Nikki picks up the cereal bowls and carries them inside. I pick up the butter dish and jar of jam and follow. Watching Nikki put the bowls in the dishwasher, wipe down the counter top—take care of the everyday things that people everywhere take care of, I don’t understand the whole “bad influence” idea.
I remember in the ninth grade, when Danni and I first started playing volleyball. Carole and Donald had warned my dad that Coach Nicholson was homosexual. They wondered if we should be exposed to someone like that. Dad said he wasn’t going to worry about what any of our teachers did in their private lives. He said Nikki was an excellent coach, and that’s what mattered. I guess they ended up thinking the same thing, because Danni’s played volleyball every single season without complaints from her parents.
“We should get going pretty soon,” Nikki says.
“Maybe . . . couldn’t I stay just one more day?”
“I wish,” Nikki says, “but both of us being teachers, Penny and I have to keep a low profile. We’ve got to be careful not to do anything that looks bad. And letting you stay here as a runaway wouldn’t only look bad, we’d actually be breaking the law.”
I think of the long, leisurely shower I had last night, and the one-of-a-kind quesadilla, and the pink room that I had all to myself, and I’ll have to go through that whole “intake” ordeal again and I can’t hold back the tears.
Between sobs I manage to gasp out, “I . . . I thought . . . I thought you’d help . . . I thought. . . I’d give you a baby.”
“Don’t . . . Please don’t cry,” Nikki says, putting her arms around me. “I’d absolutely love to have you stay here. My God! You’ve been through so much, and we’ve got that empty room just sitting there, but . . . I can’t jeopardize my whole career . . . You know?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, reaching for a napkin to wipe my nose.
“I’ll do my best to get you released to me, but for now . . .”
“What about that temporary guardian paper, like you used before when the sheriffs wanted to take me with them?”
“You weren’t a runaway then.”
Nikki looks at her watch.
“Let’s go sit where it’s comfortable. We can talk a little longer before I call.”
We go into the den, with the matching recliners facing the TV screen. I sit in one and Nikki sits sideways in the other, facing me.
“Tell me more about your baby. Are you sure you want to give it up for adoption?”
“I can’t keep a baby. I want you and Penny to have it,” I say.
Elvis comes sauntering in and jumps up on the empty couch.
“We’re thinking maybe we should give up on the idea of getting a baby,” Nikki says.
“But I thought you really wanted one.”
“Right. But we’ve had so many disappointments. We . . .” Nikki
shakes her head. “. . . this is all absolutely confidential. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“It’s not something I want spread around the team.”
“I don’t even see anyone anymore.”
“No, but you will. And even if you don’t see anyone until your ten-year high school reunion, it’s still strictly confidential.”
“Okay.”
“Before we decided to adopt, we tried to have a baby of our own with artificial insemination.”
I stand up and tap my foot against the floor, heel-toe, heel-toe.
“Foot cramp. It’s a pregnancy thing,” I explain. “But what’s artificial . . . what?”
“Insemination.”
Nikki gives me a long look.
“I’m telling you this because it has to do with . . . your offer.”
I sit back down, slip off my shoe, and rub my cramped foot.
“Artificial insemination is a way for women to get pregnant when they don’t want sperm to be delivered in the usual way.”
“Oh, yeah. We talked about that in biology. I just didn’t remember what it was called.”
“But it’s complicated. You go through all of this stuff trying to figure out your fertile period. The sperm arrives in a metal canister that looks like an old-fashioned milk can. When you open it, on that supposedly fertile day, cold steam rises out, like maybe a genie is about to appear. It’s eerie. Packed inside the big can is a little vial of precious sperm. You squirt the sperm into the vagina of the wannabe-pregnant woman, and then wait, and hope.”
I lean the recliner back, trying to get comfortable. It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to be pregnant. Foot cramps, leg cramps, back aches, constant peeing . . .
“It’s more complicated than I just said,” Nikki continues, “but that’s the general idea. It works great for some people, but it didn’t for us. First we tried with Penny, because she was the one who was craziest about having a kid. We tried three times, and on the third time she got pregnant. I was pretty happy, but Penny was insanely happy. The day after her positive pregnancy test she bought that crib and a stroller and about twenty teddy bears. We called all of our friends with the good news and started making lists of names we liked. Then at about three months she lost it—miscarried.”
“That sucks,” I say.
“It was horrible. The doctor said she might have some problem with her uterus or something, so then we decided to try it with me. We’d do the deed, following instructions to the letter, and we’d get our hopes up. Then we’d wait, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t get my period. Once I was five days late and we were sure I was pregnant. But I wasn’t. Eight tries in seventeen months. Each time a horrible disappointment.”
Elvis jumps up on my lap, what there is left of it. He stretches full out across my legs, purring. He’s got the loudest purr of any cat I’ve ever heard. Nikki laughs.
“You must be special. Usually someone has to be coming around here for years before Elvis gives them the honor of jumping onto their lap.”
I scratch behind Elvis’s ears and he purrs even louder.
“After five tries, five failures, we felt like we just didn’t want to keep putting ourselves through that kind of emotional trauma. So that’s when we decided to go the adoption route. You know what happened from there.”
“But now you can really get a baby.”
“Yeah . . . well . . .”
The phone rings and Nikki goes inside. I get up and walk around, trying to get rid of the lingering cramp. Back out on the patio, I sit with my legs stretched out straight, turning my face to the sun and closing my eyes. It doesn’t seem fair that Penny had a miscarriage when she wanted a baby so much, and I’m getting a baby when I wanted a miscarriage so much. But that’s just one little thing that doesn’t seem fair. How about Dad and Grams and Casper. Talk about unfair!
Nikki comes back outside.
“That was Penny,” she says, scooting the cat off her chair and sitting down. “It’s snowing there. I said I’d call her back in an hour. I didn’t want to talk to her about any of this just yet.”
Another phone call. This time Nikki comes back laughing.
“That was Penny again. She said, ‘I know something’s up. What’s going on?’ It’s like she can read my mind!”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her, ‘Yeah, something’s up.’ Why lie about it when she knows she’s right? But I told her she had to wait another fifty-five minutes to hear the details.”
She laughs again, then shakes her head, sadly.
“All of this has been so hard on her. She’s probably gained about twenty pounds since the baby deal fell through. ‘Feeding the emptiness’ is what her therapist says . . .”
I think the therapist probably doesn’t exactly say that. If she’s anything like Dr. K., or the psychologist in Ordinary People, she probably does that question thing. Like “Do you think you might be feeding the emptiness?”
I flash on Dr. K.’s question, “Do you think you might be in total denial about this baby?” Not now. I’m not, but . . . I turn my a
ttention back to Nikki.
“. . . on antidepressants but I’m not sure that’s helping her. I’m sad, too, and sometimes it’s easier for me to stay late at school than to come home to Penny all gloomy and depressed. I don’t think we could stand another disappointment.”
“But I’m really pregnant, not like that other person who just faked you out.”
“I know, but things happen. You could still miscarry. Or sometimes women go full term and the baby’s born dead. Or you could change your mind . . .”
“No way! All I’ve ever wanted since the strip turned pink on my first home pregnancy test was not to be pregnant and not to have a baby. I definitely don’t want a baby. And . . . I know it sounds kind of lame, but. . . . I keep thinking about how my dad always told me to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. And all I’ve been seeing for months are problems. And now I see part of a solution.”
Nikki stands up and does a series of calf and hamstring stretches, like she’s getting ready for a game or something. Then she sits back down.
“It would be complicated,” she says. “I’ve never heard of a teacher adopting a student’s baby.”
“I’m not really your student right now.”
“Well . . . we’d have to be sure to have all of the legal issues in order. Last time we were so eager to get that baby, and it seemed like such a good situation, we let some details slide by. If we’d visited the doctor with Sherry, like the adoption guidelines suggest, we could have saved ourselves a lot of heartbreak, not to mention money.”
“You can go to the doctor with me whenever you want,” I say.
Nikki nods.
“Well . . . If we can clear everything officially, you can stay here for a while. But I’m not sure about the baby thing.”
She looks at her watch again.
“I’ve got to make that phone call to the county home. Is there anyone in particular I should ask to speak to?”
“My social worker is Ms. Fenton, but she won’t be there today.”
Nikki goes inside to make the phone call and I wander over to the side of the yard, where rose bushes border the white picket fence. I think they bloom in the springtime, so there are only a few flowers left on a couple of bushes. I lean down to smell a white rose, but it has no scent. I move a few bushes up and take a whiff of a deep red rose. Wow! This is one Grams would definitely have liked. I’m caught by a sudden, sharp sadness for all they’ve missed. Dad never to plant the roses he was so excited about. Grams never to experience the fragrance of a “Wow!” rose in our own backyard. More tears. I’m so sick of crying, but I don’t know how to stop.
I’m still wiping my endless supply of tears when Nikki comes back outside.
“You okay?”
I nod.
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“It’s just . . . sometimes I miss them so much,” I say.
Nikki puts her arms around me.
“I know. I miss them. too. Sometimes during a game. I get a glimpse of something in the Grant section and for an instant I think I see Casper, sitting so tall next to your grandmother, like he’s analyzing the game.”
We laugh at that vision of Casper. That’s exactly how it seemed. Like he was watching every move and second-guessing every play.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Nikki says. “We all have.”
“I’ve really missed everyone, too.”
“I talked with your social worker. She wasn’t there, but they gave me her cell phone number.”
“What’d she say?”
“She wants you to call her. She sounds like a nice person, though.”
I nod.
“I told her I’d like for you to stay with us for a while.”
“Can I?”
“You’ve got to go back there for now. But we may be able to get things worked out.”
“When do I have to go back?”
“The first person I talked to over there said to get you back there right now. But Ms. Fenton said if you’re back by three o’clock, before the shift changes, it will be okay.”
“What time is it now?”
“It’s almost ten . . . Ms. Fenton will call the police and let them know you’ve been found and that you’ll be returning on your own. They’ll file another report, though, if you don’t show up on time.”
“Can I check my email before I have to go back?”
“Sure. My computer’s set up and ready to go in the den.”
I have hundreds of email messages dating clear back to September 20. There are a bunch from friends saying how sorry they are about Dad and Grams and Casper, and a bunch from the people Dad worked with. There are a few of the usual sicko spam things. I sort the messages by name and start on Jason’s.
For weeks after the accident he emailed every day, always asking for a response. He said he’d heard from Danni that I wasn’t doing much, or saying much, but he hoped I would email back, just a word or two, to let him know I was getting his messages. Then he emailed less often, mostly short stuff, like “Are you there?” His latest message said he was tired of emailing into a void. He hoped I was doing okay. If I ever needed help, let him know, otherwise I wouldn’t be hearing from him again.
I click on “reply” and write:
Hey Jason, :=( about not answering your emails. I haven’t been able to use a computer for weeks. And before that I was in outer space or something, like those people in Nebraska. Remember them? From that Weird World paper?
It’s kind of like I was in some weird zone for a while. Anyway,
I had this quick chance to use a friend’s computer, but this is probably it for a while.
How’s college? Do you like Iowa? I’ll email again next chance I get—L8RS—Autumn
Next I look at Danni’s messages. Hers start on October 26, two days after her mother took me to the county home.
Where are you? My mom says she took you to a safe place, and to keep you in my prayers. That’s all she’ll tell me! What happened? I’m hoping you get this. Remember, if you want to call me, Tuesday night before ten is a good time because that’s one of Mom’s meeting nights. XOXOXO
Just this past Wednesday, she wrote:
This is so weird. I’m wondering if you could possibly have been right about the whole space alien thing, and you’ve been abducted again. How else could you have just disappeared without a trace? XOXOXO
Then, from Thursday night:
Finally, I know you’re still on earth. At least I think your phone call was from earth. Where are you? Call again! :=)
I click on reply, then sit staring at the computer screen. What can I say? Where can I start? I go into the kitchen and get a banana. I’m supposed to be eating a lot of fruit whether I’m hungry for it or not. I gaze out at the back yard. It’s so peaceful here. And it smells good. And I really, really don’t want to go back to that place. I go outside for another whiff of the Wow! rose, then settle back in to my email task.
Hi Danni, Finally, I’ve got use of a computer. Where I was staying before I couldn’t use a computer, or telephone, or anything. I couldn’t even write letters. So, I’ve had a little break, but I’ve got to go back to the other place again. If I can sneak a phone call out, I’ll do that. How are things with you? I miss you, and everybody else, and I really hope I can see you soon. Say hi to everyone at the lunch table, and to Hannah, too. XOXOXO
I close my email and go back to the pink room. I’ve got $6.27 in my jeans pocket. I fold the five into tight thirds and slip it into the card pocket in Ordinary People. The rest of the money I leave on the dresser. Better here than locked in the mesh bag.
I dread going through that whole routine with Smeal again, but I know from Dericia that whenever you’re gone without permission it’s like starting all over again when you get back. I think about the lice check, and how Smeal seemed to like seeing me wince with each tug of my hair. I go into the bathroom and start brushing furiously, trying to get my hair absolutely t
angle free. It’s still going to hurt, though.
I search through the bathroom drawers and finally, in the bottom one, I find a pair of scissors. I stand in front of the mirror and take one last look at my long hair. It’s not that pretty anymore, anyway, sort of dull like my skin. Ms. Lee says it’s because I wasn’t eating very well or taking vitamins until just recently, but institutional shampoo may also have something to do with it.
I take the first cut, close to my head, then another and another. There’s a light knock on the bathroom door.
“Autumn?”
“Just a minute,” I say.
“We should go pretty soon.”
“Okay.”
I chop off the last long section and then try to even it up. It looks horrible! But it won’t hurt much when Smeal puts her fine-toothed comb to it.
“Autumn?”
“Yeah. Coming.”
I gather up as much of the hair as I can and dump it in the wastebasket, then open the door.
“Do you have a dustbuster?” I ask, walking into the den where Nikki is sitting at the computer.
“Above the washing machine . . . Oh my God!”
The look of shock on Nikki’s face confirms my suspicion that I didn’t give myself a good haircut. I get the dustbuster and go back to the bathroom to finish cleaning up. Nikki stands watching at the bathroom door.
“Why?”
I tell her about the lice check I’ll have to have when we get back.
Her eyes fill with tears.
When we back out the driveway we turn in the opposite direction of the county home.
“We’ll take time for one quick stop,” Nikki says.
A few miles south of the shopping center, we pull up in front of a Super Cuts. After a short wait, a stylist leads me to a chair and asks what I want done.
“Whatever you can,” I tell her.
She has to cut it very short just to get it even. She rubs a little gel in her hands and runs them through what’s left of my hair, giving it a kind of spiky look.
“Not bad,” Nikki says.
Not good, I think, but all I say is “Thanks.”
On the way back to the county home, Nikki tells me about her phone conversation with Penny.
No More Sad Goodbyes Page 13