Give and Take

by Elly Swartz

  They are not nothing.

  They are mine. To keep. Forever.

  Batman snuggles next to my body. I hug him tight and know, in the place that holds my truth, that he understands. That he loves me. No matter what.

  I hear Bert moving around in his tub. His home. I open my Go On, Change the World! notebook, grab my purple pen, and write:

  1.  Never forget.

  2.  Don’t let go.

  I flip to a clean sheet and start a sketch of Nana from the photo she took the day I showed her how to take a selfie. She’s standing in front of her tomato plants, laughing, happiness splashed across her face. While I draw, I listen to “Up on the Roof” by Carole King. I love Carole King and this song. My boxes are like her roof. My safe place. To hide.

  Mom doesn’t understand. She doesn’t even like Carole King. She didn’t get the music gene. I got that from Dad and Gramps. Ava says I have an old person DJing from inside myself.

  Somewhere between lyrics, my anger slides, and in its place is a huge helping of you’re-the-worst-daughter-ever.

  I step into my orange slippers and tiptoe downstairs. Mom’s drinking tea and reading in the big brown oversized chair. She lifts her head and pats the space next to her. Her warmness feels undeserved. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I know.” She takes my hand in hers and draws my chin up so I’m looking right into her deep-green eyes. “But what you did can never happen again. There is no time that throwing things and yelling are ever okay.” Her voice is strong, resolute, unwavering.

  I nod.

  “What was that about?” She takes a sip of her tea.

  “Not sure. All I know is that it felt bad and I couldn’t make it stop.”

  “Make what stop?”

  “The most mad ever. It was huge. Like it should have a different name.”

  “What made you so angry?”

  “You touching my stuff.” It was like those other times, when she wanted to clean my room and Charlie tried to get his ball from under my bed. But worse. Way worse.

  “Why?”

  I shrug, because I honestly don’t know.

  We sit like this for a while.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she says as I lean against her.

  I start to cry and she wipes my tears. “Dad and I will figure out the best way to help you. The best way to make the mad go away. Together.” Then she kisses my forehead.

  I’m not sure how they can help. If they can help. But for now, I’m relieved my angry feelings have seeped out.

  I hug my mom and go upstairs. I peek into Charlie’s room. He looks up from his parade of animals. “Did you know that turtles can breathe through their butts?”

  I love my little brother.

  24

  A Mound of Scared

  I turn off my alarm and wrap my comforter around my tired body. Batman snuggles close, and I hear Bert swimming in his tub. My room feels safe. Like in here, under my covers, nothing bad can happen.

  Mom finds me in bed when I don’t come down for pancakes. “Are you sick?” she asks as she touches my forehead to see if I’m running a fever.

  I’m not sick. Or running a fever. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to lie. I also don’t want to go to school or talk about what happened last night. And I especially don’t want my mad to spill out. Again.

  She leans in and kisses my head. “It’s going to be okay. I left a message for Dr. Felger.”

  The last time I saw my pediatrician I had strep throat. She gave me medicine, and in two days I felt totally normal. I wonder if there’s magic medicine that will make my ugly feelings go away. “Can I stay home from school today?” I ask my mom.

  Her head tilts slightly to the right as she brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Your Gimme Day?”

  I nod. It’s a day I get to stay home even if I’m not fever-or-vomit-sick. Dillon, Charlie, and I each get one a school year. Charlie never takes his. Dillon always asks for extra.

  “Do you think Dr. Felger is going to need to see me?” The thought of visiting my pediatrician’s office today doesn’t feel like a real Gimme Day.

  “I’m not sure. Let’s see what she says.”

  Mom leaves my room, and I fall back to sleep until Batman licks my face and wakes me. I slide out of bed and onto my floor, reach into one of my boxes, and touch Izzie’s little yellow sock. I rub Batman’s belly, happy we’re his forever family. Then I make a sign for my boxes:

  PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH MY STUFF. DO NOT THROW OUT ANYTHING. THANK YOU. MAGGIE.

  I might not understand the anger, but when I think about anyone moving or touching my things, it’s there. Stuck to me like sap.

  I walk into the hall, close my bedroom door, and go find Izzie. She’s in the kitchen with Mom, who hands me a plate of pancakes and sits in the seat next to mine. “Let’s talk about what happened last night.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Why do you think you got so angry when I touched your stuff?”

  She waits for me to answer. To explain. But I don’t. I can’t.

  I shake my head. “Mom, not now.” The silence stretches across the kitchen table. “Please.”

  She lays her soft hands on top of mine. “Okay, for now.” She sighs loudly. “We’ll wait and see what Dr. Felger suggests.”

  When I finish my breakfast, I leave to visit Gramps. Being with him always makes everything feel less bad and less scary and less confusing. Not sure why. Maybe it’s the garden. Or the reminders of Nana everywhere.

  When I get there, Gramps is sitting in Nana’s chair on the screened-in porch, watching the cardinals and robins at the bird feeder. This month’s Celebrity Life is open on his lap. It was Nana’s subscription. Every month for the last year, he has sat in her chair and read all the pop gossip. I tell him I’m taking my Gimme Day, settle into his chair, and sketch his face. His nose is a little crooked. Left over from when he broke it playing hockey as a kid. Neither one of us says anything. We watch the birds and read and draw.

  He hands me two bowls. One filled with yellow tomatoes and the other filled with prunes. I take a handful of the tomatoes.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks after a long while. Nana used to say Gramps had some kind of extrasensory perception. Like he just knew things. Lots of things. Kind of like Charlie, but less random.

  “Not sure,” I say. Because in the place that keeps my secrets, I don’t think I’m ready to let the words go.

  “Then we can just sit. Nana used to say sitting helps.”

  So we sit.

  And sit.

  And sit.

  It kind of helps.

  “This thing happened with Mom,” I say. “She did something that made me mad.”

  I don’t tell him the mad was so big it felt like it swallowed my whole body. Or that it was followed by a mound of scared. And throwing things.

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m fine, though.” Not sure I totally believe that. “Everyone saves stuff,” I tell him, popping a tomato in my mouth.

  He nods.

  “I think it’s way weirder that Charlie collects random facts. I mean, who needs to know that for every one person there are a million ants?”

  Gramps gets up, and when he comes back, he hands me a small glass jar.

  It’s filled with six dried flowers.

  “What are these?” I ask.

  “They’re flowers from mine and Nana’s wedding, and our tenth, twentieth, thirtieth, fortieth, and fiftieth wedding anniversaries.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know really. Nana saved them. She said they made her happy.”

  “Maybe she kept them so she wouldn’t forget.”

  “That’s the thing, Maggie.” He turns to face me. “These things didn’t keep her from forgetting.” He stops as tears fill around his crystal-blue eyes. “Sometimes people do forget. Either because they’re sick, like Nana, or they’re just too little to remember, like Izzie. Truth is, life’s filled with give and
take. Details fade. Or even erase entirely. But love never leaves. It carves into your heart. It’s a forever thing.”

  25

  A Plan

  My Gimme Day is over, and my parents tell me I can’t stay home again.

  They also tell me there’s a plan.

  Dr. Felger wants me to see a psychologist. For kids.

  Today.

  After school.

  I try not to think about it as I head to art, my last class of the day. Honestly, I haven’t wanted to think about it since Mom and Dad told me last night. They came into my room with their serious faces. Then Mom told me about her conversation with Dr. Felger, who’s known me since I fell on the ice and needed stitches in my chin when I was four.

  “I know this is not what you expected,” Mom said.

  “I thought maybe she’d want to see me. Not send me off to some stranger therapist person.”

  “I get that,” Dad said, reaching for my hand. “But this is someone Dr. Felger trusts and believes is in the best position to help.”

  “You said that we’d fix this.” I pulled my hand away.

  “And we will,” he said. “But we can’t do it alone. We need guidance. Information. Resources. So we can fix it. Together.”

  As I grab my seat at the art table, I wonder when “together” started including a complete stranger. I look around the room. Mason’s across from me. We’re working on portraits. His looks like the face of a woman. Mine’s of Izzie.

  Mr. Rodriguez comes over to our table. His head is bald, his beard is midnight black, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that says PAINT ON. “I really like how you’ve drawn the baby’s eyes,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Izzie,” I say like she’s family.

  “She kind of looks like you.”

  A jolt of happiness zips through me.

  He walks over to Mason, looks at his sketch, and says something I can’t hear. Mason looks down and nods, and Mr. Rodriguez pats his back. I’m about to ask if he’s okay when Mason gets up and walks out of the art room.

  At the end of the school day, I look for Mason but don’t find him at his locker. Maybe he’s taking a Gimme Afternoon. I grab my backpack and am relieved Ava had to leave early to get her braces fixed. I haven’t told her about the mad or the boxes or the doctor. Part of me wants to tell her everything. But the other part doesn’t want to risk it. No one wants to be friends with someone who does weird stuff.

  Before I can decide which part will win, I spy Mom and Dad waiting for me outside of school, and a big fat knot worms into my stomach.

  I get into our truck, kiss a sleeping Izzie, and stare out the window until we pull into the parking lot of an unfamiliar building with a sign that says THE SPARROW CENTER, DR. MARGARET SPARROW, CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGIST.

  The plan.

  Begins.

  Now.

  26

  Meatball Sub

  When Dad turns off the engine, my body freezes.

  I’m scared.

  Scared of the mad. Scared of the doctor. Scared of all the what-ifs.

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say. “It’s dumb.”

  “It’s not dumb, Maggie. It’s important,” Mom says.

  Dad opens my door. “I know it’s hard, but it’s going to be okay.”

  “You don’t know that.” My feelings spin.

  I look at my parents. And their serious, worried faces. I know there’s no way they’re letting me stay in this truck. I uncross my arms, undo my seat belt, and open the door.

  Dr. Sparrow’s office smells like a meatball sub. Izzie doesn’t seem to notice—she’s sound asleep in her car seat. But my stomach rumbles. Lunch was hours ago. And I shared half of my peanut-butter-and-fluff sandwich with Ava. I also had one milk. Which left me with one empty carton to save for later.

  I’m sitting between Mom and Dad. Mom’s tapping her foot and playing solitaire on her phone. Dad’s humming, like this is just another afternoon together at Big Al’s Diner eating turkey-and-potato-chip sandwiches. Like I’m not scared. Or embarrassed. To talk about my box or the fight or the ugly mad.

  There’s a boy across the room with a Celtics cap and curly blond hair. I wonder if his parents and pediatrician made him come, too. The front door opens, and a girl with a long, shiny dark braid walks in. Her shirt sparkles. She sees me and gives me a weak smile. A man with a mess of hair and a blazer comes in with her, says something to the person at the front desk, and leaves quickly, with the promise to return soon. Her weak smile turns into something less happy.

  I walk over and offer her a piece of grape gum. She takes the gum and pops it into her mouth.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hunt and Maggie, you guys can come back now,” says a woman with blue hair.

  I leave the waiting room and follow the woman, my parents, and Baby Izzie into Dr. Sparrow’s office.

  When we get there, Dr. Sparrow steps out from behind her desk. She reminds me of Nana, with her strong handshake and red lipstick. Except Nana would never wear a bright-pink sweater.

  Then Dr. Sparrow explains how this will work—first she’ll have a conversation alone with Mom and Dad, then I’ll rejoin the group.

  “Do you have any questions?” Dr. Sparrow asks me.

  “No,” I say. Which isn’t entirely true, but my brain is flooded with loud bursts of I-don’t-want-to-be-here, so I’m not sure I can even form actual sentences.

  I move to another waiting room. It’s empty of people, but the wall is filled with one big quote: THE GREAT THING IN THIS WORLD IS NOT SO MUCH WHERE WE STAND, AS IN WHAT DIRECTION WE ARE MOVING. —OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

  I read it twice, then decide I don’t get it and open my phone to play Litmus. I need to answer three questions in this category correctly to pass the litmus test and move to the next level. The questions are: (1) What’s the name of the town where guitarist Lucy Billings was raised? (2) Where did rocker Mack Bates attend music school? and (3) What instrument did Lila Lu play before taking up piano at the age of twenty-two? I get them all right. Number two is a trick question. Mack Bates never even went to school for music. He majored in business and played guitar to make some money. After jamming for a year, he quit school and moved to Nashville.

  I’m about to move on to level two when I’m called back into the doctor’s office.

  Mom and Dad smile at me. I don’t smile back.

  Dr. Sparrow rolls her chair from behind the desk so that she’s sitting across from me.

  I notice a framed photo of a chubby baby in a onesie that says MY AUNTIE ROCKS.

  “Who’s the baby?” I ask.

  “Maggie, that’s not really why we’re here,” Mom says.

  And why exactly are we here? Because you think I collect garbage or because I freaked out when you tried to throw it away?

  “That’s okay,” Dr. Sparrow says. “That’s my new niece, Lacey.”

  I want to ask if she’s temporary, but I don’t.

  “Your parents shared that your family is taking care of a foster baby.” She points to the tiny human sleeping in the car seat next to Mom.

  “Her name’s Izzie. Isn’t she supercute?” I say, peeling the mint-green nail polish off my right pointer finger.

  Dr. Sparrow’s smile is real—and lovely except for the speck of meatball wedged between her front teeth. I wonder if I sweep my tongue across my teeth she’ll get the urge to do the same. But I glance over at Mom and already know that falls outside any reason we’re here.

  “Before we continue, Maggie, I want to know if you’d like to talk with me alone or with your parents here.”

  A tiny drop of me doesn’t want to be this scared without them, but the rest of me needs space. To talk. About all of it. “I think I want to do this myself.” I pause. “For now.”

  My parents get up, love and worry woven into their faces.

  “If you need us, we’ll just be in the waiting room,” Dad says as he closes the door behin
d him.

  Dr. Sparrow asks me about school, Izzie, and trap. All the easy stuff. Then she sits back and says, “Tell me about the boxes under your bed.”

  27

  Boxes Under My Bed

  “I’m not sure what my parents told you, but my boxes are just a place to keep my stuff.”

  Sort of true.

  “They’re actually no big deal.”

  Not really true. I freak out when anyone goes near my things. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

  “Can you tell me what kind of things you save?”

  I wonder if she saw me keep the wrapper.

  “Three milk cartons, five gum wrappers, three bendy straws, six rocks, three sticks, two napkins, one baby sock, tabs from two diapers, a small piece from a disposable bottle, wisps of Izzie’s hair, threads from a baby blanket, one frog binkie, a button from Bud the Bear, one gecko necklace, one scarf tassel, one yellow plastic fork, one fireworks paper plate, two butterscotch candy wrappers, and all the photos I’ve taken of Izzie.” I pause. “That’s what’s in my newest box.”

  “How many boxes do you have?”

  My mouth twists as the truth slips out. “Seven in my closet. Four under my bed. And, um.” I stop there.

  “And what?” she asks.

  I stare at the floor. “I keep things in my locker at school, too.” Tears roll down my cheeks.

  She slides a tissue box closer to me.

  “I really don’t want to do this,” I say.

  “Do what?”

  “Talk about any of this stuff.”

  “I know,” she says. “It can feel hard. We don’t have to discuss everything all at once.”

  We talk for a while about Nana and Izzie. Then she asks me, “Why do you keep these things?”

  “Why does anyone keep anything? To remember. The walk, the lunch, the game, the museum, my nana, my baby, um, my Izzie.”

  Dr. Sparrow leans toward me. “Maggie, you don’t need to save stuff to hold on to those memories. I promise that your heart and brain will remember the things that are important to you.”

  “Nana’s didn’t,” I say. Then I tell her all about Forgot-Me Day.