The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

I saw him at Toonz. He went into the back office with the owner. Where the porn material is kept.”

Linda was sitting bolt upright by this time, eyes flashing. She flicked the pencil between her middle and forefinger.

“Why are you hanging around that place, Anna?”

“What do you mean?”

A sappy look wiped across her face like grease on a windowpane. “When you were at the Levines the therapist told you to stay away from places that have negative associations for you. You become disturbed, agitated, confused. You need to put all that stuff behind you. It’s over. Try to heal. Be happy. You’re married to a good man.”

She might as well have been telling a crippled woman to pull herself out of the wheelchair and walk or a blind man to open his eyes and just see. I felt a sudden urge to tip her desk over. Instead I balled my hands into tight fists.

“I can’t. I have to get it straight. What happened to Birdie. What’s still happening to all these kids. One of my students disappeared for days, then was picked up by a known trafficker. I think this man, Peter Karrass, is somehow mixed up in it all.”

She ran her fingers through her cropped hair. “Anna – oh, Anna. You forgot.”

My breaths were coming short and fast. I told myself slow down, focus on the T-shirt – the photograph of Linda standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The cube magnet with the safety pins sticking to its face.

“Forgot? What?”

She slid a sheet of paper towards me. “This is a memo written recommending your removal from the Flatts’ home. Take a look at it.”

The words buzzed in front of my eyes like tiny insects, blurring then coming into focus on the social worker’s signature at the bottom of the page.

“Peter Karrass,” I whispered.

She pulled the paper back, pressed her lips together and nodded. “Exactly. He made this recommendation and you were the only one removed from the home. Almost fifteen years ago. I have the full report somewhere here. You can read it if you like.”

I stood up and yanked my handbag from the back of the chair. “Someone tampered with those records, Linda.”

She shook her head. “Why would anyone do that, Anna?”

“God knows, but why don’t you ever believe me, Linda? And for once in your pathetic career, maybe you should goddamn well look into it.”

When I pushed the door open I heard Linda say, “I can’t change the facts, Anna. There’s no mention of Birdie in the report. She wasn’t there and what’s more you already know that…”

I didn’t hear the rest. I couldn’t listen to lies.

I rested my arms on the edge of the Stone Arch Bridge and looked down into the Mississippi River. Dark waters swirled and twisted on their way from Saint Anthony Falls. Behind me, massed against the watery blue sky stood the tall towers of downtown. Multifaceted blocks of concrete and glass crowded together like massive beehives, housing all the tiny lives that fueled the grinding machinery of the city.

I always felt a crushing sense of insignificance when I played with that thought. That even those who are cherished by large, loving families, struggle daily with the idea of their own inconsequentiality. But when life becomes too burdensome and hopeless, they can retreat into the warm cocoon of family love until they get themselves back into fighting shape. Ready to face the stress and turmoil of the real world.

I had nothing left when Birdie pulled away from me. Nobody who cared. Only the overworked social workers whose solution was to shuffle the deck and concentrate on the neediest kids. As far as they were concerned, I already had a home with Patti and Lester Flatt. Even though I struggled for survival every day I was there. But every instinct – every feeling – told me that Birdie had been there. I wasn’t imagining it. I had seen her standing in front of Patti and Lester, her leg twitching, her fingers twisting strands of hair. I’d felt the hard swelling across my eye as I watched the horrible scene unfold.

A cyclist skimmed by behind me and I was suddenly certain I’d been at this bridge with Birdie. Some time during our stay at the Flatts. I had to trust myself.

Linda’s report was false – nothing but lies.

So I searched the water to find Birdie’s face. To bring her back to me.

23

Right after the horrible wall-climbing night, Patti and Lester kept Birdie in bed by feeding her a daily cocktail of drugs. A cup of multi-colored pills before I left for school, and the same dose when I came home. I’m certain they gave her more drugs at noon. Every morning I tried to wake her, but she was so groggy she just turned over and fell back into a deep sleep. A couple of times she reached out to me and mumbled bathroom. At those times I dragged her out of bed and sat her on the toilet where she promptly fell asleep sitting up. In the dim, yellowy bathroom light her face looked ashen, her skin papery. I tried to feed her water, enough to keep her going. She got some down, but the rest dribbled down the corners of her mouth wetting the neck of her T-shirt. I told her not to take the pills – to spit them out, but she nodded her head towards the bed. I helped her back, tucked her in then spent the rest of the day at school worrying she wouldn’t survive, that she’d end up a slobbering vegetable. Even Colby noticed my distraction.

After the incident at the mall our literature discussions had changed. The air between us was electric, charged with possibilities. While I talked about books I’d be looking at the way a beam of sunlight lit the curve of his lip or the way his lashes cast a shadow on his cheek. I could smell him all around