Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [119]
It was the stitch. All through the shawl, that tight knit-purl cross-stitch, that stitch she’d never seen until she’d seen it woven through all of the hats and scarves and gloves that belonged to the girls. So all she could do was shriek, “Oh, my God! Stop the car right now, Tyrone. You gotta stop the car.”
Tyrone almost ran up on the curb, unaccustomed as he was to driving Perry’s fully loaded automatic transmission with power brakes.
“What? Ramona! What the hell is it?”
“That’s her.” Ramona pointed wildly toward the woman.
“Who?”
“Her, it’s her. My God! She must have gotten out. They must have let her out.”
“Who? Shern? Victoria? Bliss? Who? Who do you see?”
“Their mother, right there, that woman gliding up the street. That’s their mother. My God, that’s Clarise.”
“That’s Clarise?”
“I’m telling you, I’d know that stitch anywhere.”
“You lost me, baby”
“Never mind, sit here. I’m getting out. I’m going to talk to her; I know that’s her. I’ll be right back. That’s her. That’s the girls’ mother, Clarise.”
Clarise drew into herself as Ramona approached. She balled her fists under her coat sleeve, deciding whether to run or try to fight her off. She couldn’t run, damned tree was blocking her. It was the Pattersons’ tree; the last ones to welcome them to the neighborhood, the first ones to point out all the business Finch was losing to the catering chains.
Clarise turned her back on the fallen tree and faced Ramona. She looked for her shoes. Darn, black rubber slip-on boots, so she couldn’t tell if she was wearing the white oxford, rubber-soled shoes all the institute staff seemed to wear. Like the ones she was wearing now, borrowed from the day shift nurse who had left them in the utility room next to the opened bottle of White-All shoe polish and the three-tiered squeegee sponge. Good shoes too. Her feet had remained dry and fairly warm the whole walk here. She sniffed. No aura of wintergreen alcohol surrounded her. She unfurled her fists, then balled them again quickly. This woman was calling her name. Who was she, calling her name like this? She centered her weight. Took the stance taught her by the aunts. Fixed her eyes on Ramona like they were cannon loaded and ready to fire. “Who the hell are you?” she asked. “And how is it that you know my name and I don’t know yours?”
“Um, miss, um, may I call you Clarise?”
Clarise dropped her fists. This was definitely no one from the institute.
“Um, I’m—my name is Ramona, and actually we’re—” Ramona turned and pointed to Tyrone, who was halfway out of the car.
“Tell him to get back,” Clarise commanded.
Ramona made a frantic motion with her hands, and Tyrone got back in the car.
“We’re over here about your girls.”
“Say their names,” Clarise said.
“Shern, Victoria, and Bliss.” Ramona said the names slowly, seeing each of the girls in this woman as she said the names. Shern had her mother’s eyes for sure, probing, intense, watery, like half-wet circles of gray-black ink. The strong, straight nose was also Victoria’s nose. And Bliss had certainly taken those fleshy lips, that pouty mouth.
Clarise felt a stabbing in her heart as Ramona said each girl’s name. She sat down on the fallen pin oak and buried her face in her hands. “Just tell me. Tell me fast and tell me true. Just tell me right now. What happened? Please tell me what happened to my babies.”
“Um, well, they were staying with me—that is, with my mother and me over in West Philly. Um, you know, my mother takes in foster kids—um, I mean children. And, well, we don’t know all the details yet, but it looks like they ran away sometime late last night or early this morning.