“Daughters of God” by Dinh Vong
--page 2
I was more of a mom to Mom than she was to me. She would come to my bed at night, and I would place my arm around her shuddering body and feel her cry until she fell asleep. It isn’t right that I should’ve done that. But she was fun too. She would bring home all sorts of crafty things, like markers and tissue paper, and we would make flowers or kites and hang them around the house until there wasn’t any more room on the walls. CPS saw that as a fire hazard rather than evidence of Mom’s good times.
It was pretty sad when they came and took us away. Mom was in her nightgown and hadn’t even combed her hair, wailing outside in the middle of the afternoon, looking like she could drop dead right there from grief. And Dad was holding her, cussing CPS to hell. I couldn’t help but think, schizo, seeing him there with the veins bulging in his forehead and arms. That’s the last memory I have of the house--them standing in front of it, proving to the world that they were crazy, except that any parent would do that. Their bodies getting smaller and smaller, until they only looked like two people embracing, because we were too far to see Mom’s hands over her face.
It was almost a relief when we were sent to Ms. Park’s house. Even though her house smells like old lady perfume, it’s a lot cleaner and there is always food in the fridge.
Ms. Park’s inherited her house from her ancestors. It’s a big old creaky house, kind of neat at first. Like the kind of house you read about in books, where the sinks are in the bedrooms, the toilets in little white closets, and there’s a big chute that you stuff dirty clothes in so that they’ll slide into the basement. We slid down the chute a lot when Ms. Parks was running errands. But also, because it’s old, it seems haunted. Especially when the floorboards creek when someone gets up to use the bathroom at night, or when the wind will whistle through a crack and slam a door shut. Even I still get spooked, though I’m going on sixteen now.
There are polaroids on the fridge that Ms. Parks took of us when we first arrived, I think to shame us with our roots. I was ten at that time. We looked like those pictures you see on National Geographic about kids in the Ozarks that are supposed to show how poor white people can be. Barefoot with stringy hair, unsmiling.
The other kids that were already living there were all different kinds. Some of them must have been spooked pretty bad, because they didn’t even come out to see us when we first came. But some of them did. There was Shayna and her sister Isabelle. They were Filipino and the oldest of the group. They were like the moms, besides Ms. Parks, and made sure everyone did their fair share of chores. Then Elvin, a chubby Mexican kid with a lisp who helped us carry our bags up the stairs. Miranda, a shy white girl who doesn’t talk at all, but who made us each a doll out of clothespins. These are the kids I like most. I think Elvin is in love with me and I’d hate to break his heart, so I hope he doesn’t spill the beans any time soon. Shayna is going to be leaving us in a month to start community college. We made a present for her that we’ve hid up in the attic under a pile of old newspapers--a scrapbook with all our pictures in it, and little blurbs of how much she means to us.
I don’t want to seem proud or anything, but with all these hardships I’ve managed to keep my head up. My life so far is enough to make a miniseries out of--raised by parents who’re crazier than loons, living in a foster home, and practically raising Anne, I think I’ve done pretty good by myself. But Anne doesn’t make it any easier. It’s already hard for me, trying to keep up appearances. I’ve always felt I was halfway crazy, but tried to contain it is all. Wear the right clothes, talk to the right people, make the right jokes. Don’t show off smarts too much in class, but don’t act like a moron either. It helps that Jessie Hinkel, president of the Jr. class at Roosevelt High, had a crush on me last year. You might almost say I was popular. If I wasn’t halfway decent looking, I don’t think anyone would give me a chance. Anne could look nice if she tried. If she let me pluck out her mono brow like I’m always offering to, and if she wore clothes other kids wear, instead of plaid jumpers like she’s three-years-old. And if she lost ten pounds.
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