I was right. The first thing that I came upon was a stack of photographs, all tied up in a pink bow. I undid the bow carefully, making sure that I could retie it perfectly when I was finished. It wasn't because I was being sneaky. Mom had already told me that I was free to explore all Gram's stuff in the attic. She knew I'd take care of it, and she was right. I always put things back exactly as Gram had left it.
The first few pictures were baby pictures, and they were old. I looked at them carefully, but the baby didn't look familiar.
I have never been very good at deciding who babies look like. When our old neighbor in the city had a new baby, she asked me if I thought the baby looked like its mom or its dad. I looked carefully. I really did. But the baby didn't look like either of them, in my opinion. And she had asked for my opinion. The truth was, the mom had more hair than the baby, and the dad had a much bigger nose (and glasses). This had been one of those times when the truth can get you in trouble. I could tell I had hurt her feelings. But I didn't mean to.
When I had explained this misadventure to Gram, she had given me a way out for the next time I was put into such an embarrassing situation.
"When it comes to babies," Gram had wisely told me, "Just let the parents know that their baby is absolutely wonderful, and that will be enough."
Gram thought that ALL babies were wonderful, and I agree, so this was easy. She suggested, "Just say, I don't know exactly who the baby resembles, ma'am, but that is certainly a wonderful baby, no matter what." I tried Gram's advice, and as usual, it worked.
But there was no one here in the attic with me to ask about the old baby picture I had found. I turned the picture over. "Katherine Isabel, age 3 months", the words said in a scratchy handwriting. My heart started to beat with happiness. This was Gram, my very own grandmother, when she was a baby.
I looked at her sparkling little eyes. The picture was in black and white, and a little faded, but I could still see her pretty well. "That is certainly a wonderful baby," I said to the picture.
There were a few more babyish pictures that I guessed were Gram, too. My heart felt warm as I looked them. Toward the end of the stack, I found a surprise. There was a picture of me. The only thing was, I was wearing one of Gram’s frilly little girl dresses, one that I had tried on before. I had had no idea that Gram had taken a picture of me in it. I'm not a ruffle person, but it looked kind of cute. There was my bushy red hair, tied in a bow. There were my millions of freckles, which you could see even though the picture was black and white. And old.
Very old.
My throat got tight again. Something didn't make sense. I had tried the dresses on about a year before. Gram had been alive then, but she hadn't been running around with a camera. She hadn't taken this picture of me. The truth was,it was NOT me in this picture! My eyes were really wide when I turned the picture over, but I had a feeling by this time what I would find. "Katherine Isabel, age 12", the picture said in the spidery handwriting. This was a photograph of Gram. She looked like me. I looked like her. No wonder she had always said that I reminded her of herself. I was a clone, except for ruffles!
With the first thoughts that came to my head, I was delighted to find that Gram and I had so much in common. But the second thoughts were darker ones. Those thoughts had to do with Milton, and this afternoon, and being a chicken. I may look like my Gram, but that's where the resemblance stops. I'm a chicken. I tied the pictures carefully again with the pink ribbon, and put the stack aside.
I pushed away the sad feelings that were trying to creep up on me again. I figured I had cried enough today, and besides, I really wanted to see what else was in the trunk.
I found some rolled up papers, and when I opened them up, I discovered they were watercolor paintings, done by Gram in 1942. Each was marked and labeled carefully on the back. She had painted flowers in one picture. The colors were soft and gentle. It was very pretty. The second picture was my favorite, though. She had painted a picture of her house. Gram had lived in this house since she was a little girl. I think she loved this house a lot. The picture was painted from across the street. The house looked grand and stately, each window exactly as it was today. Even the porch swing was visible.
It was fall when she had painted the house picture, because all the trees that surrounded the house were topped with their colorful autumn leaves, just like they were today. There was a major difference in the trees though. In Gram's picture, the trees were all tiny ones, their trunks much thinner, and their branches just beginning to stretch to the sky.
I loved that picture. I wondered why Gram had kept it rolled up and stored in a big black trunk in the attic. I thought the picture should be in a nice frame, hanging on a wall for everyone to see.
Gram used to call me "creative", and told everyone that I had a great imagination. I used to love it when she bragged about me, even if it was a little embarrassing at the moment. When I wrote stories in school, she read them aloud and made a big fuss. That gave me the courage to write some more.
I wonder if anyone ever made a fuss over Gram's paintings. I wonder if she knew how wonderful and beautiful her paintings were. Imagine that, Gram was a painter!
I thought of my mom who was downstairs. Mom was a painter too, though the bucket and ladder kind. She took great pride in making the rooms in the house beautiful. That was creative, too. All of a sudden, I was a little sorry I complain about the paint so much. I mean, after all, a little paint smell isn't going to kill you, and we have other ways to remember Gram than the old wallpaper, right?
I made a sort of vow at that moment. I was going to tell Mom it was OK to paint my room (she had been begging, and I had been giving her a hard time). In fact, I was even going to volunteer to help her do it. Yellow, maybe, like the sunshine, if she thought it was a good idea. And then, I was going to show her these great watercolors and ask her if I could frame them and hang them on the wall of my room. Waking up and seeing these pictures would be like having a memory of Gram to look at every single day. Now THAT was a happy thought. For now, I rolled the papers up carefully again, and then I put them aside, excited to dive back into exploring the black trunk.
Next, I found Gram's old report cards (whoops, she did much better at math than me!) and some old photographs of Gramps and Gram when they were young. Gram had told me the stories many times, and although I had never met my Gramps, she had made him so real, his picture looked dear and familiar to me.
They had been high school sweethearts, and married right after they graduated. Gram's parents had been older, and they had retired and moved into a little place, giving the house to Gram and her new husband. Gramps was a reporter, first for the local paper, and then for a big daily paper in the city. He loved the international news.
When soldiers were being sent to war (Gram said it was the Korean War), the newspaper editors sent him overseas to interview the troops, and to report back on what was happening there.
He went, and that was that. Gram was informed by telegram that he had been killed in the action. Later, some Army officers came to the door. Every time I think of this, the idea is so sad it is unbelievable. Gram said it was the worst day of her life. I remembered how she got tears in her eyes when she spoke of it.
My mom was just a baby at the time, so she had never really known her father, except through Gram's great stories. Since I never knew my father, either, I know how hard that is.
Of course, Gramps was a sort of hero, and my dad was..not. No stories are told about my birth dad, but if they were, I have a feeling they would not be the type of stories you would want to spread around. Mom can't stand to talk about him, but she promised that when I'm a little older, she'll tell me about him.
Gram never married again, but she often said she wished my mom would. I wish it, too. I'd love to have a father, if he was a good one. I'd like him to be kind and caring and interesting like Gramps.
When I put the pictures aside, I made a real discovery. I found the magic box. Of co
urse, at the time, I didn't know it was magic. It was metal and round and ordinary looking, like a cookie tin. The container had a swirl of colors painted on the top of the lid. Taking a deep breath, I opened it carefully. Somehow, it just felt important.
The box was almost empty. The round tin held a tiny blue glass bottle, about two inches high. The top was closed with a cork, and there was no label on it. There was a little white card beside it, lying on the shiny tin bottom of the box. I picked it up and read it.
"To whom it May Concern," it began, in little, tiny, neat print. "This bottle contains a magic potion that is guaranteed to render the user invisible for exactly three minutes per use. Directions: Apply three drops to each wrist, and rub wrists together.
Warning: This product is to be used only for good purposes, never for evil ones, and can be used a maximum of five times per user."
Yeah, right. Invisible. Magic potion. Good one, I thought to myself. But I kept staring at the blue bottle. Wouldn't it be neat if-
Mom started calling me at that very moment. I heard her voice from downstairs. "Dinner's ready!"
"I'm in the attic, Mom," I yelled down the steps. "I'll be right down."
Carefully, I began reloading the black trunk. Watercolors, pictures, went right back into place. I stared at the colored tin for a minute, and then with a giant sigh, I stuffed the blue bottle into my jeans pocket. Then I replaced the tin in the trunk, shutting the trunk lid. Magic or not, it would be fun to imagine about it.
I clammered down the attic steps, and flipped the light off, leaving the attic in darkness. When I opened the door to the upstairs hall, the smell of paint filled my nostrils like a wave. A second smell mingled in. Meatloaf for dinner. I loved meatloaf. I took the steps down two at a time, heading for dinner, my hand caressing the magic bottle in my pocket every once in a while.
Chapter 5
Sunday nights are a calm time at our house. When dinner was done, and the clothes were folded and/or hung up for the week, we relax. Mom had washed the brushes, and put the paint cans away, and I finished the dishes.
I told her my plan about a yellow bedroom, with Gram's watercolors on the wall, and Mom looked so happy I thought she would cry. Funny thing, it doesn't take much to make Mom happy. I ought to try it more often.
I still had a little homework to do (yes, math, don't rub it in), and I decided to do it on the front porch. Mom wanted to watch television, so she went into the back room.
The porch was cool and wonderful at this time of day. The sky was still light, but it wouldn't be for long. Looking next door from my spot on the porch, I saw that Mr. Davis, Danny's father, had come home, parking his van in the driveway. A few minutes later, Danny’s dad came out the door with Danny's bike. He put it into the back of the van, and drove away. It's funny how guilt is. I felt guilty about that bike, even though I wasn't the one who ruined it.
I concentrated hard on my math to block out the thoughts of Danny's bike. My strategy worked. I figured out the math problems. One good thing for the day. Actually, there had been more than one good thing. I closed my eyes and thought about the neat pictures in the attic. I thought about the blue bottle in my pocket. Even if the idea of being invisible wasn't true, it was fun to think about.
Being invisible could really be an asset. Today, if I was invisible, I would have bounded right off this porch and pulled Danny from Milton's reach. I wouldn't worry about Milton deciding to torture me in school. I wondered if you felt pain when you were invisible. I decided that you would not. After all, it's my imagination, and so I can make up the rules. That's the great thing about imagination.
While I was happily contemplating the many changes invisibility would bring to my life, Mr. Davis returned in the van. He opened the door, and out came the bike. Good as new!
I took a deep breath, totally impressed. Wow. What a dad. On the bike, I saw a new tire instead of the Easter egg one, and the handle bars looked perfect. This was a man who could get the job done.
I looked closer. There was a difference, though. The training wheels were gone. The banana seat bike was now a two wheeler. Danny had a bit of work to do!
Danny came to the door, and I could see the delight on his face. I could also see the bandaid on his knee, and the one on his elbow. I felt good and bad at the same time. Life seems to be a lot like that lately.
"You got the bike fixed, Dad! Thanks!" He plastered himself to his father's right leg. Mr. Davis picked him up and gave him a hug.
"The bike's all fixed, kiddo. And the guy took the training wheels off, like you wanted. Are you sure about this?" His dad looked uncertain. He ran a hand through his hair.
"Yep. I'm gonna learn to balance, dad. You'll see."
"Well, you practice, and I'll be out later. I'm going to go eat my dinner. Just be careful, and holler if that bully comes by again."
He looked over and saw me on the porch. "Are you Isabel?" Mr. Davis smiled as he spoke. I nodded, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot, knowing they were probably fire engine red.
"Thanks for helping Danny today, Isabel. I really appreciate you keeping an eye out on him."
"Sure, Mr. Davis," I mumbled, my head in my math book, like I was interested in fractions suddenly. Everyone in that house thought I was wonderful. Of course, they didn't know the truth.
At least, they didn't know the past truth. The future truth would be different. My lesson was learned. I would protect Danny from this day on, whether it was from Milton, or from men from Mars. More than anything, I wanted to deserve Mr. Davis’ thanks.
Mr. Davis went into the house for dinner, and I pulled my head out of the book. I had to fight the urge to invite him over for leftover meat loaf, but I knew that Mom would kill me. "Mind your own business, Isabel."
So I turned and watched Danny instead. It's amazing how much courage little kids have. It's amazing how they try and try and try again. I watched Danny climb up onto the bike, and push off to make it roll. I watched him wobble and fall. He did it again and again. Every once in a while, I thought he was getting the hang of it. But balance is a funny thing. You almost have to DO it, in order to feel what it is you are supposed to do. I felt bad for him, but he seemed to be handling it really well.
I remembered how I had felt when I first learned to ride a two wheeler. I remembered how glorious and exciting that first balanced ride had been. Gram taught me how to ride. She stood on the sidewalk, calling out encouragement and suggestions, as I doggedly did exactly what Danny was doing. I learned right on the same sidewalk, too, which was a coincidence.
I remembered how, when I was almost ready to give up, Gram ran along side of me, apron flying, giving me a last bit of balance until I built up enough speed to keep going. I have never forgotten that.
Danny was just about at that point, now. He had the hang of it, but not the speed. He was ready to roll, but his dad wasn’t back out yet. The poor man was probably just getting ready for dessert, after a long day of painting and going to the bike store.
A little thought came to me. First it was like a little speck in the back of my mind, and then it began to grow and grow. What if I helped Danny, the way Gram helped me? The thought made me excited. But the excitement immediately dimmed. What if Danny got scared when I helped him? I mean, he didn't really know me at all. I was just the big dumb frizzy red haired kid who lived next door.
I really wanted to help him, though. I just didn't want to scare him to death. I thought of the bottle in my pocket, and I started to giggle. Of course it wouldn't work. There was no such thing as magic, only in Gram's (and my) imagination. But wouldn't it be fun?
I pulled the little blue bottle out of my pocket, and uncorked it. There was a clear liquid inside. Was there any harm trying it out? Gram would never have kept anything dangerous. It was almost like a scientific experiment. In the name of science, I had more or less a duty to try it, right?
I put three drops in either wrist, the way the instructions had said. It was ok to make a fool
of myself, here on the porch. After all, no one could see me do it.
"No one could see me" was right. There was an instant tingling sensation in my whole body. I stepped down the steps, not sure what I was going to do. Danny came by, trying to peddle the bike with one foot, and keep his balance with the other. Of course, this is not the way to ride a bike.
Danny was next to me, looking right at the place where I stood. "Hi Danny," I said softly. He didn't even notice. He didn't see me. He didn't hear me. I was invisible. Awesome. I could feel my heart hammering with excitement.
He started to pick up a little speed, but not quite enough. He put his second foot on the pedal, but he was wobbling like crazy. I stepped behind him, and started to jog, one hand on the banana seat of the bike. Danny picked up speed, his little feet peddling like crazy.
"Wheeeee!" He let out a whoop of delight as he got the hang of it. I let go of his bike seat, out of breath after about a half a block. He kept going. Pretty neat. He was riding a bike. He was proud. I was proud. It was a great moment.
He stopped, and turned the bike around to come back. I hurried behind him again. One, two, three, off he went. He only needed my help a little bit, this time, which was a good thing, because according to my calculations, my three minutes of invisibility were about up. I jumped back up onto the porch and plopped in the swing, and almost instantly, the tingling feeling came. I was back again.
"Isabel, Isabel," he called from the street, looking up to see me. "I can ride, I can ride! Did you see me?"
"I sure did, Danny," I said proudly. "You're awesome!"
He smiled, and rode up the block again, wiggling only a little. His dad came out the door, smiling from ear to ear. "Good boy, good boy!" he called excitedly, watching Danny's progress.
"I'm awesome!" Danny called back, his face in an impish grin.
"You sure are! Come on, time to put the bike away. This is a day to celebrate. How about we go get an ice cream cone?"
Isabel the Invisible Page 3