“Mom isn’t feeling well. I had to drive here. Since you—since—falling down the steps, cutting your head—then at your school—saying those things about . . . Well, since all these things, Mom has been very upset, and of course Daddy—Daddy has been worse. You’re lucky you are here, Violet. Frankly.”

Again Miriam explained: —my aunt Irma, Port Oriskany, transfer to a new school. For I could not remain at home, Daddy was adamant about that. And no other relatives in South Niagara would take me in. Rat they were calling me. Never forgive ratting on her own brothers. Saying her parents abused her.

Miriam spoke rapidly, evasively. In one breath telling me that the situation was hopeless, everyone hated me and would never forgive me, and in the next breath assuring me that Daddy would (maybe) change his mind but not for a while—“You know what Daddy is like . . .”

Trying to recall, had I told police that my parents had abused me? I had no memory of this, it had to be a mistake. The woman police officer had misheard me when she’d questioned me at school. But—

Miriam wasn’t interested. Whatever I was trying to say, trying to explain, she wasn’t interested, her eyes flashed with tears of exasperation, dislike.

My sister I adored but could not trust now. For clearly Miriam was on their side.

Roughly hugging me goodbye, kissing me on the forehead. Pressing three ten-dollar bills into my hand—“This is from me, Vi’let. In case you need something. Don’t tell anybody I gave it to you, OK? Not even Katie? Promise?”

Runaway

GOT AS FAR AS THE LOCK STREET BRIDGE BEFORE THEY caught me.

Five miles from the safe house to the bridge. On foot, much of the time running / limping.

It was strange, my knee did not hurt so much now. Or if there was hurt, it seemed far away like something occurring in a distant room. For I was desperate to get back home where (I wanted to think) Daddy would forgive me when he saw me. Daddy would let me return to my old room.

At the foster home it was runaways who were admired, envied. Runaways who were the toughest kids. (One of the girls, a little older than me, sulky and silent, had smudged, angry-looking tattoos up and down her arms.)

Surprising that Violet Rue should be one of them—a runaway.

After my mother and my sister left, God damn that I would cry.

Hugging myself tight, arms crossed over my chest, shoulders hunched and face shut up tight as a fist.

No bullshit. Nobody fuck with me.

There were black kids in the facility. I felt dread, that they might know whose sister I was. That they might guess.

Except I was just “Vi-yet” to them—if they knew any name for me at all.