by Cynthia Lord
“I should have guessed that holidays are probably extra hard for him,” Mom says to Libby. “Seeing all those families together.”
“But aren’t we his family now?”
“You don’t forget people you love, even when you don’t see them,” Mom says. “Though in some ways it might be nice if he could have a visit with his mother. It’s easy to remember only the good parts of people if you never see them. Real people are much more complicated.”
Hmm. I turn to stare at the doorknob of the screen door.
“Maybe Tess will play Monopoly with you.” I hear a kitchen chair scraping as it’s pushed back.
Oh, glory! I jump over the porch rail to the ground. I don’t want Mom to catch me eavesdropping, and I sure don’t want to be stuck playing hours of Monopoly with Libby. Racing around the corner, I cut it so close that I graze my arm on the wood.
Touching wood is usually lucky, but this time it hurts, too. Though I don’t mind too much, because I need every bit of good luck I can get right now — even if it comes with some scratches. Holding my elbow to my chest, I open our front door and slip inside.
Mom said it herself — maybe it would be a good thing if Aaron could see his mother. Then he could find out that she’s not only made of the good parts he remembers. And his mom can see that he’s fine with my family and how we can give him things she can’t or maybe doesn’t want to. When Gilly first saw her biological mom again, she wanted to change her mind. The same thing will happen for Aaron, I’m sure as certain. Like Mom said: Real people are complicated.
I head for Aaron’s room. It’s weird to think I used to go up to the attic whenever I wanted and now I have to knock. No one answers, so I open the door. But when I climb the stairs to the attic, Aaron’s room is empty. His suitcase, his trumpet, his music stand, and the photos on his dresser are gone.
Out of breath from running hard, I’m relieved to see his red hair. Aaron’s sitting on his suitcase on the little scrap of beach beside the ferry landing. His trumpet case rests on the sand at his feet and he’s wearing his leather jacket, even though it’s past seventy degrees out. He doesn’t even glance at me as I walk over and lean against the big rocks beside him.
“Why are you down here on the beach?” I pant the words out.
Across the water, the ferry has left the mainland wharf and is about a third of the way to this island, its bow pointed toward Bethsaida.
Aaron frowns. “I don’t want to talk to anyone on the wharf. I want to sit here all by myself until the ferry shows up and then go home.”
“It won’t work,” I say gently. “The ferry captain won’t take you over across without calling Dad first. An island kid can’t just get on the ferry by himself with a suitcase and not have to answer some questions.”
“I’m not an island kid.”
A winged shadow sweeps the sand. I look up to see an osprey soaring past, barely moving his wings, carried on air.
Aaron picks at the handle of his suitcase with his fingernail. “No one’s going to decide things for me anymore. I’m getting off this island and going home — even if I have to swim!”
I give him a tiny smile. “Salt water will ruin your trumpet.”
He glares at me — a look I’ve only ever seen him give to Eben.
The corners of my lips fall. “I’m sorry. You’re right. There’s nothing funny about this.”
A lazy wave comes up the sand. Aaron moves his things backward, away from it, but I point my toes to touch it. The water comes fast, circling my ankle before shrinking down the beach, rolling a clump of seaweed with it. A tiny white crab scuttles sideways on the wet sand, making footprints so light I can barely see them. He scurries past a fray of red-and-white rope, some kelp, a little green lobster band, and —?
A button.
It’s not much, but I want to give Aaron something. Before I reach down to pick up the button, I walk around it clockwise — once, twice, three times to take away any bad luck leftover from the previous owner. I go around one more time to put some good luck in.
The button was probably gold-colored once, but salt water has worn the shine off the surface and the tiny wreath of leaves circling the front. I shake it in my closed fist to bounce the sand away. “Here,” I say, holding it out to Aaron.
He doesn’t take it.
I lean close enough to drop it into his jacket pocket. “I made it lucky for you.”
He reaches into his pocket, and I hold my breath, half-expecting him to hurl the button away. Looking down at his hand, he runs his thumb over the button’s tiny leaves. “I just want what you have, you know. My own family. Even if it’s not perfect — it’s mine.”
He drops the button on the sand, like it’s trash. “They didn’t have to take me away from my mom. I could’ve taken care of her.”
Looking down, I feel discarded by him, too. “You were Libby’s age.”
“I could’ve tried! And I’m older now. I don’t need as much as I did when I was little. I could help her out more.” He nudges a clump of rockweed at his feet. Underneath is a cluster of purple-blue mussels, still tightly closed. Reaching down, he untangles one from the seaweed. “I don’t know why I can’t even see her. I mean, how could that hurt anything?”
“Did you ever finish your letter back to her?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve tried, but I have to know for sure that she’s okay and ask her if she’s going to try to get me back. I can’t write that in a letter. I have to see her.”
I glance toward the ferry, close enough now for me to see separate colors: the blue hull, white wheelhouse, and the red benches on the upper deck. I’ll never talk Aaron out of this. As long as he has that string of hope dangling that he’ll be happier with his mother and that she’ll be everything he’s missing, we won’t ever be enough.
When I turn back, Aaron is heading for the water, his arm crooked, holding a pile of mussel shells against his ribs.
I move his suitcase and trumpet farther up the sand, out of reach of the incoming tide. “What are you doing?” I ask, hurrying to catch up to him.
“I’m saving these from the seagulls. They don’t have to die.” At the water’s edge, he throws a mussel. It skims the surface before slicing into a wave. He pitches another, farther out.
I swallow hard. “I was thinking about the talent show —?”
He throws another mussel, harder. “I’m not playing for any island thing ever again!”
“Not even if your mom came?”
He pitches his next mussel, but not as far out. His shoulder closest to me lifts forward.
“That show is open to the public,” I say.
When he turns, I pretend the sun is in my eyes. I feel terrible that I’m setting him up to be disappointed in her — but it’ll be a good thing in the end. “She could just show up. Nobody here has met your mom — well, except you, of course. If she came, everyone’d think she was just a tourist coming to watch the show.”
“I don’t want Mom to get in trouble.”
“Don’t you think she’ll get in more trouble if you show up on her doorstep?” I ask.
He looks down at the mussels still piled against his chest. His hair swings forward, hiding his face. “I don’t even know if she has a doorstep. She didn’t say in her letter if she has a house or an apartment or if she’s living by herself or with other people. I’m afraid if anything bad happened to her, no one would even tell me.”
“Natalie has never mentioned your mom to me,” I say gently. “So it can’t be breaking a rule for me to invite her, right? You could give me her address off the letter she sent, and I could write her and give her the details. Then if she shows up —”
“She will show up,” Aaron says firmly.
“Then you can see her and she can see that you’re okay and no one needs to know or get in trouble.”
He looks out at the ferry, close enough that one of the passengers waves to us. “You’ll give her all the details about the ferry?” A
aron asks. “I don’t think she’d know how to get here.”
“Sure. I’ll send her a ferry schedule and a map.”
“Can I play whatever I want at the show?”
I nod, holding my hand out for a mussel. “Anything at all.”
He puts one on my palm. I run my finger over the shell, wiping the sand away. Aaron throws his last mussel far into the water. “Okay.” He turns and walks back up the beach.
As he picks up his suitcase and trumpet case, I throw my mussel into the water after his, as hard as I can — so far I barely see the splash.
“Today’s your lucky day, little one,” I whisper.
Alone at my desk, I pull forward a sheet of paper.
Dear Ms. Spinney,
You don’t know me, but my name is Tess Brooks. I am Aaron’s
I put the top of my pen in my mouth and slide it slowly across my teeth. I don’t want to say “foster sister.” It sounds second best.
I get another piece of paper.
Dear Ms. Spinney,
Hi! How are you? Your son, Aaron, lives with my family on Bethsaida Island in Maine.
The “lives with my family” sounds like he’s renting a room here. But if I said he’s in my family, would she get mad since he’s her kid, too?
I don’t think the right words have been invented for this situation yet. I didn’t realize how hard this letter would be to write. I feel a bit grumpy with her, too. She hurt him.
But I can’t scare her out of coming. I move my pen down to the next line.
Aaron is a good great trumpet player. He’s also helping me with my boat and learning how to go lobstering without throwing up.
Why’d I bring that up? I drum my fingers on my desk. Then I get a clean sheet of paper.
Dear Ms. Spinney,
Hello. My name is Tess Brooks, and I am eleven years old. Your son, Aaron, came to live with my family several weeks ago. He would like to see you, but it’s not allowed.
I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea. We live on Bethsaida Island in Maine, and we get lots of tourists here in the summer. So we’re used to seeing strangers on the ferry and walking around the island.
We have an island talent show on August 15th at 2:00 pm at the parish hall, and if you came and sat in the back of the audience and maybe called yourself a tourist (which you would be, since you don’t live here — so it’s not technically lying), Aaron could see you and you could see him. And no one would get in trouble.
He wanted to run away to see you, and I think you’ll agree that’s not a good plan. So maybe this could work out?
Sincerely,
Tess Brooks
P.S. He’s playing his trumpet in the show for you — he’s really, really good.
P.P.S. I’m enclosing a ferry schedule and a map of the island with the parish hall marked.
P.P.P.S. Could you also wear a little disguise? Just in case? Nothing too extreme (like a false mustache) but maybe sunglasses and/or a wig?
I write the address on an envelope and fold up my letter small enough to fit. If you write your wish beneath the stamp on a letter, the letter will carry the wish with it. Without even pausing to think, I write under the stamp:
Please come.
Summer is short and changeable in Maine — like the weather can’t make up its mind. One day it can be ninety degrees, so hot in the sun that rivers of sweat trickle down my spine and my rubberized hauling pants stick to my skin wherever they touch it. A week later, it can turn so chilly and foggy that I’ll need jeans and a sweatshirt. The talk at the store is always the weather and the Red Sox — starting with whichever one is doing worse.
Because summers are so short, each day feels extra urgent, like you’d better grab it and enjoy it before it slides away into fall and winter again. Slow down, I want to say, to keep time from going too fast. I don’t want to think about how it’s almost August already.
Like the weather, I feel like I’m just waiting to see what’ll come next. Eben hasn’t caused any new problems, but I don’t trust him. And I mailed Aaron’s mom’s letter three weeks ago, and she still hasn’t written back. “Don’t worry,” Aaron keeps telling me. “She’ll come.”
“Aha! Now I’ve got all the railroads,” Libby says one stormy afternoon, grabbing the stack of Monopoly property cards to hunt for the last railroad. “And you haven’t got any.” She stretches “any” extra long.
I cross my arms. “Of course I don’t have any railroads if you’ve got all of them. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”
Libby and I have been sitting on the living room floor long enough that my back is starting to hurt. I can stand for hours on the boat and not feel it, but sitting’s a different story. Dad and I’ll fish in the rain and even in the fog, but heavy wind or lightning keeps us ashore. So when Dad said, “Not today,” about fishing, Mom said it “would be nice” if I’d play Monopoly with Libby instead. “And let her be the banker,” Mom said. “It’s good math practice for her.”
When Mom says something “would be nice,” it sounds like you have a choice, but really you don’t.
I blow on the dice for luck and roll an eight. Libby is winning because she has all the yellows: Marvin Gardens, Ventnor Avenue, and Atlantic Avenue, and she’s closing in on the reds. All she needs is Kentucky Avenue and then she’ll have that whole side of the board. When Libby was littler I used to let her win, but now she does it on her own.
I have Boardwalk, and if I can get Park Place, I might be able to turn this game around. Picking up my tiny ship, I move eight spaces to Chance.
Chance and Community Chest are tricky, because you’re as likely to get bad news as good. I pick up the orange card. Libby twists her head, trying to see underneath. Putting my hand across the bottom, I lift up one corner to peek myself. The bald Monopoly man is smiling. Whew. “Bank pays me fifty dollars!”
Libby frowns, giving me a blue fifty from the bank. She rolls the dice and makes her little dog stomp down the board so hard the small green plastic buildings slide off their colored bars.
“Hey, cut it out. You’re making all my houses shake.”
“It’s an earthquake!” Libby slides her token around the Just Visiting corner at the jail and lands firmly on States Avenue.
“Ding-dong! It’s the landlord calling!” I tell her. “That’s mine. You owe me ten dollars.”
I hold out my hand for it, but Libby is looking over my shoulder toward the kitchen door. “Wanna play?”
“No,” Aaron says. “That’s okay. You’ve already been playing awhile.”
But his voice has a little twist of “maybe” in it. I pick up the stack of properties. “That doesn’t matter. We’ll start you with some property and some money so you can catch up.”
“Don’t give him the last red one,” Libby says. “I’m saving up for when I land on that one.”
“That’s the first one I’m giving him.” I lay some piles of money and the rest of the property cards, including Kentucky Avenue and Park Place, across the board from me. “Aaron, you have to play. Otherwise, I’m sunk.”
He sways a little in the doorway. His chest seems to be saying yes, but his feet are saying no.
Libby picks up the extra tokens. “Do you want to be the hat? Or the boot?”
Aaron wrinkles his forehead. “What boot?”
From the surprised look on his face, I don’t think he’s ever played Monopoly before.
“Yeah, they’re kind of weird. But you pick one of these tokens,” I explain. “Libby’s always the dog and I’m always the ship, but the rest are up for grabs. Usually, you go around the board and buy any property you can or you want. You have to land on it to buy it. Then when another player lands on that property, they have to pay you rent. We’re just giving you some property to catch you up, though.”
“And if you land on a railroad, you pay me two hundred dollars!” Libby says. “That’s because I own all of them.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch
Aaron step toward us. “Why’s the dog bigger than the ship?” he asks.
“It’s a toy ship,” Libby says.
“It is not,” I say. “It’s a real battleship and I’m the captain. You have a giant dog.”
“Who would want to be an iron?” Aaron asks, turning the tokens over.
“If you don’t like these, we have other games that have people tokens!” Libby offers. “You could be one of the gingerbread boys from Candy Land!”
“I’ll be the race car,” Aaron says, grabbing up that token.
“Start here on Go. Then you roll when it’s your turn.” I hand the two dice to Libby so Aaron can watch us go first.
Libby counts up the dots on her roll. “Five!” She stomps her dog down the board to Tennessee Avenue.
“Aaron has that.” I show him where the rent is located. “You owe him fourteen dollars, Lib.”
I roll and owe him twelve more for landing on Virginia Avenue.
Aaron rolls a five.
“It’s my railroad!” Libby sings. “Pay, pay, pay!”
“Is she always like this?” Aaron asks me as he picks up two hundreds.
“Sometimes I’m worse!” Libby grins.
As we play, I’m afraid to let myself be happy — like if I smile or think too much about this moment, I’ll ruin it. We’re doing something all together, all three of us kids. And it’s fun.
When it’s my turn, I land on Chance again. I pick up the orange card and shield it from Libby’s eyes.
“‘Go directly to jail.’” I plop my ship on the corner space. “Good. I’m staying in jail as long as I can. It beats paying rent to Libby.”
A shadow falls on the board, and I look up. Dad is standing in the living room doorway, holding a yellow envelope in his hand. “This came for you, Tess.”
I hear Aaron catch his breath. I can barely move.
“When you write back, tell the Hamiltons I say hi, okay?” Dad says.