Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace’s ninth and tenth birthdays were marked by light but tasteless angel food cake and delicious chocolate mint ice cream served on brightly colored paper plates in the ranch’s kitchen.

She knew that Mrs. Stage tried to make a party out of the situation, but each year there were different kids living at the ranch, many too young to understand what was going on, others crying a lot and in no mood to celebrate.

The first time, a week before Grace’s ninth, Ramona asked her what flavor cake she preferred.

She said, “Angel food, please,” because Ramona always baked angel food and even though it didn’t taste like much, Grace knew she could pull it off easily.

“Well, sure, honey, I can do that. How about some special frosting? Chocolate, vanilla? Anything else that tickles your fancy — you tell me piña colada, I’ll sure as heck try to find it.”

Flavors don’t matter. Birthdays don’t matter.

Grace said, “Chocolate is good.”

Fosters moved in and out of the ranch like cars at a shopping center parking lot. Many were whisked away soon, still scared. When new kids asked Grace questions, she made sure to be helpful; when you had knowledge you were considered bigger than you actually were. She also made sure to feed and change the little kids when there were too many for Ramona to handle at one time and she learned how to hum and coo in a way that calmed babies down.

All that was just the job she’d taken on for herself. There was no point getting to know anyone; the more time she had to herself, the better.

Mostly, she read and walked. The desert turned all sorts of colors when the sun began to fade. Her favorite was a light purple that glowed. The color chart in her science curriculum said it was magenta.

The only constant was Bobby Canova. He couldn’t eat cake or ice cream, so during what Mrs. Stage called the “birthday bashes” she propped his chair up against the table and belted him in and fixed one of his nutritional shakes. He’d give one of his hard-to-read smiles and roll his head and make his noises and Mrs. Stage would say, “He loves his parties.”

Birthday girl or not, Grace took charge and fed him through a straw. Because the birthday thing was really for Mrs. Stage, not her.

There was another reason she wanted to help, something she’d noticed between her ninth and tenth birthdays: Mrs. Stage was walking and talking slower, standing kind of bent over and also sleeping more. Some mornings, Grace would come down and find the kitchen empty. Get to sit by herself and enjoy the quiet, drinking milk and juice and waiting.

It was as if Ramona had gotten much older, all of a sudden. Grace hoped if she could stop her from wearing out completely, like a rusty machine, the ranch could stay like it was for a while. She began cleaning rooms other than her own, started helping with laundry. Even calling the new pest man, Jorge, when she saw too many big spiders or beetles or white ants.

Ramona said, “Grace, you don’t need to be such a worker bee. You’re growing up too fast.”

But she never stopped Grace from pitching in.

As her eleventh birthday approached, Grace noticed that her work didn’t seem to be helping as much; Mrs. Stage was slowing even more and sometimes she placed her hand on her chest as if it hurt to breathe.

That made Grace stop thinking of the ranch as her home and more like just another foster.

One day, she knew, some caseworker would show up and tell her to pack her things.

In the meantime, she’d walk and read and learn as much as she could.

During bashes, Ramona made a big show of bringing the cake to the table, studded with blazing candles, announcing that Grace should stand up while everyone sang her “Happy Birthday” because Grace was the “honoree.”

Fosters who were old enough were asked to join in on Ramona’s screechy “Happy Birthday” followed by her call for “Many more!” Mostly there were humming and uncomfortable looks around the table, no meaningful supplement to Ramona’s tone-deaf delivery.

A few days before Grace’s eleventh birthday, Ramona said, “How about lemon frosting instead of chocolate?”

Grace pretended to consider that. “Sure. Thank you.”

Opening a drawer, Ramona held up a box of frosting mix she’d already bought. Mediterranean Lemon. “This year, he might be able to make it — Professor Bluestone. That’d be nice, huh?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks you’re a genius.”

Grace nodded.

“He told you he thought you were smart?” said Ramona.

Many times. “Kind of.”

“Well... I invited him, if he can show up, he will.”

He couldn’t. Didn’t.

Once in a while the caseworker bringing or taking a foster was Wayne Knutsen. When he saw Grace, he’d look away, embarrassed, and Grace wondered why. Then she figured it out: He’d told her he was quitting social services to become a lawyer, hadn’t kept his word, and didn’t want to be reminded of his failure.

That was the thing about knowing people’s secrets: It could make them not like you.

But one evening, after settling in a terrified little black-Asian girl named Saraquina, Wayne headed straight for Grace, who was looking at the desert and pretending not to know he was there.

“Hey, there. Remember me?”

“You brought me.”

“There you go,” he said, smiling. “Wayne. They tell me you’re plowing your way through advanced educational materials. So everything’s working out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get a kick out of hitting the books — out of studying, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, fooling with his ponytail. “Gonna have to start calling you Amazing Grace.” His eyes fluttered and he reached out a hand, as if to pat her head, drew it back quickly. “Well, that’s great. The fact that you love to study, I mean. I could probably use your help.”

“With what?”

Wayne laughed. “Just kidding.”

Grace said, “Law school?”

He faced the desert, turned serious, finally shrugged. “You are a sharp one... yup, law school, getting through is a challenge. I work all day, go to classes at night, the books aren’t interesting like the stuff you’re learning.”

He sighed. “At your age, I was just like you. Got a kick out of gaining new knowledge. But now? I’m forty-seven, Grace. If I could devote full time to my studies, I could probably do better. But being as it’s only part-time, I’m stuck with an unaccredited school. That means not the best school, Grace, so good luck passing the bar — the lawyer’s exam.”

He kept looking at magenta sand. “It’s going to take me a while to finish. If I finish.”

“You will,” said Grace.

He scratched his nose, turned, and gave Grace a long, thoughtful look. “That’s your prediction, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s what you want.”

“Hmm. Well, sometimes I’m not sure about that — anyway, continue to amaze us, Ms. Grace. You’ve sure got the raw material — brains, I mean. That gives you an advantage in this crazy world even though...” He shook his head. “Bottom line, you’re in good shape, kid.”

Grace said nothing.

Wayne said, “That was what we call a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, well... so you really do like it here?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a good person, Ramona. Can’t say no to a kid in need, not many like her. That’s why I thought she’d be good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I felt you deserved it,” he said. “After everything you went through.”

No such thing as deserve.

Grace said “Thank you” again.

“Anyway,” said Wayne, “I’m glad we could chat... listen, here’s my card, if you ever need something. Not that you’re likely to, Ramona tells me you’re pretty darn self-sufficient — know how to take care of yourself.”