the classvoted Most Popular). She’scrowned the fifth gradespellingbeechampionwhenImisspell vacuum, which Ireally should’ve known,because my classmates arealways singing the “ReginaHoover Vacuum Cleaner”jingle to me. (Also, because

oftheUnderstandingPubertyvideothatweallhadtowatchafterMemorialDayweekend,I take note that at the nextschool I move to, I willchange my name tosomething that soundsnothinglikevagina.)After school’s out, Karl

comes home exhausted fromworking long days atGrumman.Hetellsusworkisstressful because of the

Communists. Cookie’s outworkinglateraswell...backbehind a bar. Although Karlthreatens that she better notdrink,shecomeshomeeverynight smelling like booze.Whenhestarts tofollowher,she sticks me in her car,tellinghimshe’stakingmetothe mall or to visit mygrandparents.“Grandparents?” I ask her.

“I don’t even know my

grandparents.”“Shut the fuck up and

cooperate.”Finally, in the heat of

summer, I come down withthechickenpox.Cookietakesmetothedoctor,whosimplyinstructs me to bathe inoatmealtosoothetheitching.Karl tells Cookie he’s notconvinced we went to see adoctor, and they both fleeangrilyintheirseparatecars.

Karl’s the first to finallyreturn. He flicks off theDonny & Marie show andsendsusouttothefrontyardsohecanusethelivingroomto sort through hisbelongings. Cookie comeshome drunk, screeching andflailing when she sees hispacked boxes lining theentryway. Their argumentspills out to the front yard,wherehetries to takehercar

keys away so she can’t drivewhile she’s smashed. Hewrestles her to the ground tocalmherdown,and just thenshe starts screaming, “Rape!Help, he’s raping me!” Astranger stops and opens hiscar door, and Cookie throwsherself inside and shoutsobscenities from the windowat us. When they speed off,Karl hurls his things into hiscar. “Take care of

yourselves,” he tells us,resigned.“Itriedtomakethiswork, but your mother’s agoddamn hopeless case.”Allfive of us stand on the frontlawnforawhile,knowingtheonly thingwe can be certainwillcomenextischaos.When Cookie finally goes

off the deep end, we’re notsure if it’s thanks to Karl’sdeparture or Elvis Presley’sdeath.Whenshehearsonthe

newsthattheKingdiedinhisbathroom,shelocksherselfinours. For the next week sheconsumes jars of peanutbutter, known to be one ofElvis’s favorites, whilesending us out to buy all ofhis albums, which she playsthrough the house on fullblast.Shortly after I start sixth

grade at Nesaquake MiddleSchool, Cookie stops paying

rent. I hold Rosie as I walkinto Ms. Van Dover’sclassroom. “We’re movingagain,”Iinformher.“Be safe,” she tells me,

crouchingdowntosweepmylong bangs out of my eyes.“And ifyouever feel scared,look back atwhat Iwrote toyou in last year’s yearbook,where I told you that youwereabrightgirlwithlotsoftalent and that you should

never stop your quest forknowledge. I meant everyword.”AndjustlikeIthought,Ms.

VanDovergoesontotellmehowspecialIamtoher.“Theonly thing that will get yououtofyoursituationistostayin school, Regina,” she says.Then she looks at my handclasped tight aroundRosie’s,andtellsme,“Makesureyouteach Rosie what you’ve

learned—she needs a teacherwhocaresaboutherasmuchasIcareaboutyou.”ThistimeIjustsmile.Then Rosie reaches up to

beheld . . . andagain,we’regone.

7

KeepingPact

1977toSummer1980

THE FIFTHWEEK ofmy sixth-grade year, the temperature

reaches ninety-eight degrees,which feels even moresuffocating in the back ofCookie’s station wagon. Iwish Long Island’s scorcherIndiansummerwereouronlysource of discomfort. In thedriver’s seat, with a beerbetween her legs, Cookiestays mum about our newdestination, only directing usto smoosh ourselves and allofourbelongingsintothecar:

garbage bags stuffed withclothes, our black transistorradio, towels, sheets, cups,silverware,pots,coffee,beer,sugar, vodka, peanut butter,whiskey, jelly, flour, fivekids, and one Cookie. Weknowthedrill.With all the bedding,

housewares, and food, this isby far themost crowded ourcarhaseverbeen...andthisbringsmetowonderwhether

CookieeverthankedKarlforbeing such a good providerforus.Shemademeleavemyphonograph, records, andbooks behind, but inside myshirtIhidmytwoJesusesandmy fifth-grade autographbook, plus some picturebooks for Rosie. I alsograbbed a deck of cards forCherie, Camille, Norm, andmetoplaywith.Cookie pulls into a gas

station and parks next to theDumpster. “This ishumiliating,”Cheriesays.Wewatch our mother approachdrivers as they’re sliding thenozzle inside their tanks tofill up.However,we quicklylearn our cue: When Cookiepointstousfanningourselveswithhandsofcards,wewaveand put on expressions ofmisery and desperation . . .which is not all that

challenging, under thecircumstances. Finally, hershameless strategy gets us afulltankofgas.As she takes the

expressway ramp, Cookieannounces: “We’re going tomeetyourgrandparents.”“Our grandparents?” I ask

her.“YoumeantheonesyoufibbedtoKarlabout?”“You mean I have

grandparents?”Normsays.

“I thought they lived inanotherstate,”Camillesays.“What’d you think,”

Cookiesays,“thatIwasbornfromapes?”I watch Camille dig her

knee hard into Cherie’s, andwithallourmightthethreeofus try not to explode intolaughter.Forty-fiveminuteslaterwe

pull into the driveway of ablue ranch house with a

garage attached and small,trimmed evergreen busheslining the front bay window.Cookie puts the car in parkand stares at the house withanawareness I’veneverseenher have before. “Get out,”shefinallysays,hereyesstillfixedonthehouse.Wesitsilently.“Isaid,getout,”shegrowls

throughher teeth. “This’llbealoteasieriftheyseeyou.”

The four doors of the carslowly move ajar, andsimultaneously the house’sfront door opens, too. Withthe help of a walker, a thinwoman in a pink floralmuumuu shuffles onto theporch. With dark, slantedeyes she stares at us, and ather side arrives a wrinkled,tanned man with navyBermudashortsmetbyknee-highblacksocks.Myeyesare

drawn up to his belly,whichis as round and bare as anewborn elephant’s. There’sa showdown of eyes untilBaby Elephant Belly speaksup.“Getthehelloutofhere,”hesays.We all look at Cookie,

paralyzedtobudge.“Nobody move a muscle,”

Cookie says. “We’re gonnado this my way. Kids, theseare your grandparents—the

grandparentswhoturnedtheirbacks on you, especiallywhen you needed them themost.” She turns her gazetowardthetwoelderlyfigureson the porch. “Mom, Dad,meet Cherie. She’s fourteen.Camille is thirteen,Regina isten, Norman is nine, andRosie is four.Theseareyourgrandkids . . . do you getthat? They have no place tostay, and unless you stop

acting like careless fucks,they’ll be sleeping on thestreet tonight. Is that whatyouwant?”From the stoop, they peer

atus,andthemuumuuwearertells her, “For God’s sakeCamille, put your children inthe car. Kids don’t need towitness all this.” HearingCookie called by her realname makes me curiousabout how she must have

beenraised.Icanseethatsheand her mother share thesame strong cheekbones andwide hips, but mygrandmother appears muchless combative than Cookie.I’d like to call her Grandmaand ask her why she thinksCookieissomean.“Ihavetogopotty!”Rosie

cries, and when everyonepauses to look at her, IwhispertoCookie:“Ineedto

go,too.”Themuumuuwearerlooks at her husband andreluctantly opens the frontdoor.Weallfileinside.When Camille approaches

the bathroom with Rosie,Baby Elephant Belly takeshershoulderandsays,“Whatthe hell are you doing? Thatbaby’s four years old now,she can go peepee on herown.” Rosie runs for the

bathroom, then BabyElephant Belly turns to me.“And you,” he says, piercingmewithhiseyes.“Youbetternottakeanything.”“Oh sure,” I reply,

surprising myself with mysass.Whateverthisguydidtomake Cookie turn out sonasty, there’s no way I’ll lethim push me around. “Youwant me to give back thepiece of toilet paper I use,

too?”“No,” he says squarely.

Thenhestraightensup.“Youcan place that where itbelongs.”Their living room is a

museumofwoodenandglasscurio cabinets featuringshelves and shelves ofcherub-faced porcelaincollectibles. On one wall Ispot a photograph of a manwho must be my mother’s

brother, Nick, who onceinvited us to his Lions Clubholidayparty forpoorkids. Inod toward his weddingpicture.“IsthatNick?”“Yes,”Cookie’sdadsays.I look back at the picture.

“Anykids?”“Nope.”Darn. I was hoping for

cousins.“Lotsofattempts,”hesays,

“but so far nothing’s stuck.

Better off, if you ask me.TheygotapackofDobermanpinschers...realhandfuls.”I push myself to pee fast,

anxious to exit thebathroom’s unloved, soiledmotif. Now I see whereCookie gets her lack of tastein décor: Her parents’bathroom boasts the colorbrown from floor to ceiling,plus a sliding glass showerdoor so covered in film you

can’tseeintothetub.Suddenly I think of my

uncle’sphotoagainandgetashiver. It occurs to me thatwith his sharp chin, blackeyes, and shortbutear-to-earfacial hair, it seems almostpossible he could actuallyfatheraDoberman.Cookie’s mom stands

nervously inside the frontdoor. “Thanks for thebathroom,”Itellher.

Baby Elephant Bellywatchesfromthestoopaswesurf over our belongings,squeezing into the car again.Cookie stuffs the twenty hermotherslippedher insideherpocket, satisfied that ourpresence helped her seal thedeal. She backs out of thedriveway and drives just afewblocksbeforepullingintothe back of the Waldbaum’ssupermarketparkinglotoffof

Sunrise Highway. Shewaddles into the store andemerges a few minutes laterwith a six-pack of coldBudweisers, two packs ofVirginia Slims Lights, a loafofbread,ajareachofpeanutbutterand jelly,anda rolloftoiletpaper.“We’llsleepherefor tonight, kids. Don’tworry.I’llhituptheirfriendstomorrow...turnuptheheata little. They’re not going to

get away with ignoring methateasy.”Cherie,Camille,Norm,and

I move a few garbage bagsout of the station wagon tomakeroomforallsixofustosleep. “Leave the importantones in here,” Cookie saysfrom the front seat, “just incaseweneedtomakeaquickgetaway.”Rosieclimbsintoabackseatfloorwell,andNormtucks himself in the other.

Cookie relaxes against theheadrest of the driver’s seatandcracksopenabeer,andIhuff silentlywhenmy sistersdecide I should sleep on thepassenger-side floor. “I’drather sleep in the trunkwiththe bags,” I whisper toCamille,whouseshereyestosuggest I go with the flow.Then she and Cherie stackheads-on-shoulders in thebackseat, lounging against

each other with their eyesclosed.Wewake to a car stinking

ofperspirationandcigarettes.Cookie rubs her eyes andannounces, “I gotta go pop asquat.”Afterwe’vehauledallthe bags back inside the car,she takes off down thehighway and pulls into aMcDonald’s.“Mom, are we eating

here?” Norm asks, his eyes

wideaspancakes.“What do you think,

Norman?Huh?”Hesaysnothing.“Areweeatinghere?” she

mocks him. “Please. It’s forthe bathroom and freenapkins. We’ll need themlaterwhenwe’reoutof toiletpaper.” She holds therestroomdoor open for us tofileinside.“Trytolooknice,”she says. “We’ve got a real

importantmissiontoday.”When shepulls into apost

office,weallpileoutandintothebuilding.“IsMikehere?”sheyellsuptotheclerkfromthe line. The clerk looks atCookie like she’s amadwoman. “MikeCalcaterra?”“He’soutonhisroute,”the

clerkreplies.“Well let him know,”

Cookiesaysindefiance,“that

his grandchildren were heretoday,lookingforhim.”At the butcher, she props

her elbows high on the delicounter. “Hey, any of youguys seen Rose Calcaterra?”When the men working theslicing machines turn to herwith bewildered eyes, shecontinues her pursuit. “I’mCookie, Mike and Rose’sdaughter.”Her explanation does

nothing to aid theirunderstanding of what she’sdoingthere.“I know, it’s been a long

time since I’ve been in here.See, I stoppedby theirhouseearlier, and they weren’thome.I’mjusttryingtotrackthemdown—Oh!” she says.“And by the way, these aretheir grandchildren. Iwantedto introduce them to theirgrandparents.”

CamillewhisperstoCherie.“What in the world is shedoing?”“Just watch her,” Cherie

says, and before long webegin to see the point. Wetroopintoeverygrocery,deli,and liquor store in town,watch Cookie snow theworkerswithherharebrainedstory,andretreattotheaisleswhentheysetusloose,tellingus with pity to get what we

need. Soon we have enoughcigarettes,vodka,deli salads,beer, soda, bread, and toiletpapertolastusdays.Ateachstop, as the bell jingles tomark our exit, Cookie tellstheclerk:“JustputitonMikeandRose’stab.”

ON NOVEMBER 9, I imaginethat one day, when I’m anadult,afriendormyhusbandwillaskme,“So,Regina,tell

me: How’d you celebrateyoureleventhbirthday?”“Oh, you know, like any

kid,”I’llanswer.“Livingasaparkinglotgypsyandbathinginagasstationsink.”We’ve spent the past two

months sleeping in Cookie’scar,whileshe’sbeencruisingall over Suffolk County tostay under the cops’ radarsince she never registered usforschoolthisyear.

But just as the stores andhouseswepassareputtingupChristmas decorations,Cookie finds a landlord whowill rent touswithawelfarehousing voucher. Theproblemisthathispropertyisclose to our grandparents’house, and by now, our foodsupply in their neighborhoodhas already been cut off—except for the butcher, whofeelssorryformymother.He

tellshertocomeineitherfirstthing in the morning or atnight,whenthere’snorushofcustomers. Then, with cleanwhite paper, he wraps uppigs’ knuckles, liver, andtripe.“What’s tripe?” Norman

asks.“It’s cow intestines,”

Cheriesays.“At least we’re eating

healthy,” I joke with my

sisters. Norman looks likehe’llvomit.Butwhenwesetthe food on the table, we’resohungrythatweinhaletripein its broth, and liversmothered in ketchup andmustard. This helps get itdownwithoutgagging.The most thrilling feature

in the new house is itsportable washing machine.Cherie and Camille wheel itup to the kitchen sink and

attach a hose to the spigotwhile Norman and I searchthe house for every piece ofclothing we’ve worn sinceSeptember. The excitementfades,ofcourse,whenweseehowmany times we have torun each load before ourclothes actually look clean;and it takes no time to learnthewasher’sother issue:Thewater inside never gets hotenough to kill the lice we

pickedupfromoneofthegasstationrestrooms.Thanks to the lice,noneof

uspassthehealthexamthat’srequiredtoregisterforschoolin West Babylon. We spendour days at home with ourheadsunderthesink,sudsingup with the lice killer welifted from the pharmacy,thencombingtheeggsoutofeach other’s hair. When theneighborslearnthereasonwe

never seem to be at school,we pack up yet again . . .leaving behind our clothes,blankets, towels, socks, andanyounceofself-respectthatwasn’t compromised by liceand liver. I wonder how anylandlord will ever house usagain if word gets out howwelefttheplace.As their 1978 New Year’s

resolution, Cherie andCamille have decided to

makea change. “Wewant tomove out,” Camille informsCookie.“Outwhere?”“Outofthecar!”Cherie tempers the

conversation by adding, “Iwould like to go back toschool.” I would like to goback to school, too, I’mseething to say, but I don’tdare utter a sentence thatcouldleavemewithoutallies.

By late January they’rebothlivingatKathy’sandit’sclear I’ll probably miss thesixth grade altogether onaccount of the fact thatwe’dneedanaddresstoregisterforschool.WhileCookie spendsher afternoons in bars,Norman, Rosie, and I takeshort walks in the snow orstay huddled together in thecar with garbage bags ofbelongingspiledontopofus

and layers of socks coveringall our limbs for warmth.Sometimes the bar ownersinvite us inside to sit in aboothaslongaswedon’trunaround; other times they letus split a hamburger if wewash dishes and mop thefloors.Oneof them tellsme,“You’re a good big sister,you know.” At first I’mconfusedwhensheslipsmeafive-dollar bill and puts her

finger to her lips . . . then Iget her point: If I don’tprotect the money meant forthekids andme,Cookiewillspend itonherself. “I like towork,” I tell the owner,delighted by her praise. It’strue—it keeps us warm andoccupied, and we get to eatforfree.There’salsosomethinginit

for us when Cookie meets aguy at thebar:Eitherweget

to sleep in his living room(taking savvy advantage ofthe chance to squeezetoothpaste onto our fingersfor a long-awaited brushing)or we get the whole car toourselves while our motherspendsthenightinahotel.Around townCookiehears

there’s a deli in Commackwithanopencashierposition.Sheagreestotakethejobforless money than usual, since

her new boss is giving her aperk by allowing us tomoveinto the apartment upstairs,and for me the perk is thatCherie and Camille haveagreed tomove back inwithus now that we live in anormalplaceagain.In February we all go to

visit a school in Hauppauge. . . but sincewe don’t haverecordsforthefirsthalfoftheyear, we’re not able to

register. “We’ll climb on thebuseverydayanyway,”ItellNorman and Rosie, and theplan quickly provessuccessful.Oneday,whileIameating

the school’s free breakfast,Mrs.Youngcrouchesnext tomy cafeteria table. “Wouldyou like to comewithme tothe office?” she asks, and Ioblige her, feeling safe thatwe have the same thing in

mind. Together with theprincipal, we fill outregistration forms forNorman,Rosie,andmesowecan get credit and finish outtheschoolyear.Theonlythingthatwillget

yououtofyoursituationistostayinschool,Regina.I remember Ms. Van

Dover’s words, so I performwell on Mrs. Young’s testsand participate not like my

life depends on it, butbecause my life depends onit. I keep to myself duringfree time so that none ofmyclassmates will ever ask tocome to my house. WhenMrs.Young seesme readingat recess, she givesmeworksheets to practice longdivision and encourages metotakeastabatthechallengequestions in our sciencebooks.ThemoreworkIhave,

thesaferIfeel.Holding it together with a

job is stressing Cookie toproportionswe’veneverseenbefore.Makingitworseisthefact that summer’s fastapproaching, and the taste ofindependencethatCherieandCamille had living on theirownis inspiring themto lashout. “I’ve got five kids, ahousehold to manage, and apaycheck to keep!” Cookie

says. “And now you slutswant to give me attitude?”Cookie stays out all night atbarsorrollsoutofbedjustaswe’reheadingoutthedoortoschool. On the rare occasionshe’shomewhenweare, thebeatings are guaranteed andmorebrutalthanever.Weallgo into full-fledged survivalmode and stay out of thehouse as much as we canwhenshe’shome.

Ontheschoolbus,Camilleadopts the nickname“Dancing Queen,” swayingand boogying to kids’ boomboxesandstartingimpromptudanceparties,inanattempttopreserveherfast-fleetingdaysasateenager.WhenIaskherwhether she ever flirts withboyswhenshegoestodancesat the community youthcenter, she looks at medubiously.“Haven’tyouseen

how Cookie behaves withmen?”shesays.“Believeme,I’mnotdancingtomeetboys.I dance so I can be me. It’stheonlytimeIcanreallybeateenager.”One night, I pray Camille

willhavebeatmehomewhenittakesmeuntilalmostseventoarrivefromschool.InsteadI open the front door to findchicken cutlets frying on thestove,andCookie,who turns

tomewith her eyes blazing.“Where the hell were you?”shesays.I hesitate, until I blurt it

out. “I was looking for mycoat.” She burns holesthrough me with her eyes,spurringmetosharemore.“Itdisappeared from my lockertoday.”“Good goddamn job, you

dumb shit. It’s gonna be acold, wet April. What the

fuck, Regina—is your headup your ass?” She pauses asecond,butIsaynothing.“Sowhere’sthecoatnow?”I shake my head. “I don’t

know. I think someone stoleit.”Camille walks in just as

Cookie hurls the pan ofbubbling grease at me. Mysister runs to me just as thehot grease splatters all overmy forearms that I raised to

protect my face, but Cookiegrabs Camille by the neckand drags her to the frontdoor. Then from the second-floor deck, she throws herdownaflightofstairs,whereCamillenowlieshollering inpain. Cookie runs down thestairs and kicks my sister inthe back. “That’ll teach youtointerfere!”sheroars.“Great job, you sluts,” she

says,walking toward thecar.

“Youruinedmydinner.”Sheputs the car in reverse andleaves.I throw on a sweatshirt to

hidetheinstantblistersonmyarms and run into the delidownstairs, pleading toCookie’s gray-hairedcoworker Helen. “Call anambulance, quick! Camillefelldownthestairs!”“Did she fall, or was she

pushed?”

“Helen,” I beg, “please,justcall.”Later that night when

Camille is dischargedwearinganeckbrace,thetwoof us phone Cherie from thehospital. Kathy picks us up,butwhenwearrivehome,wehave to curl up in thestairwell because the door islocked.When the sky beginsto light up, Rosie pops herhead out. “Norman and I

were scared last night,” shesays.“Wewereallalone.”Camille shoots me a

glance. “No you weren’t,sweetie,” Camille says. “Wewereherethewholetime.”We’re brewing coffee in

the kitchen when Cookie’scar pulls up. Hearing herclamor up the stairs,Camilleand I stiffen. I take a deepbreath and prepare to play itcool.“So, I imagineyou told

the doctors what a horriblemother I am.” This is herhello as she eyes Camille’sneck brace and the bandagesonmyhands.I take amoment to torture

herwithmy silence.Camilleseemstobeinonthetactic.“Well?”“Wedidn’tsayanything,”I

tellher.“JustthatIdroppedapan of grease and thenCamillefellinit.”

“And you expect me tobelieve they bought thatcrockofshit?”Camille and I look at each

other and shrug. “Yeah,”Camille says. “They boughtit.”“We’ll see about that.You

two clean up the mess youmadelastnight.Camille,youbetter stay up here and resttoday,” she says. “ButRegina’s gonna help me at

work. We don’t want anynosy teachers asking whathappenedtoyoutwo.”

AS THE SCHOOL year windsdown, it’s completely clearthatCherieandCamillehaveno intention of hanging outherethissummer.IaskHank,Cookie’s boss, if I can starthelpingatthestore.Helooksat me with hesitation, andthen thoughtfulness. “Your

motherhas had some troublekeeping up,” he admits.“Howoldareyouagain?”I fold my arms across my

flat chest to hide theprepubescent evidence. “I’mthirteen—andahalf.”He looks at me

suspiciously. “Weren’t youelevenlastweek?”“I’magoodworker,Hank,

askanybody.”“All right,” he sighs. “But

I’ll have to keep you hiddenintheback.You’vegottobeolder than fifteen to work inthisstate.”“I’llhide,” Ipromise.“I’m

small,see?”“And you’ll have to listen

toyourmother.”I nod. Being with her in

publicissaferthanbeingwithherathome.The first week, I come in

every day after school and

head back to his kitchen—along galley with steel tables,a sink, and a big, industrialfanmountedonthewalloverthe oven. I slip on plasticservingglovesandrollupmyapron tomake it shorter, thewayI’veseenCookiedowithher skirts before she goes tothe bars. Until six o’clock Iwork, shredding cabbage forcoleslaw and peeling carrotsand potatoes, then I clean up

andtakeoutthetrashintimeforthestoretocloseateight.After my first Friday on thejob, Hank hands me fifteendollars cash in an envelope.Whenwegetupstairs,Cookiewiggles her fingers at me.“Hand that over,” she says.“Hank’s little pet, huh? Youwouldn’thavegottenthisgigwithoutmegettingyouafootinthedoor.”Ilookatherindisbelief...

and then I hand over themoney. She opens the frontdoor formy siblings to headouttothemovies,leavingmeathomebymyself.“I’msureyou’ll find some way tooccupy yourself,” she tellsme. “You’re so goddamnresourceful.”The nextmorning I put on

shorts and a tube top andmarchbackdownstairstothedeli. “As long as you don’t

mind,” I tell Hank, “I’mgoingtotakedeliordersfromthe cars while they wait inlineforthepump.”He looks at me in

amazement.“What?” I tell him. “I’m

trying to earn a little extracash, I didn’t solve the gascrisis.”“You just solved my gas

crisis,” he says, pointing tothe traffic lined around the

corner.Iheadoutfromcartocarwithapencilanda tabletoforderchecks.“Heyfolks,”I say through theirwindows.“CanIgetyouanythingfromthe deli?” I schlep theircigarettes, chips, and sodas,gratefully accepting tips of adime or whatever sparechange they tell me to keep.Soon I’ve got the systemdown so well that I startpumping their gas for them,

too,poppinganaveragetipoftwenty-five cents into mypocket after every fill-up.When Cookie comesdownstairs for her shift, shelooks atme suspiciously . . .but when she steps out backfor a cigarette break, I spendsomeofmynewfoundsalarytoscarfdownasandwichandhide some snacks in the delikitchen to give Rosie andNormanlater.

I findwork not only helpsprovide for my siblings andme—it also keeps my minddistracted from how myfamily is crumbling. WhenI’midle,I’minsomuchpainwishing my older sisterswantedme;or that justonce,mymotherwouldtellmesheloves me. When Cookie’sworkingandNormandRosieare watching TV, I lockmyself in my bedroom and

cut my arms with scissors. Iwatchtheskingiveway,thenthe blood comes to a swell,andforasecondthere’ssomereleasetothepaindeepinsideme.SometimeswhenCookieandIareworkingtogether inthe kitchen, I try and flauntthe gashes just to see if shecares at all. One day, shefinally throws me a bone.“Yougotalittleproblemwithyour arms there?” she asks

me.BehindherinthedistanceI

see Hank working theregister.Ishrug.Cookielaughs.“Nexttime,

ifyou’regoing todo it,do itright,” she says.“Youcutonyour wrists. Not yourforearms.”A few days later, I’m

startled frommy thoughts ofthisconversationwhenamanwearing a black T-shirt,

jeans,andworkbootsappearsat thedeli’sEmployeesOnlykitchen door. I take in thevision of him—dark curlsframing a tanned, handsomefaceandeyesshiningpureasonyx—then I get back topeeling potatoes. I pause,waiting to see whether he’llsayanything.Hestares.“CanIhelpyou?”He examinesme, taking in

all my features. Finally,silently,heshakeshishead.Ilook back down to peel thepotatoes; when I move myeyes to see if he’s still there. . . he’s gone. Although Idon’trecallevermeetinghim,something about his eyes iseerily familiar. I can’t shakethe certainty that I’ve seenthemsomewherebefore.

“HIS NAME IS Paul Accerbi.”

The flicking sound ofCookie’slightercollideswiththe ding of the dishes I’msettingonthetablefordinner.“He comes waltzing in,digging through his wallet,then looks up at me—a deerinfriggin’headlights.”I stop setting the table to

stareather.“God,whatIwouldn’tgive

tocapturethelookonhisfacewhen he saw me. ‘Your

daughter’sintheback,’Itellhim.DoyouknowhowlongIwaited to deliver that line?”She takes a drag of hercigarette. “Well, actually, I’lltell you how long: elevenlooong years.” She laughs, acacklethenahack.“Thelookonthesonofabitch’sface,Ithought he was gonna shit abagel.”I’ve just seen thisman for

the first time five hours ago

andalreadyI’mplanninghowI’d like to decorate mybedroom in his home. Dad,I’d ask him,will you hang ashelfwhereIcanplaceallmyJesus figurines? He’d installblinds on my bedroomwindows and check theirlocks every night at dark.Then he’d tuck me in,pushing the edge of mycomforter between themattress and box spring to

make sure I’m safe andsecure.“See that?” Cookie says.

“He took one look at yoursore ass and left you again.Good thing you have me tocareaboutyou.”Butnothingshesaysabout

myfathercanbringmedownfrom what I’ve just learnedabout him: that he exists.There’s someone else in theworld with me . . . I’m not

alone anymore. I’ve alwayswondered,Who is this man?Isheevenalive?He’snotjustalive,he’shandsome...andlooksnormal.Myuniversehasshifted.Paul Accerbi. I had heard

those words, but they havenew meaning now. In ourfirst apartment in SaintJames, Cookie would tie metotheradiatorandinvokehisname as she beat me. “Paul

Accerbi!” she’d scream,yankingmyhairtopoundmyheadonthefloororwhippingmybackwithabelt.“Hehurtme the MOST,” she’d wail.“SoYOUwillhurtthemost!”I knew this from the firstnight that I met her when Iwas four, and she never letmeforgetit.Cookie shared her stories

of who each of our separatefatherswere. Somewe knew

to be true; when she talkedabout Rosie’s dad and mine,her stories never changedaboutVito and Paul.But thedetails always got blurredwiththeidentityofthefathersof my other siblings—sheclaimed they ranged fromfamous pop singers from hergo-go dancer days to gasstation attendants shemet onthe rebound. What wasshocking for me to learn

about Paul is that he livedcloseenoughthatstoppinginthedeli for lunchcouldhavebeen part of his normalroutine.AfterCookie’sgoneoutfor

a drink, I grab the SuffolkCounty phone book; mystomach is doing flips as InearthefirstpageofA.Iscanthe listings . . . until I reachthe only name that matcheshis:

Accerbi,Paul&JoanMyfatherandwhatappears

to be his wife live inRiverhead, which, if I’mreading the phone book’smap correctly, is probably aforty-minutedriveeastofourhouse. I flip back to theA’sandclosethecover,staringatthe no-nonsense yellow andthe black text. Of everythingI’ve ever read, who couldhaveknownthatthebookthat

would give me all the hopeand answers I’ve prayed forwouldbetheWhitePages.

IN OCTOBER OF my seventh-gradeyear,Cookieisarrestedagain for drivingdrunk,withno registration and asuspendedlicense.Whentheyrun her name through theirrecordstheydiscovershehasoutstanding warrants forbouncing checks all over

Suffolk County. “HowmuchmoneydoyouthinkMomhasbounced checks for?” Normasksme.I shrug. “Maybe a couple

hundred,” I tell him, eventhough it’s more likethousands.Thecopscometoourdoor,

reporting Cookie’s trying togetoutofjailbysobbingthatherkidsarealoneandinneedof their mother. It takes

Cherie and Camille someverypracticedskilltoansweralltheirquestions.“Haveyoulookedafteryoursiblingsfordaysatatimebefore?”“Not really,” Cherie says.

“Butwebabysitthemalot.”The cops ask Rosie and

Normtocomechat.“Doyourbig sisters take good care ofyou?”The two of them nod

enthusiastically. Within a

couple minutes we’veconvincedthecopsthatwe’llbe fine until Cookie makesbail.But justas theypulloutof the deli parking lot, Hankcomesknocking.“Whenyourmothergetsback,tellhershehas a week to get out ofhere,” he says. The next fewdays, I work morning, noon,andnightatthedelitoearnasmuch cash as I can. Hankdropsacouple jarsofpeanut

butterandjellyinabagalongwith two loaves of bread.“That should last you kidsawhile,”hesays.“Right?”Inod.“Thanks,Hank.”Thatnight,acopcardrops

Cookieoutfront,andtheyseta court date for later inOctober.We’ve always avoided

apartmentcomplexesbecausetheir management companiesconduct background checks

on the renters, but this timeit’stheonlythingCookiecanfindthatwillacceptawelfarevoucher.She’s been paranoid about

the “pigs” ever since she leftjail, so we all stay shutteredinsidewith the shades drawntight and all the lights off.Cookie refuses to register usfor school in case theauthorities would use us totrackherdown.Thefirsttwo

weeks, she sends Cherie orCamille out every other dayfor cigarettes and food, untilthey deflate me with a jointannouncement that they’vedecidedtomovebackinwithKathy’sfamilypermanently.Norm, Rosie, and I are

stuck—yet again—withCookieinacold,unfurnishedapartment. It’smy job to gether cigarettes and food withour food stamps, but when I

meet a friend my age downthe hall, whose parents havean apartment that’scompletely furnished, I catchabeatingfortakingtherisktodraw attention to us. Myembarrassment about thebruises makes me half-relievedwhenthere’saknockatourfrontdoorattheendofour first month. “Shit, thepigs!” Cookie hisses in thedark. “Regina, you answer

it!”“We know you’re in

there!”Calmly, I loosen the chain

on the door to find twomenin button-down shirtsstandinginfrontofme.“We know she’s in here,”

one of them says, wearing ashirt with the complex’swater fountain logoembroideredonthepocket.“She’snot,”Ianswer,“and

I’mnotallowed to letyou inwhenmymom’snothome.”“Well, she better get here

fastbecausethepoliceareontheirway.”When I latch the door,

Cookie lights a panickedcigarette.“WhatthehellamIgonnadonow?Theymust’vefound out about my recordandreportedmywhereaboutsto the police . . . themotherfuckers.”

“Norm,Rosie,”Itellthem,“get all your clothes. Towelsandblankets,too.”Cookie takes a load of our

luggage out to the car. “Iskipped my hearing and lostthe bail money,” sheconfesses, as though we’resuddenly friends. “Theyprobably have anotherwarrantoutformyarrest.”“Then let’s hurry up and

getoutofhere,”Ianswer.

She rolls out of thecomplex’s parking lot,chantingthisrhyme:

Wewerehere,butnottostay.Wedidn’tlikeitanyway.

WHEN THE LEAVES startchanging,itlooksasthoughImay spend my twelfthbirthdaythesamewayIspentmy eleventh: We live in thecarwhileCookiesits inbars.

If she finds a man withenoughclass (orawife)whowilltakehertoahotelforthenight,sheaskshimtogetusaroom right next to theirs. Itake baths so long I nearlyfall asleep in the tub whileNormandRosiestretchwideonthebed,watchingTVlikelittle kings.We live it up onthese nights, knowing that inhourswe’llbebackinthecar,sleepingbehindanondescript

supermarketorintheparkinglotoftheSmithHavenMall.In November, Cookie

meets Garcia, a compact,kind-faced farmworker whofrequents the pub that’s justdown from the mall. Whenshe tells him her kids arelivinginhercar,heoffersforNorm,Rosie,andmetosleepin an empty farm trailer allwinter, if we’re willing tomuck out the horse stables

every morning. “He saidthere’snoheatinthetrailer,”I tell thekids,“but it’sbetterthanlivinginaparkinglotallwinter.”Inthehoursofthemorning

when most kids are stillslumbering before theirparentswake themup,we’rerisingfromashivering,teeth-chattering night to wash ourfaces using the hose insidethe barn and a bucket of

waterwithsoap.Shortlyafterwe’ve supplied the horseswithwaterandhayisthebestpart of the morning: that’swhen the workers arrive.They bring us breakfast ofwarm rolls from a nearbybakeryorHostess cakes, andsometimestheywalkustothepub for the soup andsandwich lunch special . . .but we always hurry to exitbeforeCookieparksherselfat

thebarfortheday.Asfarascaretakersgo,I’m

partial to Garcia, who looksout for us so well I don’tbother to wonder why hewouldneverdateCookie.He promises that after the

horses get used to us, he’llgiveusridinglessons.Afewdays in a row he teachesmetopracticesaddlingupDixie,a sweet nutmeg mare. Afterhalf a dozen lessons in the

saddle,Norman,Rosie, and Itake turns trottingheraroundas if shewereourown,untilone afternoon when bothRosie and the horse findthemselves surprised.Apparently Dixie’s beingsought after by an overlyenthusiastic stud, causing allthe farmworkers to crowdaround in terror.One runs torescue Rosie from the reins,whilethetwohorsesgoonto

give us all a lesson in horsemating so thorough I’mtempted to write in toNationalGeographic.Garcia informs us that

Cookie’s been living with aguy from the pub, so forThanksgiving, the workerscall Salvation Army to bringus a warm dinner.When thefood arrives, the kids and Islip socks poked with holesoverourfingersandopenthe

Styrofoam containers heapedwith turkey, stuffing,mashedpotatoes,andcranberrysauce.We scurry to take seatsaround our trailer’s foldingtable.“Let’ssaygrace,”Itellthem.WebowourheadsasIlead:

BlessusOLord,AndtheseThygiftsWhich we are about to

receivefromThybounty

ThroughChrist,ourLord.Amen.

When my sisters firsttaught me this prayer, theygave me permission to blessmyself with the sign of thecross,eventhoughnoneofusare sure whether I was everbaptized. I watch as Rosieand Norman dig into theirdinners, reminding them tochewslowly.Afterdinnerwe

eat the pumpkin pie theSalvation Army brought us,thenweloungeonthefloortoplay board games with ourstomachs so full we canbarely move. “Does yourbellyhurt?”IaskRosie.“No,”sheanswers.“Itfeels

delicious.”Astheweathercontinuesto

chilldown,theworkersbeginto arrive earlier, allowing ustosleepinandstayoutofthe

cold.Thethreeofusbegintospendourdayshangingoutatthe mall, watching shoppers’cartsfillupwithgiftsaslittlekids climb onto Santa’s lap.“DoyouthinkSantawilleverbring us presents?” Rosieasksme.“One day, sweetheart.

Whenwestopmovingaroundand we’re finally home forgood.”It’salmostChristmaswhen

Cookie shows up again. Shesays welfare has a room forus in theLosBiandosshelterin Patchogue. There’s nomentionofmygoingback toschool,andpartofmewouldprefer to stay on the farmwith the workers who lookout for us, but at the shelterwe’llgetheatandthreemealsa day, plus running water inthesharedbathroom.I findmy preferred spot is

the shelter’s laundry room,where it’s warm and easy tostrike up conversations withourneighbors.That’swhereIfinally meet a new friend.Justlikeme,Karenistwelve,and she loves to read like Ido. We hang out, pagingthrough magazines from theshelter’s shelves; or oftenKaren’s family invitesRosie,Norman, and me to sit withthematdinnerintheshelter’s

dining hall. I love this,because her mother ismarried, and her stepdadteaches us new words whenwe play hangman andScrabble after we help withdinnercleanup.Karen’sstepdadsits inone

ofthewooden-framechairsintheshelter’sTVroom,urgingthe baby as she practiceswalkingortalkingwithKarenand me about what’s

happening in the news. He’sthe only man I can think ofwhohas ever treatedme likean adult, and he’s one of theonly decent dads at theshelter.One day when the laundry

room isalmostempty,Karentells me her stepdad’s beenaskingherwhereIgetallmybruisesandcuts.“It’s from my brother, tell

him,” I reply. “You know

boys,theylovetowrestle.”Thenthemanwhorunsthe

shelter starts watchingme inthe laundry room.When I’mintherealone,inthecornerofmy eye I watch him take aseatnexttome.“Regina,” he says. “Can

you tell me where yourmotherspendshertime?”“Around,” I answer. “You

see her sometimes, butusually she just sleepsa lot.”

I pretend to concentrate onmymagazine,an issueofTVGuide I’ve read a dozentimes, aware that he knowsmymother hangs around theshelter long enough to makeherself appear present beforeshe takes off for days to gohopping between bars andbeds.“I need you to tell me

where the marks on yourbodycomefrom.”

Ifreeze.“Your family’s room is

right next to theadministration office, andsome of the staff havereported hearing shouting, oroften theTV’son fullblast.”When she is around to beatus, the loud TV is Cookie’snumberonetactic.“It’s my brother,” I insist.

“You’veseenhowheplays.”“Regina.”

I put down my magazinewithahuff.“If you don’t tell me the

truth, I can’t let you eat atmealtime.”“It’s my brother,” I tell

him. “If I were getting beat,don’t you think you’d hearit?”I’dsurvivedworsethannot

eatingforafewdays,andnottellingandgoinghungrywasbetter than the risk of telling

andgettingseparated.At Christmas, the shelter

workersinviteuskidstohelpthem decorate a Christmastree. Rosie, now six, gentlytakes my hand and looks onwith a shy smilewhenSantaarrivescarryingasackonhisshoulder.Theshelterdirectorencouraged me to make awish list, so I asked for newMad Libs game pads andHighlightsmagazinestoshare

withRosieandNorm.Asthegiftsarebeinghandedout,healsotellsmetowritealistofbooksappropriateforseventhgrade,andhe’llsignthemoutof the library for me. I jotdown a dozen Landmarkhistory books to read toRosie, and a couple JudyBlumes. I figure, why notload up? You don’t have topayatthelibrary.Thenafewmonthslater,in

March of 1979, Cookiereturns to the shelter andannounces that she’sregistered us back in schooland rented the top unit in aduplex in Ronkonkoma. Shedrops us there and takes offimmediately, which suitsRosie, Norm, and me fine:After having lived in theshelter for a fewmonths, thethree of us are so used tohaving friends around that

every day after school weinvite the neighborhood kidsto our house. But the fun’sover one afternoon whenCookie decides to comehome, taking me by the hairand dragging me into herbedroom. Our friends teardownthestairsandoutsideasCookiegrabs abelt then ripsoff my shirt. She lashes myback,overandover. I try forthe door but end up huddled

inthecorner,andasshetakesabreak to regainher grip onthebelt, I start fightingback.She fights for her breath asshe hurls the belt andscreams,“Themoreyoufightit,youskinnylittlewhore,thelongerit’sgoingtotake!Youhave boys over, you stupidslut? This is for your owngood. You want to end uppregnant? Who’s gonna takecareofyourbaby?Huh?”she

demands.“Me?”When she’s finished, she

dragsme tomy roombymyarm and tosses me inside.Quickly I put on a differentshirt and shimmy down theback of the house, runningout of the yard, dodging thecommotiononthebackporchas the neighbors point her towhere I’ve gone. All one-hundred-eighty pounds ofCookie come heaving after

me, and again she takes mebymyhairandtugsmebacktothehouse.“Take off your jeans and

yourtop,”shesays.Iglareather.“Take off your fucking

clothes, you whore. Rosie,Norman,” she says, “I wantyou to see what happenswhenyoutry torunaway.”ImakeeyecontactwithRosie,who’s looking on in fear as

Cookie spins me so that myback’s facing her. I stiffen,hearing her arm rise high intheair.Shewhipsme...andwhipsme . . . andwhipsmesome more. I squeeze myeyesshutandbitemylipandthenfinallycryoutinpainasmyentirebody feels like it’sswollen and red. Then sheties my hands together. Shebinds my ankles, and wrapsmy wrists around the closet

rod. Once I’m hanginghelplessinsidethecloset,sheslamsthedoorshut.Ikickthedoor and scream, not able tocontrol myself from givingher such satisfaction. Theafternoon light streamingunder the closet door beginsto disappear swiftly, and thesensation is as though I’mbeing buried alive—chainedup and shoved into a smallspace,thewayshe’ddowhen

Iwaslittle.Whenmyvoiceisgone and I’m certain mywrists must be sprained, Ihavenochoicebuttogiveupfighting. I struggle to keepmy mind from panicking asthe numerous incidents ofbeing tied or chained upcaused my intenseclaustrophobia. I fight off apanicattackbycounting,thenpraying for any image thatcould possibly slow my

poundingheart.Then, I’m there: walking

on the beachwithmy sistersand the kids, writing ournamesinthesand,floatinginthewater,andliftinguprockstodiscoverclamsfordinner.Icantastetheoniongrass,feelthe swayof the beachweedsbending against my knees inthe breeze aswe head out toswimonthefloatingdock.

IN THE MORNING Normancomesintocutmeloose,andI direct himas hegetsRosieready for school. “You twocannot miss the bus,” I tellhim.“Youhave toeat today,and I can’t go to school likethis.”Notonlyaremywristsscarred,butmyimageis,too.Iworkmystomachintoknotswondering what I canpossibly say to my friendsafter theywitnessed howmy

mothertreatsme.Days later I’ve got bigger

problems when the landlordopens the door and marchesright past me, carrying ourbelongingsouttothelawn.“Butit’shardlyevenspring

yet!” I tell him. “You’reexpecting us to sleep out inthecold?”“I’veletyoustayherethree

months,” he says, “which istwo months more than your

mother’spaidfor.”I turn to thekids, trying to

keep my cool for their sake.“You stay here with all ourstuff. I’m going to callCherie.I’llberightback.”Atthe convenience store up theroad, I beg the clerk for adimetocallCherie.She shows up in her

boyfriend’s car to get us andsetsusuptosleepatKathy’shouse for the night. I dread

her call to Cookie . . . whohas no choice but to turn upthe next morning with someBS story to try to rectifyherself in front of Kathy’smother. “Oh, just wait untilthey hear from my lawyer.I’m gonna sue their shortsoff!” she says.We spend thesummerandfalllivingoutofcars,bars,andhotels,andmythirteenthbirthdayisjustlikemytwelfth...whichwasjust

like my eleventh. Rightbefore Christmas, CookiefindsusaplaceinSmithtownwith a landlord who likes topayher visits late at night inlieuofacceptingrent.But it’s all going as

smoothlyasIcanhopewhenI’mabletoregisterforeighthgrade in the middle of theyear, not revealing that Inever finished seventh.Also,Camillemovesback inwhen

Ipersuadeherduringanotherpayphonecall.“Smithtown’sclose to Hauppauge!” I tellher. “You’d be close to allyour friends!” She movesback in, andwe stay throughthe spring . . . but at thebeginning of summer, thelandlord’s wife comesknockingwhen she finds outhowtherentisbeingpaid.Andthen,beforeIeversee

myeighthgradediploma...

We’regone.

8

EmptyEmancipation

November 1980 to Summer1984

I SHAKE THE cramp from my

hand and look at Ms. Davisover the thick affidavit onAddie’s table.“Emancipation,”IaskherandAddie, “means that I willnever have to answer toCookieagain...right?”Addie glances at Ms.

Davis, who says, “That’sexactly what emancipationmeans,Regina.”Inexhaustion,Iwanttorest

my head on this document.

Completingthisaffidavitwillchange everything, but basedon every event we’veexperienced in the fostersystem up to now, we cannever predict whether thechange will be better orworse.The story of howwegrew

up is finally revealed to theauthorities. Inside Addie’skitchen on that Sunday inNovember,fourdaysaftermy

mother bruised me with herkicks and bloodied me withbroken glass, Ms. Davisprimesustosigntheaffidavitby explaining that nobodycan access a report wherechild abuse is involved,especially not the accused.She also assures us ourstatements will only be usedto proceed with my gainingfreedomfromCookie.“And—you swear, the

county is going to doeverythingitcantomakesureCookiecannevergetthekidsagain?” I turn to Camille,making sure Ms. Davisknows the hardness of thisnext statement is all for her:“BecauseIwouldsuffertheseblack-and-bluemarksalloveragain—Iwouldspendtherestof my life sleeping alonebehindagrocerystoretohidefromCookie—if itmeant I’d

never have to see my littlesister’sandbrother’sfacesinterror insidea social servicescaragain.”“I understand,” Ms. Davis

says.“Well then, promise: You

and everyone youwork withwill fight for thekids’ safetyfromthesecondIputmypentothispage.”“Regina,Ipromise.”I look at Cherie and

Camille.“I’mready.”I put the ballpoint pen to

thelinereadingSignatureandin loopy, feminine strokes,sign:ReginaM.CalcaterraThen I flip the pen toward

Camille.“You’reup.”She gently slides it from

my grip and, with theconfidence of a maestro,scrawls her name beneathmine,andthenCheriefollows

her lead before she headsback home to her youngfamily.“Now that you both

determined you won’t returnto your mother’s care,” Ms.Davis says, looking atCamilleandme,“youneedtobegin planning how you’lllive on your own as soon asyou turn eighteen. The stateonly covers your foster carecostsuntilthen,unlessyougo

tocollege.”“College?”Iasked.“Granted, that comes with

itsownchallenges—infact,Ihaveyettoseeafosterkidgotocollege.”“What?Why?”“Well, think about it: It’s

toughtoholddownajobandmake rent when you’reworkinghardtostudy.Inanycase,we’ll start teachingyouhow to live independently.

Then,hopefully,onedayyoucanmake it on your own.” Iglance at Camille, who’sgiving Ms. Davis a look ofdaggers.After she leaves, Addie

stands aside to let Camilleandmepassfromthekitchen.“Will you be joining us fordinner?”shesays.“No thanks,” we call

behindus.Wecloseourselvesin Camille’s bedroom, and I

stare up at her ceiling. “Idon’t know how to feel,” Iconfess.Shecollapseswithherhead

next to mine on the pillow.“Meneither.”Then as if on cue,we turn

to each other and burst outlaughing. We laugh so hardwebegin tohyperventilate intearsuntilwerolloffthebed,making two bony thuds onAddie’s floor. Eventually,

I’m able to compose myselfenoughtomockourthreefulldays of social workers andlegal talk. “Congratulations!”I declare. “Now that you’vejust dumped your mother,you’ll be homeless again ateighteen . . . if you surviveuntilthen!”Camillewipeshertearsand

foldsherarmsacrossherbustas Ms. Davis is apt to do.“Listen, girls,” she sayswith

fake empathy, “really, youdon’tstandanicicle’schanceinhell.Just trynot toendupa drug addict, an alcoholic,pregnant, a prostitute, or injail.”“Likeyourmother!”Iwail.That night Camille kisses

meonthecheekandsmoothsmy hair behind my ear.“What are you thinkingabout?”I sigh. “Rosie and Norm.

Tomorrow after school I’mgoing toaskAddie ifwecancallthem.”“I’m worried about them,

too. . .but thisisyourday,”Camille says. “Do you thinkour birthday girl is going togetherwish?”I smile.Allweekendwe’d

been trying tostayoutof theway at our temporary fosterhome while also racingagainst Ms. Davis’s deadline

togettheaffidavitcompletedand signed on time . . . butthrough all the chaos, mysister remembered that todayIturnedfourteen.Tuckingmyhands behind my head, I liebackonmypillow.“IthinkIjustdid.”

MONDAY’SSCHOOLBUSrideisstillbuzzingfromlastweek’spresidential election withRonald Reagan defeating

PresidentJimmyCarter.“Areyou better off than youwerefour years ago?” Reaganfamously asked Carter intheir final debate, a weekbeforetheelection.I’mbetteroffthanIwasfourdaysago,Ifigure.In the halls of the high

school I keepmy hair inmyface and my head down,hopingthatifIdon’tmeetthegaze of my peers, then they

can’t see me, either. I spendmy time in class doodling jet’aime and mia bambinaamore on the covers of mynotebooks.I begin to eat more, and

within a week at thePetermans’, my clothes starttofitdifferently.BecauseI’mafosterkidIgetfreelunchatschool, then dinner everynight with Camille, Danny,and the family. The more I

eat, the more I want to eat—“Putting some meat onthose bones for the winter!”Pete says—but Addie makesit clear that her home is noplace forme tomake up forall the meals I’ve missed inthe last fourteen years. She’sconstantlyonadiet,soeatingbetweenmealsisdiscouragedfor all of us . . . and I catchmyself craving the Ho Hosand Twinkies I’d make a

meal out of when we wereliving on our own. Camille,too, is obviously strained byall the restrictions—suddenlyourentirelivesarestructuredaround the Petermans’ mealschedule, TV-viewingschedule, homework, andcurfews.Atnight,whisperingin her bedroom, Camillebegins to prepare me: Eventhough the Petermans haveinvited us both to stay

permanently, she doesn’twanttoliveinawaythat’ssorestricted.She tellsme she’llstay with me through theholidays, but by spring shewants to find anothersituation.“Spring,” I say. “Great.

You’regoingtoleavemejustwhen we’re about to go tocourt in April to make myemancipationofficial.”“Regina, I’m seventeen,”

she says. “You want to livethis way forever? Speakingonly when you’re spoken toand always feeling paranoidthat our foster parents aretalking about us when we’renot in the room—about ourfutures,ourbehavior,thewayweholdourforks?Huh?”Isaynothing.“Doyouwanttheonlylove

you feel to come fromsnuggling with your plastic

Jesuses and pictures of thekids dressed in Lake HavasuT-shirts?”Ouch.OneforCamille.“No matter where we’ve

had to make a home forourselves, we’ve alwaysshareda lotof love.” Iknowshe’s right—even when itwasjustNorm,Rosie,andmeshivering inside the horsetrailer,I’dlearnedfromlivingforyearswithmysistershow

to create an atmosphere oflaughs, comfort, and ease.And when Cookie wasaround, we’d somehowestablishasmallspaceamongthe chaos for solace, wherewe could go and be togetherto talk and snuggle or playgames.“BynowIknowhowI want to live my life,”Camille continues, “and it’snot by learning to obey newrules in a strangehouse. I’ve

alreadyraisedmyself.”ShegetsajobatWicks’n’

Sticks, a candle shop at theSmith HavenMall. In turn Ibegin making friends at thebus stop. Sheryl and Traceymake it clear they’re talkingto me because they’re reallyinterested in coaxing me outof my shell, and it doesn’ttakelongbeforeI’mspendingallmy timeoutside schoolattheir houses. They both have

fathersandmotherswho livetogether, two cars in thedriveway,swimmingpoolsinthe backyard, closets stuffedwith well-fitting clothes and,most important to me,refrigerators and pantriesstockedwithsnacksandsoda.I find it’s much morecomfortable toplay theguestoutside my foster family’shomethaninit.It’s fascinating to observe

hownormal families interact.With a mother and father inthe house, it’s as thougheveryonehasadistinctroleinthe family: Dads work full-time at offices, moms workpart-time or run the kidsaround;wekidscanjusthangout . . . and be kids. It’s atotally new experience forme. We spend weekdayafternoons watching MTVand doing homework and

weekends at the movies, thebowling alley, and playingPac-ManandCentipedeatthemallarcade.Traceygigglesatmy pronunciation. “It’sCentipede,notCenterpede!”Ijustshrugandsmile.These families think they

know me well, that I live atmy aunt’s house. I neversharemystory; thedetailsofhow I grew up, that I haveyoungersiblingsI’mtryingto

save,orthatIhaveamentallyill, alcoholic, promiscuousmother who won’t be mymothermuchlonger.CamilleandIarealloweda

once-a-week phone call withRosie andNorm,who cry inhusheswhentheytellustheirnew foster mom never hugsthem and then disciplinesthem with hits and cursing.Over and over they saythey’ve tried to tell their

social worker, but instead ofthe sympathy or solutionstheyneed,shetellsthemtheyought to be better listeners.Camille and I tell our socialworker that the kids,especiallyRosie,wouldneverlie about being hit. We begAddietopleaseallowthekidsto come live with us. Eachtime,however,shesadlytellsus that she just cannot takethem aswell. She says she’s

already stretching her energyand resources; and besides,Rosie and Norm’s socialworker isn’t convincedthey’re not just making upthese stories because they’rehomesickforus.AsChristmasapproaches,a

social worker named Ms.Harvey is assigned to ourcase now that the Petermanshave invited us to staypermanently. Her lack of

cooperationtohelpusseethekids causes Camille and meto grow even more reclusiveand rebellious, stayingoutofthe house until curfew thenlocking ourselves in ourrooms for the night. WhenAddie gets our monthlywelfare check, she gives useach the county designatedamount of sixty-two dollarsof the two four-hundred-twelve-dollar checks she

receives to use as ourpersonal allowance forclothes, toiletries, books, andschoolfieldtrips.TheninearlyDecemberthe

socialworkers informus thatwe’llgettoseethekidsforaChristmas visit. Realizingwe’ve spent all of our firstcheck on warm coats andsnow boots for ourselves,Camille takes a second jobselling fragrances in themall

while I begin walking door-to-doortoAddie’sneighbors,offering to clean leaves offtheir lawns before the firstsnow for ten dollars each.Addie sees how hard we’reworkingandrecommendsmeto neighbors who need ababysitter who’s willing tocleanhouse...andontopofthat I make an extra fivedollars per week dustingAddie’sfurniture.

When Camille and I goChristmasshoppingforRosieandNorm,my sister followsmy lead around the kids’clothing stores at the mall.“I’m a pro around theseparts,”Itellher.“They’vegotsizes that fit me, lessexpensive than the juniorssection. Where do you thinkI’ve been doing all myshopping?”“Savemoney shopping for

kids’clotheswhileyoucan,”Camillesays,gesturingatmybody. “I can already tell,you’re starting to take someshape. The same thing thathappened to me is gonnahappen toyou:Youwakeupone morning and—va-va-VOOM!—you need a bra.Areal bra,” shewhispers. “Weoughta place a bet on howmuch longer you’ll fit intokids’turtlenecks.”

“Just help me,” I tell her.Shepushesacartandweloadit with gloves, hats, scarves,newunderwear,socks,winterboots, some jeans, and arainbow array of cable-knitsweaters.On Sunday, December 23,

atonethirtyintheafternoon,Cherie picks us up from thePetermans’ and drives usthirty minutes to the kids’foster home. “Don’t be

surprisedifthey’renotblownaway by the gifts,” Camillesays.“Cookie’svisitationwasfromninetoonetoday,andifshe tried to win them overwith anything, I guarantee itwastoys.”“At least her car’s not

here,”Isaywhenwepullintothe driveway of a dumpof ahouse. The social workerswerewise togiveusanhourgap so we wouldn’t have to

crosspathswithourmother.Cherieturnsofftheignition

and helps us unload twostacksofpresentssohighwehave to coach each other tonavigate our eager approachtothefrontdoor,wherewe’remet by awoman in a velourjogging suit and giant hairwho,insteadofwelcomingusorintroducingherself,tellsusCookie hasn’t returned withthekidsyet.

“Of course she hasn’t,”Cheriesays.Welookateachother,wonderinghow long itwill take her to invite us in.We finally break theawkwardnessandtrudgebackto the car. Cherie starts thecarandflipsontheheatfull-blast. Then she walks to thecornerphoneboothtocallherhusbandandtellhimshe’llbehomelaterthansheplanned.We sing to the radio and

take turns knocking on thefront door to ask whetherCookie has called with anupdate. Hours pass. Cherietellsus she’s running lowongas and has to go home tofeedherbaby.ShedrivesCamilleandme

backtothePetermans’.Every hour we call Rosie

and Norm’s house, and theanswer is always the same.Hoping she’ll respond first

thing Monday morning, weleaveamessageforRosieandNorm’ssocialworker,whosenumber Addie agreed to pinon the corkboard by herphone.We stay up through the

night.WhenCamille’s alarmclock flashes 6:00 in brightred digits, we tiptoe out toAddie’s kitchen and pick upthe phone again. Their fostermother’svoice isgroggyand

irritated,andRosieandNormarestillgone.

MS. HARVEY BELIEVES ourconclusion that Cookie’s runwith the kids. “But it’sChristmas Eve,” she says,“and there’s really not a lotwe can do besides wait untilthe county’s back from theholiday. I wouldn’t worry,though—”“Ourmotherhasoureight-

year-old sister and ourtwelve-year-oldbrotherholedup in a car behind somegrocerystore,orinthehouseof whatever scuzzball she’ssleepingwith thisweek.Andyou wouldn’t worry?”Camille yells into the phone.I fold my arms across me,sick to my stomach. WhenCamillegetsupset,theweightof my guilt for comingforwardmultiplies.

“With the state watchingover yourmother’s shoulder,it doesn’t seem very likelyshe would do Norman andRoseanneanyharm.”“She just kidnapped Norm

and Rosie,” Camille says.“And you don’t think weshouldcallthepolice?”“Theywould have to have

been abducted by a strangerto warrant my calling thepolice.”

“Our mother is moredangerous to those kids thanany stranger,” Camille says.“You’re fools if you don’ttrackherdown.”“Merry Christmas,

Camille,” Ms. Harvey says,endingthecall.“TellRegina,too.Enjoyyourtimeofffromschool.When I’m back fromholidayvacation, I’ll lookupyour mother’s most recentaddress in the files. I’ll get

back to you when we havesomething.”It’safterNewYear’swhen

social services finally findsCookie living at herboyfriend’s house. “Mychildren told me they werebeing beaten at their fosterhome.YouthinkIwasgoingto deliver them back to thathell on earth?” she told theworkers. “I am their mother.They’re happy with me. Go

pissupa tree. I’ll seeyou inApril.”Ms.Harveysaid that, from

everythingNormandRosie’ssocial worker reported, thekids were living in a nicehouse in the same schooldistrict and seemed contentliving as a family withCookie’s new boyfriend andhis teenage daughter.“They’ve decided to let thesituation be for now,” Ms.

Harvey explained. “But aslong as the judge grantsRegina’s emancipation at theAprilhearing,thenit’salmostguaranteed the court willdetermine that Cookie is anunfit caretaker and mostlikely will remove yourbrother and sister from hercare.”Camille’s skeptical. “And

whywouldthatbe?”“Your case hasn’t gone to

court,soyourmothergetsthebenefitofthedoubt.Butoncethe judge reads yourstatement,he’dbecrazytolether keep Norman andRoseanne.”“Sure,goaheadandwait,”

Camille says. “But Cookieknows what’s coming. ByApril, you watch. She’ll belonggone.”

WITHCOOKIE’SABDUCTIONof

the kids looming over us,evenourFebruaryvacationtoDisney World in thePetermans’ RV is hard toenjoy.Ourteacherssentalistofreadingandhomeworkforustodoonthethree-daytripdown the East Coast, butinsteadweplayScrabbleandthelicenseplategame...andeven then,mymind drifts tothinking about what Rosieand Norm must be going

through. Every time Petestops at a gas station, I eyethe phone booth. I’ve gotchange to make a long-distance call and Ms.Harvey’s number memorized...butconsideringtheresultsof all the calls up to now, Ifigure the money will bebetter spent on Mickeysouvenirs for whenever I doseethekids.InMarch,Cherieshowsup

at the Petermans’ house in atizzy. “Cookie was arrestedfor stealing from herboyfriend’s house,” she says.“She called me to bail herout.”“Did you do it?” Camille

andIaskinunison.“Yes, I did it. I couldn’t

thinkofwhatelsetodo,Iwassoworriedaboutwhatwouldhappen toRosieandNormanwith no one there to protect

themifthecopsshowedup.Ican’t ask my mother-in-lawto have them stay here. So Isaid to Cookie, ‘If you wantmetogetyourassoutofjail,youbettertellme:Wherearethekids?’“ ‘The kids,’ she tells me,

‘are in a hotel that Iwent toafterJeffkickedusout.’“And I go, ‘Oh, Jeff?’ ”

Cherie says. “And I’m justsupposed to know who Jeff

is? So she gets all snotty:‘Who the fuck do you thinkhe is, Cherie? He’s the guyI’vebeenlivingwiththepastcouple months.’ I thought Iwouldthrowthephoneatthewall. ‘Norm is there,watching Rosie,’ Cookiesays. ‘He’s twelve—practically a young mannow!’”“Ohcrap,”Isay.“Didthey

seehergetarrested?”

“That’s what I asked her,”Cherie says. “Cookie tellsme, ‘Nope,’ all dismissive.‘They busted me in the pubparking lot. See, I went tomeet Jeff sowe could talk itout, but he set me up. NextthingIknow,I’mincuffs.’”Cherie explains that the copshad social services trackdown the kids, who werestayinginamotel.Imarch toAddie’skitchen

phone. “I’m calling Ms.Harvey.”When she answers, she

explains: “The cops decidedNorman is old enough towatch Roseanne whileCookie is incarcerated forassaultandbattery.”“Wait,Ms.Harvey, letme

get this straight: Cookie isarrested for trying to beat upherboyfriend—in jail for theweekend—and our little

brother iswatchingRosie byhimself?”“Regina, I’m just telling

youwhatthepolicetoldme.”“Who’s paying for the

room? What if they getkickedout?Thenwhat?”“Well, in that case they

would be homeless and wewould place them in anotherhome. But until then, theauthorities have decided thatthey’re both safe and secure.

Besides, now that yourmother’s bailed out, she’llprobably be back with theminafewhours.”CamilleandIhavedevised

aplan:Theonlywaywecanwatch out for Rosie andNorm is to convince Cookiethatall’sforgivenandwestillwantherinourlives.“She’s a lunatic,” Cherie

says. “You sure youwant togo through with this

cockamamyplan?”With Daisy Duck and

Goofy ball caps in a bag assouvenirs, we wait at themotel room’s outsideentranceuntilCookieanswerswith a cigarette between herfingers like someHollywoodvixen. “Well well well,” shesays, holding the door asthough she has to considerletting us in. “Just likealways, you two come

crawlingback.”CamilleoccupiesRosieand

NormwhileIsitdownonthebed, across from whereCookie’s seated at the motelroom’sdesk.Withoutlookingatme,shesays,“Iseeyou’restarting to come into yourown.Shockerwiththoselittletits,nobody’sknockedyouupyet.”“I didn’t come here to be

the butt of any insults,” I

answer. “I really want toworkthisout.”“Well,don’t try tobuyme

with any sweet talk. Yourattedmeouttoeveryofficialin Suffolk County when allI’veeverdonewasworkhardtogiveyoukidsagoodlife.”“Rattedyouout?”In the background Camille

turnsontheTVforRosieandNorm.“You are required by law

to attend the emancipationhearing of Regina M.Calcaterra,” she recites.“What are you, fuckingQueen Elizabeth? I gotfriends, you know. I knowwhatemancipationmeans.”Camille slides to siton the

bednexttome.Cookielightsanother cigarette. “There’sbeen a lot of confusion,”mysistersays.“ButReginaandIarealwaystalkingabouthow

wemissbeingafamily.”“Whatthefuckdoyoutwo

want?”“Wewant to see you.And

NormanandRosie.”I pipe in. “And you know,

it won’t be long before I’meighteen.” I remember howMs.HarveysuggestedItrytomaintaincontactwithCookieintheeventIneedaplacetogo when I age out of fostercare. I tellCookie: “I’ll have

the choice of who I want tolivewith.Whoknows,maybewe’ll want to be a familyagain.Maybethingscouldbenormal.”“Regina, you’ve been

running away fromme sincethe day you sprouted legs,”she says. “If you think forhalfasecondthatI’llsupportyou when you’re an adult,thenyoubetterquitwhateveritisyou’resmokin’now.”

“We just want you in ourlife . . . Mom.” The wordtastes like vinegar in mymouth.“Well, you little assholes

should have thought of thatbeforethecountyaskedmetoRSVP to the ReginaCalcaterra IndependenceDayParade.”Shetakesadragoffher cigarette. “Is Cheriewaiting for you in the car?Getthefuckoutofhere.”

Camille and I exchange aglance,rise,andapproachthekids to hug them good-bye.When Camille takes offoutside, I follow, slammingthe door to Cookie’s motelroom so hard the windowsshake.

IN APRIL, CAMILLE iswatchingmeclosely. I’mnoteating again, thanks to thenerves the emancipation

hearing is kicking up in mystomach. “You don’t evenhave to go,” Camille says.“Ms. Harvey is your court-appointed guardian, she’ll bedoingallthetalking.”With how poorly she’s

protected the kids these lastfew months, unfortunatelythat information is zerocomfort.The afternoon of the

hearing, when Camille and I

arrive home from school,Addie’s in the kitchentappingherfingeronacupofcoffee. “What?” I ask her.“Thenewsisn’tgood?”“It’s good for you,”Addie

says.“Youwonbydefault.”“Default?”“Your mother didn’t show

up to the hearing. The judgemade a default judgmentagainsther.”“Regina!” Camille says.

“Youdidit!”“Wait,” I ask Addie,

pulling back from Camille’shug. “Rosie and Norm:They’refreefromher,too?”“Regina, that’s the

bittersweetpart,”Addiesays.“You don’t have any controlover what happens to yourbrother and sister. For now,the court decided to leavethemwithyourmother.”I stare at her, indignant. I

don’thaveanycontrol?Ilookat Camille, whose eyes arewelling with tears. We can’tbe happy for my freedomwhile there’s any ounce ofpossibility that our youngersiblings will be forced tosuffer with Cookie. I fleefromthekitchenandslammybedroom door. I grabeverythingIcangetmyhandson and throw it: the onlyoutlet I’ve ever found

effectivewhenI’minablindrage.

ONEMORNING INMay,Addieand Camille exchange aknowingglancewhenIcomeout to the kitchen withstomachpainssobadIthinkImight throwup.“Maybeyoushould stay home fromschool,”Addiesays.Camille knocks on the

bathroom door just as I’m

discovering a spot of bloodon my leg. “Honey,” shecalls, “why don’t you letmehelp?” She inconspicuouslyedges inside the bathroomandshowsmehowtoadherea maxi pad. “And here’swhere Addie keeps ourstashes. Always make sureyou have extras in your bag. . . especially if you visitCookie.”“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t buythese. She’d rather spend thefood stamps on beer andcigarettes. Remember thebloody washcloths she usedtoleavearoundthehouse?”Igrimace.“Oh,Camille!”“Yeah. I know. It was

gross.”In the kitchen, Addie’s

looking through the phonebook. “I’m going to makeyou an appointment at the

doctor,”shesays.“Thedoctor?I’mnotsick,I

justgotmyperiod.”“Well, there are

precautions certain youngwomen should take whentheir bodies grow capable ofbearing children.” Oh, that’swhat this is about: Addie’safraid she’ll be raising afoster grandchild if shedoesn’t get me on the pill.“Birth control helps regulate

awoman’scycle,”shesays.Iwanttotellhertocutthe

crap. I could teach sexeducationatmyschoolbetterthananyteacherwhoactuallystudiedit.Attheageofeight,I learned how one gives ablow job thanks to Cookie’sdemonstration on one of herboyfriends when she thoughtwewereallasleep.Attwelve,I walked into my mother’sbedroom to find a huge pink

dildo and a magazine calledHighSocietylayingopentoaletterfromamandetailinghisone-nightstandwithafemalegymnast so skilled thatwhenshe swung from thechandelier, she landed in asplit, directly on his erectpenis.Thankstomymother’sgraphic language and hercasual displays around thehouse (like how she wouldgrabKarlbetweenhislegsin

front of us), when you growup witness to such sexualbehavior, nothing about it isvery fascinating. In fact, itshuts out any desirewhatsoever.Still, with Addie’s

incessant urging, I make atrip to the gynecologist. Thecounty bus system is soinfrequent andconfusing thatI arrive late, alone, and evenmore stressed out than I’d

prepared myself for. Whenthe nurse calls me into thesterilegrayroom,Ifollowherinstructiontolieonthetable.“Slide your feet into thestirrups, please,” she says,andIfeelthebloodrushfrommy face when the doctorwalks in the door. Afterbarely an introduction I feelthe heat of his examininglight between my legs, andmy body clenches with the

touch of his medicalinstruments. Suddenly I’mback in that foster homeseven years ago, on thewinter nightwhenmy sisterswere locked out in the coldandNormwasbangingonthedoor. “Let my sister go!”he’d screamed. This doesn’tfeel much different. I feelviolated, isolated, and quitecertain that this makes itofficial:Ineverwanttoallow

aboytotouchmeagain.Itseemslikenoonebesides

Camille will give me astraight talk aboutwomanhood, although someadultsdoseemtocareenoughto fumble through a fewtidbits. On the last day offreshman year, I go homewithmyfriendSheryl,whosemom takes us to the park atthe Wood Road School. Icatch her eyeing my orange

tank top before she says,“Girls,thisisprobablyagoodtimetobringthisup,andI’monly going to say it once:Never sit on the same swingwithaboy.”Sheryl and I look at each

other bewildered. “Mom,why?”sheasks.“Because there are two

swings: one for each of you.Soyoucanswing,andhecanswing, and you can even

swing at the same time . . .butseparately,yousee.Nevertogether.”We break into a fit of

laughter. “Mom,” Sherylsays. “What about the teeter-totter?”“Girls, I’m serious: There

will be no bumping on theswings.”“Thankyouverymuch for

that informative birds andbeestalk,Mrs.Z,”Isay,and

Sheryl and I run for theswings, wrapping our armsaroundourshoulderswithourimaginary swing-bumpingboyfriends.Thatsummer,Cherieistied

up with the baby. Camille’sstill at the Petermans’ butoftenworkingtwelvehoursaday. I spend my daysbabysitting the kids onAddie’s street orwith Sheryland Tracey, taking the nine

A.M.bustoSmithPointBeachandhoppingthefiveP.M.bushome. We buzz about thethought of entering tenthgrade and trying out forgymnastics.Secretly,I’malsoexcited because it’s the firsttime I’ll start the schoolyearwith a close-knit group offriends and a wardrobe I’mactually not embarrassed towear.The first week of school

I’m dumbstruck when thegymnastics coach reads mynameoffthelistofgirlswhomadethecut.“Coach,”Isay,while theothergirlsarebusyin huddled squeals. “Icouldn’t even take a stab atthebars.”“Your upper body needs

some strengthening, but yourlegsarecutandyou’restrongon the beam. I’m going tostart you with the junior

varsityteam.”Instantly, I begin to

structure my days around afulldayofschoolfollowedbygymnastics practice until sixthirty, then babysitting andhousecleaning jobs. In studyhall, while the other kidssketchthelogosofVanHalenand AC/DC on theirnotebooks,IdoodleRosieandNormaninheartsandbubbleswithmiabambinaamoreand

je t’aime scribbed aroundthem.AnyhomeworkIdon’tget done at school is a goodexcuseformetomaintainmyprivacy when I get home intheevenings.OnenightinearlyOctober,

Addie knocks on mybedroom door. “You have avisitor,” she says. Cherieappears behind her in thedoorway, and Camille popsherheadoutofherbedroom.

“What are you doinghere?” Camille says. “Younever stop over withoutcallingfirst.”Cherie looks at the ceiling

asifshe’sprayingtosaveherlast nerve. “Cookie wasdrivingdrunkandshegotintoan accident,” she says. “Sheleft the scene, and the policewere lookingforher . . .and...sheskippedtownwiththekids.”

Camille asks, “Wait, Ididn’thearthispart.Whatdoyoumean‘skippedtown’?”Cherie says, “I got a call

from Cookie’s friend JackieSones. You remember her?She lived near us in SaintJames.”“Jackie Sones—the one

whomovedtoIdaho?”“Yeah,” Cherie says,

clearlydreadingwhatshehasto reveal next. “She told me

Cookie is heading out thereso she can live in Jackie’strailerandworkwithanimalson a farm. So,with the kids,offshedrove.”Wewalkouttothekitchen,

where Addie gives uspermissiontocallMs.Harveyat home. “Girls, there’snothinganybodyherecandoifyourmotherleftthestate.”“Oh, big shock,” I say,

“considering how much you

didtoprotectthemwhiletheywerehere.”It’s close to Halloween

when Jackie Sones callsCherie to tellherCookieandthekidshavearrived.“TheystayedwithJackiea

fewweeksuntilCookiefounda bowlegged oldman namedClydewholivesonafarminsome town called Oakview,”Camilletellsme.“Letmeguess,sosheused

herwaystoconvincehimthathewould be better off if herbroodmovesin.”We learn that, to maintain

her part of the bargain,Cookie volunteered the kidsto work as farmhands. Theyrise every morning to milkthe cows, shovel horsemanure, bale hay, and tendthe crops. “I know how thisworks,” I tell Camille. “Iftheydon’tstepup,they’llget

beaten.”“Yeah,” she sighs. “That’s

whatI’mafraidof.”“Well, at least they’re in a

small town.When we figureouthowtofixthis,hopefullyitwillbeeasytofindthem.”She gives me Clyde’s

phone number, which Jackieshared with her. I pop morequarters in the pay phone.Agruff, bothered male voiceanswers.“Yeah?”

“IsthisClyde?”“Yeah?”“I’m Regina, Cookie’s

daughter, calling from NewYork. Can you please putRosieonthephone?”After some murmurs and

the croak of Cookie’s voiceobjectinginthebackground,Ifinally hear Rosie’s tendervoice:“Gi?”Tearsgushoutofmyeyes.

“Bambina?” I ask her. “Are

youandNormanokay?”Shestaysquiet.“Is Mom standing right

there?”I hear her debating over

howtorespond.“Yeah.”“Okay. I’m going to speak

quietly,buthere’swhatwe’lldo. I’m going to ask yousomequestions.Iftheansweris yes, you’ll pretend toanswer me about life on thefarm. Like, ‘Yes, there are

lots of animals here.’ And iftheanswerifno,you’lldothesame thing—‘No, it hasn’tsnowed here yet. SillyRegina, it’s only October.’Youready?”“Yes, there are lots of

animalshere.”I giggle. “Good, you get

it!” Through a conversationcarried in this kind of code,Rosiemakes it clear that sheand Norm are attending

schoolregularly,butalsothatCookieandClydeareabusingher. That night I call Ms.Harvey, who says the usual:“There’s really nothing wecando.”Over the next week, I

continuemaking these codedcalls to Rosie and Norman,and they reveal as much asthey can through the feignedconversations. Then I callinformation and ask for the

number to the elementaryschool in Oakview, Idaho.“May I speak with theguidancecounselorplease?”Iask.Whenhe’spatchedthrough

I tell him about Cookie’shistory and what’s beenhappening to Rosie. ThenCookiecallsmeatAddie’stotell me the guidancecounselorbroughtherinforameeting to check out my

story.“AndwhenIaskedthekidswhat the hellwas goingon, they told me the wholething,” Cookie says. “Youthree have a code when youcall here.You give them thethird degree, then you thinkyou have us all figured out.Well guess what,” she sayswitha lowgrowl. “I told theguidance counselor the truth:that you’re a juveniledelinquent and alcoholic liar

who was committed to afosterhome tokeepyour assoutofjail.AnddoyouthinkIwas proud to tell him thatRosie is a promiscuous nine-year-oldwhomade advancestowardClyde?Thenwhenherejected her, she startedmaking up stories! That’show it went, Regina. It washumiliatingtotalkaboutwhatderelicts my children haveturned out to be. Although,

knowing the kind of manyour father is, I don’t knowwhy I’m surprised. And forthe record, the marks on herbody? Those are from thefarmwork. You don’t get toliveandeatforfree,inIdahoor Long Island or anywhereelse.”Sobbing,IcallMs.Harvey

andbeghertospeaktoRosieand Norm’s guidancecounselor in Idaho and tell

him that she outright lied tohim about the kids and me.“Please, to hear this woman,she’stotallyinsane!”Ms.Harvey refuses. “Your

siblings are in the hands ofanother state now, Regina.Forthelasttime,I’lltellyou:Thereisnothingwecando.”“Ms.Harvey,youpromised

meyouallwouldprotectmybrother and sister if I signedthat report telling everything

mymotherhasdone.” I slamdownthephonesohard,IseePeterisefromhisreclinerasIrun down the hall to myroom. In trying to help thekids, I’ve made it worse forthem. Without me there totake Cookie’s abuse, Rosiebears the brunt of myattempts to save them. I’vefailed to protect her the wayCherie andCamilleprotectedme. I want to tell Rosie that

thebrutalityshe’senduringistorturingme,too.

IT’S THE FALL of tenth gradewhen the new county phonebook arrives at Addie’s. IquicklyripitopenandthumbmywaytoA:Accerbi,Paul&JoanI sigh with relief: My

father’s still close; and if thephone book’s factual, so areall his relatives. I haven’t

worked up the courage tocontact him, but for now it’senough toknow that I could.On November 9, 1981—myfifteenth birthday—I begin acountdown for the thirty-sixmonthsIhavetoreachouttohim before I might actuallyneed to ask him for somehelp.I hope he’ll be proud. I’m

gettingsolidgradesinallmyclasses, but history and

English are where I’mearningeasyA’s.ImakesureI tell Mr. Kelly and Mr.Maguire how hard I’mstudying,andtheybothbegintodiscusscollegewithme.“Iknow you’re a foster kid,”Mr.Kellysaysafterclassoneday, “but don’t believe whatanyone else tells you. Thereisawayoutofyoursituation:It’s through continuing youreducation past high school.”

Then they both co-opt myguidance counselor to get inonthecause.I feel torn for Camille’s

sake.Shealsowants togotocollege, but her senior classguidancecounselortoldheratthebeginningof theyearnottobothertryingtogetintotheFashion Institute ofTechnology, her dreamschool. “Concentrate ongetting married and having

babies,” her counselor toldher. Unfortunately, thatadvice only further confusedCamille becauseMs. Harveyhadrecently toldher thatshewas sodetrimentally affectedby howwe grew up that sheprobablywouldneverhaveafunctionalfamilyofherown.Throughallofmysophomoreyear, IwatchCamillequietlyprepare to move out of thePetermans’. The summer

before my junior year, shemoves out and lives withfriends.She’sbegundatingahandsome, gentle-spirited,blue-eyed boy named Frank,whom she met while outdancing,andshetellsmethathe’s starting to talk aboutmarriage.See? I want to tellthe social workers andcounselors. All of you werewrong;Camille’sgoingtobefine. I block out everyone’s

input except my teachers’,knowing my only hopes ofeverrescuingRosielayinmyunderstanding of how thesystem works and gettingrespect from the people whoworkinit.Athousandtimesaday I repeat this to myself:Collegedegree.

BY THE TIME I turn sixteenduringjunioryear,I’vegottena job atRickelHomeCenter

afewmilesawayfromAddieandPete’s.UntilSheryltakesa job at the register next tomine, the work is so boringthat to make the time pass Italk to the customers in aBritish accent. Sometimes Iwalk all the way there, andother times I catch the busthat takes me a third of theway, then I walk the rest.Sometimes when they can,Addie or Pete will drop me

off or my friends Erin andTracey will give me a lift,nowthattheybothhavetheirpermits.Ofcourse,friendswithcars

present the opportunity formore interaction with boys,becausenowwe’reabletogoplaces unsupervised. Addiereminds me to focus on mystudies, and I tell her there’snoneedtobeconcerned.I’vestarted dating a boy named

Eddie . . . but despite theappearances I create for hissake,Ihavenorealinterestinbonding with him. First,while he’s worried aboutsoccer practice and trying togetmealonetomakeamove,I’m more concerned aboutmy studies and plotting outmy next conversation withCookie to see how Rosie’sreally doing. Plus, I knowwhat troubles boys can bring

—thesametroublesCookie’salways getting herself into.So with Eddie, I let on likeI’m invested, while alsodoingmy best to controlmytendencytocutandrunwhenhe gets too close. There’s amuch more important mantugging at my heart: PaulAccerbi, who, as of thisautumn,no longerappears inthe Suffolk County phonebook.

For months after I noticehis listing missing, Icontemplate what to do.Finally, I rip out the pagewhere his name used to beand study it on the annualFebruary Disney Worldquest.While hidden away inthe top bunk of the mobilehome, I stare obsessively atthe place where his nameusedtobe...thensomethingnewjumpsoutatme:There’s

an Accerbi in Lindenhurst,whose names sound familiar:Frank and Julia.How is thisjust now coming to me? Irecall Cherie and Camilletalking about an aunt Julieand an uncle Frank and thewillow tree we would situnderwiththem.Butwithnophone on the camper, I can’tcall my sisters to verify thememory.CherieandCamilleusedto

tellmestoriesaboutdifferentplaces we lived when I waslittle, and the names they’dgiventhemall.TherewastheBubbleHouseandtheHappyHouse and the Glue Factoryand theBradyBunchHouse.I learned the Bubble Housewas our first foster home,whereweallsleptinthesameroom and our foster parentsand their daughter, Susan,would lull us to sleep by

turning on a globelikemachine that would spinaround and show bubbles onthe blue walls of our room.TheGlue Factorywaswherewe lived the longest as afamily in Saint James. But Icouldn’t remember living inthe Happy House, a placewere Cherie and Camilleseem to remember that wethree girls were loved, caredfor, and fedbeyond anything

else we’ve ever experienced.As we moved from place toplace, they would reminisceabout the Happy House andthe Bubble House—“At theHappy House, the curtainswere always open to let thelight in,” Cherie would say,or“WhenIhear thissongonthe radio, I always turn it upbecause it remindsmeof theBubble House.” Since wenever could figure outwhere

theHappyHousewas,weallfinally agreed that it musthavebeenbornfromourownfolklore. We settled on thefact that we learned how tokeep a home at the BubbleHouse.But we’d also agreed that,

at one point, there’d been anauntJulieandanuncleFrankin our lives. There wassomething that made usbelieve theyweren’t our true

aunt and uncle, but peoplewe’dmetalongtheway.As soon as Pete pulls the

motor home back into ourdrivewayinCentereach,Irunout of the camper to theyellowkitchenphoneandcallCamille.“JuliaandFrankAccerbi—

couldtheybethesamepeoplewecalledauntanduncle?”“Regina,maybe...maybe

these people are related to

Paul. But I don’t know howwewould have known them,and I wouldn’t believewhatever crazy story Cookiewould come up with if weaskedher. It doesn’t quite fittogether.”But she didn’t rule it out

. . . and I sobadlyneeded toknow if Paul had movedawayor,Godforbid,died,soI convince myself that theywould know. For weeks, I

rehearse draft after draft ofwhat to write. On Easter, Iselect a note at random froma stack of the very best I’vewritten. I address it to Juliaand Frank Accerbi andinclude only my name andhouse number on the returnaddress line—not thePetermans’ names, or theirphone number. I don’t wantanyoftheAccerbislettingthePetermans know that I’ve

reached out to the man Ibelieve is my biologicalfather.

April3,1983

Dear Mr. & Mrs.Accerbi,

My name is ReginaMarieCalcaterra. Iam16 years old andbelieve that Paul

Accerbi is my father. Ialso believe that thereisapossibility thatyouare related to him. Ifyou are, please passthisletterontohim.

DearPaul,

My name is ReginaMarieCalcaterra. Iam16 years old and wasborn in November of1966.Ibelievethatyou

maybemyfather.Iamnow living in a fosterhome because mymother, CamilleCalcaterra, was a badmother, not because Iwas a bad kid. Idivorced her severalyearsagosoIcanworktoward taking care ofmyself. I have a Baverage in school, amon the gymnastic team,

and work at RickelHome Center at nightsand on theweekends. Iplan on going tocommunity collegewhen I graduate highschool.My mother told me

thatyouweremyfathermany times during myupbringing and shenever strayed from herbelief. Unfortunately

my mother is analcoholic and drugaddict, which causedher to be incapable ofcaring for my siblingsand me, so we spentmost of our youthraisingourselves.WhenI turned fourteen, Iasked the court toemancipate me fromhersoIcouldmakemyown decisions about

whereIshouldliveandwhatschoolIshouldgoto. I have been in thisfoster home for 2½years beginning fromwhen I was in the 9thgrade. I amnow in the11thgrade.Ihavelimitedcontact

withmymother,soIamhoping that I can meetyou to see if you couldpossibly be my father,

as my mother isconvinced you are.Pleasewritemebackattheaddressbelow.

Sincerely,ReginaMarieCalcaterra

For weeks I try to get themailbeforemyfosterparentsdo to see whether there’s aletter from any of theAccerbis.On a Sunday night

in early May, after I returnaround ten o’clock fromworking at Rickel’s, I’mpreparing for school the nextday. Addie knocks on mydoor.“Comein!”Shehasadisturbedlookon

her face. “Regina, Pete got aweird call tonight aroundseven o’clock. It was verypeculiar—therewas thismanwho called, and when Peteansweredthephone,heasked

ifyouwerehome.WhenPetesaid no, he askedwhere youwere,soPetesaidyouwereatwork. When Pete asked himtoidentifyhimselfherefused,but he asked Pete if he wasyourfosterfather.”“Really?” I say innocently.

“That’sodd.”Meanwhilemyheartispounding.Addie’s face grows more

puzzled and her words comeout slower as she continues.

“When Pete said yes, thispersonwantedtoknowwhenyouwouldbehomeagain.SoPeteaskedhimagainwhohewas, but he still refused, andPete told him that youwon’tbe home until late, so if hewants to speak to you heshould call back tomorrowafter you’re back fromschool. Do you know whothat could have been, andwhythey’recallinghere?”

“I thinkit’smyrealfather,PaulAccerbi.”I wish I could rewind my

words...butalreadyAddie’staken them in, trying tocalculate the facts. “Wellthen, how did he get ournumber, or know Pete’sname?”“I don’t know,” I lie.

“Well, actually . . . I mayknow how.” I tell Addieabouttheletter,howI’dbeen

watchingmyfather’snameinthe phone book for years,prayingthathe’llbethereformewhenIturneighteen.ButAddie’salready lost in

tears. “Why did you contacthim?” she says. “Aren’t youhappyherewithus?Don’twedo enough for you? Do youwanttoleaveus?”I stand motionless,

watching her pour outemotionsthatI’veneverseen

before—towardmeoranyoneshe knows. “You mean youwantme to stayhere?” I askher.Andsuddenlyit’salltoomuch to bear. I beginshaking.“Ididn’tknowthatIcouldhurtyou,” I tellAddie.“ButIneedtoknowwhomyreal father is. I have beencuriousforyears,sinceIwaselevenandhewalkedintotheback of the deli I wasworking in.Heexaminedme

soclosely,Addie,andnowheactually took the time to findout my phone number andPete’sname. I know it’shimcalling. I just wanted to lethimknowthatI’mokay.ThatI’magoodkid.”The next day I struggle to

concentrate in school andskip my last two classes tocomehomeearly so Icansitby the phone and wait. Butevery time the phone rings,

it’sneverPaul,andIrushtheperson off the other end tokeepthelineopen.WhenAddie arrives home,

she says she spoke to socialservices. “They said thatyou’re not allowed to meethim alone, and you may noteven speak to him on thephone if Pete or I, or Ms.Harvey, are not around. Thisis a strange man—it’spossible he isn’t your father

at all, it could be someonewho likes seeing you atRickel’s or who remembersyou from having dated yourmother.Sotheywanttoavoidyouputtingyourself inabadsituation with this personwithout us here to protectyou.” As she finishesexpressing her concern forme, the ring of the phonebuststhroughthetension.Shelooks atme. “Regina, letme

answerthat.”Theexchangeiscurt.“Yes,

I am Addie Peterman, thefoster mother of ReginaMarie.Andyouare...?Andyouare...?Mr.Accerbi—”Myheartleaps.“—although you refuse to

identify yourself, we knowwho you are. I’ll have youknow:Reginatoldusthatshereachedouttoyou.”Thensheshoosmetowardthephonein

herbedroomsoshecanlistenin on our conversation fromthekitchenphone. “Yes,Mr.Accerbi. I’ll get her on thephonenow.”I rub my sweaty hands on

myJordachesbeforeIanswerthe phone. “This is Regina.”My heart pounds. My voicewantstoshriekindelight.“Young lady,” he says.

“You should know what adisruption you have created

inmylife.”“Pardonme?”“My wife is sick and has

beencryingon the couch fordaysoverthis.Idon’thaveastrong heart, and yourbehavior could very wellresult in a second heartattack.Idon’tknowwhoyouare orwhy you believewhatyoubelieve,orevenwhyyouwrote such a letter to myfamily members. You have

created an embarrassingsituationforallofusandIamsure thatyouhavealsoupsetyourfosterparentsaswell.”Now this is personal—he

willnotgetawaywith tryingto manipulate me this way.“Hey Paul,” I dare ask him,“how did you get our phonenumber or figure out myfosterparents’names?”“It is no concern to you

how I found it out,” he says.

“Ijustdid.”I know I’ve cornered him.

This verbal volleyball is likefighting with Cookie. “Whowashere?Wasityou?”Hefallssilent.“So I’ll assume that you

drove by the return addressthat I left you in the letter,sawthePetermans’namesonthe mailbox, and looked uptheir number.” I whisper:“Didn’t you?” It’s in that

breath I realize without adoubt that he has to be myfather—whyelsewouldhebecalling me, going to theselengths to findout thenamesofmy fosterparents, andourphonenumber?He ignores my question

and says he wants to meetme.“Good,Iwanttomeetyou,

too . . . but there are rules.Either my foster parents or

my social worker have to bepresent.”“I’mnotmeetingyouwith

othersaround.”“Look, I don’t have a

choice.I’masixteen-year-oldgirl living under the roof offoster parents, and I have toobey or else I could end upback on the street.Those arethe terms. That’s the onlyway.”“I’ll think about it,” he

says. “And I’ll call youtomorrow.”ThenextdayAddiespeaks

tothesocialworkerwhosaysPaul can meet me at thehouse in a room separatefrom the supervision. “Or ifhewants tomeet outside thehome, Pete or I have to bethere but we can make itinconspicuous,”Addiesays.IskipschoolasAddieandI

plan how we can set up the

meeting . . . and record it. Ifthey weren’t going to be intheroomthentheyneededtosomehowbearwitness to theconversation so that if PaulAccerbi changed his storylater, it would be my wordagainst his. “Ooh, I’ve gotit!” Addie says. “He cancome to the house, in theliving room, and we’ll putyour boom boxwith a blankcassettetapebehindthechair

he’ll sit in. Then, when he’swalkinguptothefrontstoop,we press Record!” Addie’srelishing our sleuthingstrategy.“Pete and I will busy

ourselves in the garage oroutside in the garden! Thisway, we won’t impose, see. . . that will allow you andPaultospeakfreely.”Ourplanisinplace...but

henevercallsthenextnight.

Orthenightafterthat.Then, on Thursday night

the phone rings. This time,Pete answers and hands thephonetome.In my ear, Paul reiterates

whatan“uproar”I’vecreatedin his home and howdisrespectful itwasformetohavedonesuchathing.Then,after his lecture, he calmsdownandsays,“I’vedecidedI’dliketomeetyou.”WhenI

remindhimoftheconditions,he raises his voice in anger.“Regina,whatIwantedtotellyou is that you are probablynot my daughter. Yourmotherwaspromiscuous;sheslept around a lot and wassleeping with many men allthe time. She had quite areputation for being—youknow—you know what Imean. You’re old enough tounderstand what I’m saying,

right?”“What,thatmymotherwas

aslut?”Iaskhim.“Yes,Paul.I am well aware of mymother’sbehaviorand soareall my siblings. But when itcame towho our fathers are,wewereabletotellwhenshelied and when she told thetruth. But when she wouldsay the same story over andover again—theway she didabout you, whether she was

straight or sober—we knewthattobethetruth.Whenherstories would change, thatwas the lie. She neverchangedher story about you,Paul.Andshestillhasn’t.”“Your mother and I had a

one-night stand and that wasit,” Paul said. I note anemphasis in order to satisfywhat seems like an audienceonhissideofthephone.“A one-night stand. You

are saying that you were aone-night stand of mymother, and that based onthat, she thinks you’re myfather. Really, Paul?Well, ifyou were a one-night stand,then how come she told methat you were in the KoreanWar, wanted to be aparatrooper, own a fencecompany, grew up inLindenhurst, haveanex-wifenamed Carol and a daughter

named Barbara? Frankly,Paul, you’re full of shit. Ifyou were just a one-nightstand, then you certainlytalkedalotforonenight!”Thecallgoesdead.I slam the yellow phone

back on Addie’s wall. “Thatman is my father!” I yell atPete, who’s curiouslywatching me pull out myboom box from its hidingplace. “I won’t be needing

thisbackheresincetherewillbe no Paul Accerbi meetingtorecord.”He never calls back, and I

don’t care. He’s no betterthan my mother—I shouldhave figured that out a longtime ago. She picked somewinners, andhewas just likealltherest.By thesummerI’veclosed

off the whole experience;compartmentalized it and

detachedfromit,thewayI’velearned to do with all thecraziness in my life, whichalwaysstemsbacktoCookie.I busy myself working atRickel’s to save money forcollege . . . then there’sfinallysomethingtocelebratewhen Addie and Pete comethrough with a car for me.“You can buy our Pinto fortwo hundred seventy-fivedollars,” Addie says, “if

you’rewilling to put down aseventy-five-dollar deposit.”There’s more good newswhenIcometothemwiththeseventy-five bucks: They’vedecided to waive the twohundred and let me keep thecar as an early graduationpresent.Thefallofmysenioryear,

I’m named cocaptain of thegymnastics team. Under theguidance of Mr. Kelly and

Mr. Maguire, I take mycollege exams and list mytwo schools of choice.They’re convinced that I’llgetacceptedtotheuniversity,insistingthatifIdo,Ihavetogo. “A bachelor’s degreefrom Stony Brook wouldserve you better than anassociate’s from thecommunity college,” Mr.Maguiresays.Itmakessense,but I’m afraid to get my

hopes up. Preoccupied withwhether I’ll have a homeduringorevenaftercollege,Ilook up a number in thephone book for the onlypossiblefamilywhomightbeabletohelpme:Calcaterra, Michael and

RoseGrandma Rose warms up

ontheotherendofthephonewhenItellherIhaven’thadarelationship with my mother

forthelastthreeyears.Iheartears overcome her voicewhen she tells me, “Wealways wanted to know youkids.Willyouletmetakeyoushopping before yougraduate?We’re so proud ofyou.” Before Easter, she andmy grandfather—GrampaMike—accompany me toJCPenney,where they letmepickoutapromdressandputit on their charge card. As

Grandma Rose and thecashier exchange niceties atthe cash register, I wonder:WhydidyoupunishmewhenIwaslittlebycuttingmeoff?Howwasitacceptableformysiblings and me to bear theburden of Cookie alone? Asshe hands me the hangingplastic bag with my dressinside, Grandma Rose looksinmyeyes...andsuddenlyIunderstand that this purchase

isheramendstome.Irealizethat in this moment—as I’mabout to leave high schooland enter the world as anadult—Ihaveachoice: I candistance myself and remaincynical toward her, or I canforgive her in the interest ofdeveloping a relationshipwith someonewho’s actuallymyfamily.After I graduate in June

1984, Addie knocks on my

bedroom door. “Yourmother’s on the phone,” shesays.My face twists in

confusion. “Cookie? Calledhere?”Addie’sexpressiontellsme

she’sconfused,too.“Yes.”I pick up the phone in her

bedroom. “Hello?” I hearAddiegentlyhangupherendofthephoneinthekitchen.“I called to wish you a

happy graduation.” Cookie’svoice is gruff and strained.“I’vegotsomethingforyou.”I hesitate for the punch

line.“What?”“Abootupyourass!”I chuckle along, slightly

stunned that she’s contactedme.“Actually, I have

somethinginmind,”Itellher.“I’ve saved money to take aplane to Idaho for a visit.

Wouldyoubewillingtohaveme?” My tone is sweet. If Idisarm her, she may let mecome out to see the kids. Istill think about Rosieconstantly, even though it’sbeen four years since we’veseen each other in person. Itry to convince myself thatshe knows I did everything Icouldtosaveher.“I guess that’d be okay,”

Cookiesays.“Ifyouagreeto

leave your attitude in NewYork.”When I tell Camille I’m

going, she’s concerned howI’ll do when I have to faceCookie. “You haven’t seenhersincethatdayinthemotelroom,” Camille says. “Areyounervous?”“Nah.Sheknowsshehasto

pickme up from the airport,andI’llmakeitclearrightupfrontthatI’mthebossofthat

relationshipnow.”Cookie and Norman stand

by as I lift my suitcase intothe car. “Get a load of you,”Cookie says, looking meover. In the last three years,my hair’s grown back thick,andIsetitwithrollerssoit’sshinyandfull.Thebarelimbsstemming from my tropicalpinkshortsandT-shirtarefitand trim, and I wear goldjewelry around my tanned

neck and wrists. I’ve growninto a young woman withfeatures that Addie saysintimidatetheboys,andrightbeforegraduationIfoundoutI was accepted to the localcommunity college. Feelingcertain about my future, Istand before Cookie withsatisfaction of who I’vebecome. Already it’s clearnothing about her haschanged.

Rosie, who’s obviouslyafraid to speak in front ofCookie, is blossoming, too.Just a few months shy oftwelve years old, my babysister is almostunrecognizablefromthelittlepeanutIknewfouryearsago.She’s peaked much soonerthantherestofusdid,alreadyaheadtallerthanfifteen-year-old Norm. Her father, Vito,was a tall, broad man and

Rosie’s frame is taking afterhis. As a result, althoughshe’sstillapreteen,shecouldeasilypassforasixteen-year-old. Her body is muscularfromworkingonthefarmandher face has filled out withsharp cheekbones. Her hairhas turned from blond to ashiny, sandy brown. Noquestion, no paternity testneeded: Rosie is Vito’sdaughter.

Rosie and I spendmost ofthetimealonenearthewater,tubing or lying on the rocksnear the river. We talk andtalk, and she drops hints thatshe’s embarrassed for me tosee the way they live. It’sclearshetrustsmeashersoleconfidante when she informsme about the tensions in thehouse. She joinedcheerleadingandoftensleepsat a friend’s house or at the

home of one of her teachersto avoid the chaos atCookieandClyde’s.Thinkingof heras a cheerleader makes mesad . . . she’s the one whoneeds cheering on. I keepthose thoughts to myself,familiarwiththesecuritythatcomes with having anorganizedscheduleandstableplaces to go. Cookie’s houseisclutteredwithjunk,andthebarn cats act like they own

the house—it’s obvious justfromthesmells.At one point, when Iwant

tomake a call home,Cookiedemands that I leave hertwenty bucks to pay for thecall.We end up in a yellingmatch inwhich she threatensto beat the shit out of me.“Letme set you straight likeoldtimes!”shesays.Istartlaughing.“Youcan’t

touchme,remember?I’mnot

your daughter anymore, youcan’t push me around.” Butas the words come out, theystingmebecauseIknowwhothe recipient of her anger isnow that I’mno longer there. . . and suddenly I’movercomewithguilt.I don’t make it through a

single day during thatweeklong visit withouthearing Cookie threaten totake me back to the airport.

By the end of my stay, I’mcountingdownthehoursuntilI head back home.When themomentarrivesat last,I takemybambinainmyarms.“Nomatter what she says, youremember our codes, andalways keep my phonenumber hidden away,” Iwhisper.“I know it by heart,” she

says.I kiss her cheeks and tell

her to make sure she checksthe mail at her friend’s andher teacher’shouses,becauseI’ll be sending hermoney soshe can mail me letters, callme, and buy whatever sheneedsforschool.

INLATE AUGUST 1984, a fewweeks before I’m to startclasses at the communitycollege, I receive anunexpected phone call from

Stony Brook UniversityAdmissions informing methat I’ve been accepted offtheirwaitlist.“Ifyouwishtoaccept our offer,” theadmissions worker says,“you’ll need to attendorientationlaterthisweek.”WhenIhangupthephone,

IcallMs.Harveyrightaway.“She’s out,” the secretarysays.“Then get me her

supervisor, please! Tell himit’sReginaCalcaterra.”He picks up. “This is Mr.

McManus.”“Mr. McManus, I got into

Stony Brook!” I tell him.“Admissionsneedsaletter toproveI’mawardof thestateso I can apply for a schoolloanandthePellgrant.”There’ssilenceontheother

endofthephone.“Mr.McManus?”

“Regina,” he says, “can’tyouhearmesmiling?”Ilaugh.“Really?”“You did it, Regina!” he

exclaimed. “We are all soproud of you. I’ll get theletterdonesoyoucanpickitup today and bring it to theuniversity before fiveo’clock.Soundokay?”“That’sperfect,”Itellhim.

“Mr.McManus,canItellyousomething?”

“Youcan tellmeanything,Regina.”“Thanks.Thisisthebiggest

dayofmylife.”“Sofar,”hesays.“Sofar.”But while my work and

academics are falling intoplace, I’m far from livingworry-free. Later thatsummer,justweeksafterI’veseen her, Rosie’s challengesathomeseemtoescalate,and

her communicationswithmebegin to increase. I sendletterstoher,addressedtoherfriends’ houses or teachers’addresses,thatincludemoneyfor her to use to go outwithher friends or buy anythingshe can get away with thatwon’t raise Cookie’ssuspicion.Just when it grows too

much for me to manage,Cherie calls to tell me she’s

thinking of moving out toIdaho to help Rosie. Cherieand her husband, who havebeen separated for a while,are now divorcing, and hisparentshadajudgegivethemcustody of her son. “I didn’twant to tell you any of this,Gi,becauseyouhaveenoughtoworryabout.Buttheytookmy son fromme and I can’tfight them anymore,” shesays. “This is my chance to

tryandhelpRosie.”And notmuch later, she is

gone.

9

OutofIdaho

Fall1984toSpring1986

I’M SEVENTEEN IN the fall of1984, when I start my

freshman year of college atStony Brook. I quit my jobselling ceiling fans andoutlets at Rickel’s (where,after a year, I was promotedto a sales job withcommission) to take a jobselling shoes at ThomMcAnin the Smith Haven Mall.Status-wise this is a step up;plus, I’ve joined theuniversity’s gymnastics club,andearly in the semestermy

gymnastics coach seems todetectmysenseofdiscipline.He operates a camp everyJulyinSouthamptonandasksmetocomeandworkforhimnext summer. As long as Icoacheverydayfromnineinthe morning to nine at night—“With breaks in between,of course,” he says—I’ll getto sleep there for free andmake a respectable sum ofmoney at the end of July to

useforthenextsemester.Notto mention the fact that Icould spend theentiremonthof July out in the Hamptons...andnothavetopay.The spare minutes of free

time I have, I spend withCamille, who’s now twenty.She married Frank last fallafter they’dbeendatingforayear and knew, withoutquestion, that theywerebornto take care of each other.

Whileasmallpartofmehadfeared that marriage wouldtake Camille away fromme,it’s actually made ourrelationship even better.Camille inspires me. Shedoesn’t look back; shedoesn’t get shaken by ourpastwithCookie. . .andherstrength is what reminds metokeep lookingforward, too.MysisterandIareawarethatwe’re both laying the

foundationforournextphasein life—especially Camille,who learns in the spring of1983 that she’ll become amotherinNovember.Camille has in fact found

refuge from our life at homebybeginningherownfamily.Not only is she the happiestI’ve ever seen her, but mysister—whom the socialworkers once documentedwas too affected by our

upbringing to ever have afunctional family of her own—is also proving wrong allthe naysayers from our pastwho predicted sopessimistically what ourfutureswouldlooklike.Whatour social workers said wasimpossible was nowhappeningforusboth.Camillegivesbirthtobaby

Frankie on November 16—exactly one week after my

eighteenthbirthday.Iedgeinnext to Camille on herhospital bed, and she passesthebabyintomyarms.Fromthe very first moment I holdhim,Ifeelhowdeterminedheisandhowsensitivehisheartwillbeforothers.Imarvelathim: his eyelashes, hischeeks, his face. His hair isdark brown, just like mineand his parents’, and it’s aninstantmiraclehowmuchjoy

and excitement he brings usjust by breathing in histrusting,restfulsleep.WhenIlook up at Camille, we bothhavetearsinoureyes.It’soursilent promise that no childwe lovewill ever experiencethepain thatwedid . . . andthat Cookie will never comenearthisbaby.While Camille enjoys her

new son, Cherie is forced tocome back to New York to

defendherrighttokeephers.Once again, Rosie andNorman are left without anyoftheiroldersistersnearbytowatch over them. While weworktokeepourcontactwiththem, I continue to try andcreatenormalcyinmylifebywrapping up my freshmanyear in college and headingout to theHamptons toworkforthesummeratgymnasticscamp.

This first summer awayfrom the home of a parentfigure, combined with thecoaching staff’s seventy-hourworkweek, makes lettinglooseontheweekendsawildoccupationalbonus.Withmycoworkers, I befriend thebouncer at Toby’s Tavern,who lets my fellow coachessneak me in although I’munderage. The agreement?We entertain themwith flips

and back-handsprings insidethe bar. Plus, I’m aware thatI’m in the healthiest, fittestshape of my life. My legs,whichwereoncescrawnyandbruised are now tanned andmuscular. My shoulders andtorso, once sunken frommalnourishment, are sturdyand strong. By the timeMonday rolls around again,mycolleaguespokefunatmymorningchirpiness . . .andI

have no intention of lettingthemknowthatthisjobistheeasiest, most lucrative, mostfun responsibility I’ve everbeen granted. At the end ofJuly, when Coach hands memy pay envelope, I hold thepackage in my hand, feelingits thickness andweight. Forthefirst time, itoccurs tomethat maybe my impossibleupbringingsetsmeapartfromthe rest. I’ve cultivated a

strongworkethicandfaithinmy capacity to take care ofmyself.

THE WEEK OF Thanksgiving1985 I receive a letteraccepting my transfer to theStateUniversityofNewYorkat New Paltz, majoring ineducation with my friendSheryl from high school.WithFrankienowayearold,such a fun and engaging

baby, there couldn’t be amore conflicted time for meto consider leaving LongIsland.I’lltellAddieclosertothe holidays, I tell myself. Iwantmyownlife.In my bedroom at the

Petermans’ the night beforeChristmas Eve 1985, I’mdeciding where to pack myBaby Jesus figurines whenAddierapsonmydoorframe.“What’sallthis?”

I glance around my room,where I’ve begun pilingwarm clothes into blackgarbagebags anda shoeboxof cassette tapes that I’malphabetizing—the Cure, theFour Seasons, Genesis, BillyJoel, Diana Ross, and VanHalen. There’s no morehidingwhatI’vebeenputtingoff.Itellher:“Forthespringsemester I’ve decided totransfer upstate to SUNY

NewPaltz.”After a moment of shock,

Addietugsonhercardigantogain control of herexpression. “I didn’t knowyou’d applied,” she says.“Whenwillyoubeleaving?”“First week of January.

What’sthat,threeweeks?”“Well,” she says,

“congratulations. I’m surewith Camille’s marriage andthe new baby you’ve gotten

the itch to experienceadulthood, too.Why are youpackingnow?”I shrug. “Just excited, I

guess.”Addie nods curtly. I hear

wheels turning in her head.“Regina, I have to say this,andI’llonlysaythisonce:Ifyougoaway,that’sit.That’sthestartoflifeonyourown.”She’s affirming my fear;

thereasonIdidn’twanttotell

her.“Whatdoyoumean?”“If you leave, you will be

on your own for good—doyouunderstand?Onceyou’reout,you’reout.”“But—even for holidays,

and intersession . . . and thesummer?”“Yes, Regina. Let me tell

yousomething:Thishouseisnotahotel.You’reconstantlyinandout,spendingthenightatTracey’sandCamille’sand

all the places I know youprefer to be. It’s clear Ihaven’tdoneaverygoodjobestablishing this, but youcan’tjustcomeandgoasyouplease.”“What would you prefer I

do, Addie? Live as thebastarddaughterwithnolife?No friends, and no future?CountingdownthedaysuntilIgetpushedoutofhereoncethe checks stop coming in?

I’drathertakecontrolnow.”She clenches her fists,

fuming, and her chin beginsto quiver. “Either you livehere,oryoudon’t;andifyouleave,youdon’t.Isthatclear?And I’d prefer if you don’tchallengemeagain.”In a total of twenty

seconds,AddiePetermanhasjust reinforced the way I’vefeltsinceIfirstsetfootonherperfect carpet five years ago

—or actually, since I firstunderstood what foster carewas. I’m just a Rent-a-Kid.I’m suddenly suspicious thatthereasonsheandanyfosterparent has given me shelterwas to keep the checkscoming. Anger boils in meandmywordssearmytongueas I tell herwhat I’ve fearedsince I met her. “You’vealways been in this for themoney!” I yell. “It’s not for

the kids, or because you’resome saint! Now that I’mgoing away, I will get thegovernment’s subsidy—notyou.Andyoucan’tstandthat,can you? If youwere in thisfor me, if you were reallyconcerned about supportingme, thenyouwouldwantmeback at holidays and breaks.This whole stupid act—you’renotmyfamily!You’rejust the people who get paid

to act like it. And you knowwhat? I’ve already gotten ridof one mother. Don’t youdare think I won’t do itagain.”“Regina,you’rejumpingto

conclusions,” she sayssteadily. “We could alwaysdiscuss some kind of rentarrangement so that you cancomeback.”In my seasoned insistence

togetthelastword,Iscream

in her face, “Don’t worry!This is the lastplaceI’devercomebackto!”Duringthislasthalf-decade

in Addie’s home, I’ve beengrateful that she’s providedevery necessity a youngwomanneedsandsomesenseoffamilysoIcouldfeellikeanormal kid. At moments Iwas even distracted frommyguilt for failing Rosie andNorm. Addie and Pete have

filledthatemptinessbybeingthe family who greet mewhen Iwalk in the door; forbeing involved inmy life formore than the length of abeatingoraheatedphonecalllike the negligent fools whoare my biological parents.Addie and Pete have beentheresomuchthatsometimesmy teachers and my friendsand their parents have askedwhytheyneveradoptedme.

Deep down I’ve alwaysbeen aware that I’m just likethe forty thousand otherfoster kids in America whoageoutof care everyyear toend up homeless,incarcerated, addicted, ordead. Transferring to NewPaltz is a stepping-stonetoward finally creating somepresence in the world, tomake a living and somethingofmylife.

Three weeks later, it’sreally time. Camille andFrank host a special farewelldinner for me at their home.Camille squeezes me tightafter I put on my coat toleave. “I heard that livingawayatcollege isall fun,allthe time. Will you promisemesomething?”I pull away to look at her.

“What?” I anticipate amotherly request to be

careful.“Forgeteverything,andfor

once, just enjoy yourself,”she says into my ear. “Youdeserveit.”Frankhandsoverbaby Frankie, who plants anopenmouthed kiss on mycheek, and the expression onmy brother-in-law’s face isenough to convince me howmuchtheybelieveinme.Sheryl, who is as eager to

leave as I am, pulls into the

Petermans’drivewaywithhermusic cranked. “Road trip!”she says, and she and Peteload my two suitcases intohertrunk.Addie and I stand silently

with our feet pointed towardeach other. Suddenly, shetacklesmeinahug.“Regina,I don’t want you to leave!”shesays.Exhausted by the emotions

of the past month and my

entire life, I hug back onlyhalfheartedly. “Addie, I havetodothis.”“But I’m going to miss

you.”Shepullsbackfromthehug to look in my eyes.“Regina, there’s somethingI’venevertoldyou.”“Addie, this is really not

the time for anymore shockfromanotherparent—”“Iloveyou.”My eyes and forehead

soften.Mygazetakesinbothhereyes,lookingforevidenceof a bluff. As I realize shemeans it—that she reallyloves me—I wrap my armsaroundherandbegintocry.Itake in her smell—lemonPledgeandcotton—andlistento thewhimper of her cry inmyear.Pete andSherylgiveusthemoment...andfinallyIpeelaway.WhenSheryl shifts her car

into reverse andwhirsoutofthedriveway,ItrytoidentifywhatI’mfeeling:Anxiety?Fear?Excitement?Uncertainty?And then I find the word:

Freedom.Overandover,onthefour-

hour ride upstate, Sherylrewinds Bruce Springsteen’s“GloryDays.”

On the door of my dormroom is a sign that readsRegina&KiKi.“KiKi, huh?” Sheryl says.

“Thisshouldbegood.”She helps me unpack my

clothes then insists on takingmeout.“Let’shitPig’s forabeer, then we’ll get a late-night knish with mustard atthebagelshopnearthebars.”“There’s a bar called

Pig’s?”

“Oh,justyouwait.”On theway there,we stop

by the student union wherethere’s already mail waitingformeintheformofacourseschedule. It’s packed withclasses I’ll take for theeducation major I’vedeclared, plus a course ininternationalpolitics to fulfilla history requirement.“Brownstein’stheprofessor,”IsaytoSheryl.“Whatdoyou

knowabouthim?”“Mr.Brownsteinateightin

the morning? Ouch,” shesays. “Whatever you do,don’t sleep throughtomorrow.”Back in the dorm, I meet

KiKi’s bare torso before Iknow what her face lookslike.Ablurof aguygrabs ashirt off my desk chair andracesoutof the room. “Yourboyfriend,Itakeit?”

KiKi pulls a T-shirt overher black, shiny hair andpunchesherarmsthroughthesleeves.“He’soneofthem.”Suddenly,Irealizeaneight

o’clockclassmightnotbemyworst nightmare, but mygreatestsalvation.Mr.Brownstein is akindly

looking man in his earlyforties with nondescriptglasses,thick,darkhairandabeardtomatch.“Forthepast

decadeI’vebeenstudyingtheIsraeli-Palestinian conflict,”he says. “I taught atHebrewUniversity in Jerusalem andhave taken multiple researchtrips to Israel and theterritories.”Hemightaswellbe speaking whatever theyspeak in Israel,becausenoneofhiswordsmakeany sensetome. “I don’t do roll call,”he announces. “Instead, I’llgo around the room, and I

wanteachofyoutointroduceyourself.Then,”hecontinues,“you’lltelluswhetheryou’reregistered to vote. If you arenot registered to vote, youwill explain why this is so.And those of you for whomthis is the casewill read anddebate President Reagan’ssixth State of the Unionaddress. Which means, ofcourse, that you’ll need towatch theState of theUnion

when it’s delivered onFebruary fourth—and readabout it the next morning intheNewYorkTimes.”I look around sheepishly,

then raise my hand. “Mr.Brownstein . . .wheredowegettheNewYorkTimes?”“Young lady, are you

asking because you’re notregisteredtovote?”I tap my pen on my desk

and look around as though I

didn’thearhim.“Theschoollibraryputsthe

New York Times out everymorning at seven o’clock.”Theclassmoans.I’minovermy head with the rest ofthem.As the semester picks up

pace,IfindIhavetostudyasmuch for Mr. Brownstein’sclassas Idoforallmyotherclasses combined, and I’mstillpullingCsandDsonhis

assignments . . . but I keepshowingupforclass.It’snotjust to escape KiKi and herrevolvingdoorofvisitors;it’salso that I’m beginning tomake a connection betweenevery current event I readabout in the Times and thetopics we talk about in Mr.Brownstein’sclass.Mr. Brownstein gives us

assignments to report on thegenocide in some parts of

Africa, wheremen are beingkilled and their mothers,wives, sisters, and daughtersare raped. I’d seencommercials of the starvingkidsonTV,butIneverreallyknew why they weresuffering,orhowdeeply.Forthefirsttime,I’mabletolookdifferently at my childhood;atsomeparts,evengratefully.But thedoorsthathisclass

is opening inmymind don’t

offer escape from my past.The week before midterms,Cherie calls my dorm’s payphone every night withupdates about Rosie that aresodark,atmomentsIhavetotuneherout.Ihearphrases—“—Clyde—”“—Cookieblamesher—”“—severelydepressed—”“—pillswentmissing—”“—onlythirteen!”Mr. Brownstein’s not

surprised when I pop induring his office hours.“More discussion about ourlaws and republic?” he sayswithasmile.“No. Not really. Mr.

Brownstein, I have somethings happening in myfamily.” I feel that he’s theonly professor I can trust tosharemybackgroundwith.Heremoveshisglassesand

gestures toward the open

chair across from him.“Regina,please.Sit.”“Look,”Itellhim.“Iprefer

not to share all of this withmy professors. I’m here tolearn,notforsympathy.”“That’sfine.”“Idon’tknowifyouknow

why your class matters somuch tome,but learning theins and outs of policy is . . .well, it’s how I’ve been abletosurvive.”

“Inyourlife?”hesays.“Yes.” Nervously, I fold

myhands.There’snoturningback, as hard as I’ve tried topaint an impression for Mr.Brownstein, the professor Iadmire most, that my life isneatly tied up in a bow.“Things in my family havealways been difficult, andnowmylittlesister ishavingareallybadtime.Mymotheris . . . well, she’s a difficult

woman,toputitmildly,andIreally don’t know what’sgoing to happen next. Andthere’s the midterm nextweek,andI’mstudyingreallyhard—”“Iknowyouare,Regina.”“ButifIdon’tendupwith

a good grade on it, I don’twant you to think this classisn’taprioritytome.”“When I teach history and

politics,” he says, “I don’t

teach it for you only tomemorize answers to a testthat will be forgotten dayslater.Iteachthisclasssoyoucan learnwho you are as anindividual—to appreciatewhatthosemorelearnedthanyou have long valued. I seehow hard you’re working,Regina, and I see a lot ofpotential in you. I told theclass at the start of thesemester that if it’s not clear

to me that a student has anappreciation for ourgovernment and how ournationfits intotheworld,I’llfailthem.Butwe’renotevenhalfwaythroughtheterm,andI have a good feeling you’llpassthisclass.”I leave his office, too

exhaustedtomeetSherylandour friends from home fordinner in thecafeteria.WhenI go to plopmy head onmy

pillow,IdiscoverthatKiKi’swritten amessage on ripped-off notebook paper: CallCamille.Rosie’ssituationwasrough

enough when Cherie wasthere and now it’s gottenworse. Cherie had told me afew months back that shepulled up to the house for avisitonlytofindRosieinthefield, collapsed in tears nextto a cow. “What’s wrong,

Roseanne?”Cherieaskedher,brushingdirt andhayoffherclothes. “Did this cow hurtyou?”“No,Cherie,”Rosiesaid.“I

hurther.MombeatmeandIwassoangry that Icameouthere and beat up this cow.”Cherie talked about how shesobbed in remorse, and Iimagined the vulnerablecow’s pain and confusion.She cried for her and Rosie,

foralltheyhadincommon—both innocent andunprotected against totallyundeserved, uncontrollablemadness.“God, Camille,” I say into

the pay phone. “Why does ithavetobethisweekthatI’mtryingtomemorizethenamesof the leaders of everycountryinAfrica?”There’sasilent despair that restsbetweenuson the lineaswe

realize how immersed we’vebecome in our newexistences, no longer free todrop everything and travelthreethousandmilestocheckonourbabysister.I call my social worker,

begging her to contact socialservices in Idaho to helpprotect Rosie. “We have toget her away from Cookieonceandforall,”Iplead.“Regina, your sister is a

resident in another state.There is nothing we can dohere.”“Nothing?”“Theonly thingImightbe

able to suggest would be forsocialservicesinIdahotocallmehereandverifyeverythingyou’vejusttoldme.”I contact the phone

company in Idaho and locatethe number of the childwelfareagencythatwouldbe

responsible for the town ofOakview. When a patient-sounding male social workerpicks up the phone, I sharethe graphic details of whatRosie is being subjected to.“You can verify Cookie’srecord if you contact SuffolkCountysocialservices,”Itellhim.“I’ll take up the issue

directly,”heassuresme.That night he calls me at

my dorm and tells me helocated my mother. I pursemy lips in hope he’ll deliverthe details of Rosie’s intakeby the foster system there.“Rosie was present when Iinformed your mother aboutyourcall,”hesays.“Youdidwhat?”“I spoke to Cookie first,

then waited for Rosie toreturn from school. Iquestioned her in front of

Cookie.”“Didyou just finishSocial

Work101?OfcourseRosie’sonlyresponsewastodenyit!Do you know what Cookiewould do if Rosie told youthe truth and you didn’t actfasttotakeherin?”Laterthatweekhecallsmy

dorm again. “I’m calling toinform you that I’m closingthecase,Ms.Calcaterra.”“Closingthecase?Explain

why!”“Because Rosie denied the

abuse, and your motherexplained . . . well, Iunderstand you have someemotional issues that mightcause you to embellishcertainaccounts.”“Emotionalissues?”“Your alcoholism,” he

says.“Andyour...abilitytotelloutrageoustalesthatharmothers. Ms. Calcaterra, you

should know I’ve informedthe local police, the schooldistrict,and thechildwelfareagency that any complaintswe receive from New Yorkarecomingfromanalcoholic,drug-addicted juveniledelinquent.Yourmother toldme you were permanentlyremoved from your siblingsbecause of your violentoutbursts and promiscuousconduct.”

Is this really happening?“I’mnotanyofthosethings!”I respond. It’s obvious thatCookie manipulated thissocial worker. Any furtherattempts I could make forRosiewillbehopeless.I hang up on him and run

back to my room, digginginto my dwindling laundrycoinstashtocallCherie.Ifillher inonwhat justhappenedwith the social worker in

Oakview. “You have to gobackoutthere!”“Hang on!” she says. “Let

methinkaminute.JustmakesureIcangetthroughifIcallyoutonight.”Ipropopenmydormroom

door and facemy desk chairat the hallway, listening forthe pay phone to ring. Icalculate how effectively I’llbeable tokeepothersonmyfloor off the phone—it’s the

middleofMarch,somostareusing their free time havinglong conversations withgirlfriendsorboyfriendsfromhomewhotheyhavenotseenin months. “Didn’t you hearabout the pending drugsearch?” I tell oneunsuspecting neighbor as sheapproaches the pay phone,taking a quarter from herpocket. “I heard the R.A.’sgoing to pull the fire alarm

and the police are cominginto our rooms to search.”She stares at the phone inconfusion,thenslinksaway.Around midnight, when

KiKi brings a group offriends intoour room, I slamourdoor shutbehindmeandtakeaspotonthehardcouchin the common area near thepay phone. First I lieseething, then tears streakdown my temples and into

my hair. I think about Mr.Brownstein’s lectures on therole of government in ourlives,howitneedstobethereasa safetynet . . . rightnowI’m theonlyonewho’sbeensaved by any net, while mybaby sister navigates a high-wire act with no protectionwhatsoever; no sisters orsocialworkerstheretodefendher.Exhaustedbymytears,Idrifttosleep.

I’mawakenedbythesoundofthephone.It’s rung four times when

I’m finally within arm’sreach.Then,itstops.I slam my fist against the

paintedcinder-blockwallandpressmyforeheadagainstthephone.“Dammit!”Thenitringsagain.“Hello?”“Cherie is flying out to

Idaho tomorrow,” Camillesays.“And?”“She’sgettingRosie!”“How?”“We’ve got this whole

plan. She’s flying into Boiseandwillrentacar,thenshe’llstakeoutatRosie’sbusstop.She’ll have to talk fast toconvincehertogetinside,butwhen she does, she has ahiding spotwhere they’ll put

onwigsandchangeclothes.”“Isn’tthatalittleextreme?”“It’s a small town,Regina.

IfanybodyseesRosieinacarwith Cherie, they’ll callCookie, thenCookiewillcallthecops,thenCheriewillgetarrested.Cheriehastoplayitsafe. Then the two of themwill rush to the airport inBoise and fly back to NewYork.”“You feel like this plan is

foolproof?”“As foolproof as it ever

willbe.”“Okay.Ihaveatesttotake

tomorrow, then I’ll hop on abus to Manhattan and catchthetrainouttoyouandFranksowecanwaittogether.”“No, Regina—you have

school. You can’t screw itup.”“Camille, I screwedup the

thingthat’smostimportantto

me in the world the day Isigned that affidavit when Iwasfourteen!Rosie’slifehasnever been the same, andnothing matters more to methan this.” Two of myneighborsgroggilystick theirnecksoutoftheirrooms.“I’llseeyoutomorrow,”Iwhisperintothereceiver.“I’llcallyouwhen the train drops me attheRonkonkomastation.”

I ARRIVE AT four thirty andspot Camille’s car with theheadlightson.Iknockonhercartrunk.“Hey,openup!”She climbs out of the car

and pops the trunk with herkey.“Why did you haul a

garbage bag of clothes? Youneed to do laundry thisweekend?”“No. I want to be ready if

thistakesawhile.”

“Regina, what aboutschool?”“Camille,” I tell her.

“Please.”Frank’s warming himself

on the front porch when wearrive at their house. “Cheriejustcalled,”hesays.“ShegotRosie to the airport, piece ofcake.”“So we still have hours

before Cookie even noticesRosie’s gone!” I’ve

calculated the logisticsof theescape, considering everypossible glitch. This is thebest-case scenario; exactlywhatweprayedfor.There’safeeling of relief beginning torise inme . . . but this is notimetogetcomfortable.“They’re probably

boarding right this second,”Frank says. “Cherie saidthey’re scheduled to land atJFK just after nine o’clock.

You two have time to eat.Comeinandletmemakeyouasandwich—”“No,” I tell him. He and

Camille lookatme,alarmed.“I want to go to the airportnow. If that plane touchesdownearly,Iwanttobetherethe second our bambinawalksoffofit.”Frank looks at Camille.

“Let me clear out the car sothere’s room for the four of

you. Hey,” he says, “whydon’tyouletmedriveyou?”“No,sweetie,”Camilletells

him.“StayhomewithFrankieand close to the phone.Cookie could call—shedoesn’tknowyou.You’retheonly one she won’t dare togrill.”WhenCamille and I arrive

at the airport at seven thirty,we establish our post at thearrivals area. Camille looks

around to make sure we’renot being watched ortargeted, while I check andrecheck the televisionmonitor to make sure theirflightisontime.When they finallydeplane,

Cherie’s carrying only herpurse. Both she and Rosie—now with a modest feminineshape and taller than any ofus—have their wigs tuggeddown tight on their heads.

Rosie’s wig is thick anddramatic, a cartoonishcontrast to the tired, blankstare on her face. It’simpossible for me to tell ifshe’s numb from theunexpected plane ride or thetrauma of what she’s beenliving through with CookieandClyde.Thefourofuswalkfast to

short-term parking, finallyhuddling in the car to

embrace Rosie the secondwe’re all inside Camille’sbackseat. “My bambina,” Iwhisper in her ear. The carfires up with the turn ofCamille’s ignition, andCherie and I stay huggingRosie. I imagine the tighterwe hold her, the faster she’llheal; but in response, Rosiedoes nothing. She utters nosound; she makes noexpression. “Are you in

shock?”Iaskher.Sheshakesherhead.No.“What is it then? You’re

afraid Cookie’s going tocome after you?” She sitssilently, then nods slowly.Yes.“No,” Cherie says. “We’re

going to do everything wepossibly can to keep youhere. You’ll live with mewhileRegina’satschool,thenin the summer she’ll come

andlivewithus.We’llhaveahome together—Regina,Camille, you remember howgood it was? Like in theHappyHouse,andtheBubbleHouse, and the GlueFactory.”“And the Brady Bunch

House,”Rosiesays.“Yes! You remember the

Brady Bunch House! All weneed is us,” Cherie says.“We’vedone it before,when

we were all much younger.We can do it somuch betternow.”Camille’s house is filled

with the aroma of pasta andmeatballs. “Grab a plate,ladies,”Franksaysaswepileinto the kitchen. “I’m justabout to pull the baked zitioutof theoven.”WhenbabyFrankiestartscryingfromhisnursery, Frank whispers inCamille’sear,braceshishand

on her shoulder, and smiles.Then he walks quietly downthehall.When I finally break from

staring after him, I noticeRosie’s doing the same.“Where’s he going?” Rosieasks. Never before have weseen a man so caring andcapable.“He’sgoingtotakecareof

Frankie so we can stay uptogether.”

We lounge on the livingroom couch and love seat,gently taking note as Rosiebegins to drop hints of asmile as I rest with my armaroundherandplaywithherhair.ThenameCookie nevercomesup.Thewordabuseisnever spoken.The fourofussleephead-to-toeinthelivingroom; and in the morning,Camille starts the coffeepotand sets out a box of gooey

glazed donuts while FrankdressesFrankieandstepsoutto warm up the car. “Rosie,howaboutweheadouttothemallandgetyousomewarm,newclothes?”Camillesays.Rosie’s eyes light up. She

looks out the window at thecarandthenbacktome.“CanIsitonyourlap?”“Sure, lovebug,” I tell her,

securing a lock of loose hairthe color of sand behind her

ear. “You remember theSmithHavenMall,whereweused to hang out when wewereworkingonthefarm?”Shesmiles.“Yes.”Cherie wiggles in next to

Frankie’scarseat,andIclosemy eyes with my cheekagainst Rosie’s back theentirewaytothemall.While Rosie and Cherie

browse through the racks,Frank, Camille, and I

powwow in the car. “I thinkweneed towaita fewweekstoregisterherforhighschoolhere.Wedon’twant tomakeiteasyforanyonefromIdahoto track her down with thehelp of the school system,”Camillesays.“Iagree.”“And when we do register

her, we don’t tell the schoolthat she’s a transfer fromIdaho. As far as they’re

concerned, she’s just movedtoanewpartofLongIsland.”“I know. We’ll work with

herondroppingthetwang.”“She’ll catch on fast,”

Frank says. “She still talkslike a Long Islander. ‘Myteacha,’ she said—did youhearthat?She’sstillgotLongIslandinher.”The three of us laugh as

Frankiecoosandclencheshisfists from his car seat—he,

too, is in on our importantscheme. When Rosie andCherie are back with theirbags a half-hour later, themood goes quiet again.“What’d you get, cutie?” IaskRosie.“Some jeans, a coat and

sweater . . .”Hervoice trailsoff.Frankcalmlypullsoutofthe parking lot, onto thehighway.At no point during the

weekend do we ask Rosiewhat she experienced.There’s just no reason tomake her relive it, and hersilence has told us enoughalready.Onthethirdday,Rosieand

I move into Cherie’s studioapartment in Bayshore, butjust as Rosie begins to feelcomfortable with her newhome,Camillecallsus:She’sbegun getting calls from

Cookie’sbrother,Nick.“Shit,” Cherie says.

“What’dhesay?”RosieandIcrowd close to her. She tiltsthe receiver so we can hearCamillespeak.“Well, the first time, he

called and informed me thatRosie was missing and theIdaho authorities thinkReginaishidingoutwithhersomewhere in Idaho.” Justlike always, Cookie’s blame

points straight tome. “I toldhim it was impossible sinceyou’re at school and in factyou’dbeeninallyourclassestakingteststhispastweek.”“Good.”“But whatever you three

do, it’s not a good idea tocome by my house. Nick’swatching,andhe’slookingtobite.Regina,youshouldheadbacktoschool.”“I will go back when the

timeisright.”“The time is right now.”

Her firmness stuns me. “IfNickorthecopsfindoutthatnoone’s seenyouatclassorinyourdorm,he’llfigureoutwhereyouareandthenwe’realldone.”“Thenwho’s going to stay

with Rosie while Cherie’sworking at the deli?” Idemand.“Thischildhasbeenthrough enough, Camille. I

amnot leavingheraloneandunguardedwithout one of ushere.”“So it’s going to be the

three of you smooshedtogether in Cherie’s tinystudioapartment?”“We’ve lived through way

worse...orhaveyoufinallyforgotten?”“Are you doing this for

Rosie, or for yourself?” shesays. “Fine, Regina, stay

there. Just be safe.Nickwillcome pounding on Cherie’sdoor, and I’m afraid itwon’tbepretty.”It’s the silent treatment

betweenusfortwodaysuntilshe calls again. “Nick’sshowingupatmyhousenow,demanding to know whereCherielives.”Iwringmyfingers.“Frank’s been answering

the door. He keeps telling

Nicktoleave,thatCherieandI had a fight and aren’ttalking. ‘The last Camilleheard,Cheriewas still livingout of state,’ he tells Nick.But I don’t know howmuchlonger we’ll be able to holdhimoff.”We now know it’s only a

matter of seconds beforeCherie’s ex–in-lawshandhernumber over to Nick. Everytime the phone rings, Rosie

andIjumpupfromwhereverwe are and huddle onCherie’s bed, as thoughholding each other willprotectusallfromtheassaultof Nick’s voice on theansweringmachine.First, it’s Cherie, this is

youruncleNick.Callme.Then Cherie, this is your

uncle Nick. We think Reginatook Rosie. Call me back assoonaspossible.

Then the third message:Cherie, this is your uncleNick, I’m coming over andwillforcemywayintotalktoyou.Pickupthedamnphonerightnow.Rosie and I hide our

belongings, throw on ourcoats and shoes, and I grabmy denim satchel. We boltoutofCherie’splaceandtakeoffdownabackalley.“Wherearewegoing?”

“Toamall,”Itellher.“Weneed somewhere with acrowd.”FromapayphoneIleavea

message on Camille’sanswering machine.“Camille, where are you?Listen, I’m taking Rosie tothe movies at Sunrise Mall.Nick called Cherie’s threetimes today. We’ll be out—don’t panic if you can’t getaholdofus.Cherie’satwork,

her boss wouldn’t let hertalk.”The man at the cinema

ticket counter has fat fingersandaslowpace.Myeyesdartaround the theater’s lobby ashepawsourchangeoutofhisregister. “Mister, can youhurryitupalittle?”Itellhim.Hestaresatme.“We’regoingtobelatefor

theshow.”Finally, we sail past the

popcorn concession andstraightintothetheater,inthefarleftcorner.Wesitthroughtwo viewings of Pretty inPink, and I’m ready to sitthrough a third when Rosiestands.“Sit down!” I hiss. “What

areyoudoing?”“Let’sgetoutofhere.”“Wecan’t—Why?”“Let’s at least see another

movieorsomething.”

I glance around. “Well,hurry, so we can walk outwith everybody else. Put upyourhoodandputdownyourhead.”Welinkarmstohustlethrough the theater’s lobby,but the instant we turn thecorner into themall corridor,Iseetheworstpossiblething:Nick comes running at us,accompanied by two mallsecurity guards. As I yankRosieintoasemicirclespin,I

spot Cherie a few stepsbehindthem.Rosie and I race back into

thecinema,downtheaisleofanemptytheater,andout theemergencyexit. IpushRosietoscrambleunderabigmetalgarbagebinandthenshimmyunder next to her. “They’llthink we’re hiding behindsomething—not undersomething,”Iwhisper.“Howdoyouknow?”

“Because I’ve done thisbefore!”We lie there. It will be a

miracleifthepoundingofmyheart doesn’t leadNick righttous.Rosierestshercheekonthe

coldpavement. “Wehavenocontrol,Gi,”shesays.Her return to using my

nickname strikes me; softensme. “That’s whywe have togetcontrol,sweetie.Wecan’t

let you go back with her.You’ll be fourteen inOctober, that’s only sevenmonths from now. We havetogetyouemancipated,too.”“WherewillIhide?”“WithmeupinNewPaltz.

I can rent a room in anapartmentandwecanliveoffcampus.”Suddenly Cherie’s voice

rings from the darkness.“Regina!Rosie!”

“Close your eyes,” Iwhisper, near silence. “She’swith Nick.” It’s just likewhen I was four years oldliving in the Glue Factoryapartment. I ran away, andSusan called out for me.“Regina! Regina!” I rosefrommyhidingplaceandraninto her arms, then shecarried me out of the woodsand toward the street, rightbacktoCookie.

We ignore Cherie’s calls.We stay silent and still.Minutes pass. Cars pass.Rosiepassesherhand tome,andIlacemyfingersthroughhers.Afterquiet falls aroundus,

weshimmyoutintothenight.We walk through unlitparking lots on SunriseHighwayuntil I findaphonebooth on a dark corner.Camille picks up on the first

ring.“Regina.” She’s crying.

“Whereareyoutwo?”“We’re fine. I’d rather not

saywhere we are right now.Butwe’refine.”“It’s too late, Gi. He said

that if we don’t turn Rosieover to him, he’ll call thepolice and we’ll all bearrested for kidnapping. Hesaidhe’llusethattohavethecourts take away Cherie’s

visitation with her son andshe’ll never see him again,and the courts will takeFrankie away from me, too.Frank and I are just sick,wedon’tknowwhattodo.”“I’ll call my social worker

tomorrow. Maybe she canhelpus.”“Regina,hewantsRosieat

hishousetonight,orelseheiscallingthecopsonallofus.”“JesusChrist, he’s sick!” I

wringmy forehead, trying toworkout a solution. “Letmetalk to Rosie. I’ll call youback.”I gently place the phone

back in its silver cradle. Ican’t quite bring myself tolook atRosie. It’s 1986, fiveandahalfyearsafterwewereseparatedforthelasttimeandplaced into different fosterhomes.Todayshe’sthesameage I was when I made the

decision that ruined her lifewith my unfounded faith inmy social worker and thesystem. If I tell our story, Ithought back then, no one intheir right mind would everreturnanyofustoCookie.Asgood as the government hasbeentome,itletRosiedown.Evenworse,IletRosiedown.HowcouldIpromiseherthatthe same county system thatdeserted her five years ago

would suddenly decide tohelp her? We’re poor. Wehavenoconnectionsandevenfewer resources, and we’velearned not to trust anyonewho says You can trust me.We’vehadtoputourfaithinthe people who treat uscoldly, who attempt to preyon our vulnerabilities andtake advantage of us; but inthe end, no one can reallysave us from our own hard

reality.Everysingleoneofushas had to climb out of ourchildhoodandhelpourselves.It was true for Cherie andCamille; it’s trueforme;andnowit’strueforRosie.“There’snothingelseIcan

do,” I tell her. Hot tearsspringtomyeyes.She glares atme in a way

that’s both hopeless andaccusing.“CallCamille,”shesays. “Let’s get it all over

with.”There’sathrobbingsilence

between us as we wait, andwait,forCamille’scartopullup. “I’m freezing,” I say.“Areyoucold?”Rosiesaysnothing.Iclamp

my arms around her in aneffort to stay warm, until Irealize it’s me who’sshivering.Aftera lifetimeofwaiting,

Camille’s headlights finally

cut through the night. Rosietakes a step toward the car.“Wait,”Itellher.“Letmeseewho’swithher.”Iwalkoutintheopenconcretelot,peeringintoCamille’swindow.“Get in,” Cherie sighs.

“We’ll stay at Camille’stonight.”IflagRosietowardthecar,

waiting for Cherie andCamille to rip into me. Butthe only sounds are the hum

of themotor; the click-click-clicking of Camille’s turnsignal in the night. I lean uptoward the front seat. “Cansomebodyturnontheradio?”NeitherCherienorCamille

budges.In the morning, Camille

finds me dialing the kitchenphone.“Whoyoucalling?”I hesitate. “The social

worker.”She comes to me and

bracesmyshoulders.Lookingin my eyes, Camille says,“Gi, honey: We’ve done allwecan.ShehastogobacktoIdaho.”There’s a ringtone in my

ear.“Hello?”“Ms. Harvey, it’s me.

Regina.”Camille sighs, rubs her

temples, and goes to thecupboard topulloutacanof

coffee. I tell Ms. Harveyeverything—how we tried torescue Rosie after socialservices in Idaho triggeredCookietolashout;howNickwas chasing after us and weneed to keep Rosie with us.“Ms.Harvey,canyoucallthepolice in Idahoand tell themhowsocialservicesputRosieindanger?”“Regina, you kidnapped a

minor across state lines.

That’s against the law, andbecause Rosie’s guardianlives in Idaho, no. There’snothingIcandofromhere.”IshootaglancetoCamille

and react the onlyway I canthink: I slam the phone backonthewallandstormoutsideinmybarefeetforair.The storm door claps shut

behindCamille. “None of uslikes this,but sweetie,weallhave so much at risk—

especiallyRosie.Wehave totakehertoNick’s.”“Thehellwedo.”“Gi,we’reoutofoptions.”Rosie steps onto the front

porchandfoldsherarmstightacrossherchest.Cheriestepsoutbehindher.“We’ll tell him that you’ll

only stay there as long asCherie and I stay, too,” I tellRosie.“Fine.”

“Then Regina and I willdrive you to the airport,”Cheriesays.Nick’s Dobermans charge

the door when we ring thebell,andIsteadyRosieinherterrified reaction. Cherie andIgrabRosie’shandsandwalkinto Nick’s home, taking inthe stained walls and carpet,the smell of mildewcombined with wet dog andurine.Withhishandsthatare

perpetuallyfilthyfromhisjobinprinting,Nickwrangleshisdogs from pummeling us,whilehisdocilewifeattemptsto coax them from his grip.Then he turns his lips downand points his finger in myface.“You,”hesays.“Thisisallbecauseofyou.Youhavealwaysthoughtthatyouwerebetter than us, you thinkyou’resohighandmighty.IfI could, I would beat that

smugness rightoffyour face,Regina. You need to bebrought downa fewnotches,you snotty bitch, and I couldstilldothattoyou.”IglareatNickandhiswife,

who’s hovering behind himlike a wilting weed. “ThankGodyouweren’tabletohaveany kids—now we know forsure how you would haveraised them!” I pause, foreffect.ThenIsay,“Nick.”

“I am your uncle,goddammit!” he howls.“Uncle Nick! You shouldrespect your elders!” Hiscragged forehead’s brokenoutinsweat.“Nick,” I tell him calmly,

“you have to earn respect.It’snotjustgiventoyou.Younever did a thing to help us.You only made it worse bysidingwithCookie.You,likeher, do not deserve my

respect.”“Get the fuck out of my

house,youlyingwhore.”“Nope,” I tell him. “If

Rosie’shere,thenI’mhere.”Nickstaresatme.Thenhe

staresatCherie.Cheriestaresdown at the floor, remindingusallshehasacustodyfightfor her child toworry about.“You’re staying heretonight,” he says. “Andtomorrow, the kid goes with

metotheairport.”“Sodowe,”Itellhim.Nickwrapshishand intoa

fist so hard the knucklescrack. “Jennifer, take thesesluts to the back room,” hesays.Withher eyes, hiswifebegs us to save her. Shepoints us down the hall, intotheroomnexttotheirs.“It smells like slime in

here,” I tell my sisters.Rosie’sgazeisfixedinworry

on the bed, where scatteredabout are pictures of hairy,naked women. “I’m notsleepingonthatthing.”“You think the floor is

muchbetter?”Cheriesays.“Cherie, help me put the

sheets on the floor. We’llsleep on top of them withRosie in themiddle.We cancoverupwithourcoats.”Thenextmorning, afterwe leavethe sheets in a heap on the

floor, we walk out to thedriveway where Nick’sleaning against his rustedCamaro.“Whatthefucktookso long to get ready? Youthreedykingitoutinthere?”Wemarchpasthim,toward

Cherie’scar.“What the hell—you two

don’t actually expect me tobelieveyou’regoing todrivethiskidtotheairport.”Cherie opens her car door.

“Rosie’sridingwithus,Nick.Ifyouwanttobetheretoseeit,you’llhavetofollow.”“Youcunts—”I swing around. “Shut the

fuck up, Nick, you fuckingignorant, stupid prick!” Iwalkuptohimandgetinhisface. “She’s riding with us,you got it? You Calcaterrasare nothing but a bunch oflowlifescumbags!”“Andyou’reoneofus,”he

says.I wrap my arms around

Rosie’s shoulders. “In nameonly.” I use my body tonudge Rosie inside the car,resistingmyinstincttotackleNick and beat him senseless.In the backseat I keep Rosiecloaked, as though trying toprotecthernowcouldstilldosomegood.Even deeper inside the

airport with the March chill

left outside, I feel Rosieshivering. We escort her allthe way to security, wheresheglancesbackatNickandtakesoffhercoat.Heractionstrikesmeassymbolic:Intheend, the only thing we wereabletodowaskeepherwarmwiththatcoat,andnowshe’sgiving itback,knowingwhatwasmeanttoprotectherherewillbringherharmwhenshegets where she’s going. The

onlyprayershehastosurviveCookie’s reaction will be topretendthistriptoNewYorkneverhappened.CherieandIbothreachout

and take the coat, whichseems toweigh fourhundredpounds.ThiswassupposedtobeRosie’sforeverrescue,andI’vefailedheryetagain.The crowd of travelers at

thegate fills inaroundus. Inresponse, Cherie’s actions

seem to pick upwith a paceofurgency,butforRosieI’mcalm and gentle as ever. Asshe hugs Cherie, her limbsmove as though they’reweigheddownwithlead,asifanypartofherthat’slivelyorable to feel love is dead. Itakehercheeks inmyhands,staringintohersculptedface,hereyesthatshowshe’sseentoo much. Everything abouther seems older than it is.

“Mia bambina amore,” Iwhisper.Suddenly, she throws her

arms around me and buriesher face in my hair. For amoment, I can feel herresisting sobs; and then shewhispers:“Jet’aime.”The other travelers seem

somehow empowered by theluggagethey’recarryingontothe plane, but Rosieapproaches the ticket counter

withnothing. . .becauseshecame with nothing. Cherieand I grip her coat betweenus. A loose, sandy curl flipsover her shoulder when shelooksbackandforcesasmile.“I love you, Rosie!” I yell

through my tears so loudlythatthecrowdturns.Rosie hands her ticket to

the agent, who points her totheJetway.Andthen,she’sgone.

10

AgingOut

Spring 1986 to Summer1988

“IFAILED.”

Pinching the stem of hisglasses between his thumband forefinger, Mr.Brownsteinrubsthebridgeofhis nose. “Regina, have aseat.You have a lot on yourshoulders—”“Mr.Brownstein,I’llmake

itup!”“Don’tworryaboutmaking

it up. It’ll work out at theend.”“Attheendofthesemester,

you mean? Or just . . . ingeneral?” I’d recently sharedwithMr.Brownstein that I’dgrownupinandoutoffostercare. I want to remind himthings don’t just “work out”in my life; that my futuredepends on my grades inways my classmates’ futuresdon’t.“Regina, I’m here to help.

If you’d feel better to sharedetails about what’s

happening in your family, Iwant you to know this is asafeplace.”I flash back: I’m thirteen

again, in the car with thesocial workers. Rosie andNormareintheothercar,andbecause I’ve revealed what’shappened to us, I’ll never beable to controlwhat happenstomysiblingsagain.Mr. Brownstein brings me

back toearth.“Ihaveutmost

faith you’re doing your best.Just follow through on therest of the semester. I toldyou”—histoneturnsfatherly,reassuring—“you’ll be fine.Right now you have to takegood care of yourself andyourlittlesister.”That night, I dial Rosie’s

number back in Oakview.“Yeah?”Cookieanswers.It’sthefirstI’vespokentoherinmonths. Her voice is deeper

and more hoarse than ever.That’s what decades ofsmokinganddrinkingwilldotoyou,Iwanttotellher.“IneedtotalktoRosie.”“Likehellyoudo.”“Cookie, let me remind

you:Everybodyknowsaboutyou. I told the localauthorities and Rosie’sschool.Remember,onemarkon her and there is nodenyingwhereitcamefrom.”

“Oh, go ahead and ask herhow bad it’s been. The kid’shaditmadeeversinceshegotback, I haven’t laid a fingeronher.”“Put. Rosie. On the

phone.”Ihearherinhaleacigarette,

thenexhale.“Hangon.”There’samuffledexchange

betweenthem,thenthephonecord crackles to signify thatRosie is seeking a more

private place to speak.Whenthere’squiet,Iwhisper:“Miabambinaamore.”“Je t’aime,” she whispers

back.Through a series of one-

word answers, I’m able todiscernthatthingsarequiet—Cookie’s holding back heranger, at least for now. “Inthe morning I’ll call yoursocial worker and guidancecounselor, okay? I want to

know that they’re keepingtabs on you. Even if theydon’t believe us, at least wegotthemtopayattention.”“Okay.”

AT THE END of the springsemesterItakethreehundreddollars out of the envelopefrom last summer’sgymnastics camp for a downpayment on an off-campusapartment with Kim and

Tami,twogirlsSherylknowsfromSuffolkCounty.I’m living independently

for the first time in my life.TheolderIget,themoreI’mconvinced:I’vesufferedforareason. It’s a reason I don’tknow yet, but for all of mytwentyyearsit’sbeencirclingme—a forecast of somethingmighty. There’s no way aperson could be born intodysfunction, fighting to

survive and helping herfamily do the same, withoutsome purpose to give it allmeaning. On the days thatfeeldarkandendless,Imakemyself a simple promise: I’llgetoutofbedinthemorning.Then I’ll head up the hill toclass.IfIputonefootinfrontof the other, day by day, I’llmoveclosertothelightattheendofallthisstruggle.At the start of my junior

year’s fall semester, I taketwo jobs: one waitressing inan outdated Catskillsnightclub; the other fulfillingwork study in the campussciencelab.OnThursdayandFridaynightsIshareamirrorwith my roommates to dressup in my cocktail uniform.Then another opportunitypulls me away fromestablishing a normal collegesocial life:Before the end of

thesemester,I’macceptedforan internship in Albany towork for a state senator forthe next semester. “She’sgoing to fall for somepoliticianandwe’llneverseeheragain!”Tamiteases.In January of my junior

year, I move to Albany andattendtheorientationmeetingfor all the interns held byradiohostAlanChartock,thesponsor of the internship.

“We’ll go around the table,”he says, “and I’d like you totellmewhyyou’rehere.”Myfellowinternscitetheir

reasonsashavingrelativesinlaw and politics, and apassion for politics or apolitical ideology or acommitment to advance aspecific public policy. Thenthecircle reachesme. I thinkofRosie,ofthemoneyItuckaway to send her every

month,ofhowI’llnevergiveup trying to rescueher.ThenI share my reason for whyI’m pursuing this career.“Politics is the allocation ofresources,” I tell ProfessorChartock. “I want to knowwho allocates the resourcesandwhysomepeoplebenefitfrom them while otherssuffer.”He eyes me, then

announces, “I want to be

clearaboutaninevitabilityofthisprogram:Youladieswillbe hit on bymembers of theAssembly and Senate. If Ihear any of my interns areinvolved in affairs withlegislators, you will beremoved from the programand will lose the fifteencreditsyou’reontracktoearnduringthisexperience.”After the meeting, our

cohorts mingle and laugh.

Joanne, my new roommatefor the semester, is in theprogram, too.Weapproachaboywith reddish hair and anunassumingexpression.“Youdidn’t take the Senateinternship,right?”“Right. I’m interning as a

journalist for the LegislativeGazette instead. I’mEd.”Heshakes our hands firmly andwe’re delighted we’ve justadded a new companion to

ourcircleofnerds.IinternforthestateSenate

from nine every morninguntil five in the evening andthen waitress four nights aweek on Lark Street.WednesdaynightsandalldaySaturday I coach USGFgymnastics at an Albanygymnastics school. Saturdaynights, Joanne, Ed, and Iusually meet up for a beer,and Ed pokes fun at how I

reactwhena stranger tries totalk to me. “You’re way toointense,” he says, laughing.“Lightenup.”I take a sip ofmy beer. “I

didn’tcomeheretomessthisup. I’m focused on learninghow this all works—and Ineed strong references for ajob after I graduate.” Theybothrolltheireyesatmeandorderaroundofshots.Iallowa small grin before I take

mine.As the internship

progresses I observe that theprocess to alter public policyis like watching a chessgame:Sheerstrategyandfullemotional investment areneeded for the mostconvincing players to win.Recognizing my intensity,State Senator Jack Perrykeeps me on past May intoJuly until the legislative

sessionendstocontinueonasan aide, and his invitation isfurther promise that theuniverse will always findways to take care of me aslongasI’mdoingmypart:InJuly Igoback to living rent-free in Southampton andcoachinggymnasticsagain.Headingintothefallofmy

senioryearatNewPaltz,I’vedonemy best to plan for thedayinNovemberwhenIturn

twenty-one,forthedaywhenI’llnolongerbeawardofthestateora fosterchildandforthe day when the Medicaidcardthat’scoveredmyhealthcare for the last seven yearswill be void, and the fourhundred twenty dollars Ireceivefor rentandexpenseseach month will just stopshowingupinmymailbox.There’sonlyonechoice:to

keep working. For the fall

semester I move into an off-campus apartment with myhigh school friend Jeanine,whotransferredtoNewPaltzlast year. “Yeesh!” she says.“Waitressing,thesciencelab,studying. . .doIhavetogetyou a job with me at theWallkill farm stand in orderto actually see you onweekends?”“I’ve worked a cash

register before,” I jibe back.

“Getmeanapplication.”Soon we’ve begun our

autumn Saturday routine,peddling warm apple ciderand mums then hitting thetown hangouts whereJeanine’s charm scores usfreebeers.Sheintroducesmeas her geeky sidekick,referring to me as “MissConstitution” because I canproudly recite all sevenarticles and twenty-seven

amendments to the U.S.Constitution.BeforeThanksgivingbreak,

the debate team coachapproaches me as I’mstudyingintheloungenexttothe political sciencedepartment.“I’dliketospeakwith you about joining myteam of students for theHarvard Model UnitedNations,” he says. “We’reone of a handful of schools

competing that’s not IvyLeague, and I need a toughdebateronmyteam.”“Uh...sir?”Ilookaround.

“Are you sure you’re talkingtotherightperson?”“ReginaCalcaterra? Sure I

am. I need someone with astrong backbone, somebodybright and assertive.Professor Brownsteinrecommendedyou.”Brightandassertive.

I choose global warfare asmy debate topic. My peersand I take the train to theUnited Nations headquartersin Manhattan when ourdebatecoachsendsustomeetwith the actual Zimbabweandelegates. We spend winterbreak preparing for the finaldebate forum in Boston. Wedon’t place in the rankings,but our whole team cheerswhen I’m nominated for an

award alongside studentsfromColumbiaandHarvard.“Don’t lose any sleepover

the fact we didn’t win,” ourdebate coach tellsme on thebus ride home. “Iwas in theelevator with coaches fromthe Ivies who were talkingabout the tough girl fromNewPaltz.Wemaynothavewon,butyouhelpedusmakeanimpact.”InMayIreceivemyBAin

Political Science in front ofhundreds of my classmates’families. Addie, Pete, andtheir daughters come for theceremony, and Pete takes aphoto of Addie and me.“Holdupyourdiploma!”shesays.“You’veearnedthis.”Later thatweek I packmy

car and head back to LongIslandafterAddieextendsanoffer forme to live rent-freein her basement for two

months while I search for ajob. Immediately I take herup on it, intending only tobuy a little time to make atransitiononmyown.Unsureof where I’ll go after thesummer, again I reach out tothe only other familyconnectionIhavebesidesmysiblings: Cookie’s parents,Mike andRose. “If you everneed a place to stay or justwant to spend timewith us,”

Grandma Rose says, “yourgrandfatherandIwantyoutoknowthatyoualwayshaveahomehere.”“Grandma...thanks.”“You’re the first family

member ever to graduatefrom college,” she continues.“Would you like to joinGrampa Mike and me fordinnertocelebrate?”“Of course,” I say. “Just

tellmewhen.”

Thefollowingnight, inherkitchen,GrandmaRose takesa break from tending to anoven of pasta and bakedclams to open the collar ofher quilted pink robe andexpose the bruises on herchest. “The cancer in mylungs is getting worse, thedoctorssay.Betweenthisandmymultiplesclerosis,Idon’tknowhowmuchlongerIcango on.” At dinner, I’m

glancing at the bruises thatappear on her neckline andGrandmaputsdownherfork.“Regina,” she says, fightingback tears, “our door hasalwaysbeenopentoyou.Wecould never understand howyour mother turned out thewayshedid,orwhyyoukidssufferedsomuchwithher.”This is my one chance to

try and understand. I leanacross the table toward my

grandmother. “Whathappened to her when shewasyoungthat’smadehersoangry?”Grandma Rose shakes her

head.Sheandmygrandfathergobacktoeating.Weeks later, in early July,

GrandmaRosepassesaway.Itend to Grampa Mike withhotdogs and steaks from thebutcher and two jugs ofErnest & Julio Gallo wine,

hisfavorite.CookieshowsupwithNorman for the funeral,announcing that the two ofthem will be staying atGrampaMike’shousetotakecare of him. Norman carriestheir bags behind Cookie.“You must be numb withgrief,” she insists to mygrandfather,pushingherwaythroughthedoorandpouringherself a glass of wine.“Don’tmindifImakemyself

at home.” Looking up fromlighting a cigarette, sheacknowledges me, as thoughshe hadn’t seen me sittingthere since she walkedthrough the door. “Well,congratulations forgraduating,”shegrunts.“Yousee,Ididn’tdosuchabadjobafter all with you kids.” Istareather,dumbfounded.I try to hold myself back

from letting loose on her the

way I did on her brother inhisdriveway themorningwetook Rosie to the airport.“Cookie,” I tell her—mycomposureastoundsmeeventhough I am burning inside.“You did not raise us. Youleftus to raiseourselves—doyou understand that?We areresponsibleforthewomenwehave become. Not you. Yougave birth to us: that wasyour single wretched

contribution to what we arenow.Wedidtherest,andanyhelp we got along the waywas from strangers—somewhowerepaidtotakecareofus.Notyou.”I anticipate what’s coming

next: She’ll slapmy face, ortakemeby thehairandslammetotheground.Instead,sheapproaches me slowly. Hereyes soften and so does hervoice. “Regina,” she says,

“theonlyreasonIhurtyouisbecause your father hurt me.The other kids’ dads didn’thurtmelikeyoursdid...hewas the worst to me. Yousee?”Face-to-facelikethis,Ican

smell the alcohol that’sseeping from her pores; thetobacco smoke in the fabricofherclothes.Shestepsback—she’s contemplatingwhether I will accept her

explanation. But I know itwillneverbepossibleforhertoacknowledgewhatshedid,the same as it will never bepossibleformetofullyforgetit: the years of shielding ourbodiesfromherblows,hidingour bruises, scavengering forfood,andconvincingteachersand authorities that if theygaveusachance,mysiblingsandIcouldbesuccessful.Inastunned,calmdisgustI

glareather. . .andsuddenlyI’m recollecting myconversation five years agowith Paul Accerbi. I didn’tbelieve it was a one-nightstand. I was the first to callCookieoutonherlifeoflies,but the one thing she neverwaivered from insisting wasthat she and Paul had arelationship. “How did hehurtyou?”Shelooksatmeasifsheis

trying to determine if I’masking this in the spirit ofempathyorademand.“Whatdidhedotoyouthat

caused you so much angerthat you’d take it out on adefenseless child? Huh? Didhebeatyoulikeyoubeatme?Didheuseyourhead tobustholes in walls or doors? Didhe,Cookie?Didhetieyouupin closets or to radiators orbeds?Didhestripyounaked

in front of others, and beatyou with a belt that causedweltsaroundeverysectionofyour body?Did he humiliateyou or scare you intosubmission? Did he rapeyou?What did he do to youthat would justify what youdidtome,orletothersdo?”She’s smiling, satisfied

withmyanger. “Ohno,” shesays. “None of that, Regina.Hewas a lover—averykind

lover.Iwasinlovewithhim,and I thought hewas in lovewith me. I thought he’d bewith me after he found outaboutyou.. .butinstead,heleft.” She pauses a moment,then lights up anothercigarette. “And I got stuckwithyou.”

11

TheHappyHouse

Summer 1988 to January1998

WITHIN DAYS AFTER Cookie

flies back to Idaho, mygrandfather begins to noticethat things around his househavegonemissing.Therearepots,pans,dishes,silverware,blankets, towels, photoalbums, my grandmother’sjewelry, and even her nailpolishes and makeup that hecan’tseemtofind.Ipresumehe’s suffering some kind ofgrief-inducedmemoryloss.“Regina, Cookie made

multiple early morning tripsto the post office to sendpackages to Rosie becauseshewashomealone,”hesaid.“Gramps, Rosie moved in

withoneofherteachersmorethan a year ago. Cookiedoesn’t even haveguardianship of heranymore.” That’s when heand I put it together: Cookiepilfered his things while hewasgrieving.

After Rosie’s teacher tookover her guardianship, mybabysisterwasable tobeginher healing . . . but CamilleandItookquietnoteasRosiemade choices to leave herpast behind—and thatincluded shutting us out.Rosie never said it, but wesensed she blamed us. Nomatterhowwefoughtforherwell-being, nothing we didcould ever be enough when

Cookiewastheopponent.AsmuchasitdestroyedustoseeRosie cut off communicationwithus,weunderstood.We’dfailed her. We’d grown upalways one bad decisionaway fromhomelessness andpoverty. We’d tried to raiseeachotherwhenwewerejustkids ourselves, sharingeverythingwehad. . .whichwas never very much. Rosieneededustosaveher,andwe

tried, but we couldn’t,becausewhenyouliveonthefringes of society with noresources, youhavenovoiceand your complaints areeasily ignored. So for nowour relationship is wroughtwith an undercurrent ofresentment and frustration.ForCherie,Camille, andme,adjusting to the worldmeantgrowing farther away fromthe pain we experienced as

kids. For Rosie to do thesame, she had to grow faraway from us and closer tothe people in her communitywho were finally able toprotecther.

ONEBYONE,myfriendsbegintotransitionintowork:Sometake jobs at banks on WallStreet or at Manhattanadvertising agencies or infederal law enforcement.

Jeanine and her boyfriend,George,aswellasSherylandherbeau,Thomas,arehintingattheirpendingengagements.I take a job at Bruno’s, anItalianrestaurant,workingallshifts. Every day during mybreaks, I scan the classifiedsfor a job I feel passionatelyabout.Unfortunately, the only

openings at places evenremotely dealing with public

policy are for typists. Of allthe courses I took in highschool and college, not onewas for typing. No matterhow I calculate it, there’s nopossiblewayIcanlearnhowto type eighty words perminute—with a stopwatchand no mistakes—all bymyself. Still, I take the trainto the interviews inManhattan, a place that’sromancing me more with

every ninety-minute ride ontheLongIslandRailRoad.After a few failed

interviews,Ifigureoutawayto pass the typing test:Because I’m allowed topractice on the same scriptand the same typewriter I’llbe using for the test, I takemy time to type the scriptwith no mistakes . . . then Iplace it undermy typewriter.ThenIrollinablanksheetof

paper, and after thetimekeeper starts her watchandleavestheroom,Iswitchout the practice paper withthe perfect script. Finally, Iget a second interview for atypist position at the NewYork Junior League, aprestigious organization foryoung women that works onnonprofitcauses.It’sperfect.Ishowupfortheinterview

in a dark suit and white

blouse with dark, low shoes—conservative and easy tofoot around Manhattan. Ienter thefine-carpetedcherrylobby, ready to dazzle myfuture boss with informationonthestatewidepolicyissuesI worked on during myinternship at the Senate andmy solid letters ofrecommendation. But whenthey askme to take a typingtest under the watch of a

timekeeper, I know how thiswillend.I type a total of thirty-two

words in one minute, withtwelvemistakes.ThenIthankthem, grabmybag, and bowmyheadtoquicklyleave.In August I’m called to

interviewforapositionasanadvocate for the EasternParalyzed VeteransAssociation.Theyarelocatedin Jackson Heights, Queens,

intheshiningnewofficesthathavebeenconvertedfromtheold Bulova watch factory. Itake the Long Island RailRoadtotheWoodsidestation,where a shuttle equipped forwheelchairs picksme up anddrops me off in front of theEPVA’soffice.Smelling the fresh

construction, the prospect ofentering this bright buildingmorning after morning adds

excitement to my stepsheading toward the EPVA’slobby. There I’m greeted bymy potential bosses—allquadriplegic or paraplegicmeninwheelchairswhoweredisabled during their servicein the Vietnam and Koreanwars. During the interviewthey tellme they need to fillan entry-level position withsomeone who can advocateon their behalf on the local

and state levels. “We needsomeone who won’t have aproblem making trips toAlbany and traveling acrossLong Island on our behalf,”oneexplains.“You’llneedtogotothecapitalatleastonceamonth.”Theythengoontotell me that most of theirfunding comes from agreeting card manufacturingplant they partially own inNewHampshireandthat,asa

nonprofit,theydon’thavetheopportunity to pay decentsalaries.I nod. I knew I could

continue waitressing in theeveningsandonweekendstosupplementmyincome.“Thisis perfect,” I tell them. “Ihave contacts up there, andI’mfamiliarwiththetimeandperseverance it takes to getsomething passed. Plus, Ihavemyowncar.”

The gentlemen glance ateach other with raisedeyebrows and promise toreviewmyrésumé,mylettersof recommendation, and myreferences.Thenextday,theycallme, offeringme the titleof an associate advocate forseventeen thousand dollars ayear,withbenefits.Ihavenoconcept for what seventeenthousand will get me, and Idon’t really care. The only

important thing is, I’ve got ajob.I’m fully aware that this is

another step toward main-streaming—doing what mypeersaredoing,regardlessofhowdifferentmybackgroundhas been from theirs.After afew months of commutingninety minutes each wayfrom the Petermans’ to myoffice, I move into the dark,barred-window basement

apartmentofaTudorhomeinForestHills,Queens,withmycollege friend Reyne. “Thisplace is a firetrap. Youcouldn’t get a roomupstairs?” Cherie says whenshecomestovisit.Iknowit’snot fancy, but it’s all I canafford, and the location isconvenient for the travel myjobdemands.The disabled veterans

group sends me to

Washington and all aroundNew York State. I advocatepublicly and passionately forthepassageoftheAmericanswith Disabilities Act, a civilrightsactwhosepurposeistoremove barriers, societal andstructural, for people withdisabilities.Whatinspiresmemostabout thisact is that, inits true spirit, it providesopportunities for those whohave been held back from

mainstreaming and livingindependently.Everytimethephrase self-sufficiency isbantered about in lectures orlegislative sessions, mycommitment grows strongerwith the realization that myfight for others to maintaintheir dignity is exactly thesamefightI’veknownallmylife.While lobbying for the

veterans in Albany, I meet

Alan Hevesi, the Assemblychair of the committee forPeoplewithDisabilities,who,as I learn through friendlybanter,happenstoalsoliveinQueens.AlanisaprofessoratQueens College and appearsgenuinely concerned aboutthe development of youngpublic servants. In 1989,when he decides to run forthe position of comptroller,the chief fiscal officer of the

city, I volunteer for hiscampaign. Every night forweeks, I stick stamps onenvelopes and hand outliterature at subway stationsduringrushhours.Alan loses the race, but to

prepare for his next run, asmall group of us bandtogether toorganize theRFKDemocratic Club, a newpolitical clubhouse, to attractvolunteers. I’m designated

the foundingchairperson . . .andwhenBobbyKennedyJr.joins us at the club’sdedication to his father, Ibegin to see the payoff ofbeingpartofacampaignthatiscategorizedasalongshot.In April 1991, after two

and a half years working forthe Eastern ParalyzedVeterans Association, NewJersey Transit recruits me toassist in developing their

statewide plan to make theirpublic rail and bus systemsaccessible to people withdisabilities. I spend my timeon buses and trains fromQueens to Newark, studyinghow to write a plan to thefederalgovernmentonbehalfof a state agency . . . and itgrowsclearthat,asmycareerflourishes, I’mgoing to needasignificantunderstandingofthelaw.

Everymorning,onthewalkfrom Newark’s Penn Stationto my office a few blocksaway, I glance over at theconstruction site for SetonHall University’s new lawschool building.Daybyday,formonths, I see the shadowof a building rising slowlybehindthetrainstation.Whenit grows possible to observeits form—allwhite, steel andglass—I stop by their

admissionsofficeandpickupa brochure explaining theirunique program called LegalEducation Opportunity(LEO). The LEO program isaffectionately known as an“affirmative action bootcamp,”theadmissionsofficertells me, and it runs allsummer to prepare itsstudents for the possibilitythat they’ll be accepted intoSetonHall’s law school.The

brochureexplainsthat,unlikeother institutions that requirebothacompetitiveLSATandGPA, Seton Hall’s LEOprogram considers studentswith either one or the other.The catch is that applicantsneed a strong personal storyexplainingwhy theycouldn’texcelinbothrequirements.It’s only for half a second

that I waffle, wondering ifbeing twenty-five makes me

toooldtobeginfouryearsofevening law school whenmostlawstudentsmyagearealreadyapplyingforfirst-yearassociate jobs. Still . . . thethought of holding a lawdegreefeelslikeitcouldbeinreach, if I just had anopportunity to prove myself.Afterwritingapersonalessayexplaining my less-than-stellar GPA, I kiss theenvelopefor luckandsubmit

myapplication.In spring of 1992 I’m

accepted. Affirmative actionbootcampbeginsinJune.AttheLEOorientation,the

law school dean explains toall seventy-six of us that,while it’s unlikely any otherlaw school would haveaccepted us, Seton Hall seessomething in our stories thatshows promise. “But thisprogram is going to take an

extraordinary commitmentfromyou,”hesays.“Ineedtomake it clear that for us toaccept you is a risk—lawschool rankings are basedupon many things, includinghow many students pass thebarexaminationthefirsttime,andbydefinition,you’reherebecause you failed in one ofthe two indicators that resultinhighfirst-timebarpassagerates.” He explains that only

studentswhoachieveat leasta B in the affirmative actionboot camp will be admittedinto law school . . . and inAugust of 1992, I learn Imadethecut.I stay full-time at New

Jersey Transit and pacemyself for a twelve-creditloadeverysemester,grabbinga coffee and a sandwich fordinner from the law schooldeli before my six o’clock

class four nights a week.When class gets out at ninethirty I take the train fromNewark toManhattan’s PennStation, then the subway andthe bus back to Queens. BymidnightI’minbed,knowingthe next day will look thesame. Some nights, as I’mdrifting to sleep, I’m joltedawake by the thought ofRosie. Nothing else has evercompared to the depth of

emptinessmyheartholds forher. Sure, I’vemainstreamedprofessionally and socially. . . but emotionally I’venever healed. I’ve stifled therealityof theemotional scarsthat I’ve spent all of myyoungadulthoodignoring.The more I learn about

policy and the law, themoreexcited I become to immersemyself in the world ofpolitics.Afterthehalf-decade

I’ve dedicated to advocatingfortherightsofthephysicallychallenged, I’m ready for achange. In 1993, the sameyear Rudy Giuliani runs forNewYork Citymayor, Alanruns for city comptroller . . .and this time, with thesupportof thefieldoperationthat we cultivated over thepastfewyears,hewins.Alan places me on his

transition and inauguration

teams. The first few monthsintohisnewadministrationindowntownManhattan,Iworkwith fierce intensity whilejuggling law school inNewark. “You’re one of theonly people I know whonever takes no for ananswer,”Alan tellsme as hedesignatesme as his directorof IntergovernmentalRelations, charged withpassing his state and city

legislative agenda. As far astitle and responsibility go,they’reasthrillingastheyaredaunting for me—a twenty-eight-year-old law studentmanagingastaffandchargedwith implementing a NewYork City–wide electedofficial’s legislative agenda.We successfully secure thepassageoftenstatelaws.

MY PROFESSIONAL SUCCESS

givesmethecouragetoreachout once again to PaulAccerbi . . . something Ihaven’t tried since I wassixteen,twelveyearsago.IfIcan overcome strong andpowerful opposition in statepolitics, maybe I canconvince Paul that I’m adecent young woman whojust wants to know who herfatheris.Butthistime,ratherthan writing from my foster

home, I take a business cardandattachanoteextollingmyacademic and workcredentials. I mail it to Juliaand Frank Accerbi. Pleasekindly pass this along toPaul,whereverhemaylive, Iwrite.One week later, Paul calls

meattheoffice.“Ifyouhavelived without a father fortwenty-eight years, I see noreason why you would need

onenow,”hesays.“Ifeelmyageisirrelevant,

Paul,” I tell him. “I amsomeone’s child, and believeI am your child. I want torespect your space, and I’mjust hoping that you couldtakeaDNAtestsoIknowforsureifyou’remydad.Iwantnothing from you, really—justtoknow.”Itakeabreath.“After the test, I promise: Iwill leave you alone.” I give

himnoclue that I’mholdingbacktears,fearingtotellhimthe truth: I really dowant toget toknowhim . . . but if Isharethat,hisreactionwouldonlybeworse.“Oh,firstyou’repressuring

me for answers and nowyou’re demandingmyDNA?IamnottakingaDNAtest!”Hisvoicecrashesthroughthereceiver like thunder. “Mylife and my decisions are

noneofyourbusiness.Everytime you come around youcreate problems for me! Doyou hear me? Never, evercontact Julia or me again.”Hehangsup.ImmediatelyIdialCamille.“Whatdidyouexpect?”“Idon’tknow.Iknowwhat

Iwanted, but I expected himtobeopentoaDNAtest.Hecan see that I am a well-adjusted person—I want

nothing from him, except toknowthetruth.”“Gi, he has run from the

truth his entire life. He’sright, you survived twenty-eight years without him, andyoudon’tneedhimnow.Letitbe.You’vegot somuch tobeproudofandevenmoretolookforwardto.Stoplookingback. It’s over. It’s all over.Youneedtomoveon.”Burying rejection is

something that’s becomeoneofmystrengths . . .andwiththat I vow never to considercontactinghimagain.

WHILE WORKING FOR thecomptroller, I’m constantlyinterfacing with the mostimportant leaders in NewYork City, including MayorRudyGiulianiandhisstaff.Ilook forward to theseinteractions, not just because

they forceme to stepup andperformatmyhighestability. . . but also because themayor has a young,handsome, stoic-looking aidewho’s caught my eye. Likeme,ToddCiaravinotakeshiswork very seriously. Thecatch? We’re on oppositesides of the political aisle—me, a Democrat who worksfor aDemocrat; and Todd, aRepublican who works for a

Republican—and our bossesarealwayspittedagainsteachother in a political war. IwatchToddfromafar, takingnote that when we do get tochat, he remains aloof andmysterious—he doesn’t seeme as the ass-kicking younghotshot I like to think I am.That summer, I spend myweekends with friends inNewport, Rhode Island, andFire Island—a barrier island

that protects Long Islandfrom the Atlantic Ocean. Ialso plan a trip to Utah tovisit Rosie in her new homestateaftershegraduatesfromIdahoStateUniversity.I arrive with my arms full

of gifts and ready for hugs,but from the beginning, ourinteractions are cool andmechanical. This ischaracteristic of the handfulof visits we’ve had since

Cherie,Camille,andIputheronthatplanebacktoIdahoadecade ago, so I arrivedbracing for it . . . but thatdoesn’t make it any easier.I’d exhausted myself withhope, imagining this trip toUtah would be abreakthrough.Admittedly, part of the ill

feeling she’s harboring Ibrought on myself: Duringlaw school and especially

after I graduated in May of1996,mywork has beenmyclearest priority. It’s the oneplace where I’ve beensuccessful.WhenI foundoutI passed theNewYorkStatebarexamination,Iwasfinallysatisfiedandabletoputallofmy energies into advancingmy career. In addition togetting laws passed, Alan’sput me in charge oforganizing citywide task

forces—one of them being amission to identify leadingrepresentatives in the manycultural communities aroundNew York City. When Alanasksme to, I also set up theImmigrant Task Force. “ButI’ve never worked onimmigration before,” I tellhim.“There’s a lot you’d never

triedbeforeyougothere,butyou always find ways to

figureitout.”Then, in 1997, when a

neighbor of Alan’s in ForestHills calls him, he and hisassistant Jack wave theirhands fervently for me tocome into Alan’s office andhesetshisphoneonspeaker.“Go ahead, Gerry,” he says,mouthingtome:Listen.“I’mgettingona callwith

the White House at threeo’clock,” the woman says.

“We’re going overimmigration issues, and Ineedsomeonewhocanreallyhelpmezeroinontheleadersof the different ethniccommunitiesinNewYork.”“I have the perfect person

for you,” Alan says. “I’mgoing to send over ReginaCalcaterra.”I fold my arms.What are

yougettingmeinto?“ ‘Gerry?’ ” I ask both of

them.“Whowasthat?”“That was Geraldine

Ferraro,”Alansays.Isinkdowninhisvisitor’s

chair. “Youwantme to helpGeraldineFerraro?”Geraldine Ferraro: the

former congresswoman andvice presidential candidate. Icall Camille, who tells herkids to hollerGood luck! inthebackground.Then I thinkof calling Rosie to tell her,

but am worried she’ll thinkI’masabsorbedaseverinmywork.Alan tells me that the call

atthreeo’clockGeraldinehasis with President Clinton’sNew Americans committee.“She’s a big supporter ofmine,Regina.Allyouhavetodoisfaxheramemo,thengodown there and walk herthrough it. Give her all thedata she requested.Anything

extra you know about theseethnic leaders, include it.Wehave two hours. I’ll put youinacabsoyoucanmeetherat her office to go over thelist.”“Meet her?” I feel sweat

break out of the pores inmyscalp. “Alan, I can easily dothatoverthephone.”Alan looks at me sternly.

“Regina,get ina cabandgoover to meet her. This

opportunity will never comeagain.”Spring flowers blossom on

the trees along the route ourtaxi takes from our officeacrossfromCityHallstraightuptowardSoHo,toLafayetteStreet. Geraldine Ferraro’sofficesitson the top floorofa quaint redbrick buildingwithablackawningoverherson’srestaurant,Cascabel.Asher no-nonsense secretary

eyes me from her desk, Ibegin outwardly perspiring.The harder I focus oncontrolling my risingnervousness, the harder itexits my pores. I breatheinconspicuously, deeply inand out, and begin countingto calm myself, watchingGeraldine through the glasswindowintoheroffice.Insidethe sunny, warm-toned roomshe moves about assuredly

and with grace, her voicerising only once on thephone.It hits me: meeting

Geraldine Ferraro is likemeetingAmeliaEarhart.Geraldine is a woman

who’sblazedtrailsinthefaceof the barriers women inpolitics—and in society—have faced, paying no mindto the thousands of criticswho wanted her to fail. She

persevered, believing thatfighting and being defeatedwould be better than notfightingatall;butheresheis,rightinfrontofme,wearingasoft peach-toned turtleneckscentedwith somethingclosetoChanel,pearlearrings,anda smile spread across herperfectly proportioned face.“Regina,” she says. “Please.Comein.”Finallyabletofocusonour

work, I’ve ceased mysweatingepisode.Afterafewminutesofgoingoverthelisttogether, Geraldine leansforward over her desk andasksme:“Regina,wouldyoumind staying andparticipatinginmycall?”“Your call . . . with the

WhiteHouse?”“Yes. I’m just thinking—

you seem much morecomfortable discussing the

individuals on this list than Iam.”I try to think of some

reason I need to run back tothe office, then I rememberAlan’s words: Thisopportunity will never comeagain.She directs me away from

her desk to the couch in hersitting area, taking a seatacross the coffee table in asturdy armchair. She never

strays from the balancebetweenwarmthandstrength,which is evident when shegently suggests, “You shouldreally do the talking.” Earlyin the call she introducesmetotheWhiteHousestaffandIfollow her lead, finally atease, picking up the tone ofher can-do stoicism. I’m inawe as the folks inWashington defer to her,because it’s understood to

everyoneinherpresencethateven without a hint ofcondescension, GeraldineFerraroknowsmorethanyoudo. For the twenty minutesI’mquestionedontherolesofthe black, South AsianIndian, and Middle Easternleaders in New York, Gerryoffers assuring nods—at onepoint,evenawink.After thecall,sherestsher

armsonthechairshe’ssitting

inacross fromme.“Regina,”she ponders, “I think I coulduseyourhelponsomething.”I perk up, pretending I’m

notcompletelyspent.“I’m working on a book

about my mother. She wasthe daughter of an Italianimmigrantwhomadealotofsacrifices to provide mybrother and me a chance tomainstreamasAmericans.”Mainstream?! I want tell

her.I’dsayyou’vedonemorethanmainstreamed!Instead,Ipolitelyleanforwardwithmyhands in my lap. “Yes, Ms.Ferraro?”“Please,” she says. “Call

me Gerry.” Gerry speaksabout her mother, Antonetta—dropping phrases likewidowaftermyfather’sdeathandworkedas a beadmakerintheSouthBronx . . .butinmy head I’m watching a

movie reel of Gerry’s manyextraordinary achievements:Shebuiltastrongfamilywithherhusband,John;sherosetobecome Queens AssistantDistrict Attorney heading upthe Sex Crimes Unit. Shebecame a U.S.congresswoman, and in 1984becamethefirstwomantobenominated as a vicepresidential candidate for amajor party. I tune back in

whenshesays,“ThisiswhereIneedyou,Regina: Iplan todedicate the last chapter topresent-day femaleimmigrants by highlightingthe sacrifices they’re makingtogivetheirchildrenachanceatopportunitiesthatwouldn’tbe available outside ofAmerica. You’re so well-versed speaking aboutpresent-dayimmigration.Canyouhelp?”

I nod slowly, in disbeliefthat Geraldine Ferraro isasking me to assist her in abook—any book!—not tomention, it’s about hermother. I float out of herofficeand,toodazedtohailacab, I walk the near-milebacktoCityHallinmyheels.Surely, by the time I arrivethere, she’ll have called andsaid, “Never mind, Regina!I’ve found a bright young

scholar to take this on;someone with a sane motherandanormalupbringing!”WhenAlanmeetsmeatthe

office door, indeed he saysGerry has called. “Nicework,” he tells me. “Soundslike you made quite animpression.”Instantly the work is a

comfort, the familiar feelingof being busy giving me asense of structure and

security. When I graduatedlaw school a year ago, I hadmore free time onmy handsthan I’veeverhad inmy life—the first time I’ve just hadone full-time job withoutwaitressing, attending lawschool, or working onpolitical campaigns on theside.ForthenextsixweeksIspend my nights up to myelbows in the immigrationresearch, feeling soothed by

the work, and finallyproducing a summary andoutline based on my visionfor Gerry’s last chapter. Ireturn to her office and handover my file, which sheacceptswithakindsmile.Then, a week later, she

calls. “Regina, do you mindcoming down to my officeagain?”My stomach sinks. My

heart pounds. I slide from

flats into the heels undermydeskandhailacab,directinghimtoLafayetteStreet.“I’vedecidedthatsincethis

book is to be about mymother, that it should beginand end with my mother.”Gerry’s tone and face arekind,butmatter-of-fact. “I’mno longer going to use thecontentyouprovided.”Inod,tryingtoswallowthe

lump of tears building up in

my throat. I knew that,eventually, this is how itwouldend.“Look,Gerry,I’mjustgratefulforthechancetohaveworkedwithyou.”“Well, not so fast,” she

says. “I still need your help.I’m writing a story about anItalian immigrant, but I’malsofindingthatIneedtotellthestoryagainstthebackdropof the Italian immigrationmovement and the

progression of Italians intoAmericansociety.Thatpiece,I don’t have. I need yourexperienceonimmigration.”“Gerry,see...theproblem

isthatIamonlyfamiliarwithcurrent immigration patterns—not stories from the past.Plus, even though, yes, I amItalian”—in my work Ialways need to finesse thisnext point—“I’m not fullyaware of my heritage. I’m

afraidIjustcan’tbeusefulatthispoint.”Her face grows firmer,

subtly frustrated at myresistance. “Yes, Regina,actuallyyoucan.It’sgoingtotake some research on yourpart,butI’mconfidentyou’reup to it. In fact, I’m soconfident thatIwouldliketopay you for your research,”shesays.“Oh, Gerry.” It comes out

halfhearted, almost a plea tobecutloose.WhatifIletherdown? “Please,” I tell her.“Your confidence in me andthe opportunity to work onsomethingsodeeplypersonaltoyouispaymentenough.”That night before I go

home,IstopattheNewYorkPublic Library. I scan themicroficheandtakeouteverybook I can find on EllisIslandand Italian immigrants

in New York, including TheMadonnaof115thStreetandBeyondtheMeltingPot.Mycontribution toGerry’s

memoir,FramingaLife,putssolid punctuation on this eraofmywork for thecity. I’vefar exceeded my ownexpectations...andit’stimeto move on. With Alankicking around the idea ofrunningformayorinthe2001election, I’m hesitant to stay

with him the four years untilthen.It’sadangertobeoutoflawschoolfiveyearswithoutever having practiced. Mylawdegreeismysinglemostworthy credential, and alsomy safety net—even if otheropportunitiesaren’tavailable,there are always jobs inlaw......butonlyifIstartusing

it.While eagerly waiting for

thereleaseofGerry’sbook,IbegintolookforajobwhereI can actually use my lawdegree and also make ahigher income. I know thismeans leaving New YorkCitypolitics. I’m thirtyyearsold,livingwithroommatesinmy third Manhattanapartment. I’ve spent mywhole life sharing cramped,compromised spaces thatdon’tfeellikemine;andmost

ofall,Ineedtobeginmakingenough money to stopdeferringpaymentonmylawschool loans. The publicsector could never pay meenough for rent, livingexpenses, and a hundred andfifty thousand dollars of lawschoolloandebt.When I can force myself

not to get wistful for aconnection with Rosie, evenmy family situation has

grown well adjusted andnormal. Camille and FranknowhaveFrankie,Maria,andMichael, and Cherie and hernewhusband have JohnathanandMatthew—allofwhomIcouldn’t love any more ifthey were my own. I spendmy holidays with them andthey join me in the city forChristmas or to watch theMacy’s Thanksgiving DayParade.Onweekends,Icarve

out time to see friends,movies, and Broadwayshows. Nicer days are spentin Central Park, running orRollerblading. Sundays aremyfavorite:Idrinkcoffeeinbed and read several papersfromcovertocover.OneSundaymorningclose

to the holidays in 1997, I’minbedreadingthepaperwhenthephonerings.Expectingtohear Camille’s voice on the

otherend,Ipickitup.“Hey.”“Regina, I have somemail

hereforyou.”“Addie?” She usually only

calls on holidays andbirthdays . . . but her voicesounds curious, or startled;somehow strained, trying toholdback.“Okay,well just send it to

me.It’sprobablyjunk.”“Idon’t think it’s junk . . .

infact,Ithinkyoumaywant

metoopenitnow.It’sfromaJuliaAccerbi—itlookslikeaChristmascard.”“Well, open it!” I tell her.

“Whatarewewaitingfor?”Ihear the envelope rip open,then Addie begins laughing.“Regina, you won’t believethis: Her Christmas card isfrom the Eastern ParalyzedVeteransAssociation.”“Areyoukidding?”Ilaugh.

The EPVA’s main source of

revenue was through sellinggreetingcards.“SheprobablypaidpartofmysalarywhileIwasthere!”“Now that’s irony,” Addie

says, giggling. “Okay, shewrites—areyouready?”“Yes!”“ ‘To Regina,’ then the

printedmessage reads, ‘Withtheoldwish that isevernew—Merry Christmas and aHappyNewYear,too!’”

“Anythingelse?”“Yes—my goodness. She

signed‘Love,AuntJulia.’”“AuntJulia?Addie. . .are

yousure?”“SureI’msure.I’llpopitin

the mail to you today, youcanlookatityourself.”Both when I was sixteen

and twenty-eight, I wrote toPaul at Julia and Frank’shouse, and neither timedid Iget a response from them,

onlyfromPaul.Sowhynow,after never having contactwith me, is she suddenlyshowing interest? Maybesomething happened to Paulthat she wants me to knowabout. Or maybe she justwants me to know the truth.Aunt Julia. How do IsuddenlyhaveanauntJulia?“Regina,”Addie interrupts,

“areyouthere?Whatareyougoingtodo?”

“I don’t know. Will youjust send it to me? I’ll callyou in a few weeks forChristmas.”Everything about the card

is both intriguing and odd,but there are two points thatstand out in particular: First,it was sent to Addie’s home—my old foster home—where I haven’t resided forclose to a decade. Anyonewith a shred of knowledge

about my life would knowthat.Second,howdidshenotmention her husband, mysupposed uncle? I dialCamille, the only otherperson on earth who couldknowwhatthismeanstome.“What do you think this is

about?”Iaskher.“I have no idea,” she says

thoughtfully. “Do you thinkPaul died? Or maybe thiswoman issickandshewants

to tell you something beforeshe gets worse. Whatever itmeans . . . tread carefully,sweetie. I know you’reexcited, but this could takeyou to a place that you’vealready moved past. Youcouldendupreallyhurting.”It’s too late: I’m totally

sucked in. “It’s not like Iwent and opened the door,Camille. She did. There’ssomething going on that I

need to know. How aboutthis:I’llwriteherback,ratherthancallher.”“Don’t mention Paul until

she does—let her bring himup. And don’t question whyshesignedthecard‘Aunt.’”“Butwhy?”“Because you may scare

her away. Just let her knowhow well you’re doing andgive her your new addressandphonenumber.”

“Oh, come on, Camille.Why don’t I just call her,instead?”“Because,Gi,when you’re

not getting truthful answers,you can be a little . . .abrasive.”“Ha!” She knows me too

well. “I like to think of it asassertive . . . but you’reright.”“Justwriteherfirst.Takeit

slow.”

“Okay.”By the time Julia’s card

arrives several days later,matchingAddie’s descriptionto the dotting of her i’s, I’vealready worked on severaldraftsofalettertoher,whichI’mplanning to fold inside aChristmas card. Althoughthere’s so much I want toknow, I keep my messagesimple: My work’s goingwell, I’ve adapted to be

happy, normal, andsuccessful.Iknowbetterthantoaskthebigquestions:whyshe signed it Aunt, why shesent it to my foster home,why her husband’s namewasn’t listed in the card, andwhyshe’swritingmenow.A month later, I receive a

letter back from Julia, thistime sent to my Manhattanaddress:

January1998

DearRegina,

Received your cardandwassogladtohearfrom you. I often thinkofyouandyoursisters.Regina, any time youwant to come to visitme,youknowyoucan.Iknew that you had toget my card because itdidnotcomeback.

I’msogladyoumadesomething of yourself.I’msohappy foryou. Idon’tknowifItoldyouthat your uncle Frankdied. It’s been prettyhard for me since he’sgone.Idowishyouandyoursisterswouldcometoseeme.Letmeknowahead of time and Iwouldmakeameal foryouall.

How are your sistersdoing?Didanyofthemget married? Regina,I’msohappy foryou. Iknow life was not easyfor any of you girls.There’s so much wecould talk about. Lotsof luck in your job. Ihear from Pauly everyso often. He’s still inFlorida.Please come see me.

I’vebeenhavingalittletrouble with my heart.When you reach acertain age everythingfalls apart. Good luckagainandpleaseget intouch with me. Takecare.

Love,AuntJulia

I reread the letter severaltimes, too experienced in

disappointment to hope I’mseeing it all correctly. Shereferred so casually to Paul;she explained why Frank’snamewasn’ton thecard . . .but how does she know mysisters?Whyisshesoplainlysigning the card Aunt Juliaand referring to her husbandasUncle Frank? The letter’spostmarkedfromLongIsland. . . why is she just nowgetting in touch with me

when, minus my three yearsatcollegeupstate,thefarthestI’ve ever lived from her isninety minutes away inManhattan?I callCamille and read the

letteroutloud.“So,comeon!Whatdoyouthink?”Shepauses,thencautiously

puts this forth: “Maybe westayed with her when wewerekids.”“Camille, I have zero

recollection of staying withthiswoman. Julia: Does thatsound even vaguely familiartoyou?”“Gi,maybethisistheplace

I remember that had thewillowtreeandallthekids.”“When?”“When you were really

little.”“Maybe Cookie and Paul

were just deadbeats, and soJuliaandFranktookusin—”

“Gi, it’s possible that thisAccerbi is no relation toPaul.”“But she mentioned Paul

. . . and why is she callingherselfmyaunt?”“We probably just called

them aunt and uncle, andthat’s how she’s signing herletters. Plenty of our fosterparents did that. That is theonlylogicalexplanation—Gi,please don’t get your hopes

up.”I pause. “She wrote her

numberinthecard.I’mgoingtocallherandgooutthere.”“Howwill you get there?”

Camilleasked.“I’llrentacarinManhattan

anddrive.”Ninetyminutesisnothing after waiting thirty-oneyears foranswers.“ThenI’llcometoseeyouafterwardand fill you in on whathappened.Unless,ofcourse,”

I prod gently, “you want tojoinme?”Camille sighs, considering

what to do for my sake, butalready I know her decision.She has no desire torevisit our past and hasworked hard to create a newexistence with Frank andtheir kids. Once in awhile Icangethertojoinmeonmymelancholy drives to SaintJames Elementary School,

CordwoodBeach,ortheSaintJamesGeneral Store. I try toremember how we frolickedat these places, how theyprovidedouronlyspacetobecarefree kids, but Camilleremembers what an oldersister would: the turbulence,the abuse, the starving, andthe heartache. We were ahaplessgroupofsavvystreet-smart kids trying to build ahomeoutofnothing;andjust

because I may get someanswers about my pastdoesn’tmakeCamilleexcitedto go there, too. “You go,”she finally says. “With threekids,Ihaveenoughgoingon.She wrote to you—go seeher. Then come hereafterward.”“Okay.Loveyou,sweetie.”“Love you, too, bug.” She

pauses.“Regina?”“Yeah?”

“Remember what I said:Pleasebecareful.”

12

AChildatAnyAge

Winter1998to2003

SITTING IN THE parked rentalcar,Iturnuptheheatandrest

back to absorb the details ofthe panorama in front ofme.The weeping willow in thefront yard is the first thingthatcatchesme;itshuge,sadbranchesswayingintheearlyFebruary chill. My eyeswander to the chain-linkedfence encasing the propertywhen a memory comesrushing at me: I’m tiny,standing on the inside of thefence, giggling madly as a

boymuchbiggerstretcheshisfingers through the metaltriangles and tries to ticklemybelly.Shifting my gaze to the

garden,IfixonastatueoftheVirgin Mary sheltered by aceramic clamshell. Vibrantflowers bursting in pink,orange, and yellow surroundher—a contrast to the brownlawn andbushes that are dryandbarren from thewinter. I

take in the breadth of thehouse; how ordinary it is:yellow shingles andweathered wooden shutterswith nailed-in plastic cutoutimagesofhorsesandbuggies.Inoticethecrackedcementofthe driveway; the neglectedtrees and bushes that areyearsoverduefortrimming.I exit the car andcross the

street slowly, ignoring mynervousness in order to open

the chain-linked gate andwalk the broken path to thefront door. This close to theflower beds, I see that theclusters of silky color areartificial bouquets stuckupright in the frosted soil. Istep toward the front door—protectedbyanexteriorstormdoor framed with PoliceYouth League and Jesus andMary decals. Jesus’ face isplastered on stickers

representing every phase ofhislife,andasImovetoopenthestormdoor,theinnerdoorsuddenly opens. A womanshrunken by age appears.She’s wearing a floweredknee-length day dress,slippers,andatightlysprayedwhite bouffant. “Regina?”sheasks.“Yes.Hello,Julia.”She opens the door and

moves tome on the porch. I

stay still while, with wideeyes, sheexaminesme—firstmyhair,thenmyfaceandmyclothes . . . then finally myhand as she takes it in hers.Suddenly, her small frameopens, her arms stretching inan invitation for me to walkinto themforahug. I freeze:it’s almost too much to takein. By the look on her face,it’llbedevastatingforherifIrefuse, so I fix my arms

around her in a political hug—a guarded non-embrace.Foramomentweremainthisway—Julia, breathingme in;and me, telling myself it’ssafetosoftentoheraffection.Finally, shemoves away butkeeps a gentle hold on thesleeve of my coat. “Go on,dear,” she says. “Please,makeyourselfathome.”Passing through the front

door to the living room, I

look in at the worn carpetedsteps leading to the secondfloor.It’sasifI’moutsideofmyself, watching amovie ofthis moment: I recognize allofthisplace.Iknowwhatliesup those stairs—threebedrooms and a yellowbathroom. My eyes movetoward the dining area withitsoval table and theplastic-coveredchairtheyusedtositme in, propped up on phone

books andpillows so I couldreach the table. If I walkthrough the dining room, I’llfind the kitchen, with ayellow and brown linoleumfloor,asmallstovetuckedinthe corner, and the largewindowabovethesinkwhereI used to bathe. I’ll also findthe door to the fencedbackyard whose knob wasalways too high for me toreach, and the interior stairs

that lead down to a carpetedbasement with two smallcouches that I rememberwell:That’swheremysistersandIusedtosleepatnight.Julia escorts me into the

kitchen: still yellow andbrown. “I baked you crumbcake,” she says. “Would youlike a slice? Some bakedziti?”“I’dlovesomecrumbcake,

please,” I tell her. This

moment is surreal; awkward,yetsofamiliar.“You look like him, you

know.”I pause for a beat. Would

she refer to my father soplainly?“You look like Pauly.

Whenyourgrandmotherheldyou, she told Pauly that youlooked just likehimwhenhewas a baby. I think you stilldo! Those Accerbi features.

He’s your father, you know.You said the crumb cake,right?”Is this really happening?

“When did Paul’s motherholdme?”“When you were here—

you and your sisters livedherewhenyouwerelittle.”Iknewit.ThisistheHappy

House,anditwasourhome.Ithinkofasking JuliawhetherI can use the phone to call

Camille, but I don’t evenwant to take a breath thatcould risk derailing ourconversation.“I’ve been thinking about

wheretobegin,soIguessI’llstart at the beginning: withthem dating.” She sets thecakeinfrontofmeandIedgeittotheside,moreenticedbythe revelations that arelingering than the cakeycinnamon scent rising from

the plate. “Cookie and Paulydated,” Julia says. “God, Iremembermyfirstimpressionof Cookie: her striking darkeyes, white skin like milk,and those two adorable littlegirls.Paulydatedalotofgirlsafter he and Carol divorced,but he wouldn’t bring themall around here,” she says.“Butsureenough,hebroughtyourmomafewtimes.Paulyhas another daughter, you

know, from his marriage toCarol. So you have anothersister, and two nieces—Ithink they still live inAlaska.”“Howdidweenduphere?”She stays silent amoment,

thenreachesoutformyhand.“Frank—that was myhusband,Paul’solderbrother.He died ten years ago. See,Frank already had three kidsfromhisfirstmarriagebuthis

wife died giving birth to thethird,Godresthersoul.Thenwehadthreemore,andFrankworked full-time to supportus all. But, you know, for afamily of eight, we neededmore income. So I watchedotherpeople’skidswhiletheyworked.Parentsbroughttheirchildren to me either byreferences or they’d find meinthePennysaverads.”I look at her hand, still on

mine. With carefully chosenwords, Julia explains shehadn’tseenCookieforoverayear and a half after she andPaul stopped dating. “So Iwas . . . surprised,we’ll say,whensherespondedtooneofmy ads asking for day carefor her three girls. The firstmorning, she shows up withlittle Cherie and Camille byher side, and she hands methissweetbabygirl—youhad

just turned a year old. Andshe says tome, ‘I’ll be backafterwork.’Soafterabouttendays of bringing you girls,Cookie appears on my stoop...andI’mjuststaringatthissuitcase she’s carrying. ‘Itjust has some of the girls’toys,’ she says. ‘It’ll keepthem occupied during theday.’ That Cookie, I’ll neverforget it:Shesmiledandtoldme,‘Haveagreatday!’Then

as she’s waltzing toward hercar, she calls over hershoulder, ‘Oh, by the way,ReginaisPauly’sbaby!’“Withyouinmyarms,I’m

standingon theporchcallingout to her: ‘Cookie, wait!’But she ignores me and justpulls out of the driveway. Iremember wondering howshe could be so detachedfrom these kids, you know?These three beautiful little

girls. After she left, I wentinside and opened thesuitcase,andwhatdidIfind?Not toys. Oh, no. I foundclothes...andcockroaches.”I look away. “She’s

disgusting.”“Islammedthecaseclosed

and put it out at the curb.Thenfor thenexteighthoursIfumed,readytolayintoherwhen she returned thatevening.Butevenbythetime

Frank got home, you girlswere still here. She neverreturned. I told Frank, ‘Youcall Pauly and yourmother,’and immediately they bothcame over. As soon as Paulwalked in, he saw your twosisters and said, ‘What thehell are these girls doinghere?’Thenhe looked to hismother,whowasholdingyouin her arms. She said, ‘Paul,thischildisyourbaby.’Pauly

turnstomeandsays,‘Getridofthesekids!’Thenheturnedaroundandleftthehouse.”So all theyears as a child,

whenIwonderedwhethermyfather existed, he knew Iexisted. “But you didn’t getridofus?”“No.WeignoredPaul—the

whole family did. Therewasa right thing to do, to takeresponsibilityforyou...andhe refused to do it. And, so,

soon the weeks turned intomonths and the monthsturned into a year, andnobody knew where Cookiewent. We finally turned toSuffolk County socialservices and asked them tojust give us food stamps tocover the costs of our food.And instead of helping us,whatdoessocialservicesdo?They demand we turn yougirls over to the county for

placementinanorphanageorfoster home.” She rubs hertemples, then places onehand,restingonherwrist,onthe table.“Frankresisted.Hetoldthemhewasnotgoingtoturn over his niece and hertwo sisters to completestrangerssoyouallcouldendup in an orphanage. All weneeded was food stamps, nomoney. The county refused.”She leans back in her chair,

resigned. “That’s when it allbecameabigmess.”Julia explains that she and

Frank hurried out of thesocial services’ office, andthe social workers askedwhen they were bringing usback. “Frank hollered overhis shoulder, ‘Never!’ Ithought he’d have a heartattack.Acoupleofdayslater,three social workers and thepolice showed up on our

doorstep and demanded weturnyouover.Frankclutchedyou so tight that it took twosocialworkerstotearonearmatatimeoffofyou,whilethethirdtookyoufromhim.“Your Uncle Frank never

saw you again after that,”Julia says. “He wasdevastated. He alwayswondered what happened toyou and your sisters, andfinallyhecametoacceptthat

hewasnevergoingtoseeyouagain. Then—out of the blue—you wrote him in 1983.When we got your letter, heopened it, thinking itwas forhim, then he realized youwanted him to hand it off toPauly. He called Pauly andread it tohim. ‘Yousonofabitch,’ Frank says, ‘you getoverhereandtalkabout this.I am your brother. Let mehelp you do the right thing.’

When Pauly arrived, Franktold him that he knew fullwell that you were hisdaughter, that he had to takeresponsibilityforyouandgetyououtofthatfosterhome.”“SowhatdidPauldo?”“Pauly?Notathing,honey.

Suchashame.MyFrank. . .adecadehe’sbeengoneandIjustcouldnotbringmyselftogo through his papers.Finally,beforelastChristmas,

I knew it was time to gothrough them. That’s when Ifound the envelope. Paulytook that letter”—mystomachflipsinexcitementtohear Paul had cared to keepthat much—“but your uncleFrankheldontotheenvelopeall this time. He refused tothrowitout.SowhenIfoundit, Iknewheheldon to it sothatonedayhecouldcontactyou . . . let you know the

truth.IguessyoucouldsayitwasforhimthatIreachedoutto you. Frank alwayswantedto right this somehow.” Shelooks at me softly, almostapologetically. “I wasworried. It’s been sixteenyears since you wrote thatletter. I didn’t know if I’dever be able to find you, butwhen the letter didn’t comeback, I knew youmust havegottenit.”

Juliagoesontotellmethatshe’ll answeranyquestions Ihaveunderonecondition:NooneintheAccerbifamilycanknow who I really am. “I’lltellthemyouandyoursistersweresomeof thekids Iusedtowatchback in the sixties.”She leans forward. “Regina,please understand: If theAccerbis ever find out whatI’vedonebygetting in touchwith you, they’ll disownme.

We’re a close family, youknow?Justpromisemeyou’llkeepallthistoyourself.”Inodandscootmyplateof

crumb cake toward me. “Ipromise.”Julia rises from the table

andwalksoutof thekitchen,holding on to the samebanister that I used to holdwhen I was a toddler.Whenthe bathroom door shutsbehind her, I wander around

thekitchen,thendriftintothediningroom,overtotheheadofthetablewhereIrememberperchingmyselftolookoutatthe backyard, where Iremember Julia throwingbirthday parties for her kidswith streamers, balloons, andpiñatas. On the dining roomtable is a personal phonebook with each entrycarefully handwritten. I lookcloser at the open page, A:

Accerbi.ThenscrolldownthepageuntilIseeit:Paul&Joan.Fromthesidepocketofmy

handbagIpulloutmyaddressbook and pen and writequickly,checkingtheirphonenumber closely. When thefloorcreaksbehindme,IturntoseeJuliastandingthere.“Iseeyoufoundwhatyoucamefor.”“I did.” I smile. “Thank

you.”“I’m not feeling well,”

Julia says. “For years Ihaven’t been well. My bodygets bloated and it getsdifficult to sit or even tobreathe. I need to rest,” shesays.“ButIwantyoutocomebackandseemesoon,please—bringyoursisterswithyou,Regina. I’d love to see themagain.”Imeetheratthefootofthe

stairs and kiss her cheek.“Thank you, Julia.” Just as Ipush out of the front door,two middle-aged womenopen the gate and headtoward the house. I shootJulia a look and she steps into introduce me. “Regina,these are my daughters:Yvonne and Darlene. Girls,youmight rememberRegina.She was one of the girls Iusedtowatch.Youremember

her sisters, Cherie andCamille?”“Me Too!” Yvonne says.

“WecalledCamille‘MeToo’because every time Cherieaskedforsomething,Camillewouldsay,‘Metoo’!”I smile, remembering the

old moniker my sisters usedto use. “Yes,” I tell them.“Camille was Me Too. It’snicetoseeyouboth.”I put the keys in the

ignition and let out a deepexhale, giving myself aminute to take it all in. Thiswas the Happy House. Itreally exists, more than oneofthelastpiecesofabroken,puzzled childhood: also thehome of my family. I haverelatives. It crossesmymindto drive around once moreand stare at the house, butinstead I head straight toCamille’s.

“Camille, I rememberedeverything,” I tell her. “Thelinoleum in the kitchen, theMary statue outside.” As Irelay the details to Camille,together we reach ourconclusion:Itwasafterbeingtaken from theHappyHousethatweendedupatthehomeof the Giannis’—the BubbleHouse.That’swhenwewerefinally taken to the GlueFactory and I encountered

Cookieforthefirsttime.ChristmasMama.“Sowhat are you going to

do with Paul’s information?Anything?”Camillesays.I’m busy collecting my

thoughts. This man—now,almostcertainly,myfather—rejected me twice, and Irefusetolethimdoitagain.Ineed time to develop arationalstrategy:EitherIwillinform him that I know that

he is my father, or compelhim to take a DNA test.Either route requiresextremely thoughtfulprocessing. “I’m at peace,surprisingly. For now, this isenough.”“Well,good,sweetie.”Besides, for Julia’s sake, I

needtotreadcautiously.On my drive back to

Manhattan, something elseclicks: the screen door with

the Jesus stickers and theMary statue on the frontlawn;theceramicJesusheadshanging on the wall not toofar from the ceramicplateofJesusandthebronzecrossofJesus.Somethingaboutallofthe Jesus images weighs onmeasItrytorecallwhytheyseem so familiar. Instead oftaking my car back to therentalagency,Idrivestraightto my apartment, find a

parking spot, and run up thefive flights tomy apartment.“Camille,” I huff into thephone in excitement, “Juliahad images of Jesus all overher house, from before youeven open the front door.WhendidIbegintocarrytheBaby Jesus figurineseverywhere?”“When you were a

toddler,” she says, laughing.“Now we know where they

camefrom.”A few weeks later, in late

February 1998, Camillereceives a phone call fromNorman in Idaho. “Mom’sbeendiagnosedwithcancer,”hetellsher.“Theytoldher itcan’tbecured.”I have hope that in

Cookie’s suffering sheaccepts responsibility for allthe pain she inflicted on usand will finally ask

forgiveness rather than pointfingers. Still, I know there’snowayIcanactuallyforgiveher...notforwhatshedidtome, but for what she did toRosie.

CHERIEAND CAMILLE pay forCookie to fly in from Idaho,hoping finally this womanwill try and redeem herselfbeforeherdeath.“Goodluck.I’m not sticking around for

this,” I tell Camille, optinginstead to join the Irish guyI’ve been dating and hisfamily for the holidays inDublin.On January 1, 1999, I call

Camille’shousetowishheraHappy New Year. Inresponse, she tells me thatCookie refuses toacknowledgeanywrongdoingduring our childhoods.“Nothing’s changed, Regina,

but we knew better than tohold our breaths for anapology. You’ll be back inNew York the day beforeCookie’s scheduled to goback to Idaho. Don’t youthink saying good-bye couldgiveyousomeclosure?”ApparentlyCookietoldmy

sisters that everything webelievehappenedtouswasinourimaginations.“Ididafinejob raising you girls!” she

said. “Look how well youturnedout.”Disregardingherdenialand

my loathingofher, I indulgeCamillebyseeingourmotheronelasttime.Mysiblingsandtheir kids crowd around meand my sister’s dining roomtableas Isharepictures frommyIrelandtrip.Cookiesitsinthe living room, watchingtelevisionbyherself.“Gi,” Camille says, “it’s

getting late. Should Cherieand I get you to the railstation?”“Sure.” I close my album

slowly and kiss each of thekidsgood-bye.AfterIputonmycoat,IturnandwhispertoCamille: “Just a minute.” Inthe living room, I leave awide space between myselfand the recliner whereCookie’s sitting, knowingthat distance from her is the

only thing that has kept meboth physically andemotionally safe. Wearing ablue flannel shirt, blackstretchpants,andascowl,sheslowly meets my eyes. TheTV’sreflectionflashesoffthelenses of her huge, shadedeyeglasses.“Good-bye,”Itellher. It comes out cold andflat.Whenshe respondswithsilence, I nod.This is all I’llget. Cherie opens the front

door, and Camille and I exitwithher.Whenthethreeofusgetto

thetrainstation,weallbreakdown in tears. It’s a cry ofangerforourmother’sfailureto take responsibility, for theunfairness of having had nosay in choosingwhobroughtusintothisworld...andforour relief knowing that soonshe’llbegone,forgood.

IN THE SPRING of 1999, IreceiveacallfromCamilleatwork. “Gi, I have somewildnews for you. It’s somethingthat you’d think could neverhappentoFrankandme.”“You...wonthelottery?”“No! Think of the thing

that wasn’t supposed tohappen.”“You’repregnant?”“Yes! We’re having

another baby!” I feel her

beaming on the other end ofthe phone. In 1996, Frankwas diagnosed with a cancerthat the doctors said wouldaffecttheirabilitytohaveanymorechildren.Camillestayedwith me in Manhattan whileher mother-in-law took thekids so that Frank couldreceive treatments at Sloan-Kettering.“But after the cancer, the

doctors told you it wouldn’t

be possible to have morebabies.”“Well, God thought

differently,” Camille says.“We’re expecting BabyNumberFourinOctober.”As Camille’s belly

blossoms, so does myrelationship with Julia. Ireceive handwritten notesfromheratleastmonthly,andanytime I travel fromManhattan to Long Island, I

make a point to see her.We’re both discreet inkeepingourrelationshipfromher daughters and herextended family, but Julia’sgenuineinterestinmylifehasprompted her to becomereacquainted with Camille.On holidays and birthdays,shesends lettersandcards tobothherandCherie.In October 1999, Camille

delivers Danielle Grace. The

birthofababygirl isagoodexcuse for all of us tocelebrate,madeeven sweeterthanks to the fact that of theseven children in the family,five are boys: Frankie andMichael,whobelongtoFrankand Camille; and Cherie’sthree sons, Anthony,Matthew, and Johnathan.Finally, Camille’s daughter,Maria,willhaveanotherlittlegirltogrowupwith.

With every new life thatenters our family, more andmore joy abounds. Silently,there’s a satisfaction insideme thatCookie can never bepart of it: We don’t knowhow long she has, but it’sclearshewillnotoutlive thisdecade. In November, amonthafterDanielle’sbirth,Ifind myself with anirresistible urge to writeCookiealengthyletter.Don’t

ever deceive yourself intobelieving that you should becredited for ourachievements, I tell her.Despite the odds and yourattempted influences, we’veprevailed. Many women cangive birth, but that doesn’tmake them a mom. To us,you’rejustCookie.Norm reports back that he

begantoreadthelettertoherbutshe toldhimtostopafter

the first paragraph. He alsoinformsusshe’smadealast-minute switch from beingMormon to American Indianbecauseshebelievesitwillbebetterforherafterdeath.Thanksgiving passes and

Norman shares reports ofCookie’simminentdemise.“Ihave only one wish,” I tellCamille. “I pray shewill notpassonDecembersixteenth.”Camille looks at me

curiously.“December sixteenth is

Julia’sbirthday.”By now, Julia and I have

grown extremely close and Idon’twantherspecialdayofthe year to be spoiled orovershadowed by mymother’s death. But ofcourse, in the early morninghours of December 16,shortlyafteroneA.M.inIdahoand four A.M. in New York,

myphonerings.“She’sgone,”Camille tells

me.We sit on the phone in

silence, letting it all sink in.The chapter of our lives thatwe’vewaitedsolongtocloseisnowover.I take the day off from

work and Camille picks meupattherailstation.Withoutdiscussingourplan,shepullsontothehighwayandweboth

know where we’re headed.We drive out to Saint JamesGeneral Store—past Wicksfarmstand,whereweusedtostealapples,andKingKullen,where we used to sneak ourmealsoutofthestorebeneathourclothes.WedrivepasttheGlueFactoryapartment,nowa Sal’s Auto Mechanics,where we spent the longesttime consecutively as afamily. We head to Saint

James Elementary School,where we wander the backgrounds . . . and we finallyendupatCordwoodBeach—theplaceweused toplayforhours, writing our names inthe sand, hunting the rocksforclams,andpickingfistfulsof onion grass for ourdinners.Arminarm,mysisterandI

walk the beach, sayingnothing. Under the gray

Decembersky,welookoutatthe Long Island Sound towhere the floatingdockoncewas anchored; to the brokenstone house that we used toclimbon.“She did one thing right,”

Camillesays.“What?”“Shegaveuseachother.”The lives Cookie gave us

were only etched in sand;able tobe erased andwritten

alloveragain...better,withmeaning.We’veallmadeourstories into what we wantedforourselves.Standing side by side on

the cold beach, there’s justone thought keeping Camilleand me from feeling totalcompletion: Rosie. Shedoesn’twantustobeapartofherlifeortoknowherfamily.Rosiegotmarriedandgave

birthtoason,butbythetime

we knew about any of it, allthe momentous events hadpassed. Occasionally, shemails Camille and mephotographs, in all of whichshe’s clearly a loving, dotingmother . . . but on the rareoccasion the photos areaccompanied by a letter, thecommunication is all verymatter-of-fact.Everyone hereisfine,shesays.Hopeyou’regreat. She wants us to be

awarethatshe’sadjustedwellas an adult, but she doesn’twantustobepresentforit.In December 1999, a

colleague tells me he’sventuring into Times Squareto ring in the newmillennium. “You used towork for theCity, right?” heasks. “What’ll be the bestwaytonavigatethestreets?”I call someone whom I

heard now works as the

special assistant to the NYCpolice commissioner: ToddCiaravino, the handsome,stoicaidetoGiulianiwhomIknew from my years at thecomptroller’s office. Aftersharing the layout of thesecurity route, Toddremembers my burgeoninggolf hobby and says itmightbe nice to hit the drivingrange at Chelsea Piers whentheweatherwarmsupalittle.

Todd is sensitive to myguardedness—unlike otherguys I’ve been attracted to,he’s consistent, mild-mannered,andkind...notatall overbearing or arrogant.Instead of what so manyformer partners and peoplefrommy childhood promised—You can trust me—Toddshows me he deserves mytrust. He looks out for me,and coming from the same

field, he doesn’t give me ahardtimeabouthowbusymywork keeps me. By latespring, we’ve enteredpotentially-serious-romanceterritory when Todd beginstraveling with the Bush-Cheney presidentialcampaign. At the same time,I’m transitioning from myposition onWall Street backto working with the publicsector and, as a hobby, I

begintoappearonFoxNews,supporting the Democraticpresidential ticket. ByAugust, our courtship,pleasant and passionate as itis, ends . . . not due to ourdiffering views on politics,but because of howcommittedwebotharetoourcareers.It’s another intense

undertaking that distracts mefrommysplitfromTodd:It’s

now two and a half yearssince I first visited Julia inFebruary1998, and themoreIseepicturesofPaulandhisbrothers, themore convincedIam thathe ismybiologicalfather. For years I’ve beenemotionallyprepared to learnthetruth,butnowI’malsoina financialposition topursuepaternity litigation if hechooses not to amicablyresolvemyrequestforDNA.

I SPEND EARLY Augustresearching Paul’s addressonline to find that he nowlives in theU.S.border townof Blaine in WashingtonState. In addition todeterminingwherehe lives, Ialso study Washington’spaternitystatutesandmapoutwhatmynextstepswillbeifhe rejects my request for apaternity test. I advise Julia

thatIplantocontactPaul.“Given what I’ve done by

forming a relationship withyou,” Julia says, “please letmemaketheconnection.”When a couple weeks go

by, I estimate he’s ignoringme . . . or researchingpotential legal steps. In lateAugustIreceiveaphonecall.“You should know that youare causing my wife andmedeep anxiety,” he says. “I’m

experiencing heart problems,and your so-called curiositycould be making it worse.”This familiar response fromhimconfirmstome:yes,he’sgot a lawyer. The firstargument the defense wouldmake in a case like this is toadvise the opposition at theoutset that they’re inflictingemotionaldistress.“Whatisityouwant?”I respond that my

intentionsarepure,thatIonlywant to know if he’s myfather. “I don’t want anysupport,”Iassurehim.Then he reveals what he’s

really worried about. “If Iadmit that I’myour father, itwill be a long and painfulprocess forus all if theStateofNewYork tries to suemeforbackchildsupport.”“Paul, you won’t have to

payNewYorkStatebackthe

money it cost them to keepme in foster care,” I explainflatly. “Even if New Yorkdoes that now, they certainlydidn’t have such a law inplace when I was in fostercare as a child. Also, just toappease any concern youhave about why I’mcontacting you: I do fine onmy own. I don’t need anymoney.Ijustwanttoknowifyou’remyfather.”Ialsowant

himtoknowthatIknowthathe’s my father—to face thefact that he left me to bebrutalized as a child simplybecause I’d come from him.Of course, as a teenager, I’dhoped to track down myfathersothatIcouldactuallyhavea relationshipwithhim,and inmy twenties, Iwantedto show him how well I’dturnedout...butnow,Ijustwanthimtoacknowledgehis

failuretotakeresponsibility.“I have to go, Regina,” he

says. “Now’s not a goodtime.”The next day he calls me

twice at work, but I’m withclients both times. Then hecalls a third time, and againI’m unavailable. He leavesmehis faxbut not his phonenumber, so Ihavenoway tocall him back and actuallycarry on a conversation.

WhenIwant tospeaktohimIhave to faxhimorwait forhim to call me, so mycorrespondence is in writingbut his is all verbal . . .another strategic move byhim and his lawyer to keeptheupperhand.Then I finally get a fax

back,notfromhim,butfroma Wayne Teller, Paul’slawyer. I fight to steady thepaperinmyshakinghandsas

I read that Paul no longerwantsme to contact himandhis decision is final. Then toensure that I never contacthimagain,hisattorneyendedtheletterbystatingifIfailtocomply with his request andcontactPaul again that Iwillbe admonished for violatingRule 4.2 of the Rules ofProfessionalConduct.Camille is angrier than I

am.“WhatonearthdoesRule

4.2evenmean?”“Rule 4.2 restricts an

attorneyfromevercontactingsomeone who is representedby counsel. Even though Icould be his daughter, I’malso an attorney. He’sthreatening to bring chargesof professional misconductagainst me if I ever directlycontacthimagain.”“So he’s used your

achievement against you,”

shesays.“Howunfair,Gi.Nogoodwould have come frommeeting him anyway.” Webothknowshe’sjusttryingtocomfort me. “What are yougoingtodonow?”“I have to try to find a

qualified paternity lawyer inthe State of Washingtonwho’swillingtotakemycase. . .and itwon’tbeeasy.Anadult has never successfullysued another adult for

paternity before, only minorchildren have been permittedto sue forDNA.Sowhoevertakesmy casemust not onlybe qualified to fight thisbattle, but also has to reallybelieveinmycase.”“I believe in your case,”

Camillesays.The simplicity of her

statement arrests me. In thismoment, it’s clear:My sisteris the only person who has

always stood by me, nomatter how extreme thescenario.“Youdo?”“Yes.You,me,Cherie . . .

all we’ve ever wanted is toknow who we are. Who wecamefrom.AtleastVitoandNorman stuck around longenoughtoseetheirkidsborn,butwethreehaveneverevenseenpicturesofourfathers.Iknow you and I came fromtwodifferentmen,butIwant

to know the truth for you asmuch as you do. If Cookiecouldn’t help us figure outwhere we fit in this world,thenwe have to find out forourselves.”She’sputitperfectly.From

where I get my strength towhere I get my eyes, all Iwant is to know. Butsearching for the rightattorney and convincing himor her to take my case will

take some time. In themeantime,Paulwillthinkthatthis letter has ended ourconnection forever . . . butI’mnotfinished.I start by contacting

members of the AmericanAcademy of MatrimonialLawyers in Washington. Ileavemessagesfordozensofthem, but only receive a callback from the secretary ofone. Her message is clear:

Never before in WashingtonState has an adult suedsomeone they thought to betheir father for paternity.“However, there is onelawyer that may consider acase like this. His name isRalph Moldauer. He used torepresent kids suing theirfathers for paternity, but henowrepresentsaprofessionalsports team on the defenseside.”

I laugh. “A professionalsportsteam?”“Well, sure,” she says.

“Every professional sportsteamusually has at least onepaternity lawyer on speeddial.” Ichuckleat theperfectsensethismakes.“LetmegetyouRalph’snumber.”By early January 2001,

Ralphagreestotakemycase,notbecauseheneedsanotherclient, but because he feels

theproofIhaveregardingtheprobability of Paul beingmyfather is so strong and mystory so unique that I have ashot at success . . . althoughoverandoverhecautionsmethat thishasneverbeendonebefore in any of the fiftystates. “I’m willing torepresent you,” Ralph says,“but for your sake, let’s notget our hopes up.” Iunderstand Ralph’s need to

managemy expectations, butit’s increasinglyclearhe’sasinvestedinthiscaseasIam.Ialso sense that there are twopossible reasons he’s sointent tobringit to thecourt:He thinksmy case would bean opportunity to createprecedent for other adultchildren, or out of humanityhewants to go afterPaul forwhat he failed to do when Iwasachild.

InlateJanuary2001,Ralphwrites Paul’s lawyer,requesting that we avoidlitigation and that Paulmerely takes a DNA test. Inresponse, Paul’s lawyer saysthat both Mr. and Mrs.Accerbi find my attempts tocontact Paul quite upsettingphysically and emotionallyand that I have no legalgroundstobringsuit;andifIdo, that I can expect an

“aggressive counterclaim forabuse of action, invasion ofprivacy, and intentionalinfliction of emotionaldistress.” As I’ve presumedall along, from that firstphone call back in August,Paul’s been planning tocountersue me if I bring aclaim for paternity—this iswhy he keeps playing the“physical and emotionalstress”card.

“It’sameaslyswabtest!”ItellRalph. “Just a second.” Irise from my desk to closemy office door so as not todisturbmycoworkers.Takingthe phone again I tell him:“There’s nothing invasive orphysically stressful aboutthis!”“Regina, I spoke to his

counsel,” Ralph advises me.“Paulisreadytofighthardifyou proceed with a paternity

claim. Our problem is thatthis is a case of firstimpression. You haveabsolutely no other case inthe U.S. to rely upon, so ifyousuehimforDNA,hewillargue that you are using thecourts to harass him. Trustme,thisisexactlyhowitwillgo.Doyoufollow?”“Yes.Keepgoing.”“The good news is, it’s

likely his counterargument

will be dismissed since youhave proof that you tried toresolve this outside of thecourts.Ican’tpromisethathewon’t be successful anddemand that you pay hisattorney fees and additionaldamages for intentionalinfliction of emotionaldistress.Andconsider,ontopof this you only haveaffidavits of your sisters andfoster mother that reiterate

what your deceased motherhas told you. IfCookiewerestill alive, at least she couldprovide an affidavit claimingthathewasthefather...butshe’sdead.”Dammit. I never thought

I’d have any reason to wishthat my mother were stillhere.“So your failure to obtain

an affidavit from someonewhocanconfidentlystatethat

your parents had a sexualrelationship around the timeyou were conceived isproblematic.”Hegoesontoexplainwhat

I already know: Paternitytests are DNA tests. Thetaking of someone’s DNA,regardless if it’s by a bloodtest or a simplemouth swab,is protected by the FourthAmendment’s protectionsagainst unreasonable search

and seizure and the right toprivacy . . . However, anexception to the U.S.Constitution’s FourthAmendment is made if thereis a compelling governmentinterest for the courts to ruleotherwise. The courts willmake exceptions if a crimehasbeencommittedorachildis in needof support, so thatif there isafather,he’s tobeheldresponsible for thecosts

ofraisingthatchild.“Regina,you’reanadultin

yourthirtiesandit’sgoingtobehardforustodemonstratethat getting Paul’s DNA isnecessary to your well-being,” Ralph says. “But theone argumentwe have goingforus is that theWashingtonState paternity law does notdefinewhatachildis.”“Ralph—that’sbrilliant.”“Well, we’ll see. But it

seems to me that whetheryou’refiveorthirty-five,youare still someone’s child. Itappears that the legislatureleftthedooropenforanadultchild to bring a paternitysuit.” He pauses, then says,“The only piece that’smissing is an affidavit fromsomeone alleging that therewas a relationship betweenyourmotherandPaulAccerbiat the time of your

conception.Regina, if there’sanywayyoucansecure that,we’llbeonbetterfooting.”For the past six months,

sincePaulandIfirstspokeinAugust, Julia finally leteveryone know who Iactually am. Since I’ve metwith variousmembers of thefamily over the past threeyears, I sense that they viewme as a self-sufficient,independent, decent young

womanwho simplywants toknowthetruthaboutwhosheis. When they invited me totheir most recent familyholiday dinner, the Accerbisseemed to completelyunderstand that I’m notseeking financial support ofanykind.Andas I told themabout my past contact withPaul, they understood that Itried to avoid litigation andmaking my plea part of the

publicrecord.Now that my pursuit has

taken on a life of its own, Idrive to Long Island on aSundayafternoontomakemyrequest: “Julia, my lawyersays we need to submit anaffidavit written by someonewho was witness to Paul’srelationship with Cookie. Isthat going to stir conflictbetween you and theAccerbis?”

She wrings her handsgentlyinher lap.“Nohoney,in fact, I think they’ll besupportive.Regina?”“Yes?”“You know you’re

welcome to call me AuntJulia...don’tyou?”“Whenwe’vefinallygotten

the truth, I promise that youwill be my aunt Julia. Rightnow I don’t want to doanything that could jinx this

case.”“Okay, honey,” she says.

“That’s fair enough.” Shesendsmehomewithaweek’sworth of home-cookeddinners in tightly sealedTupperware and stacked in agrocerybag.Thenextday, I callRalph.

“I’m planning to fly out toSeattle and meet you,” I tellhim. “Now that we’ve gotJulia on board, this case is

looking more promising. It’soutcome will impact my lifeforever so I need for you tobe able to put a face on theplaintiffyou’rerepresenting.”It’s February 28, 2001,

when I land at the Seattleairport. I take my carry-onluggage and head straight tothe front of the airport. OnmywaytothetaxilineIstopto view amap of the city toget a sense of the direction

thetaxidrivershouldtake...andsuddenly,asI’mstudyingtheroute,Ifeelunsteady.Mybodysways,andItrytograsponto thenearestcolumn—amI so overwhelmed that I’mabout to pass out? But as Ilunge for support, I see thewhole building shaking andpeople running outside withtheir luggage. “Bomb!Bomb!” they cry, and I jointhe crowd that’s running out

thedoor.I stand there,watching the

airport’s security staff climbup poles to see the damagearoundtheairport.“Itwasanearthquake,” one announces,and thechaosquietsdowntoamurmur.Two hours later I finally

climbinacabandheadtothecity of Seattle. We ride insilence past remnants of theearthquake,clockinginat6.8

on the Richter scale. Thedriver turns up the radio,where a reporter states thiswasavictimlessquake.“Thecity built its infrastructure towithstand an earthquake ofthismagnitude,”wehear,andwithasenseofrelief,Ireflectontheirony:it’sashakydayall around. There will beaftershocks. And I trust thatno matter how it works out,when it’s over I’ll still be

standing.I’mjustcontentthatI’vegottenthisfar.The next morning Ralph

andhisassistantsgreetmeintheir boardroom to discussourlegalstrategy.“Regina, there is more at

risk in bringing your casethan justhow itwill turnoutfor you,” Ralph says. “Sincethis will be a precedent inWashington State and a caseof first impression for other

states, if thecourtsdeterminethat a child is not a child atanyage,butachildisanyoneunderageeighteen,youhaveclosed thedoor foranyotheradult children to bring asuccessfulpaternitysuit.”I rest my elbows on the

table and take a moment tothink. “I understand, Ralph.But this law has not beentested before because theburden of proof is high. But

with all of our affidavits—Julia’s, my sisters’, my lastfoster mother’s, and mine—combined with the fact thatPaul never denied having asexual relationship with mymother,wearewellpreparedto prove that I am his childand compel a DNA test.”While we both arecomfortable with the facts, Iunderstand that he mayactually have an additional

concern; his credibility as ahighly reputable paternitylawyer will be tested. “I’mconfident that youwould notbe taking my case if youdidn’t think that we had afighting chance to convincethe court that I am his child.A child should be a child atany age when it comes toknowingwhotheirfatheris.”Ralphcallsme.“Yourcase

was filed with a judge in

WhatcomCountywherePaulresides. The court hearing isscheduledforearlysummer.”Once I receive the briefingpapersthatPaulfiledwiththecourt in June, I’m eager toread what his defense to theaction will be. With hispleadings in hand, I quicklyskipthroughthesectiontitled“Background,” which isusually the defendant’s viewof the facts. I go straight to

Paul’sdefense.Through his attorney, Paul

argues that since I am anadult, my asking for a DNAtest is a violation of hisconstitutionalrighttoprivacyand freedom againstunreasonable search andseizure.He goes on to arguethat, as a result, I shouldreimburse him for his courtcosts and attorney fees foreven bringing this case

against him.His argument isexactlywhatIexpected.Carefully I begin to read

thepleadingwordforword:

The petitioner is a 34year old female . . .licensed attorney . . .who resides andpractices in New York...Therespondentisa66 year old retireeresiding in Whatcom

County,Washington, ismarried and resideswith his wife of 34years . . . suffered aheartattackin1986...andisunderthecareofacardiologist...

Ichuckleattheinclusionofhis heart ailments. He’sprepared to file acounterclaim against me forintentional infliction of

emotional distress bybringing this suit. When wefirst made contact, Ralphexplained that Paul’semphasizing how this casecouldaffecthishealthwouldflop because the DNA istakenwithasimpleswabtest—nothing invasive orextraordinarily stressinducing.ThenIreadthefirstthree lines again, then again,andagain . . . I’mthirty-four

years old, and he’s beenmarriedforthirty-fouryears.He married his wife while

mymotherwaspregnantwithme.That’sit.While I was an infant,

Cookie left me with Frankand Julia so Paul would beforced to face what he did.That was Cookie’s revenge;her twistedwayof informinghim that they’d parented a

childtogether.The brutal episodes I

suffered as a child at thehands of an emotionallyunstablewomanwere causedby the heartbreak my fatherputherthrough.On June 7,Ralph callsme

with news. “The WhatcomCounty Court judge ruled inyour favor and ordered thatPaul submit to a paternityDNAtest.”

Not surprisingly, four dayslaterPaulappeals.The oral argument before

the Whatcom CountySuperior Court judge isscheduledforAugust3,2001.At this point I cannot affordto fly out to Seattle for thehearing as I’m saving myfundsforthestarterco-opI’mabout to purchase inManhattan. I alsoneed to setaside more money for

additional litigation costs:Whoever loses this appealwill seek toget it overturnedonahighercourtlevel.Ralph calls me after the

hearingand tellsmehe’snotveryoptimisticthatthisjudgewill rule in our favor. “Thejudge implied thathedoesn’twant to rule on whether achildisaminororachildisachild at any age in cases ofpaternity,” Ralph says. “He

understandsthatsucharulingwould have substantial legalreverberations.Hesaidthisissomethingbetterdecidedbyahigher court.” A few weekslater the judge dismisses mycase.Ihavetwomoreoptions:an

appeal to the Court ofAppeals of the State ofWashington; then, ifwe losethere, onto the WashingtonState Supreme Court. Ralph

warns me about proceedingand the impact thiswillhaveonothers...andofcourseonmy bank account. “But,Regina,I’vegottotellyou,Ihaveconfidenceinyourfacts.We still have a chance here,butitwilltakeayearuntilthehearing is scheduled and thecourtissuesadetermination.”“Good,”I tellhim.“Iwant

to appeal.” I just need toknow.

I remember a verse I oncespotted that Julia hadhighlighted in herBible:Thetruth will set you free. I’venever been able to forgetthose words. Even when ithurts, it’s more empoweringtoknowthetruththantostayblind to it. Once I know thetruth—and once Paul knowsthe truth—I’ll be finished. Inmy life I’ve found that youcan’t let something go until

it’s reallyoverand it’sneverreallyoveruntilyoulearnthetruth.Themorning of September

11, 2001, I’m serving as anelection monitor in Queensfor my old boss, who’scampaigningformayor,whenthepollworkersalertmethata plane has crashed into oneof the towers of the WorldTradeCenter.A fewminuteslater,thesecondtowerishit.

Thatafternoon,withallthebridges and tunnels that leadintoManhattanclosed,Ican’treturn home. I drive easttoward Camille’s, where Iwatch news coverage of theattackandbegintogrieveforthose who perished and theimpact all this will have onourcountry.Afewdayslater,Ralph calls from Seattle. “Ijust wanted to hear thatyou’re safe,” he says. “I’ve

beentryingtogetthroughfordays.”I wait for him to mention

that maybe Paul’s lawyerreached out to him to checkon me. “No word fromWayneTeller?”Ralph lets me down easy.

“No.”I nod, as though he can

hearmydeflationthroughthephone. Paul Accerbi hasn’teven checked to make sure

I’m still alive. I take a deepbreath, reminding myself ofmy strength: I’m doing thisfor me—to know for certainthathe’smyfather.In the Spring of 2002, in

our written appeal, Ralphargues that the trial courterredindismissingmyactionandthatthestatuteasadoptedby the State of Washingtonback in the mid–1970s doesnot restrict paternity suits to

minorchildrenonly.Then, of course, Paul

reiterates his defense: Heshould be awarded FourthAmendment protections offreedom from unreasonablesearch and seizure. The oralargument before the three-judgepanelwasheld inMay2002, but Ralphwarnsme itcould be another six monthsbefore the court makes itsdecision.

In lateOctober I receive afaxfromRalph.It’sthecoverpageofthedecisionfromtheWashington State Court ofAppeals in Seattle. On thecover sheet are two keywords:ReversedandRemanded.Holdingmybreath,Iflipto

the next page where thedecision is written by JudgeGrosse, with the two otherjudges,ApplewickandBaker,

concurring, making thedecisionunanimous:

UndertheUniformParentageActestablishingafather-childrelationshipdoesnotdependontheminorityofthechild.Achildhasaconstitutionallyprotectedinterestinanaccuratedetermination

ofpaternity.Thestatuteand[this]casepreservetherightofchildofanyage,whoallegessufficientunderlyingfacts,toseekadeterminationoftheexistenceofapaternalrelationship....Theinclusionofthephrase“atanytime”showstheintentoftheLegislature.Inadopting

theUniformParentageAct,theLegislaturebalancedtheinterestofthechildagainstthoseofaputativeparent.WhileAccerbi’srighttoprivacyisaninterestaffectedbyanordercompellingDNAorbloodtest,thatrightisnotabsolute.TheStatemayreasonablyregulatethisrightifit

hasacompellinginterest.TheprivacyinvasionofaDNAtestisminor.EvenifitisdeterminedthatAccerbiisthefatherofCalcaterra,thereareadmittedlynochildsupportissues,andhecandisinheritCalcaterraifhesochooses.Accerbi’spsychologicalwell-

beingdoesnotoutweightheinterestsofachild.

I’m thrilled it was aunanimous decision, but Ireserveanyurgetocelebrate.The fact is, this isn’t over. IknowPaul’snextmove.Six days later, his attorney

confirmsmypredictionwhenhe files his appeal to theSupremeCourtoftheStateof

Washington. Ralph tells mehis counsel was merelyrepeating their earlierarguments. He also tells methat the Supreme Courtrulings in Washington allowthe prevailing party torecovercourtcosts.“Ralph, youmean if Iwin

in the state Supreme Court,Paul will have to reimburseme the nine thousand dollarsit cost me to bring this case

just so he could take atwenty-five-dollar DNAtest?”“Not quite,” he says. “The

court cost is the actual filingcost that accompanied yourappeal. In this instance, itwouldjustbe$414.71.Ifyoulose, you have to pay that toPaul; and if he loses, he hastopaythattoyou.”Ilaugh.Seven months after Paul’s

appeal in June 2003, theWashington State SupremeCourtrulesinmyfavor.Theykeep the appellate courtdecision in tact thatcompelledhimtotakeaDNAtest and issue an order thatPaul reimburse me for$414.71. Again, I don’tcelebrate—he could stillappeal to the Federal courts. . .andhestillneedstotaketheDNAtest.

He chooses not to appeal.Through July and August2003, Paul resists paying the$414.71 as ordered by thecourt.Iagreetocompromise:Rather than seek anotherjudgmentagainsthim,Iagreethat if the DNA test comesback negative he won’t havetopayme...butifitcomesback positive, I expect acheck for the full amount.Through his attorney, he

complains that although Iwon the court case, heshouldn’tbeforcedtopaythetwenty-five-dollar DNA testfee. “Regina is the oneseekingPaul’sDNA,”WayneTeller emphasizes. So inanother effort to move theDNAtestingforward,Iagreetohisrequest.A few weeks later, in

September 2003, I receive aletter from Genelex, the lab

that compared our DNA. Irace up tomy apartment andrip open the envelope. Theletterreads:

Paul Accerbi is notexcluded as thebiological father ofRegina M. Calcaterra.99.64% probability ofpaternity.

Icollapseintoachairatmykitchen table and cry—

jubilant,elatedtears.PaulAccerbiismyfather.MyfatherisPaulAccerbi.I lived through three anda

halfdecadesofanxietyabouttheabuseIreceivedfrommymother,whyshehurtmeoverand over and over . . . whyshe tried tobreakme.NowIfinally know: It really isbecause I was Paul’sdaughter.In this instant the parts of

me she damaged can finallybegin tohealwith this singleword of certainty about mylife.PaulAccerbiknows thatIamhischild,andheknowsIknow that he abandonedme.Hecanneverdenythatagain.It’sover.It’sover.BeforeIcallRalph,there’s

amorepressingphonecalltomake. I dial the HappyHouse.

“AuntJulia?”I hear her voice tremble.

“Yes?”“I just got the test results.

Paul is my father . . . and,more important, you are myaunt.”When Iarriveatherhouse

to celebrate that night, thephone rings. “It’s Paul’sbrother, Sonny,” Julia says.“Hewantstotalktoyou.”I cradle the phone against

my ear. “Regina, it’s youruncle!” he says. “When canyoucomevisitsoIcansharethe family’s heritage withyou?” The inflections in hisvoicesoundjustlikePaul’s.Imake plans to drive toSonny’sjusttenminutesfromJulia’s house when I leavethatevening.“What now?” Julia asks

me.“WillyougoseePauly?”“Rightnow,no.We’reboth

tooheatedfromthe litigationbattle to want to see eachother. He still has to sign adocument so the court canofficially record thathe’smyfather.Then Icanamendmybirth certificate.” I’m finallygoing to put Paul Accerbi’sname in the box that’s beenemptymyentirelife.ChristmasweekIreceivea

checkfromPaul’slawyer—$389.71

$414.71, minus the $25costfortheDNAtest.

13

BeaconsofLight

2004to2012

FOR CHRISTMAS 2004 I treatmyself to what I’ve wanted

my whole life when a smallpackage arrives in mymailbox. The return addressreads:

StateofNewYorkDepartment of Health,

VitalRecordsSection

When I step inside mykitchenandhangmycoatandbag over a chair, I gentlyopentheenvelope.It’smybirthcertificate.

My complete birthcertificate.The first time I’d ever

needed to retrieve my birthrecords from the Islip townhallwasinhighschoolwhenI applied for my first job, atRickel’s. Viewing my birthcertificate as a teenager, themere few “vital statistics” itdisplayed did nothing tosurprise me . . . in fact, itwouldhave struckmeharder

if all the details had beenfilledin.WhatIsawthenwasmy residence at birth—Lindenhurst, which mymeeting Julia revealed is thevery same town where theentireAccerbifamilyresides.Thecertificatelistedinwhichhospital I was born, thepresidingmedical doctor, thedate and time of my birth;and of course, next to thespaceforMotheritlisted:

CAMILLE DIANECALCATERRABut the linenext toFather

hadbeenblank.Atagethirty-eight, for the first time ever,the facts ofmy existence areall here. Next to the linereading Father is typed inbold,perfectletters:PAULACCERBIPaul fought long and hard

tohideourconnection...butin the end, he signed the

court’s judgment, stating hisawareness that we are fatherandchild.The next day I take both

birth certificates to theframing shop in myneighborhood and choose abold, red matting. “I’d likethis birth certificate to gohere,” I explain to thegentleman behind thecounter, placing the originalin the topbox, “and this one

togo”—Iputthenewoneonthe bottom—“right here.”Whentheframeisfinished,Icall Camille. “Now I justneed to find the right spot tohangit,”Itellher.“I know where,” she says.

“Here.”“Atyourhouse?Thewhole

pointistokeepitjustforme.Besides, you have a housefull of kids. Your walls arecoveredenough.”

“Notatmyhouse,Gi,”shesays.“Imeanhere,inSuffolkCounty. Why don’t you justdo it?Make themove, comebackhomeforgood.”Whereisthiscomingfrom?

I spent my childhood tryingtogetoutofSuffolkCounty.Why would Camille believeI’d want to move back?Given how intent she alwayswas to break away from ourpast, I never would have

expectedthatshe’dbetheonetofindherhappinessonLongIsland.Of course, the peoplewith whom I share thedeepest connections all livethere, but it is still the placewhere all the hurt inmy lifetook place. The smalleststimulus—a certain bar, anold gas station—triggersmemories of Cookie; hertorment, her smell, herconstant reminders that

nobodywantedme.Somanyof the towns were locationswhere I came and wentswiftly,pushedintoarandomfamily’shousethensweptoutagain before it ever had thechancetofeellikemine.My three other siblings

have also not returned.Rosie’s been in Utah sinceshe graduated from collegeand Norman and Cherie livenear each other in

Pennsylvania. Of all theplaces I’ve thought ofsettling, SuffolkCountymaybethelastspotonearthIeverimagined myself callinghome.But Camille is persistent.

“Maria asked me yesterday:‘Mom, what’s the longestAunt Gi has ever livedanywhere?’”“But Camille, Long Island

isnotexactly—”

“Long Island is home. Ihave the same badmemoriesyou do, Gi. But the kids aregrowing—they want youaround at their games, theirplays . . . you’re our family.When we didn’t haveanything else, we had eachother.”Through all the turns and

transitions my existence hastaken...Camille,Frank,andtheirkidshavebeen theonly

constant inmy life.Even so,constant shifting hasremainedmorecomforting tome than consistency . . .whichiswhy,whenIrunintoToddCiaravinooneafternoonin August 2006, I’mconfronted with yet anothersituation that calls me tostretch out of my comfortzone. I’m between meetings,exiting a shoe store in theTime Warner Center in

Manhattan’s ColumbusCircle.Just then,Toddwalksby and meets my eyes. Wetake each other in for amomentbeforewebreakintosmiles,bothpolishedinsuits.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Iaskhim.“I had ameetingupstairs.”

We exchange a few niceties,andthencellphonenumbers,and by the following monthwe’re back together as an

item.Embracing what Camille

has been encouraging me todo, I agree to look atproperties inSuffolkCounty,taking plenty of time toexplore the North Fork ofLong Island. It’s muchmorelow-key than the Hamptons,which sits just across thePeconic Bay, but with itsrolling farmlands, peachorchards, and picturesque

vineyards, I’m increasinglyconvincedtheNorthForkisaplace I could see myselfplantingpermanentroots.Todd’swithme in the fall

of2006when Iviewa smallcottage on the North Forkwith a backyard view of acreek off the bay. Theshorelineandblueskyremindmeof thebeach landscape inSaint James where mysiblings and I frolicked as

kids . . . and I know it’smeant to be mine when itdawns on me how aptly itslittle hamlet is named: NewSuffolk.The realtor tells me the

househasbeenonthemarketfor years, and admittedly it’snothardtoseewhy:Assoonas we pull up it’s clear thewholestructureneedsalotofTLC; and from the fireplacemantel to the bathtub the

décor is an unappetizingshadeofpink...butIturntoTodd.“This is it,” I tellhim.“The bones are all here.” Iwatch him examine theframeworkandgraspontomyvision. “Can you imaginewhat I could do with thisplace?”InJanuary2007,Icloseon

the house and move in withmytwocockerspaniels.Toddspends the weekdays at his

place inBrooklyn and drivesouton theweekends toworkon the rehabilitation andhelps me overhaul thelandscaping,eveninstallingafenceformydogs.On warm weather

weekends, Camille drivesover with her two youngestgirls, Danielle and Christina,and we all walk with beachchairs and towels to theshore. As the girls ride their

boogie boards and bury eachother in the sand, I mentionmy latest idea to Camille.“I’vebeenthinking...”“Yeah?”“What ifwe throw a party

here for Norman’s fortieth?He could take the bus fromPennsylvania and I’ll pickhimup in the city. I’ll try togetintouchwithRosie—”“Gi,let’stakethingsoneat

atime.Sure,seeifNorm’sup

forit.”Thenextdayweteamuponthephoneandtalkhimintotakingaweek’svacationandspend itwithusnear thebeach,justlikeoldtimes.We’ve tried to bring our

familytogether...slowly...butRosie’smadeitclearthatshe’s determined to stayindependent from us.According to the annualphoneconversationswehave,I know she’s still married,

now with three childrenwhom I’ve never met. Myperpetual, raw wound is notbeing able to witness mybabysisterasawarm,tendermother.In2008IsetupaFacebook

page and begin huntingthrough socialmedia sites soI can keep up with Rosie’slife from afar. I readcommentsshe’swrittenabouther children’s schooling and

have seen a picture that Iknew had to be her daughterAlexis:She’stheexactimageoflittleRosie.In January 2009, I’m

stunned to receiveamessageon Facebook. Rosie says shefeels isolated being so farawayfromallofus.Shesaysshe’s realized that as herolder siblings, we really didour best to protect her, andshe wants her children to

knowus.“Canwetrytoworkon us?” she writes. She’sfinally ready to bring hersiblingsbackintoherworld.I read Rosie’s message to

Camille over the phone.“Camille,Iwanttoflyherouthere. It’s been more thanfourteen years since she’sbeen to New York, and thatlastvisitwasreallystrained.”I hear Camille thinking it

over. “Let’s see if shewants

totalk.”I send Rosie a private

message and tell her to givemeacall.“Gi, Imiss you guys,” she

says, choking up with tears.“I know that I’ve kept mydistance,but I don’t like thatyou’re not inmy life. Iwantto be a part of our familyagain.”Crying, I respond: “We

want you with us too,

sweetie.Wealwayshave.”We talk once a week for

thenextmonth, thenweplanfor her to fly out for a longweekendinlateMarch.Iparkmycar at JFKandwalk intothe baggage claim. She’sgrowneven taller since I lastsaw her, and she stands outamong the women aroundher. When she turns to me,herfacelightsupsothatevenhereyessmile.ThenIcansee

she’swellingwithtears,andIwrapmyarmsaroundher.Iwheel her suitcase tomy

car and when we’re both inand buckled, I take her handand don’t let go. As I’mdriving,Ikeeplookingatherto make sure she’s reallythere. She smiles at me, stillwithmoisteyes:I’mhere.I set her up in my guest

room.On the nightstand is avase with dried hydrangea,

cutfromoneofmyplantingstheprevioussummer.Camillecomes out to my house tospend the night, and on mycouches the three of us cozyup and talk throughout thenight.This iswhenRosie reveals

thatshe’sneverknownaboutmy difficult history withCookie, or that Cherie andCamille suffered, too—shethoughtshewastheonlyone

whom our mother torturedand despised. Rosie doesn’tremember seeing me beatenthe time before we were allseparated, or ever. “Thosememories didn’t stay withyou,didthey?”Iasked.She shookher head, trying

to place some recollection.“No.”“Good.”We give the past only a

part of ourweekend, and the

restwespendcatchinguponeach other’s lives, whenCherieandNormanjoinus.Ishare with them that I’mthinking about throwing myhat in the ring for theNovember 2010 election forstate Senate. “Theincumbent’s been in officeformorethanthirtyyears...I’m sensing that the peoplehere want a change. I knowit’s a long shot,” I tell them,

“but everything I’ve done uptonowhasbeena long shot,too.”

I BEGIN MY campaign earlyand run hard, knocking onresidents’ doors to chat withthemaboutwhatissuesinthedistrict they’re mostconcerned about. I stop onlyto enjoy a week in Augustwhen Rosie; her husband,Bobby; and their three kids

arrive tospendaweekatmyhouse. For the first time,Rosie’s daughter and twosonsmeettheiraunts,uncles,andcousins.Seeing mia bambina as a

wife and mom is positivelymagical. Our entire familygoesforlongwalksalongthewater, and my neighborspause from gardening andlean forward in theirAdirondack chairs to take in

the sight of us. “You got apermit for that parade?” theyshout.WhenIcount,therearea dozen of us walking downtheroad,chattingarminarmandlaughing.I run a campaign that

coversalmosthalf the terrainin a very large county untilsupporters of my opponentchallenge my eligibility torun. They assert that I’m notfittorunbecauseIspenttime

living in Pennsylvaniawheremylawfirmwas locatedandI testify that indeeditwasaninsignificantly small periodwhere I represented theStateofNewYorkasaplaintiff ina global corporate fraud caseand spent much of my timeworking and living in NewYork anyhow. I’ve spentnearlyallofmylife livinginNew York State, and myreturn to Suffolk County has

cementedit:Thisishome.After I’m removed from

the ballot in August 2010, ItellToddIneedsometimetodecompress and regain myprivacy. For a few days, Ishutmyself in and lieonmyfloor asking: How did I gethere?WhydidIfightsohardfor this? There are so manybattles inmy life that are somuch more worthy of myenergy.

When Todd suggests weget away for a vacation. Irealizethere’sonlyoneplaceto consider: Utah, to seeRosie. Todd books twotickets for Labor Dayweekend, and because it’soff-season,westayinalargehotelsuiteinParkCitywhereRosie and Bobby bringDaniel,Brody,andLexitogoswimming, and we all wrapourselves in luxurious white

robes to watch silly moviesandorderadozenthingsfromthe roomservicemenu. I tellRosie how I’ve beenwatching Lexi in wonder,recognizing the exactmannerisms she’s inheritedfromthelittlegirlhermotherusedtobe.On the flight home it hits

me how I have more than Iever expected I’d be blessedwith: a legal career with a

noteworthy law firm thatmakes it possible for me tomake a difference in theworld, the whole truth aboutmy biological background,and an unconditional partnerwho’s always along for theride, who loves myindependence, who supportsmy every adventure anddrivesmetogoevenfurther.AndnowIhaveRosie.A year later, in 2011, I’m

eager to embrace politicsagainwhenI’mintroducedtoSteve Bellone, theDemocratic candidate forSuffolk County Executive.AfterSteveiselected,heasksme to join his administrationasthechiefdeputyexecutive.I voice my hesitation,

tellingSteve,“IfIacceptthisposition,I’llneedtoresignasa board member for YouGotta Believe—an

organizationthatactuallygetsolder foster kids adopted sothey can avoid homelessnessor worse. They have acontract with the county andthatcouldbeaconflict.”Steve assures me my job

helping him run SuffolkCounty will even betterposition me to impact thelivesoffosterkids.“Withthecounty’s resources, you canhelp lots of homeless kids,”

he says. “And you’ll still besupporting me in the day-to-dayoperationsofthecounty.”I start my new job as the

chief deputy executive ofSuffolkCountyonJanuary1,2012. Eleven days into thenewposition, at the end of asenior staff meeting, one ofmycolleaguesaskswhetherIread this morning’s LongIsland Newsday. “Regina,you’ve got to read this,” she

says. On the front page is aprofileofSamanthaGarvey,aseventeen-year-old student atBrentwood High School onthesouthernshoreofSuffolkCounty. Samantha has beenselected as a semifinalist inthe Intel Science TalentSearch—she’s one of threehundred students up for themost prestigious high schoolscience award in the UnitedStates. The challenge is that

shelivesinahomelessshelterwithherfamily.When her family was

forced from theirhome, theirpitbull,Pulga,wasput inananimal shelter. According tothe story, the Garvey familyis as worried about Pulga’sbeing euthanized as they areabout how they’ll find ahome.I go back to my desk and

call the shelter where Pulga

has been placed. I tell themconfidently, “I’d like to giveyoumycreditcard toget thedog into a boarding homewhere it’s certain she won’tbeputdown,please.”Shecanstay in the boarding facilityuntilwe address the family’shousingneeds.By one o’clock that

afternoon, a dedicated teamof county employeesindentifies the only vacant

house the county owns andthey put a plan in place forSamantha and her family tomove into it within twoweeks. When SteveannouncesthatSamanthawillhave a home again, families,businesses,andcontractorsinthe community contributetheir energy, furniture, andlabor. The county workerswhoworkwithSteveandmehelp uswith renovations and

setting the house up for theGarveys’ move-in, and myten-year-old niece Christinaaccompanies me on ashopping trip to decorate thehome.I save all the news

clippings that featureSamantha’s family . . . andPulga. Christina and I pickout frames for the newsclippings, a pup-inspiredwelcomemat,dogbowls,and

a leash for Pulga. We hangthe leash on a hook near theentryway and, rememberinghowasachildI’dpushitoutofmymindanytimeIwishedfor family photos on ourwalls, Christina and I placethe frames with the newsclippings throughout thehouse. That afternoon, whenStevegivesSamanthaandherfamily the keys to their newhome,injustoneshortmonth

Iseetherewardsofmycareerandthepowerofgovernmentandcommunity.I work from January

through the fall focusingprimarily on SuffolkCounty’s budget, but onemorning in September, I’mpulledawayfromworkafterIreadtextssentfromCamille’sseconddaughter.

DanielleGrace

7:13a.m.AuntGina,Momhadastroke!She’sinanambulanceonthewaytothehospital.Pleasecall!7:35a.m.AuntGina,whereareyou?Pleasecall!

I call her older sister,Maria.“Aunt Gi, Mom had a

massive stroke. She wasparalyzed when theparamedics took her away.We’re driving behind herambulance to the hospital.Pleasehurry.”I leavehomeanddrive the

fortyminutestoStonyBrookUniversity Hospital, whereMaria meets me in thedoorwayofthewaitingroom.“She’s just had a secondstroke,” she says . . . and by

the time Cherie arrivesmoments later, she’sexperienced two more. Ourforty-eight-year-old sister—amother of five—has justexperienced four strokes.“You’re a very lucky baby,”her doctor tells her. “No onethisyounghasthestrokesthatyouhaveandregainsalltheircognition and function theway you have.” SurroundedbyFrank, their fivekids,and

Cherie and me, Camille’sbody takes a few days torecover from paralysis. Justbefore the followingweekend, she’s released andsenthome.Asabirthdaygift,Ibuyher

fresh exercise clothes,sneakers,andaheartmonitorsoshecanbein to strengthenher heart, which wasweakenedbythestrokes.

AFEWWEEKS later, I take anafternoon off from work tohonor the only other passionthathaseverpulledmeawayfrom my career: my family,which is growing again. Nolongerababy,butstillfullofunconditional love,Camille’sson Frankie is gettingmarried. Cherie, Rosie,Norman, and I are there tocelebrate his marriage andsupportCamille,who is now

well enough to walk hereldestsondowntheaisle . . .and todance at thewedding.From the dance floor shecatches my eyes and wavesmetojoinherastheDJcuesup a special request: “Ain’tNoMountainHighEnough.”Rosie,Cherie,andNorman

followmeoutandthefiveofushuddleintightandsingtoone another with all ourhearts.

Epilogue

IN LATE OCTOBER, theNational Weather Serviceforecasts a “Superstorm”—ahurricane they’re referring toas Sandy. For the first timeever, the NWS sends a

representative out to LongIsland to prepare us countyleaders and our firstresponders for how seriousthisstormwillbe.“Deathanddevastation,” they tell usrepeatedly. “Your residentshave got to take this stormseriously. The devastationwon’tbebecauseofthewindor the rains, but because ofthe storm surge. Thetopography of Long Island

andmost likelyallofgreaterNew York City will bechangedforever.”“Donot letanyof thekids

leave your house,” I tellCamille. “There will bepower outages and fallentrees andworse—in fact youall need to sleep in a part ofthe house that’s far awayfromtrees.”The thousands of homes

alongLongIsland’scoastline

are extremely vulnerable . . .including mine. I lock it upand say a prayer, spendingthe next few nights at thecounty’s emergencymanagementunitinYaphank.The center is filled with theU.S.CoastGuard,NewYorkArmyNationalGuard, socialservices, police, fire chiefs,Red Cross, and swarms ofother emergency responseunits. With them I stay up

through the night as theywork to protect as manySuffolk County residents aspossible. We also figure outways to keep communicationlinesopen to thepeoplewhoareinfloodzonesandrefusedto evacuatebefore itwas toolate.It’s a night of

heavyheartedness that I’mcertain will stay with meforever—we’rewitnesstothe

floodingthatcausescompleteneighborhoods to bedestroyed. It’s aharsh realitycheck as I hope that thesecitizens’ homes will be theworstthingthattheylose.In the light of day, I join

the team of emergencyrespondersandleaderswhosejob it is to find emergencyshelter,food,andsuppliesforthe hundreds in the countywho are suddenly homeless

or without power. Now I’mworkingtoputthelightsbackon for the very samecommunitythat,decadesago,did the best it could to keepminefromdimming.The National Weather

Service’sdirewarningstoouremergency responders werenot overstated. Sandystretched almost twothousand miles as it traveledup the Atlantic coastline.

Adding to the depth of thestorm was a disastrouslytimedhightideinafullmooncycle,resultingintremendousstorm surges. Sandy broughtparts of the Northeast to astandstill and resulted inextensive flooding inManhattanand the shorelinesof both New York and NewJersey. And sadly, aspredicted, Sandy broughtmany untimely deaths and

utter devastation to some ofourcommunities.At one point during the

storm, electric service waslost to several millioncustomers in New Yorkalone. The loss of powercrippled hospitals, fuel ports,fuel terminals and gasstations, mass transportation,and telecommunications. Theimpact thishadontheregionled New York’s Governor

Cuomo to issue an executiveordercreatingwhatisreferredto as the MorelandCommissiononUtilityStormPreparation and Responsethat was charged withinvestigating the emergencypreparedness and stormresponse of utilities withinthe state, withrecommendations for stricteroversight of utilities and toassist in determining how

best to restructure the LongIsland Power Authority toprovide safer transmissionand distribution to itscustomers going forward—inemergenciesandfairweather.On November 13, 2012, heappointed a panel ofesteemed commissioners topresideoverthisinvestigation. . . and on November 20,Governor Cuomo appointedme as the Commission’s

executivedirector.As I write this epilogue, I

am a few weeks into theCommission’svitaltasks.MysisterCamilleisstillworkingtobuildupher strength frommultiple consecutive strokes,andherdoctorsstillhavenotconcluded what caused themon that cloudy Septemberday. It was while Camille’sentire family was huddledaroundherhospitalbedthatI

suggested we change thetopic and try, as a family, toselect a title for this story.Considering the main eventsI’ddetailedinthemanuscript,wereflectedonourcountlesshomes—fragile, temporarysand castles that we wereforced to create in the mostresourceful ways, only forthemtobeknockeddownbythe rising tides anduncontrollable elements

around us. Thus, we decidedtogetherthatmybookshouldbetitledEtchedinSand.I am also writing this on

December 16, a daywhich Iacknowledge is theanniversaryofCookie’sdeath—but I much prefer toremember it as Aunt Julia’sbirthday.Thisisthefirstyearsince 1999 that I have notcallednorvisitedJuliaforherbirthday:Shepassed inApril

2012, one day before thepassingofmyuncleSonny.That simple, beautiful

message that Rosie wrotealmost three years ago hasclosedthatgapingholeinmyheartthatwasrippedopenonthat dark November day in1980 when I revealed to thesocialworker that indeedwewere being abused. Furtherhealing came when Cheriemoved from Pennsylvania

back to Suffolk County thispast spring. Her fiftiethbirthday celebration this pastSeptemberbroughtallfiveofustogetheragaininoneplace. . . for the second time inthirty-twoyears.Despite the challenging

seas we had to navigate andthe limited beacons of lightthat were available to guideus on our journey, we alllanded safely. We pushed

ourselves up through theriptides.Throughourjourney,my siblings blessed me withplentyofniecesandnephews,who throughEtched in Sandwillbe learningour story forthe very first time. Wecreatedawholegenerationofchildrenthatwillneversufferintense poverty,homelessness, or abuse.Together, we stopped thecycle.

Through his strength ofcharacter, stoicism, and loveoffamily(andmypets),Toddhas guided me and for thefirst time inmy lifeprovidedme the consistency andstability that I actuallywelcome.Today, I have my own

happyhome.However,everyyearinthe

UnitedStates, forty thousandchildren in foster care will

age out of the system andhave nowhere to go and noone to help them. It is still agenerally accepted policy todeem older foster childrenunadoptable. So rather thanworking towardfindingolderfosterchildrenforeverhomes,they are provided briefinstruction on how to liveindependently and are sentout to find their ownway attheageofeighteenortwenty-

one.Whenayoungadultagesout with limited resourcesand no safety net, they riskbecoming homeless and thecycle starts again. With theopportunity to benefit fromthe unconditional love of aforever home, a foster childcaneventuallypayitforward.In my commitment to thisbelief,IrejoinedtheboardofYou Gotta Believe to ensurethatmorefosterchildrenwill

also one day have their ownhappy home. If there’s onethingIwanteveryfosterchildtoknow,it’sthat.Weallhavetobelieve.

Acknowledgments

MY JOURNEY WASsubstantially smoother andsometimes purelyadventurous because of myloving sister Camille, whoalthough our paths are quite

different, never stoppedwalkingbesidemeasIcarvedout mine. Her trust in metelling our story through myperspective was vital to thisbookbeingwritten.Myoldestsister Cherie wasapprehensiveatfirst,butafterreadinganearlydraftquicklycame around to supportingthebookandwent furtherbyencouraging me to share thetough aspects of her story.

She is now delightfullyrelieved that we can finallyembrace our history ratherthan fear its disclosure, andforherconfidence Iam trulythankful. Much appreciationgoes to my brother Normanfor supporting the book,despitehisquest forpeacefulsolitude. Boundless love andadoration to Rosie, who hasher own story to tell, whichI’llencouragehertodoasshe

didwithmine,but,ofcourse,onlywhensheisready.Iamforevergratefultomy

companion, Todd Ciaravino,who, regardless of howunconventional myendeavors, is always alongfor the ride. Hewholeheartedly encouragedmetowritemystorywhenitwas just a seedling, and hehelped me bring it to fullbloom, as did his very

endearingfamily.Also,Iowemuch to my confidante andclosest friend, MelanieMcEvoy,whoseglittermakesall those around her sparkle.She shares my life with meon theNorth Fork—itwouldnot be home without hernearby.Youbothgroundme.Asignificantchapterofmy

story would have beenmissing had it not been formy aunt Julia—her courage

and steadfast commitment tothe truth set me free. Sheneverstoppedlookingoutforme and I know that she stillis.Therearethosewhoprevail

in their livesusing instinct—understanding the pitfalls yetwilling to stray from thefamiliar. To bring my storyforwardthreewomendidjustthat—Lisa Sharkey, AmyBendell,andKrissyGasbarre.

This book would not havecometofruitionwithoutLisaSharkey of HarperCollins.Lisa had the courage to takemy story on and follow herinstinct—she never waveredfrom her faith in me or mystory. Amy Bendell, myeditor, was my other earlyenthusiast. Her intuition andsensibilities shepherded thisstory throughout. She knewwhatwe should tellmore of,

when less was more, andnever failed to remindmeofits beauty. Then there is mytalented cowriter, KrissyGasbarre. Krissy guided mystory by gently unlockingmemories and gave meconfidence indecidingwhichonesshouldbememorialized.Shediligently scrutinizedmywritings with precision,magically improving themwith flawless ease while

ensuring that my voiceprevailed throughout. I alsohaveconsiderablegratitudetoall those at HarperCollinsPublishers for willinglytakingonafirst-timeauthor.Many, many thanks to Ed

Moltzen, whose thoughtfulcontributions are reflectedthroughout the book and tothose who reviewed andimprovedthefullmanuscript:Dina Nelson, Bobbie and

Jerome Ciaravino, Terry andBillGasbarre, Jennifer Culp-O’Brien, Bobbi Passalacqua,LaurenGrant,andNancyandTomGleason.There are others who

collectively impactedmy lifethat deserveacknowledgment: my fosterparents who diligentlyworked toward providingmestructure and consistency,specifically the Petermans,

and all of my dear friendsalong the way who did notjudge me based upon mycircumstances and embracedme for me, and some ofwhose families went furtherbyensuringthatIwasfedandproperly clothed: Kim andCelinda Garcia, SherylWilliams, Tracey McMaster,Tracy Ressa, Erin DeMeo,Jeanine Illario, Cynthia Tait,Tammy Fisher, Kim Forsa,

Veronica Sullivan, MonicaMurray,andBethSeltzer,andReyneMacadaeg.Much appreciation to Jo

LoCicero, who fifteen yearsago told me to start writing,and Patty Cooper andKatherine Barna for theirearly encouragement andguidance.My story could have gone

dark had it not been for theeducatorsthatilluminatedmy

light even though they onlyhadamomentintimetokeepitburningbeforeImovedon.Those educators who stoodout and truly touched meincludeKevinFerryandBobMaguire, Centereach HighSchool; Lewis Brownstein,Nancy Kassop, and GeraldBenjamin,SUNYNewPaltz;JohnFarmer,SetonHallLawSchool;Ms.VanDover,SaintJames Elementary; and Ms.

Muse, Branch BrookElementary. The samesentiment is extended for thepubliclibrarysystems.This page would not be

complete if I did not expresssincere gratitude to thecharitiesandcountyandstategovernment that provided usdesperately needed servicesand the dedicated publicservantswhoseattentionkeptus moving forward. We are

now thriving and as a resulthave created a generation ofindependent, compassionatechildren, who are alreadygiving back through churchandcharity.

AbouttheAuthor

REGINA M. CALCATERRA,ESQUIRE, serves forGovernorAndrew Cuomo as theexecutivedirectoroftheNewYork State MorelandCommissiononUtilityStorm

Preparation and Response.Regina’s state appointmentrose from her position aschief deputy to SuffolkCounty Executive SteveBellone, where she assistedhim in managing the day-to-day operations of the countyand managed the county’sresponse and immediaterecovery to SuperstormSandy. The majority ofRegina’s private sector

experiencewasasapartnertoBarrack,Rodos&Bacine,aninternationally recognizedsecurities litigation firm,where she representeddefrauded public and laborpension funds by recoupingbillionsofdollars from thosewho committed corporatefraud on Wall Street.Combined, she has twenty-five years in public- andprivate-sector experience,

including serving as anadjunct professor of politicalscience at CUNY BaruchCollege. For over a decadeRegina served as a frequentcommentator of policy andpolitics on nationwidetelevision and alsocontributed op-eds onnationalandlocal issues.Sheproudly serves as a boardmember to You GottaBelieve, an organization that

works toward finding olderfosterchildrenforeverhomes.SheisagraduateoftheStateUniversity of New York,New Paltz, and Seton HallUniversity School of Law,and is admitted to practicelawintheStateofNewYork,Commonwealth ofPennsylvania,andtheEasternand Southern U.S. DistrictCourts.

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ETCHEDINSAND.Copyright©2013by Regina Calcaterra. All rightsreserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Bypaymentof therequiredfees,youhavebeen granted the nonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthe text of this e-book on-screen. No

part of this text may be reproduced,transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,reverse-engineered, or stored in orintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyany means, whether electronic ormechanical, now known or hereinafterinvented, without the express writtenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

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