Instead of hugs and Honey Bunny Buns, Patrick just looked at us until Mrs. Spater directed him to our bags.
It was almost like he’d come to pick up a family heirloom or a piece of expensive equipment—something serious and important, but not something real. Not his actual niece and nephew.
Right then I had an urge to write that down in my observation notebook. My notebook was in a little bag slung across my back, but I didn’t move.
I asked Patrick where Uncle Carl was and he said that we’d see him soon enough. He looked at our stuff and I was afraid that he’d say that we’d have to leave some behind even though he’d said we could bring three bags each. Uncle Carl didn’t have much room, he’d told Mrs. Spater over the phone.
At first, I couldn’t believe we actually had to leave it all. But then she’d said her daughter was coming to help her pack everything else up. She’d take care of our things. We shouldn’t worry about it now. And then she gave me some of her lemon pound cake and all I wanted was to go back to a time when Mama was there to say, “This cake is so good I hereby request a bed-sized piece so I can sleep in it.”
But Patrick didn’t say anything about our bags. He picked them up without a word and went outside. We followed him and got into the truck. Mrs. Spater asked him if he was sure he didn’t want anything from Mama’s house. But Patrick put up a hand and shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said in his mountain voice.
Mrs. Spater looked at Patrick through the truck’s passenger window. “You take good care of these kids, Mr. Royland. And I’ll make sure to take care of the rest.” She pursed her lips and I know she was trying to keep from crying. “Goodbye, you two. Be good for your uncles. I know you will be.” And then she took a step back. “I’ll miss you.”
I don’t remember what I said because I couldn’t decide what to say. I hadn’t thought about it at all. “I’ll miss you too” didn’t seem to make sense. We would more than miss her. I think Birdie said her name just as the truck began backing away.
Mrs. Spater waved from her porch, her old cocker spaniel, Colin, staring at us through the window. With her other hand, she covered her mouth, so that only her eyes could be seen.
I grabbed Birdie’s hand, each of his fingers with chipped turquoise nail polish, and squeezed it again and again, like a beating heart, the whole ride to California.
• • •
I try not to watch Uncle Carl in the rearview mirror because I hate my last memory of Mrs. Spater and Colin and their sad faces shrinking down to nothing as we drove away.
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him soon. We’re only moving a mile or so out of town.
Patrick doesn’t say a word and only once looks over at us when Birdie’s feet start fidgeting, which is one of his many nervous habits.
I swear I see Patrick’s mustache sag into a frown.
After a minute, we get onto the highway and pass a big gray-and-black bus going the other way.
I know bus number 331 goes from here all the way to Portland, Oregon. I know that bus fare is twenty-six dollars for minors and thirty-two dollars for adults. I’ve known this information since our second day with Uncle Carl when Birdie and me went to the library for the first time. But that was the same afternoon that Uncle Carl bought us our first Fry Shack ice cream sundaes and I forgot about the bus for a while after that.
“When going to and from town,” Patrick suddenly says, “try not to walk along the highway. It’s too dangerous. There’s no safe place to walk. There’s another route I can show you.” He turns down a small road and points to a dirt path. “It takes a little longer, but it starts near my street and ends close to the elementary school.”
He turns the truck around and goes back to the highway, only to turn off onto another road less than thirty seconds later. We drive past a few houses until we come to one that has a chain-link fence and hedge around it. The gate is open and we drive through and stop in front of a small garage attached to an old house.
Patrick shuts off the engine. “Well, okay then.”
He gets out and grabs our bags and heads to the front door.
Patrick lives in a shoebox. At least that’s what it looks like to me, a giant shoebox with a few squares and rectangles cut out for doors and windows. The roof looks almost completely flat, like someone ran out of building materials.
Birdie looks at me and I just shrug.
Inside, we follow Patrick up a staircase without a word. He opens two bedroom doors, puts our bags down, and then opens the door to a bathroom. He doesn’t open the curtains, so everything is in shadow even though it’s almost ten o’clock in the morning and the sun is shining outside. Patrick walks back to the staircase and stops. A dog barks.
“That’s Duke. He’s harmless.” Patrick’s baseball hat is pulled low, so low I can’t see his eyes. He rubs the back of his neck like Uncle Carl does. “I need to go back to work for a few hours. There’s some eggs and cheese in the fridge. Peanut butter and tuna and other things on the shelf. Carl says you know how to use the stove all right.”
I nod.
He takes a breath and rubs the back of his neck again and looks down the wooden staircase and it dawns
