Free Like Family by Paula McLain

retard.”
    That night I had a dream about the dolls. One was a vampire, its bat wings shuttling open and closed like a fan under the
     gown. It flew around the room, making swooping passes at me while the other dolls watched, blinking slowly. The lids were
     so thin I could see through them to the veins, violet and spidery. When I woke up sweaty, my heart knocking like a kettledrum,
     I felt grateful not to be alone. Penny was there in her bed, fast asleep and turned, her natty hair sprouting out of the quilt.
     She was only five and couldn’t make anything stop or go away, but she was there, rubbing her feet the way she’d done since
     she was a baby, making her puppy noises: my sister.

O N MY SIXTH BIRTHDAY our dad came to visit us at the Clapps’. He had presents for me, a huge stuffed psychedelic turtle I named Charlotte, after
     E. B. White’s book, and a copy of
Peter Pan.
He read it to us right then, Lost Boys and pixie dust, alligators with attitude. He didn’t take us anywhere but stayed for
     a few hours. We showed him the pony and the pool behind its metal fence, the big tree that dropped walnuts we could stomp
     open and eat like real food. It was a good day. As he left, he told us he’d gotten married again, to Donna, our old baby-sitter.
     He asked if we remembered her. We did. She lived next door to us in one of the green apartment buildings. She must have been
     fifteen then, with a shaggy shag and corduroy jeans that swallowed her shoes. One night, she offered me a puff of her cigarette.
     Now she was married to our dad and about to have a baby.
    “Once we get really settled,” he said, “we’re gonna come and get you. I mean it.”
    October passed without other incident, and then, in November, the Clapps threw a party with a luau theme, tikki lamps and
     pineapples and meat on sticks. For this, the pool was opened and cleaned, though no one would swim. It wasn’t that kind of
     party. My sisters and I watched the festivities from the window of Teresa’s room at the back of the house. Becky Bodette’s
     bed was still there, the spread so neat and tight it looked like a present we’d get our hands slapped for touching. We perched
     on Teresa’s bed instead and sighed. It was all so lovely, the colored lights and the colored dresses. Women we didn’t know
     threw their heads back and laughed, showing big white teeth. The men stood in herds of three and four, holding their martini
     glasses close to their bodies, even when empty.
    “I’m going to run away,” Teresa said. “I can’t stand it here.”
    I can’t stand it
was one of Mrs. Clapp’s phrases, but it sounded right in Teresa’s mouth. She was eight, and we believed her almost all of
     the time — so we took out lined paper and the chunky pencils they give you in first grade and started on the note. My handwriting
     was better, so Teresa dictated while I wrote. The letter began well. We skipped the
dears
and plowed right into
Good-bye. I am never coming back.
Then we were stuck. We argued about how to spell
terrible
and whether or not she should use the word
hell.
Penny and I would still be there, after all, and could get in trouble for her swearing. Stumped, we gave in and played Pick-Up
     Sticks instead, though we agreed the running away had been a good idea.
    The next day was Saturday, sunny and hot. By 10 A.M. the outdoor thermometer read 88 degrees, and Mrs. Clapp started filling the plastic pool. It was a baby pool with a pattern
     of fat, happy goldfish, but we didn’t care. We fetched the buckets and shovels and beach balls from the garage and snapped
     on our suits with the pink flowers, though they were much too small for us now. The poodles were out, clicking and sniffing,
     but we ignored them and looked, instead, to the few bright reminders of the night before, mango-colored lanterns and paper
     umbrellas. We squinted into the pinwheel sun, easily forgetting the runaway note and Mrs. Clapp clucking her way through