Girl Unbroken: A Sister's Harrowing Story of Survival from The Streets of Long Island to the Farms of Idaho

Introduction

We were five kids with five different fathers—one jailed and then dead, two missing, and two unknown. Our mother, Cookie, was more gone than there, more drunk than sober, more mentally ill than mentally well. Cookie blew in and out of our lives like a hurricane, blind and uncaring to everything in her path. Once she arrived, she dispensed beatings, or tied my sister Gi naked to the radiator, or called all my sisters sluts and whores simply because in spite of the fact that they were starving, exhausted, and without heat in many New York winters, they remained beautiful, strong-willed, self-reliant, and loving. Cookie just couldn’t rip all that good out of them, but they hid it from her the best they could, storing all their sweetness and good will in me and our brother, Norm. Norm and I were the babies, the little ones, the ones they wanted to save.

My sister Gi looked at me as her do-over. Everything that had been missing from her childhood, she brought to mine. Gi read to me, she piled clothes on top of me to keep me warm. She bathed me, brushed my light brown hair, and taught me how to count to ten in English, Spanish, and French.

During the storms of my mother being home and in the calm of her absence, the only thing I knew for sure was that Gi would make everything okay. In this way, I was always safe, loved, and cared for. I was her Rosie, her sweetie, her bambina.

When she was nine years old, Gi wrote a poem that her teacher saved and gave back to her years later.

We didn’t know it then, but that poem and those words were words I would have to live by before I turned nine. Gi walked with me as far as she could. But in the end, there was nothing she could do to hang on to me when our mother and the county social workers decided I’d be better off without my siblings.

This story is about the missing years when my sisters weren’t there to save me. These were the years I had to walk the lonesome road. And you can bet that as soon as I was upright and strong enough, I walked that road straight back to the people who loved me.

1

Foster Things

Gi told me we were moving again. If you count foster homes and living in cars, where I, as the youngest, slept in the footwell, we’d moved at least fifteen times already. And I was only eight years old. This move was worse, though. In this move, I was losing my sisters.

The oldest of us, Cherie, had already left to live with her husband and new baby. The rest of us had found ourselves, once again, to be wards of the state: Camille at seventeen, Gi, almost fourteen, Norm, twelve, and me.

We were in an upstairs bedroom of a house we called the Toad House, because it was drab gray with big front windows that looked like hooded eyes. My clothes were in this room but I’d never slept here. Gi, Norm, and I were like a litter of pups, curling up every night in the living room together where we felt safe.

Months ago, our mother, Cookie, had abandoned the four of us in the Toad House. Later that same day, Camille moved into her best friend’s house. She didn’t want to leave us behind, but she thought maybe if she had a real home and didn’t have to worry about food, she could get a few odd jobs and make enough money to buy food for us. When Cookie finally returned two nights ago, she beat Gi so violently that there were raised bruises like purple walnuts running from her brow to her cheek. Around Gi’s swollen and now-lopsided lips were craggy lines of scabs. Gi thought it was probably her social studies teacher, Mr. Brown, who called Social Services the next day. Gi told me she hadn’t realized how bad she looked until she saw Mr. Brown’s face turn white at the sight of her. It’s always harder to ignore the truth when you see that truth in someone else’s eyes.

Now Cookie was in the kitchen with a silver-haired social worker, and another social worker sat in the living room. She was a pretty blonde-haired lady who looked just like Mrs. Brady from The Brady Bunch.

Why can’t I go with you? I asked Gi. We were looking out the window at the two gray cars parked on the gravel driveway. One was waiting to take Norm and me away; the other was for Gi and Camille. After Gi learned that Social Services was snooping around, she called Camille at her friend’s house. Camille rushed home to take care of us.

There are too many of us to fit in the same car, love bug. Gi was as skinny as a piece of licorice, losing her hair from malnutrition and the stress of having to steal food just to make sure Norm and I would keep growing.

But we always fit in one car!

Not this time, Gi said. Tears streaked down her face.

I grabbed Gi’s licorice leg and said, "But you always said that we are so skinny we can all be folded up to fit anywhere. And we are really skinny now. We can fit in the same car!"

Well, maybe we can, but the home that you’re going to prefers little kids like you and Norm because you’re cuter, sweeter, and easier to hug. Gi picked me up and squished me in her arms. I could feel her bones and muscles and all her love coming out at me. Cookie, our mother, had arms as big as my belly. All that bubbling flesh, and she never used any of it to love us. There were boyfriends, however, men who got a charming, purring version of Cookie reserved just for them. Sometimes Cookie paid the rent with her flesh. Watching Cookie, I absorbed a quick lesson, barely understood at the time but later fully digested, of just how much utility the female form can hold.

I’m not a baby, I told Gi.

She brushed my hair with her darting fingers and said, "You will always be my baby, mia bambina. Gi stopped talking for a minute, as if something were stuck in her throat. Her lumpy face was wet with tears. And then finally she said, I’m so sorry, mia bambina. I’m so, so sorry."

But you didn’t do anything wrong! You were protecting me! I started to touch my sister’s face but pulled my hand away when I remembered how much those walnut bruises had hurt when I’d touched them last.

I was supposed to take care of you forever, Gi said, and she began crying again.

With everything we’d endured, and everything we’d seen, you’d think we’d also seen a lot of crying. But we were scrappy, willful, and driven. We knew how to get a loaf of bread out of a grocery store with no cash in less than sixty seconds. We knew how to manage landlords, bill collectors, our mother’s old boyfriends, enraged wives (whose husbands had slept with Cookie), and nosy neighbors as they hunted down Cookie. We could convince an entire school system that we had a mother and a house—the only two things that could prevent us from getting split up and placed in separate foster homes. And we knew how to run from our mother when she was drunk as a rabid raccoon and ready to focus her heft and her misery on any one of us who got in her way. Especially Gi. Gi was the one with the father who had broken Cookie’s heart. In this way, I might have been luckiest. My father didn’t break Cookie’s heart—he just went to prison. And when he got out of there, he was murdered before he could break her heart.

In all of that, through all of that, no, we rarely cried. Until this day, when Gi just couldn’t stop.

My sister put me down and busied herself by sorting through my scavenged clothes, which she’d previously arranged on the floor by color.

This will be the perfect outfit for when you meet your foster parents. Gi sniffed back her tears as she lifted a pair of purple velour pants with a matching top that had lilies embroidered around the neckline. The outfit was spotless and shiny clean.

In spite of the chaos in our lives, in spite of the fact that our mother wouldn’t buy tampons for herself and instead used dirty washcloths that she left around the house, in spite of the uncountable rodents and their droppings that filled every crack in every house we lived in (like a grubby brown confetti thrown as a hurrah each time we moved in), my sisters kept things clean. They scrubbed, they organized, they folded . . . and they picked. The year we had lice, Gi, Camille, and Cherie tore through our scalps until we bled red polka dots. Like most of our homes, there was no hot water, and so no way to wash away the lice. We threw out our clothing, and at night we went to the Salvation Army, where we rummaged through the Dumpster until we’d found enough to replace what had been tossed away. This was how we got our clothes every season, every year. This is how I got my pretty velour outfit. Here we go. Gi pulled the top over my head and then stood there, her chest chugging up and down as she cried some more. It never occurred to me then that this had likely been some girl’s outgrown Easter outfit, worn on a day when a bunny delivered baskets of candy and there was a ham for dinner—two things I’d never yet had.

My arms. I wagged my hands inside as if I were trapped. Gi laughed, still crying, and helped thread my limbs into the sleeves.

You’re going to look perfect for your new family. Gi tucked my hair behind each ear and then held the elastic-waist pants open so I could step into them.

I don’t need a new family. My family was the only one I wanted. There was no difference between the heart that beat inside me and the hearts of my sisters and brother, beating outside of me. We were a single entity.

Gi cried harder now. She kissed me on my forehead and cheeks and then loaded my folded clothes into the Hefty bag. On top of the clothes she placed my favorite games: Candy Land, Parcheesi, and Operation. If we were missing parts to the games, Gi, Cherie, and Camille would always compromise by using random chess and checker pieces or pebbles so that all three games were complete. In a fractured life, my sisters were always trying to make things whole again.

We came downstairs. Norm sat silently on the couch in the living room, waiting to be told what the next move was. Cookie was still in the kitchen; she could hear us, but she couldn’t see us. There was an awkward bashfulness around Cookie after she’d let loose with one of her barbaric beatings. It was as if Cookie’s violence were a vicious animal caged inside her flesh and she had to be real still to keep it from busting out again. Of course, she’d never let that animal out in front of a social worker.

Gi dropped the Hefty bag on the living room floor. I wrapped my arms around her leg again and turned away from Mrs. Brady. Camille came downstairs carrying Norm’s bag of clothes. She set his bag beside mine.

What’s in there? Mrs. Brady asked. Her voice wasn’t like the mother’s on the TV show. This woman sounded hard, official, as if her throat was made of steel.

Their clothes, Camille said. You could tell Camille and Gi were sisters—she was a lighter, more round-eyed version of Gi.

And some games, Gi said.

Take the games out. Mrs. Brady stood and smoothed out her beige skirt.

But these are their games that they love to play, Gi said.

Take them out. There will be games there. She looked toward the door. It was time to go.

But they have all the pieces, Camille said. They’re whole games.

TAKE THE DAMN GAMES OUT! Cookie shouted from the kitchen. We were all startled at the sound of her voice.

Two days earlier, on Tuesday, our mother had come home with a carton of milk and a box of macaroni and cheese. She was drunk and angry because she had just fought with her latest boyfriend. There were no hellos or kisses. Cookie dropped the bag of groceries on the kitchen table, then dropped herself onto the couch and immediately fell asleep on her stomach. Her face was turned to one side, smashed up as if there were no bones. She snored so loudly and deeply that Norm and I laughed. It sounds like a big old man, I said, and we laughed even harder.

Gi made the macaroni and cheese, and the three of us sat on the living room floor eating the macaroni and cheese and drinking glass after glass of milk until the entire carton was gone. Gi and Norm finished their meals first and were relaxing with full bellies while I still ate. When I was done, I placed my glass on my plate and stood to clear my dishes. With my first step, my glass fell and broke on the wood floor next to Cookie’s boneless face. My mother instantly jumped up and lunged toward me. She grabbed my hair and shouted, You stupid little twat! When she jerked my head back, I dropped my plate and that broke too. Gi and Norm jumped up, and Gi pushed Cookie away from me. The fight that followed was so terrifying I could only see it as a series of frozen snapshots. There was broken glass; there was Cookie with her wooden-heeled shoe thrust into my sister’s back, and her face, and her arms, and her legs; there was blood covering Gi’s face; there was Cookie’s enormous body on top of Gi’s stringy one; there were words—Gi screaming and Cookie saying over and over again that she wished Gi had never been born; and there was Norm and me, both of us hollering, begging for Gi to stop fighting back so maybe our mother would finally stop beating her.

Please, can we have the games? I whispered to my sisters, ignoring the social worker.

There are a lot of kids where they’re going, and there is no extra room for games, Mrs. Brady said. My sisters gave each other a look—their expressions were so similar it was like watching only one of them in a mirror. Gi opened my bag and removed the games.

Camille held Norm’s hand and Gi carried me to the car. She sobbed in my neck as her footsteps crunched across the gravel. There was a pudgy man with hair all over his face waiting at one car. At the other car, where Mrs. Brady put my and Norm’s Hefty bags, was a big pink-faced man. He opened the back door and let my sisters crawl all over Norm and me as they hugged and kissed us good-bye. Mrs. Brady got in the front seat and immediately put on her seatbelt. Her back was stiff as she stared out the front windshield.

"Je t’aime," Gi whispered in my ear, then she and Camille got out of the car. I reached up and felt my face, wet and slippery from my sisters’ tears.

Just as the man was closing my door, Cookie trampled out of the house like a drunken elephant.

MY BABIES, she wailed.

The man hurriedly got into the front seat and slammed his door. A sturdy click sounded before Cookie was at the window, her fists thudding against the glass.

Don’t open the windows, Mrs. Brady said without turning to look at us.

My babies! Cookie cried. Don’t worry, my babies! I’ll get you back! I watched my mother in her spandex jumpsuit bounce around outside my window. Her insincere pleading didn’t feel real—it was like watching a play at school. Norm was as impassive as I. What struck me at that moment was not Cookie’s emotions, rather it was how tight her clothing was and how much her body jiggled in spite of being bound in fabric.

I scooted up and looked out the front window as Camille and Gi got into the car parked in front of ours. Cookie didn’t put on a show for them. They knew things at the time that I sensed but couldn’t articulate until later: Cookie only wanted us for the welfare checks. It was money that benefited Cookie alone. Between mental illness and a fierce alcohol addiction, Cookie was walled into a windowless tunnel of her own desires. There wasn’t room in there for another being, even ones as pipe-cleaner scrawny as me, my sisters, and Norm.

Cookie ran alongside the car, screaming as we backed out of the driveway. Her giant breasts heaved up and down, almost in slow motion as she tried to keep up. We were only one house away when she stopped running, pulled a cigarette from her jumpsuit pocket, and lit up. Norm and I looked out the back window and watched the car Gi and Camille were in. We couldn’t see them, but we could see their silhouettes in the backseat. A bone-thin arm was waving at us—it was Gi’s arm, I knew. That arm, not Cookie’s hysterics, got me crying. And once I was crying, Norm cried too. We tried to keep it down, sniffling, our heads rocking as we sobbed. Mrs. Brady talked to us from the front seat. She wanted us to know that no one had room enough for four kids. And even if they did, the people who would take little kids didn’t want big kids. And the people who would take big kids didn’t want little ones.

When we pulled up to a stoplight, Gi and Camille’s car pulled right up beside us. Gi had her face against the window and was mouthing words to me: Je t’aime, mia bambina, je t’aime. Camille lunged forward so she was beside Gi and for a moment I thought they’d jump out and get in our car. But then their car turned right and ours turned left. A sound came out of me. Not a scream, more of a gasp. It was as if something had been pulled straight from my gut. I was crying harder than ever.

It’s okay, Norm said. He swallowed away his tears and put his arm around me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.

Minutes later, we stopped in front of a sad-looking Victorian house. In the front yard were three cars, one of which was up on blocks and had no trunk or hood cover. Between the cars on the weedy dirt were bikes, skateboards, and wagons. Each one had something missing: a wheel, a seat, handlebars.

Time to go, kiddos, Mrs. Brady said, and she stood at the open back door.

I want my sisters! I cried and wedged myself against the backseat, refusing to leave.

Norman, help your sister out of the car. Now. Mrs. Brady said. The real Mrs. Brady would have used humor, or maybe she’d bring brownies or cookies out to the car. This Mrs. Brady was all business.

Norm, who was always pragmatic, said, Ma’am, this looks like a bad place. And if Rosie doesn’t want to go, I think we better not go.

Mrs. Brady lifted her shoulders and huffed. The pink-faced driver got out of his seat, opened the other back door and lunged across the seat. He grabbed my legs and pulled while I kicked and screamed. Norm held on to me, a determined gritty look on his face.

Once I’d slipped free of Norm and was left trembling on the ground, my brother scrambled out and picked me up. We don’t have a choice, he said. But don’t worry, we won’t be here too long anyway.

At the front door, on the cement stoop, was a thin woman with stringy brown and gray hair. She wore black leggings and an oversized Popeye sweatshirt. In the same hand in which Popeye held his pipe, she held her cigarette. She looked us up and down, her nose and lips contracted as if we smelled, and then she dropped her cigarette on the stoop and stomped on it with her white canvas sneaker. This was something I’d seen Cookie do many times, although Cookie was fond of high-heeled shoes that made a horse’s clop-clop when she walked.

Thought you got lost, she said. Her voice was like crushed ice.

This one took a little longer than usual, Mrs. Brady said.

So these are the two, huh? Her eyes were tiny blue pinpoints that she drilled into me for a second before drilling them into Norm.

This is Norman and Rosanne, Mrs. Brady said. Kids, meet Mrs. Callahan, your new foster mother.

I want Gi, I whispered.

I got you, Norm whispered back.

They look too skinny to me, Mrs. Callahan said. I don’t want no finicky eaters, you hear? What I serve, they eat. This ain’t no diner and I ain’t no short-order cook.

I’m sure they’ll appreciate anything you put in front of them. They haven’t had a real meal in weeks. Mrs. Brady gave a forced smile, and I wondered if she didn’t like Mrs. Callahan.

And the stipend sure don’t give me enough money to buy them separate meals! It barely covers the cost of keeping them here. I do this outta generosity, you hear? You gotta be a giving and generous soul to spend your own money on people like this. Mrs. Callahan’s nose lifted again. I wondered if she was part dog and that’s why she kept sniffing at us.

I’m sure they’ll appreciate all your good will and all your good meals, Mrs. Brady said. Won’t you, kids?

Yes, ma’am, Norm said, and he put his hands on my ears to stop me from shaking my head no.

Becky will show them around, Mrs. Callahan said and then she shouted into the house, Becky! Now!

A second later, a freckle-faced, open-mouth-breathing girl a little taller than Norm appeared. She wore small wire-rim glasses and had brown hair cut in the shape of an upside-down salad bowl on her head. When she stood still, her body made the letter S: shoulders slumped forward, back rounded at the top, stomach bulging, butt out. Below all that her legs splayed out wide, feet pointing into a V.

Show ’em around the house, Mrs. Callahan said, and she walked the social worker to the car, leaving Norm and me with splatter-footed Becky.

C’mon, Becky said and waddled away with Norm and me following, Mom said we weren’t getting no more grimy rent-a-kids, but lookee lookee— Becky looked back at us, as if to make sure we knew that we were the rent-a-kids to which she was referring.

We entered the kitchen. Becky said, This is the kitchen. Obviously. Norm and I looked at each other, trying not to smirk.

You’re not allowed to touch anything in here. Ever. Unless you get permission from my mom, but she’ll never give you permission so don’t even ask. Becky picked up a wrapped Twinkie off the counter, opened it, and ate it in three giant bites while Norm and I watched.

Becky was still chewing the Twinkie when we followed her into the living room. Living room, she said. Obviously.

Norm squeezed my hand, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh.

You’re not allowed to go in this room. Ever.

Obviously, Norm whispered. Becky didn’t seem to hear and galumphed away and then up the stairs, her feet slapping each step heavily. Norm and I followed quietly.

We stopped outside a bathroom with brown and yellow tiles, a sliding shower door, and a toilet that was missing the lid. Norm and I looked at each other, holding back our smiles. We’d had far worse. In fact, as far as bathrooms went, this was one of the better ones.

Bathroom. Obviously. This time Becky dragged out the word. As if the bathroom were even more obvious than the other rooms. You and the other rent-a-kids have to keep it clean and you’re only allowed to use it in the day.

What if we have to go at night? Norm asked.

Hold it in, Becky said.

Obviously, Norm said.

Or use the bucket. A jagged little smile slipped across Becky’s mouth.

Bucket? Norm laughed, and I giggled.

You’re not gonna laugh when the door is locked and you hafta smell that bucket, Becky said.

We followed Becky down the hall to a wood-paneled room with four sets of bunk beds and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The switch for the light was in the hallway, outside the room. Becky turned it on.

Bunkroom. Obviously. Becky pointed to the small stretch of wall where there was no bed. Sit there an’ wait for my mom.

Norman and I did as we were told. We both kept our eyes on Becky, all curved and splatty in the doorway. After a couple of seconds she turned her head and shouted into the hallway, MA! I’M DONE WITH THE TOUR!

Mrs. Callahan showed up, and Becky stepped further into the room.

I don’t want no trouble outta you two, you hear? Mrs. Callahan said.

Norm and I both nodded.

You do everything we say, and we’ll all get along fine. And don’t think you can be sneakin’ around behind my back ’cause I got eyes and ears all over this house.

I thought of floating eyes and detached ears bobbing against the ceiling like forgotten party balloons.

And Becky here—Mrs. Callahan pointed at Becky, who stared at her mother with open-mouthed wonder—sees everything. There ain’t nothin’ that gets by her. You got it?

Yes, Norm said, and he nudged me until I said yes too.

You wanna tell the rules or me? Mrs. Callahan said to her daughter, who had yet to close her gaping mouth.

You, Becky said.

Fine. Rule One: all foster things in the bunkroom at eight p.m. with lights out.

Becky smiled at the words foster things, and I wondered if she’d replace rent-a-kid with that.

Rule Two, Mrs. Callahan continued. The bunkroom door stays locked from eight until six the next morning. Rule Three: if you have to go to the bathroom after eight, you use the bucket. Mrs. Callahan nodded at Becky, who smiled and rushed to the closet. She slid open the door and pointed up and down with her thick arm at the blue plastic bucket.

Can I tell ’em about bucket duty? Becky grinned.

Yup. Make it quick, Mrs. Callahan said.

You gotta carry the bucket downstairs, Becky’s voice swung up as if this were a question, and you can’t spill it or you’ll get in trouble. And then you take it in the backyard and you dump it into the poop hole. Now she was really smiling. As if the word poop brought her particular pleasure.

Rule Four, Mrs. Callahan continued. You can’t use the bathroom more than three times a day. This ain’t no toilet paper factory. And when you use toilet paper, don’t use more than three squares for number one and six squares for number two.

I was wondering how she would know how many squares anyone used when Mrs. Callahan said, Becky will know if you use too much and she’ll tell me.

Obviously, Norm whispered, so quietly that I felt the words more than I heard them.

Norm and I spent the remainder of the afternoon on our bunk bed: Norm on top, me on the bottom. We were told the other kids had after-school activities and wouldn’t be home until late. Staying away from Becky and Mrs. Callahan seemed like a wise idea, so Norm and I planned to sign up for as many after-school activities as we could the following day.

Around five, Mrs. Callahan showed up in the doorway. Becky, her slumpy, open-mouthed shadow, hovered nearby. Behind them was a row of four kids varying in height from bigger than Camille and Gi to smaller than me. I quickly did the math: eight beds, six kids big and small. There was room for Gi and Camille after all. My eyes burned with tears of frustration.

Here are two more trouble makers for ya. Mrs. Callahan pointed at Norm and me. These things seem a little dense to me, so you better tell them the rules again. She turned and went down the stairs with Becky following. Our bunkmates filed in, each of them watching us as if we were cats about to claw them.

Black-haired Brian was the first to speak. He was creaky and stiff with legs that moved like they were made of aluminum pipes and arms that he spastically bent and straightened like folding yardsticks. Brian stuttered when he spoke, and his eyelids fluttered like nervous butterflies.

I’m th-th-thirteen, he said, after telling us his name. Hopefully I’ll s-s-s-stop twitching when I’m f-f-f-fourteen, ’cause no one likes t-t-t-t-to hang out with a twitcher.

I thought I would hang out with a twitcher, but I was too shy to say so and, also, I figured a thirteen-year-old boy wouldn’t want anything to do with an eight-year-old girl.

A little blond boy hung over the edge of the bunk bed, his hands dangling like he was about to jump into a handstand. I’m Charlie, he said. I’m nine and my parents are in jail but I’ve got grandparents who like to see me when they have time. Are your parents in jail?

Norm shook his head no and I shook my head yes—though I knew my previously jailed father was dead. Charlie didn’t notice. He just kept talking.

That’s Hannah. Charlie pointed to the girl in the bunk below him. Then he pointed to the boy in the bunk across from him. And that’s Jason. They’re brother and sister, just like you. Hannah is ten and Jason is—

I’m eleven, Jason said.

Hannah doesn’t speak, Charlie said. Hannah didn’t look up. With her head dropped like that I could see how knotted her wavy hair was. I felt bad for her that she didn’t have a sister like Gi to comb out her hair every night and every morning. And then I felt bad for myself because who was going to comb my hair now?

Hannah hasn’t talked in a year, Jason said. But I like talking, so I do it all the time. Hannah continued to look at her knees, Brian jerked and spasmed, and Charlie hung like a little white-haired chimp while Jason monologued about how his dad lost his job and started getting drunk every day. His dad didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Jason claimed, but he couldn’t help himself when he was drunk and so the social worker thought Jason and Hannah were better off here while their parents worked things out.

And then Jason asked, So why are you here?

I looked at Norm so that he would answer. I didn’t want to say what was in my head: We’re here because two nights ago, my mother beat my sister so badly her entire body looked like a swollen, purple piece of meat; we’re here because we were so hungry, we stole butter from the grocery store and ate it raw; we’re here because we had no hot water and no heat all through last winter; we’re here because our mother takes off for months at a time, and when she returns she drinks and curses and smokes and brings strange men into the house.

Norm said, We’re here because our mom is too busy to take care of us.

What about your dad? Jason asked.

I looked at Norm again. He and I had the same last name, Brooks, though we had different fathers. Norm was a real Brooks and he was the only one of the five of us who was born while Cookie was married to his father. Gi and my oldest sister, Cherie, had Cookie’s maiden name, Calcaterra. Camille’s last name was completely different. No one, including Camille, knew where the name came from. When we asked her about Camille’s last name, Cookie either shrugged or told us to shut the fuck up and M.Y.O.B.! Gi told me that by the time I came along, my normally shameless mother was embarrassed that each of her kids was from a different guy. So she gave me the last name Brooks to make it appear as if fewer men had fathered us.

Our dad’s too busy for us, too, Norm said. As far as I knew, Norm couldn’t remember his father. He’d left before Norm was three. I had vague, almost dreamlike memories of my father—they were sensory memories: the smell of spicy aftershave, shiny black shoes, whiskers that scratched my face when he kissed me on the cheek.

Brian and Charlie warned us to stay away from Becky.

Sh-sh-sh-she’s evil, Brian said.

She lies like a fly with a booger in its eye! Charlie said.

Sh-sh-sh-she lies like a g-g-g-guy with a b-b-b-b-booger in his fly! Brian said, and we all laughed until we heard the screeching voice of Becky from the bottom of the stairs.

Rent-a-things! Dinner! she shouted. I knew she’d put thing into action. Norm and I looked at each other. He was thinking the same thing.

Liver. After months of eating butter, saltines, and anything else Gi and Camille could get down their pants at the grocery store, the only thing I couldn’t stomach was liver. Norm looked at his plate, then mine. He tilted his body so our shoulders almost touched and whispered, We’ve gone hungry most of our lives. No big deal if we don’t eat it. While the other kids silently forked in the gray, slimy sheets of meat, Norm and I picked at the teaspoonful of peas on our plates. Becky had cut-up apple, American cheese slices, and a pile of tater tots with ketchup on her plate. I guess she didn’t eat liver either.

Mr. Callahan, our foster father, ate with his head tilted toward his plate, as if no one else was at the table. His skin was the same color and texture as the meat he put in his mouth. His hair looked wet and shiny, the color of steel cables. Mrs. Callahan and Becky chatted in louder than normal voices. It was as if they thought we needed a lesson in dinner conversation and they were going to provide it by example. I couldn’t focus on what they said because I was too enraptured by the way Becky’s lips flopped loosely as she spoke; and the way the nooks of Mrs. Callahan’s teeth had food crammed into them like putty. Every few minutes, she stuck her finger in her mouth, cleared out the gunk, licked it off her finger and swallowed.

When it was clear that Norm and I weren’t eating the liver, Becky tapped her mother on her bony elbow and nodded her salad-bowl head toward us. Mrs. Callahan slammed her fist on the table and said, You two are disrespectin’ me! Go to your room. Mr. Callahan continued to eat as if no outburst had occurred. Becky grinned, her face flushing pink as she watched us leave.

When the other kids returned to the bunkroom, there was a stiff-edged silence. I wondered if Becky or Mrs. Callahan was waiting outside the door, trying to catch one of us saying something bad about them.

Finally Jason broke the news, smiling as if he was taking joy in the message: Mrs. Callahan says that you don’t get any meals for a whole week and you better eat everything you can at school ’cause that’s all you’re getting.

Norm and I both laughed. After going without food, or with very little food on the weekends, school lunches were a banquet to us. We’d been living