Suddenly, outside, with no warning at all, a huge crash of thunder exploded and rattled the windows. The living room dimmed, and through that dusky light, Jasper and I peered at each other, side by side on the sofa. The sounds of rain filled the room, a regular spatter on the pavement outside and the sharp plinks and pings of drops hitting the metal roof above the chimney.
I wiped away the tear, and then gave a little laugh. “If it’s raining, it must be lunchtime,” I said.
“Huh?” said Jasper.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s an old thing my dad used to say. He swore that summer storms always happened exactly when he was about to leave work for a lunch break. He said it was a curse in Georgia—that it always rains here at the worst possible moments.”
“Really?” said Jasper.
“Of course not really,” I said. “It was just my dad trying to be funny. He used to be the king of bad jokes. Dorky TV-show dad, like you said.”
Jasper didn’t laugh. “Leah, I’m sorry I opened that door. . . .”
“It’s really okay,” I said. “I promise.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think it was. I didn’t mean to do that. I never would have. . . .”
“It’s really, really okay,” I said. “It’s just a door, Jasper. You opened it. That’s what doors are for. I think it’s actually a good thing. Maybe.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded and looked her straight in the eye. “I swear, Jasper. I mean it.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But I’m still sorry.”
“You know what?” I said. “I hate it, the secret. If that’s what it is. I hate how things are here. I hate the door being shut, and that my mom and dad don’t talk about it. Him. Sam. They’re silent. They closed the door, and turned into ghosts. So we don’t talk about anything real. I’ve forgotten how, I think. To talk. Not just to them, but to everyone. At school, I was a ghost too, the last year. Like I floated along and couldn’t find a way to speak or be with anyone. It’s hard to talk about it, with people who knew him, and also hard not to.”
“You don’t seem like a ghost now,” said Jasper.
“The thing is . . . ,” I said, “when it happens, death, people actually stop making eye contact with you. Did you know that? Your friends, even your best friends. Like with my—with Tess, whose house we walked past, remember?”
Jasper nodded. “Yeah.”
“It wasn’t like she wanted to ditch me. I don’t think she meant to do it. It was just like she didn’t know how to talk to me anymore. After being friends all our lives. Nobody did, nobody who’d known Sam. Even your teachers stop calling on you in class. It’s like they’re afraid the sadness could rub off on them, or something. As if that could be true. As if there’s any way that talking to someone for a few minutes, and acting normal, could do . . . this to a person.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s . . . a lot.”
I nodded again. “Yeah, and then after a while, you forget how to make eye contact too. So that when people try, you can’t do it anymore. Even people you love, your best people. It’s awful.”
“I can imagine that,” said Jasper.
“You know what else? My parents, they even . . .” A few tears rolled free, slid down my cheeks as I glanced at the mantel over the fireplace. I wiped at them quickly. “They even took down his pictures. All of them.”
“Why?”
“I guess they just couldn’t handle seeing him every day. When he wasn’t coming back. I don’t know what they did with the photos, but it’s killing me. I can’t find him anywhere. I can’t . . .” I shook my head.
“What?”
“It’s like I’m starting to forget his face. I close my eyes, and I can’t see him.”
Jasper shook her head. “That’s terrible, Leah. You don’t see a therapist or . . . your rabbi, or anything?”
I shook my head and rubbed my nose. I wasn’t looking at her anymore. I didn’t mind talking about it, but it felt clunky, uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure how to do this.
“We aren’t really Jewish like that,” I said. “We don’t really have a rabbi. And I did see a therapist, for a minute,” I explained. “For a few weeks, at the beginning. But then Mom and Dad went back to work, and the appointments got hard to schedule. Nobody could drive me, and they had a fight—well, like a tense quiet argument, a conversation, about whether I was old enough to take an Uber alone to the therapist’s office. Mom said no and Dad said yes, and I think they just couldn’t handle fighting, so they dropped it, and I got a kitten instead.”
“No!” said Jasper. “A cat? That was their solution? Seriously?”
I nodded, and then I couldn’t help it, I smiled a little. Because it sounded so ridiculous. “Seriously. But it was actually kind of a good thing, because when people don’t talk to you like a normal person anymore, it’s nice to have a kitten. To talk to.”
Jasper looked horrified. “Tell me they didn’t name the kitten after—”
“No!” I said. “Oh, God, no, can you imagine? My parents aren’t that clueless. The kitten is called Mr. Face. He’s a cat now, and he’s fine. Mostly he stays outside. But he’s fuzzy, and he sleeps with me. I love him.”
“Well, kitten or no kitten,” said Jasper, “you should be seeing someone, Leah. You need to see someone.”
“What makes you say that?” I said. “Do you . . . see someone?”
“Not . . . just now,” said Jasper. “But I know about therapists. Trust me. I could tell you some stories. . . .”
Then she paused. There was a funny look on her face, as she stared out the window, and for a second, I thought she was going to actually tell me the stories. Whatever they were. But then she stood and stretched instead.
“Hey,” she said. “It seems like the rain is pretty much over. So maybe I should go home before it starts up again. I can just take my nightshirt damp, and let it hang to dry. Cool?”
It wasn’t at all. It was the furthest thing from cool. In that moment I wanted to push Jasper back down on the sofa, trap her with the red blanket. I wanted to say that it was fine she had opened the door to Sam’s room. I wanted her to know that she didn’t have to tell me her stories if she didn’t want to. That she could have her secrets, whatever they were. I wanted her to know that it was enough just to sit together and watch movies. I wanted her to stay with me. I didn’t want to be alone again.
Instead I nodded. “Cool.”
So Jasper ran to grab her nightshirt, and the rest of her laundry, from the office. Then she left, walked out the front door, and down the porch steps. I stood in the doorway and watched her go. Thinking that I hadn’t even gotten her number. Why hadn’t I gotten her number? But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to call out to her now. It felt wrong, to ask for more.
When Jasper reached the street, she turned back and gave a friendly nod. “Bye, Leah,” she called. “And thanks. For everything!”
“Anytime!” I shouted back in the most normal, casual tone I could muster.
But I meant it. Truly. I meant anytime. I meant any time at all, do not hesitate. I meant please come back soon and sit with me and talk to me, like I’m still a normal person. I hoped she knew that, as she turned around and walked away down the street. I watched her fuzzy red hair until she turned onto Hemlock and disappeared from view. Then I stood a little longer, staring at the empty street, at the spot where Jasper had been.
Until suddenly, at my feet, Mr. Face appeared. He popped out of the overgrown azaleas that choked the porch and trotted over to me with a limp mouse hanging from his teeth. He carried the mouse lightly, gently, and when he reached me, he laid the mouse down on the mat at my feet and gave a mew. As if to say, I know you were talking about me. See, I’m not useless.
“Thanks,” I said to Mr. Face, examining his gift. “Thanks a lot.”
I waited there like that for a minute, feeling the muggy poststorm air heat up around me, feeling the steam rising from the sidewalk and t
he street. I looked at the dead mouse at my feet, and I tried to take it all in. The open door to Sam’s room, the insane pajamas I was still wearing, which were way too hot for today, Jasper, and Mr. Face. It felt like a story I was reading or a movie I was watching. There were too many pieces to the story, and I couldn’t quite take it all in or make sense of it.
Then Mr. Face turned and darted away, back into the azaleas, and so I reached down to gather up the mat at my feet, with its sad limp mouse. But a strange thing happened.
The mouse woke up.
It gave a little shake, a shudder. Its nose twitched, and a moment later it sat up on its haunches and looked around. I swear that half-dead mouse stared at me.
“Hi,” I said, startled.
The mouse blinked.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s a miracle! I thought you were a goner for sure, little guy.”
The mouse didn’t answer. It turned and ran off, raced across the porch and jumped between the spindles, then down into the piles of dead leaves that nobody had bothered to rake for a year.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t magic that had woken up the mouse. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation. The mouse hadn’t been dead in the first place, only stunned. But it felt like magic. Anyway, it felt like something. And maybe just being alive, and a little brown mouse—able to sit up, twitch your nose, dash into the old dry leaves—maybe that was magic enough.
The Actual World
I didn’t go back to the farm for a few days after that. I wanted to, badly, in hopes of seeing Jasper there. But when I woke up each morning, I felt too nervous, almost sick to my stomach. I’d said so much to Jasper, after not saying anything to anyone for so long. It felt like I’d emptied myself, like I was an eggshell without the egg in it. On top of that, I’d cried, in my too-small ugly yellow footie pajamas, and I felt . . . ridiculous. As badly as I wanted to see Jasper again, I was a little afraid of what would happen when I did. I was so full of feelings. I didn’t think I could bear it if she laughed at me.
In one part of my brain—the part that remembered watching Harry Potter together, sharing breakfast, laughing and talking and sprawling on the couch—I knew that the day had been fun, and easy. But another part of me could only think of how it had ended, with her sudden departure. And so each morning, I stayed in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, rubbing my nervous belly, and hoping that Jasper might just show up on my doorstep, smiling her big smile, and fix everything.
But of course, after a while, my nervous belly would turn into a hungry belly and growl at me for a bowl of Cheerios. Then I’d get out of bed, eat, take a shower, and pull on some clothes. And once I’d done all that, I was surprised to discover I wanted to do things. For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t enough to just sit around. I didn’t do anything special, really. Just regular everyday things. Like, one day I decided to rake the leaves out of the flower beds in the front yard all by myself, and mow the lawn. It felt good to stretch and sweat, even though I ended up with blisters on both hands. The next day, I swept the porch clean, and watered the few pots of half-dead plants that had been sitting there all year, unattended.
On Thursday, I baked a pan of brownies. I didn’t make them from scratch or anything. Just plain old brownies from a box. But I stirred in a handful of chocolate chips and a handful of pecans, and the house filled with the most wonderful smell. I took them out at exactly the right moment, so that they were still a little undercooked and gooey, and I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be if Jasper happened to stop by in time for warm brownies. She didn’t. Still, they were perfect. So I sat at the kitchen table, all by myself, and ate two brownies, with a big glass of milk. And after I was done, I decided I was being silly, and worrying too much. If Jasper wasn’t going to come for a brownie, I’d have to take the brownies to her.
Carefully, I wrapped up two big squares in tin foil and slipped them into a tote bag. I dug an old sippy cup out of a cabinet, filled it with milk, and snapped on the lid. Then—with a twenty in my pocket, house rule!—I left, taping a note to the door as I closed it behind me. I had to write the note out a few times to get it right. I kept accidentally putting in too many exclamation points. At last I ended up with:
Dear Jasper,
I had to go out for a while, but I want to see you again, and I don’t know where you live. I’ll stop by the farm, but if you come here, leave me your number or address, or call me (404-555-4447). There’s a pencil in the mailbox!
Leah
When I arrived at the farm, there was no sign of Jasper. I searched everywhere I could think of, up the creek and down. I checked the swing and the garden, with no luck. Finally, I stood there, brownies in hand, feeling gloomy, and figured I’d just have to go home.
Then I looked around me. There was the bright green hill of high grass and the red clay bank of the creek. I heard a trilling birdsong I didn’t recognize in the trees over my head, and noticed a hill of fire ants, busy at my feet. All around me, the world was happening, and it seemed wrong to go home so soon. Jasper wouldn’t go home, would she? I thought. And it was true. What would Jasper do?
She’d go somewhere. She’d do something. I wasn’t sure what, but something. I was sure if it. So I did another thing I hadn’t done in a long time: I left the neighborhood. I took Mercer back out to Woodland and started along my usual path, but after a minute, I headed east. I waited at the light and, when it changed, made my way across the four crazy lanes of Moreland Avenue, into East Atlanta Village.
I walked slowly, peering in the windows of all the businesses, where people were talking and shopping and bustling around, and it was fascinating, like watching TV almost. I’d walked this same street a thousand times before, of course, but after weeks alone, everything seemed so busy. The cars passing by felt faster and louder than I remembered them. Each time a door opened and someone stepped out onto the sidewalk from a store or bar, music trailed after them into the street. A different song every time.
As I pulled open the door of the coffee shop, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to Joe’s. I tried to think back, and what I came up with was Sam in this place, with hot chocolate or lemonade, depending on the season. How many times had we sat here together on the worn-out sofa, while Mom ran to the post office or the copy shop? Sam making annoying sounds at his iPad, and me pretending not to know him in case someone I knew came in.
The memory made me wince a little, but I sat with it anyway, until it went away. And then it felt good just to sit under the big ceiling fans, sipping my drink and watching all the people doing the things people do. People typed on laptops and read books. A man in an armchair was knitting, and there was a mom beside me on the couch, whispering into her phone, with a baby asleep on her lap.
After a little while, two high school kids came in and sat down across from me. They pulled out a deck of cards and started to play some complicated game I couldn’t follow, but when they caught me staring, one of them smiled at me, and that made me blush. I could feel it. So I finished my mocha quickly, drained the very sweet thick last sip, as I stood up and headed for the counter.
“Thanks, beautiful,” said the man at the register when I slid my glass over to him. “You make sure to have a great day, okay?”
It was the first thing anyone had said to me all afternoon, and I wasn’t entirely expecting it. But his voice was kind and warm and rich, and his eyes were sort of smiling at me too, crinkling up at the corners in a nice way.
“Oh!” I said. “Thank you. I’ll try.”
“That’s all you can do,” he said.
Suddenly, I had an idea. I reached into the tote over my arm, took out the silver packet of brownies, and set them on the counter. “I made these,” I said.
“For me?” said the man.
I nodded.
“Well,” he said, “it’s my lucky day.”
“Mine too,” I said with a smile. And though I wasn’t sure why, as I left the coffee shop,
and heard the bell jingling behind me as the door closed, I had the strangest feeling—almost like a knot that had been tied tightly inside me was suddenly loosening all on its own.
When I got home, it was later than I’d realized, and I found my dad sitting at the kitchen table. He was eating a large brownie and staring absentmindedly at his phone. He glanced up quickly when I opened the door. “Oh, hey, Leah!” he said guiltily. “Don’t tell your mom I spoiled my dinner.”
I laughed loudly, without meaning to. It just seemed really funny for some reason. My big dad, feeling guilty over a brownie. As if it mattered whether he ate a brownie. “My lips are sealed,” I said, grinning at him.
Then he smiled too. “Hey, did you make these?” he asked, raising his brownie. “They’re really good.”
I nodded, wondering where else he thought they could possibly have come from. “Yeah,” I said. “I had a craving.”
“Well, thanks, sport!” He took another bite, and disappeared back into his phone.
So I headed through the house to the front door, to take down my Jasper note, thinking that I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me sport.
The next day, after my usual lazy morning and a late breakfast of cinnamon toast, I decided to head back into East Atlanta again. I thought maybe I’d go to the library after the coffee shop. But this time, as I was heading along Woodland toward Moreland, I looked up and saw a tall thin woman with short brown hair. Inside my chest, there was a sudden rush, a flurry of feathers.
“Bev!” I choked out as we almost bumped into one another. “Hey. How’s . . . Tess?”
“Leah, hi,” she said. “How are you, sweetie? We haven’t seen you in forever. You should stop by the house sometime soon.”
“Oh, I . . . well, I guess I’ve been busy. I didn’t know you were back from New York already. That was a quick vacation.”
Bev looked confused. “Yes, we just went up for a week this year. We came home early because . . . well, have you not talked to Tess?”
My Jasper June Page 5