There’s Hope still

at home.

You remember that,

right?

Now my heart beats

so I can see it

shaking my T-shirt.

Me? What about me?

Momma keeps talking.

The doctor

made mention of a diary.

Something you’re writing in.

Where’s that diary you got hid?

Is it that little pink book

you got for

Christmas last year?

I am like soup.

Can’t stand.

My nose has quit working.

I gasp in

air through my mouth.

I hear a smack sound,

and then Momma

coming to the door.

I hop away fast,

and stand like I’ve been a guard

the whole conversation,

arms crossed and everything.

But I shake deep in my shoes,

and them just an old pair of Keds.

Your turn,

Momma says.

You try to make some sense of her.

I gotta smoke me a cigarette.

I watch Momma walk,

swinging her slim hips,

the whole way out before

I go in to Liz.

I shut the door tight behind me,

making sure I hear the click.

She’s gone,

I say.

She’s gone to smoke.

I kneel on the floor

near my sister.

Sweet Lizzie,

I say.

I whisper in hair,

Don’t you worry

none about me.

I pet her face

and my tears

tears burn hot like a Florida sun.

She never opens her eyes,

but I know

Liz knows

I

am

here.

68.

We haven’t been home

even

five minutes

when Momma

starts to work.

She tears our room up good

looking for that diary.

I help her go through

our bedroom things.

My mouth is

dry, watching.

Will Momma find it?

Will she?

Momma throws Liz’s stuff

this way and that.

Help me look now, girl,

Momma says.

And I do, though

I don’t want to, I pull books

outta the bookcase and

stuff from Liz’s little

nightstand.

It’s gotta be here somewhere,

Momma says once

and I can see she’s madder

than a snake.

When she’s tired from searching

she looks at me

and says, loud,

Get this mess cleaned up.

And I do as fast as I can.

69.

That night

after I’ve put all

the stuff back and my room

(our room, mine and Lizzie’s)

is all cleaned,

Momma paces the house

looking everywhere.

There’s a knock at the door.

Check who’s there,

Momma says. And then a first,

I ain’t seeing no one tonight.

It’s Miss Freeman

standing in the light

of the front porch bulb.

Momma moves up beside me.

What?

she says,

not even hiding this time

that she doesn’t

like Miss Freeman.

Miss Freeman doesn’t

take a breath. Just speaks.

I don’t know what’s been going on,

she says.

Her voice is thin, coming through the screen

like a moth batting

to get in.

But there’s something,

Ms. Chapman.

I’m worried about

your girls.

What do you mean,

Miss Freeman?

Momma says,

and her voice

is like acid.

Something’s going

on in there,

Miss Freeman says.

I don’t know what,

but I know it’s bad.

She taps at her