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Chapter 1: Hardly Used

In my life, there is no such thing as happy-happiness. Everything happy has a sad part attached. I am always sad when a new orphan comes to the Southern Ohio Children’s Home, because every new kid brings another sad story. Each story has some happiness too, like having a soft landing with Mercy. She is the kindest grown-up I’ve ever met. We don’t call her Miss Mercy or Missus Rost. Just Mercy is fine by her. That might tell you the type of grown-up she is.
This is a good place, let’s get that straight. The Southern Ohio Children’s Home is out of a fairy tale, dead mothers and all.
I was helping Mercy with our latest sad story. We waited on the front porch that Saturday morning for the nuns to arrive with the drug baby. Mercy was checking her phone for updates from Sister Hazel, and I was checking the gray sky for spring rain. I try to help Mercy every day, when I’m not causing trouble. I don’t try to cause trouble, but somehow that’s where I end up. Usually for daydreaming or forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing and instead doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. Mercy doesn’t have harsh punishments. Not like the punishments I’ve heard about from other kids when they confess what their families from before did—like hit them or not feed them. It’s nothing like that here.
When I do get in trouble, my punishment from Mercy is “the Look,” then being sent to clean a bathroom or take out the nursery’s diaper bin. I don’t mind doing chores, but I do mind “the Look” because I do not want to disappoint Mercy for one second. “The Look” is a silence where she says to me, What have you done now, Willa Johnson? You are eleven years old, and you know better. Then she’ll say aloud, “Go. Think about what you did. When you’re ready to apologize, you may come back.”
I’m always ready to apologize right away. Mercy wants me to think about it first though, so when I do say I’m sorry, it’s coming from a place that makes my apology real, and I know what I’m saying is true. Sometimes, when the words come out right, with meaning inside them, Mercy gives me a rare hug. In those moments, I take a deep breath, I smell her lavender perfume, and I feel safe.
I came to the Southern Ohio Children’s Home when I was seven, after my grandfather died. Pop-pop was another grown-up who loved me a lot. He used to sit in his recliner and watch the Cubs, even though Ohio is not near Chicago and we have our own baseball teams. His trailer was filled with candles and hearts because that’s what Grammaw loved. Pop-pop kept every piece of her, to make himself feel like she was still there. Even the clothes in her closet. When Momma died, I tried to keep her with me too, but there hadn’t been much left. After I moved in with him, Pop-pop had to quit fixing cars because his emphysema made it so he needed to take his oxygen tank everywhere.
I was happy living with Pop-pop, but the sad part was that Momma was dead, and by then, Pop-pop was dying, too.
Sad-happiness.
While Mercy and me waited for the drug baby, I thought about that baby’s story. The happy part was that it was coming to meet Mercy. The sad part was that its mommy, daddy, or maybe both, were addicted to the same kind of drugs many grown-ups around here are addicted to. Mercy and my teacher, Miss Samantha, are always telling us that when someone’s addiction is bad, they’ll take anything, because they get sicker when they don’t take drugs. It’s kind of confusing. They teach us that the point is not to take them in the first place. Drug abuse and the problems that come with it is something we talk about every day, I swear, because nearly every kid at the Southern Ohio Children’s Home has a story to tell that has to do with opioid drugs. Even Miss Samantha. Her baby sister died from opioids. Drugs are everywhere. You’d think they’re growing on our trees.
Sister Hazel’s rust-covered green van finally sputtered up the pebble drive from County Highway J, the words Ministry of Hope painted on each side. The van stopped. Or died. I couldn’t tell.
“Ministry of Hopelessness, more like,” I said. “Driving around in that van.”
“If you can’t say something nice, Willa—”
Mercy is trying to teach me not to say mean things.
“But it’s true!” I lashed out in a tone. I can’t help it sometimes.
Mercy glared at me. I knew better than to apologize before thinking about it, so I pursed my lips and didn’t say anything more.
Normally when I talk in a tone, Mercy is patient with me. Not today. Mercy was in a mood. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but I knew she’d never tell me. My troubles do not need to be anyone’s troubles but my own, is what she’d say.
Mercy puts herself together like a watercolor painting, with her long gray curls and loose, flowing clothes. Today her hair was pulled back in a headband she’d probably left on after washing her face. She hadn’t even done her makeup, and she always does her makeup. She says it covers her brown age spots. She was still clutching her cloth napkin from breakfast, which I thought was strange.
I could tell there was something Mercy wasn’t telling me. I watched her as she watched Sister Hazel and Sister Constance fuss with the van door and the drug baby’s car seat. There used to be things my momma wouldn’t tell me, but I’d always find out.
I was going to find out with Mercy, too.
“Got a new one for you, Mercy,” Sister Hazel said as she walked toward us. “Hardly used. Ha!”
Mercy closed her eyes and shook her head. She hates when Sister Hazel makes that joke. Probably because it isn’t funny.
Mercy had been expecting the “hardly used” baby. She had not been expecting the police car that was coming up the drive. The car pulled behind the Ministry of Hopelessness van. A kid who looked every bit a criminal scowled at us from the back seat. The kid had a bruised face and purple mohawk and was wearing a ripped shirt.
We don’t have many visitors at the Southern Ohio Children’s Home. Today was busy.
“Willa, please tell Miss Lupe to get the last crib ready for the new baby.” Mercy was staying focused on the drug baby, not the police car.
I didn’t ask Mercy what would happen if another baby came after we used the last crib. The home has gotten more filled up since I arrived four years ago, and Mercy’s always running out of money. She says it’s because of the “crisis in our community.” I know which crisis she means—the drug crisis—but it seems like there are a lot of other crises tied up with that one.
“You want me to go inside now?” I whined. “Things are just getting good.”
“Now, Willa!” Mercy hardly ever raises her voice at me.
“But I don’t even know that baby’s name!” I raised my voice back.
“What would you like to call her, Willa?” Sister Hazel asked. She is a thousand years old. Her pale skin has wrinkles like mud cracks in a dry riverbed.
“What about Hope?” Sister Constance suggested.
“Not Hope!” I said. We already have three Hopes, thanks to Sister Constance, Our Lady of Perpetual Hopes.
Unlike Sister Hazel, Sister Constance is young. She’s always trying to recruit me. She says how she’d wanted to be a nun ever since she was my age and that she’d never trust a man more than Jesus. At least He keeps His promises, unlike what’s running around our town, Sister Constance says. The promise of Eternal Life is a safer bet. I’m with the Lord. Though I don’t know how she knows the Lord keeps His promise of Eternal Life since she’s not dead yet, is she?
Sister Hazel carried the baby in its car seat to Mercy, who cooed over the sweet thing while checking all its fingers and toes. Then she passed the baby off to me.
“Now, please go inside, Willa, and take the baby up to Miss Lupe,” Mercy said calmly.
The baby was swaddled tight in her car seat. The skin on her face and hands was a splotchy mix of red, purple, brown, and yellow.
The policewoman slammed her car door shut and headed toward Mercy, taking off her hat and scratching her scalp with a long, glittery fingernail. Her black hair was braided into perfect, straight cornrows held together in a low ponytail.
“Willa, go!” Mercy said in a stern tone.
“Fine!” I huffed. “And by the way, I will call this baby Calamity. That’s more like it.” I took the baby in its carrier and stomped up the front porch stairs, making a show. “Miss Lupe!” I shouted. “Calamity’s here!”
But instead of going inside and missing the excitement, I stopped and bent over one of the flower boxes lined up along the white porch. I learned long ago that if you’re doing chores, you turn invisible. I rocked Calamity’s carrier and weeded and turned invisible. Miss Lupe could wait, because I knew there was something Mercy wasn’t telling me.
“Good morning, Mercy,” the police officer said. She and Mercy nodded at each other like old friends. I watched as she turned and introduced herself to the nuns. “I’m Deputy Bell.”
“What brings you by, Belinda?” Mercy asked.
“I got a domestic call this morning and was hoping you might be able to help.”
“Oh, Lord, have mercy.” Sister Hazel stood between Deputy Bell and Mercy, interrupting what wasn’t her business. Sister Constance was hanging on every word from her seat in the van.
“Mr. and Mrs. Springdale have been having a hard time with their child, Kacey,” Deputy Bell said. “We got a call from them this morning, so I responded with another visit to their home. Kacey was out on the lawn with a packed bag and a bloody lip.”
“How old is Kacey?” Mercy asked.
“They’re thirteen.” The police officer looked back at her car. “You see, they—”
“‘They,’ meaning Kacey?” Mercy asked.
Deputy Bell nodded. “Kacey goes by they/them,” she said.
“Why? Are there two of them?” Sister Hazel snorted, making another bad joke.
“Just Kacey,” Deputy Bell said, annoyed. She did not bother spelling things out for Sister Hazel. She didn’t need to explain it to Mercy. Or to me. Kacey would not be the first kid at the Southern Ohio Children’s Home who went by they/them. I was not surprised that Sister Hazel didn’t know about people having different pronouns, living in a convent with she/her nuns.
“Good thing there’s only one of them, and good thing it’s not a baby, because Mercy is out of cribs,” Sister Hazel blabbed.
“And money,” Mercy added.
“That’s nothing new,” Sister Hazel opened her big mouth again.
“I know everyone is always looking to you for help, Mercy,” Deputy Bell said.
“Maybe it’s time I sell that land,” Mercy said. She pointed past the barren field and black oak tree, toward the crooked chain-link fence and No Trespassing signs.
“The old Midlands school property?” Sister Hazel couldn’t stop butting in. She didn’t even know what she was talking about because there wasn’t a school there. I’d’ve known if there was.
“Yes. The abandoned reformatory school,” Mercy said. “We don’t use it. I’m already in touch with my cousin Meredith to see if she has legal advice to offer. The inheritance from her mom is gone—I stretched it as far as I could—and the state doesn’t cover nearly enough per child.”
I stopped rocking Calamity in her car seat and looked down the hill past the ravine where we were forbidden to ever go. All I could see were trees. There wasn’t any sign of this reformatory school they were talking about.
One of our rules at the home is that we can explore anywhere in the fields on our “going out” adventures. The former farmland used to be inhabited by Indigenous people—the Shawnee Tribe. We sometimes find their arrowheads and mail them back to the Tribe’s main office in Oklahoma. We can’t go past the ravine, which is a far walk across the field. I never thought about it. I didn’t know it was Mercy’s property.
I was thinking about it now.
“Was there any mention of payment from Kacey’s parents?” Mercy asked.
“I only spoke to their father,” Deputy Bell said. “I was the one who suggested Kacey come here. I imagine Mr. Springdale can make a small donation. He didn’t, ah …” She walked closer to Mercy so that Sisters Hazel and Constance would stop listening in on the conversation. They are so nosy.
“He didn’t know what else to do,” Deputy Bell said. “He doesn’t feel right about any of this, but his wife is having a problem with Kacey. Like I said, this wasn’t my first time visiting their house.”
I quietly took a seat in a nearby porch chair and rocked the sleeping Calamity with my foot. My legs are long, which is something I got from my momma, along with the freckles covering my whole body, which I wish she’d kept for herself. I am happy she gave me her hazel eyes though.
“Do Kacey’s parents understand that they are temporarily relinquishing their parental rights?” Mercy asked. “I’ll need them to come sign some forms. Preferably with a lawyer.”
Deputy Bell nodded again.
“Mrs. Springdale wants Kacey to go to a religious treatment facility,” she said. “Mr. Springdale’s not having it. He’s got Kacey’s back, as far as I can tell, but he feels they aren’t safe around their mother. I have to agree. Maybe you could buy them some time to sort out their issues.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Mercy,” Sister Hazel said. “All these years, and things are only getting worse. I do pray though. Lord, how I pray. Lord, have mercy.”
Sister Hazel walked back to the Ministry of Hopelessness van. From inside, Sister Constance waved goodbye with a hopeless look on her face before sliding the door closed. I know we all prayed for that van to start, which it did on the third try. The nuns drove their sad van back to County Highway J.
“Here’s Mr. Springdale’s phone number.” Deputy Bell pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Mercy.
“We’ll make sure Kacey is safe while their parents figure out the right thing to do,” Mercy said.
“Honestly …” Deputy Bell said, looking like she was finally ready to say the thought that had been picking at her brain ever since she’d stepped out of her car. “Getting out of their house will be good for Kacey. They’re a good kid.”
“They all are,” Mercy snapped.
Don’t get Mercy started, I’m telling you. She loves all children and hates a lot of grown-ups. I could tell she already wanted to hate Kacey’s mom, but she couldn’t afford to hate their parents too much.
She needed their money.

***

Kacey is unique because they’re what you call a “dumped” child. That means their parents are not dead. Most kids at the home have dead parents in the sky, from the crisis in our community.
My momma died when I was six, and I came here when I was seven. I’m eleven now, all grown up practically, even though I don’t want to grow up. Ever. I remember how scared I was when I first got here. When Mercy bent down to shake my hand, I thought she was the tallest woman I’d ever seen. She is not mean like Miss Hannigan from Little Orphan Annie, and life here is not hard-knock like people might think.
But new kids usually don’t arrive by police car.
“What’d you do?” I asked Kacey when they stormed up the porch with their backpack.
Kacey snarled at me like a rabid dog. “Exist,” they said.
None of us kids ever ask questions about before. We know to avoid a sore subject, and before is a sore subject for all of us, no matter how long you’ve been at the home. Before is a scab that bleeds every day for the rest of your life, even if you think sometimes it’s healed over.
“I hate my life,” Kacey said.
Mercy always says that using the words “I understand” is magic, because you don’t need to say any other words to help a person feel better. But, same as with saying apologies, you have to mean it from someplace deep inside or the magic won’t work.
I could understand if Kacey hated the whole world when Deputy Bell dropped them off at the Southern Ohio Children’s Home. I do not hate my life, but when I had first came to the home, I hated everything and everyone. I even hated Mercy.
“I understand,” I told Kacey. And I meant it.