CHAPTER TWELVE
1993
BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA
Cady, Age 5
The forest was no place for a city girl.
Cady’s world was made up of gray concrete walls, rough to the touch; sidewalks smelling faintly of urine and uncollected garbage; alleys promising escape routes; chain-link fences topped with barbed wire to keep her in—or out.
Dread vied with excitement as she gazed out the bus window at the strange, alienating landscape of tall trees and thick underbrush. The social workers had described the redwood groves as beautiful, but to Cady they inspired a vague, unnamed terror. Surely the twisty road snaking its way through the mountains would eventually deliver the busload of children to a dark forest that sheltered the stuff of nightmares: bears and mountain lions, the bogeyman or Bigfoot.
The gruesome possibility that no one would want her.
But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself think about that.
A mean boy sitting across the aisle made a face, hoping to pick a fight, but Cady looked away, refusing to engage. The rules were very clear, the stakes unimaginably high: No one wanted a bad girl.
She smoothed the name tag sticker—C-A-D-Y, with a daisy drawnnext to it—on the chest of her favorite orange T-shirt, shut her eyes, and sang to herself:The ants go marching one by one....
Cady’s eyes flew open at a sudden squawk of air brakes as the bus pulled to a stop. Ms. Ulmer stood at the head of the aisle and repeated the instructions she had already drilled into the fidgety children: Donotleave the area, donotgo into the woods, no pushing, no shoving, no bad words. Don’t be shy. Talk to the grown-ups. Remember to let your inner light shine. Be your authentic self. Be good.
But what if her “authentic self” wasn’t good? Cady didn’t mean to be bad, but she often was. People told her so.
Tinny, raucous music greeted the twenty or so children as they climbed down, one by one, and went to line up beside the bus, where Ms. Ulmer directed them. Heat radiated from the parking lot blacktop, where every space was taken up by big Suburbans and sleek compacts, shiny and new-looking. A light breeze carried the scent of the park’s golden grasses and eucalyptus trees, so much nicer than the cloying pine-scented air freshener in the social worker’s office bathroom.
Cady took the deepest breath she could, hoping to make the aroma a part of her, replacing the institutional smell that seemed to cling to everything. The forest might be scary, but it sure smelled good.
And in front of them: the Tilden Park carousel.
It was colorful and raucous, whirling round and round, the music blaring, light and color seeming to reach out for her. If she stared, everything seemed a blur: the painted murals on top, the Baroque mirrors, the menagerie of animals, the children’s laughing faces. Cady spied a rooster, a frog, a bunch of brightly painted horses, and also some kind of sea creature. Some figures went up and down, others remained with their hooves planted firmly on the circling platform. A round seat shaped like a giant teacup spun around. A sleigh with room for four tipped back and forth but never quite pitched over. She spotted a goat, and a zebra, and a pig. Her mind raced. Which did she like best? Could she ride any one she chose?
Cady fixated on the sea monster. She would have to beat out the others if she wanted to claim it. She was a fast runner. She could do it.
But then she glanced over at the long tables and booths set with food and displays for the fair. Milling about the offerings were the smiley, eager grown-ups. Cady’s heart flipped, it felt hard to breathe, and she had a sudden need to pee.
“Prospective parents” is how Ms. Ulmer and the other social workers referred to the grown-ups. Every child alighting from the bus, every orphan, every discarded girl and boy—even a bad one—dreamed of finding a match. Of being chosen.
Of becoming part of a family.
Prospective parents.For weeks, Cady had rolled the phrase around in her mind, whispering it in bed at night like a prayer. She liked the feel of the words on her tongue:mother, father, mommy, daddy, mom, dad... She imagined walking into school and telling the teacher she had a note from herparents. Every day after school she would enter the same house and sit down to dinner with hermotherandfather. They would be in the audience on Back-to-School Night; Cady would use her best manners when she introduced them to her teacher: “Ms. Mendez, this is my mom and dad.”
MomandDad.
It made her too nervous to look at the grown-ups. Instead, Cady joined the jostling throng of kids waiting for their turn to ride the merry-go-round. It slowed, then finally stopped, and the riders got off. Cady shoved her way to the front of the crowd and raced to claim the sea monster. The mean boy from the bus noticed her interest and yelled, “I call dibs!” But Cady was determined. The sea monster washers. She got there first and quickly threw one leg over the saddle, grasping the center pole and hoisting herself up, flashing a triumphant grin at the mean boy.
A man in a stained T-shirt came by and buckled a leather strap—a humiliating leash—around her waist. “No belt, no ride,” he responded to her protest before moving on to the next child.
It took an eternity for the carousel to start up again, lurching forward with a jerk. Old-fashioned organ music filled the air, the world just beyond the carousel whirled by faster and faster, and Cady sat up as straight as she could. The faces in the crowd became a blur as the carousel reached full speed.
Cady was a princess on her steed, a mermaid astride her sea creature. The tinny music was her theme song. She was beautiful and free, going up and down, round and round, the eyes of the prospective parents on her.
One day she would have someone to wave at as she flew by on the carousel.
Cady felt a thrill, so deep, so fundamental, so visceral that years later she would still recall the sensation, would liken it to the breathless excitement and furtive anticipation of falling, headlong and desperate, in love.
Round and round she went.
