“Sorry, Patrick. Roads were blocked. Trees knocked over everywhere. Never seen anything like it,” Sheriff Vandenberg said as he pulled his hat off.
“I’m just glad you’re here now. She seems okay. But she hasn’t said a word.”
“Is that so?” Sheriff Vandenberg muttered.
“Did a tornado actually touch down?” Dad asked. He looked over his shoulder to check on the girl as the paramedic monitored her vitals. Mom stayed in the doorway with me, her hand resting on my head.
“I don’t think so. But it sure felt like it, didn’t it?”
“Should we follow the ambulance to the hospital?”
“If you want. I could question all of you down there if you don’t mind. Girl doesn’t have anyone else right now, does she?”
Dad looked up at Mom. She stepped forward, her hand still on my head.
“No. She doesn’t . . . Have there been any car accidents nearby? Maybe she survived and ran into the woods?”
“None in the last week or so. There was a white Oldsmobile that skidded into one of the guardrails on 61. But the driver was a local teenage girl, and that was two weeks ago at least. Been a quiet last month of summer, believe it or not. Well—until now.”
Dad anxiously tapped his foot. “What about missing persons reports? Children missing in the area?”
Sheriff Vandenberg shook his head. “Not in Grand Marais and nothing immediate on the wire that would match this. I can check the state database with her description. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Please do, thank you,” Dad said. He placed his fingers over his mouth, then dragged his hand away. “What does this mean for us? I hate to ask, but are we required to take care of her?”
Mom drew me in, her hands folded over my chest.
“This means nothing right now. But when child services gets involved, the state will take over. She will be questioned. Once she talks, that is.”
Dad rubbed his arms as if a sudden draft had blown on him. “We don’t mind coming down to the hospital. Part of me feels responsible for her in some strange way. North Shore Memorial?”
On the ride to the hospital, Mom kept looking over at Dad, who never once returned her glances. Instead, his hands steadily adhered to the steering wheel as if they had become a part of it.
“Patrick, that girl will get help. It just may not be from us,” Mom said coolly.
“She doesn’t have anyone.”
“You heard the sheriff. The state will take her in.”
“And do what with her?” Dad asked, still refusing to look at her.
Moni patted my hand and pressed her lips together, breathing in hard, then stared out the window.
“Find her a home,” Mom answered.
“Stella, do you have any idea what foster homes can be like?”
“There are plenty of wonderful foster homes.”
“We have a chance to do the right thing. To give her a home that has more certainty. She came to us, Stella. She came to our house.”
Mom groaned. “The right thing? This isn’t a lost puppy, Patrick. This is a child.”
“Please don’t talk to me like that,” he said sternly, then abruptly glanced up in the rearview mirror. His dark eyes focused on me as if he noticed for the first time that I had joined them in the Jeep.
Mom looked at him and then back at me. She gave one of those smiles parents give when they try to slap a bandage on whatever their child shouldn’t have been privy to.
“Isla, should we see what they have at the hospital cafeteria? You’re probably starving. Would you like that?”
I shrugged.
And then she said what all mothers say.
“You need to eat something.”
Later, after I had been cajoled into eating jiggly cafeteria eggs and drinking a small orange juice, Moni took me to walk around the hospital while Mom and Dad were questioned by Sheriff Vandenberg.
“Are Mom and Dad in trouble?” I asked.
“Trouble? Why trouble?” She folded up an extra napkin I hadn’t used and prudently tucked it into her pocket.
“Because they have to talk to the police.”
“They . . . cooperate. Police cooperate.”
“Will I get in trouble?”
“Why?” she asked, her eyes crinkling with concern.
