Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess
Page 5
that there’s nothing so precious
as a kindred spirit
and a place to call home…
that we need one another…
that words are magical…
and that it’s possible—more than possible—
to survive the depths of despair
and come out strong.
I look up from the page.
She learned all this
from one book?
I re-read her message
write back
Have you ever been
in the depths of despair?
“Oh yes,” Iris says.
She struggles from her recliner
crosses the room
still tethered
to her oxygen tank.
She crouches to peer
at the bottom shelf
of a bookcase
picks through her collection
of hard-bound journals
slides a blue one
from the shelf.
We trundle down the hall
settle at the kitchen table
with a tin
of oatmeal cookies.
I remember their message
—you’re strong enough
you can do this.
Iris opens the journal
turns pages gently
thoughtfully.
Many are filled
with her handwriting.
Others display bits
of this and that
—newspaper clippings
ticket stubs
photographs.
She slides the open journal
across the table
nods at the newsprint clipping
taped
to the page.
It’s an obituary.
I skim the words
Thalia Gillan
survived by her twin sister
Iris.
Iris has a twin?
Or, had a twin.
I swallow hard.
On the page next to the clipping
is a bulletin
from the funeral service.
I’m sorry
about your sister
I say.
I ask if she has more family
but she doesn’t understand.
F-a-m-i-l-y
I fingerspell slowly
add a question mark
with my expression.
She shakes her head
sends me to the living room
for the brown journal.
I retrieve it
and she flips pages
shows me an old photo
of a man
in a military uniform
two dates underneath
—birth
and death.
Iris pulls the spiral notebook
from her apron pocket.
We were eleven when we lost him to the war.
Mother died soon after—perhaps of a broken heart.
Thalia and I were raised by our grandparents.
They’re long gone, of course.
I still miss them
but I miss Thalia the most.
Chapter 16
Yellow poster paper
permanent black marker
on my bedroom floor.
I draw a family tree chart
like the one Mr. Tanaka showed us
as an example.
It only takes a minute.
Most of the poster
is empty space
—I should’ve made my chart bigger.
I fill in names and birthdates
for my grandparents
but the lettering
is dreadful
—leaning one way
then the other
Grampa’s last name squashed
to fit in a too-small space.
No wonder
Olivia’s in charge of lettering
whenever we do projects
together.
My hand slips
fumbles the marker
leaving an ugly black streak
where my uncle’s name
should be.
Argh!
In a flash
I slash black lines
across the stupid yellow poster
again
and again
destroying
my lousy project.
I tear it into quarters
shove
scrunch
smash the pieces
into the wastebasket.
Then I step back
take a breath
stare
at what I’ve done.
I feel sort of better
and sort of worse.
And I’ll need a plan B.
I start daydreaming
aiming to think about a new way
to tackle my project
but my mind wanders
thinks about Iris instead.
My gaze lands
on the well-loved book
she gave me
reminding me
of the depths of despair
and I realize
Iris hasn’t only been sharing books.
She’s been sharing stories.
It seems like a good time
to tell her a story
of my own.
I glance around my room
hoping an idea
will leap up.
I pull out a sheet of paper
choose an orange fine-tip marker
don’t know what to write
so I draw butterfly weed
—tiny blossoms in bunches
like clusters of stars
twinkling their way
along all four sides
of the page.
It’s a bit like a wreath
which reminds me
of the centerpieces
which leads to another thought
I don’t especially want
to think.
My tiny family
is changing.
I begin to write
orange words for Iris.
Concrete poem in the shape of a coniferous tree
I
have
to make a
project for school
telling my family history
my family tree
which is mostly Mom and me.
Part of my heart wants more names
to list on my project and part of it wants
my family to stay exactly the way it is forever.
My mom and I are a two-person team.
I’m afraid adding a stepdad and two stepsisters
will be like adding Jennifer Blister to our team and
someone is going to get hit with the ball and knocked
out of the game—lose their place—and our team will never
be the same. And yet two
is a very
small
team.
I uncap a green marker
add long skinny leaves
to the butterfly weed
then put down the pen
read my story
to myself.
Every time I try to get excited
about the wedding
and having a bigger family
something inside me closes up
like a fist grabbing tight to something
hanging on fo
r dear life
so it doesn’t get lost.
One person is important
on a team of two
but one can almost disappear
when there are five.
I fold the paper once
twice
three times
then tuck it in the drawer
of my nightstand.
Chapter 17
The For Sale sign stuck
in our lawn
now has a Sold sticker
plastered across it.
I knew Mom accepted the offer
but that sticker
means I can’t deny it
any longer.
We have to be out
by the end of June.
Mom says the timing
is perfect
but any time you lose your home
is the opposite
of perfect.
After the wedding
Mom and I are supposed to move
into Alan’s house
which is the dumbest thing
I’ve ever heard.
Alan lives blocks and blocks
from Olivia’s
—sixteen, to be exact.
His house has no garden
no window seat for reading
and everything
is painted beige.
Ugh.
Today we’re there for dinner.
Family Night
Mom calls it
as if Alan and the twins
are actually related already.
When I come in the door
one twin grabs my left arm
the other twin grabs my right arm.
They lead me upstairs
through a doorway
into a drab office.
They’re babbling away
pointing at me
the room
me again
then doing some crazy happy-dance.
My mom appears in the doorway.
What do they want?
I say.
They’re showing you
your room.
Huh?
Alan’s going to move his office
to the basement
and convert this
into a bedroom for you.
I want my old room.
I can’t imagine this puny office
being home.
The plain curtain hanging
at the small window
moves in the breeze.
I cross the room
lift the fabric
peer outside
at the smallest patch of grass
ever
and not a single
wildflower.
You can’t call that
a backyard.
The twins
dash out of the room
and Mom tells me it’s time
to make dinner.
Homemade pizza
my favorite,
but I’m not
going to admit that
to Alan.
In the kitchen
Bethany has already managed
to spill sauce on the counter
and Kaitlin
sends a red pepper bouncing
across the floor.
I shoot Mom a look
that says, You want to be
part of this?
She sends a look right back.
Behave yourself
or else.
Okay.
Make the best of this.
What did Iris say she learned
from that Anne book?
That good can come
out of hard things?
I’m going to get pizza
out of this chaos
so that’s something.
I wash the battle-worn pepper
chop it into chunks
pile it on
over the pepperoni.
Enough
Mom tells me.
Not everyone loves peppers
as much as you do.
If I love red pepper
I should love it
extravagantly.
Mom raises her eyebrows
repeats the sign
Enough.
I toss another handful
onto the pizza
glare
at my mother.
Stop it
she says.
What’s wrong with you today?
My signs are harsh
angry.
Nothing’s wrong with me!
It’s them!
From the corner of my eye
I see them watching
—Alan frowning
Bethany and Kaitlin
wide-eyed.
Remorse pricks at me
like thorns
but I can’t help myself
words rush
from my hands.
They don’t like peppers
don’t like flowers
don’t even like color
—look at this place!
Beige everywhere!
I can’t live here.
This isn’t home. It will never
be home.
Chapter 18
If Olivia and I
were friends right now
I’d tell her how rotten I feel.
I’d tell her how my temper
got away from me at Alan’s house
except it might remind her
of when my temper
got away from me
with her.
So instead
I’d tell her how I hate
that Alan and his pesky twins
are taking Mom away
from me.
I’d tell her how my family changing
scares me
makes me mad
mixes me up.
I did tell this story once—in orange marker.
The folded-up page I wrote for Iris
still hides
in my nightstand.
If I can’t tell Olivia
I’ll tell
a rainbow goddess.
I grab the paper
slip down the hall and outside
dart past the maple tree
and drop my story
through the mail slot
in Iris’s front door.
Chapter 19
I should be on my way next door
but after another
no-best-friend day
I need a book
and my spot
on the window seat.
I curl up
find my page
in the Anne book
read how desperately Anne hoped
for a best friend
—a bosom friend—
and instead of feeling better
an empty spot grows
inside me.
I finish the chapter anyway
(because how could I not?)
then I take my empty self
to empty more shelves
and fill
more boxes.
Iris hands me her spiral notebook
open to a page
she wants me to read.
Thank you for your story.
I myself am rather afraid of change
of letting go of the person I am
in favor of the person I’ll become.
When you’re in the midst of a good story
it’s hard to remember
there are more wonderful tales to be told.
I look up
unsure what to say.
Iris points to the notebook
twitches her index finger
telling me
to flip the page.
How’s your project going?
A short laugh bursts from me
making Iris smile.
Terrible
I say.
Maybe I’ll try using the computer
for my project
so the lettering will at least
be legible.
If only Olivia and I
could work together.
If only Olivia…
Did you ever have a
b-o-s-o-m f-r-i-e-n-d?
I ask Iris
fingerspelling slowly. I’m not sure
what exactly bosom means
but it still seems
the perfect word
for what I need to say.
Iris smiles. “A kindred spirit, you mean?
Like Anne and Diana?”
Exactly like that.
Iris points to one of the bookshelves
where a small framed picture
rests
nudged up against colorful spines
—the Harry Potter series
all lined up.
She’s read those?
I gesture at the familiar books
point at Iris
eyebrows raised.
“Wonderful stories,” she says
then jiggles her fingers
directing me back
to the photo.
Five women
on a pier
arms around one another’s shoulders
laughing.
I lift it from the shelf
hand it to Iris.
She presses it to her heart
pulls it away
smiles softly.
“The Five Firecrackers,” she says