Lisa Schroeder - The Bridge from You to Me

“When the police came, I was in the bathroom, throwing up, because I was so upset. So . . . afraid. My mom came into the bathroom when they started knocking. She started yelling at me, ‘What have you done? Don’t you know they’ll take him from me? Is that what you want? Do you want to go to foster care? Because it won’t just be him. It’ll be you too.’ ”

I lower my head, the memory so strong, I swear the air suddenly smells like the liquor that was on her breath. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Lauren, you did the right thing.”

I shake my head. “I told her I’d fix it. I apologized and told her not to worry; I was going to fix it. So we went out there, and she held the baby, and one of the officers asked who called. I told him my mom was the one who called, because the baby had been crying and I got sick of it and started shaking him, and I wouldn’t give him to her. I told them I was sorry, I knew it was wrong, and I promised them it would never happen again.”

“So, you lied. To protect your mom.”

My eyes fill with tears. “Yes. And then . . .”

“It’s okay. Go on. What happened next?”

I bite my lip, tears streaming down my face now. I sniffle. “When the officer asked if my mom wanted to press charges, she said no, she just wanted me to get the message loud and clear that my behavior was unacceptable. After one of the officers gave me a stern talking-to, they left.”

“But that’s not the end of the story,” she says.

I shake my head again. “My mom said we needed a break. Me and her. Some time apart. She thought I could stay with my grandma for a while, but my grandma said no. So she called my uncle Josh. And they agreed to take me in. I didn’t fight her on it. In fact, I was as sweet as ever.” I look down at my hands. “I kept hoping she’d change her mind. I can’t believe I thought she’d change her mind.”

The tears won’t stop, but I don’t feel embarrassed. I just feel so . . . sad.

Dr. Springer walks over to me with the box of tissues. I pull out a bunch and try to wipe the sadness away. Instead, I just smear it around.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says as she sits back down. “I can see why that wouldn’t be easy to share. And why you’re having such terrible nightmares about your brother.”

I jerk my head in her direction. “Why?”

“Because you’re worried about him.” She makes a note in her file. “I think I’d like to have a social worker go and check on him. Would that be all right? Your mother doesn’t have to know the visit came about because of you.”

“She won’t hurt him,” I say quickly. “I promise she won’t.” It’s like I’m pleading with her to believe me. “It was just that one time, you know? Because she drank too much.”

“Do you think your brother is better off with your mother than somewhere else?” she asks.

“Yes. Maybe. I . . . I don’t know. Look, I know she wasn’t the best mom, and that growing up, I wished for her to be different in some ways. But she never hurt me. I have to believe he’s okay.”

“I know you do,” she says. “But I think checking on him is a good idea.”

The truth is, I’m afraid my mom will know. She’ll know it’s because of me that they’re checking. And then what?

Suddenly, there are too many scenarios playing out in my head. Did I make things better or worse by telling her the truth about what happened?

Something tells me I’m going to find out.

Lauren and her aunt Erica pulled things together quickly for the fund-raiser. They made flyers and put them all over town. An email chain was initiated, asking for donations to be dropped off early Saturday morning. The weekly news paper agreed to put something on the front page about the event. And the best part is the city is allowing us to use the big parking lot space in the middle of downtown, where the Saturday Market is held in the summertime. A rental company is donating tables and canopies, so it’ll look super nice and there will be plenty of space for the food.

I’ve been back to see Benny a few more times, and his mom is so thankful that we’re doing this for them. I keep telling Lauren we aren’t going to raise a million dollars selling cupcakes and maybe we should have thought of something else. And she keeps telling me you never know what might happen. For a girl who hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it, she sure has a good attitude. Maybe some of it will rub off on me.

It’s Friday night, after the game, and I’m in her aunt and uncle’s kitchen, baking pies with Lauren. I imagine heaven smells like this kitchen right now.

As she carefully puts the crust on the top of a berry pie, I ask her, “You know, maybe we should have picked something easier to make.”

“Like what? Rice Krispies Treats?”

“Right. What do those have, like, three ingredients?”

“You can’t make good money on something like that. These pies will go for a lot.”

“You really think so? How come?”

“Because pies are special. Pies say, ‘I’m good and old-fashioned.’ ”

“Rather than, ‘I’m cheap and easy’?”

She laughs. “Exactly! Who wants something cheap and easy?”

I raise my eyebrows. “About ninety percent of the football team?”

She pokes me with her elbow. “Stop it. You wait and see. These pies will fly off the tables tomorrow.”

I look at the clock. I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stay standing. “You mean today. It’s after midnight. Are we going to be done anytime soon?”

“While this one bakes, we’ll whip together a chocolate cream one, and then we’re done.” As she pinches the last of the crust, she studies my face. “You know what? I can do the last one by myself. You should go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. See, it wouldn’t be very helpful if you fell over from exhaustion and landed in the pies. Not helpful at all.”

“Okay. Thanks. Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow and take you down there?”

She looks around at all the pies: nine so far. “Oh God. I didn’t even think about logistics. How are we going to get all of these to the sale?”

“Easy. I’ll put a sheet in the bed of my truck. We’ll set them back there, and then fold the sheet over.”

“A sheet?”

“Yeah. Why not? We’ll tuck them in tight, I promise.”

“You are so cute, you know that?” she says as she opens the oven door before she pops the pie inside. I want to tell her she’s cuter, but I’m pretty sure that would be approaching flirting territory. That’s a place we’re both trying to stay far away from.

When she turns around, she says, “Okay. Your plan sounds good. I want to be there by eight. All the other volunteers are supposed to be there by eight thirty.”

“I’ll pick you up about fifteen minutes before eight, then.”

We say good-bye and I let myself out. From the driveway, I can see her silhouette, no doubt starting in on the chocolate pie.

“You’re cuter,” I whisper into the cool night air. And then I get into my truck, glad I get to see her again in only eight short hours.