Up from the Blue

by Susan Henderson

  “Why do you tuck me in every night if you’re so tired?” I asked.

  “So every night you’ll go to sleep remembering that your mother loves you,” she said, opening our book. “I want that to be your last thought of the day.”

  When she neared the end of the chapter, I felt so drowsy, the cup slipped out of my hands and crashed to the floor.

  “It’s all right,” she said, setting the book aside. “It’s still good.”

  I leaned over the edge of the bed, the floor blurring, as she picked up the cup.

  “See?” she said, calming me. “Only the handle broke. I think I like it better this way, don’t you?”

  She opened my hand and set two rubies in it. I tried to smile, but I needed to lay my head down.

  “Thatta girl,” she said, stroking my hair.

  I closed my eyes, thinking of rubies and the fantastic five-sided donut. It seemed everything was about to get much better.

  3

  The Sooner the Day Ends

  WE DISMANTLED THE HOUSE, little by little, emptying the bookshelves, cupboards, and closets, trusting all would reappear, unharmed, on the other side. Phil was allowed to wrap breakables, rolling them in newspaper. I was in charge of clothes, sofa pillows, blankets, stuffed animals. We packed when we were finished with our homework and while we waited for dinner. Dad packed whenever he took a break from his work and then again after we went to bed.

  Momma was rarely up during the day anymore. Sometimes she’d wander down the hall to use the bathroom or walk through the room and drop something into a box. After, she might sit at the very edge of the cushion on the couch, staring forward, her eyes glazed like she’d cry if she weren’t so tired. Dad no longer tried to involve her, and we didn’t either. She would sit there and eventually get up and return to her room. I no longer pleaded with her to stay because I knew we’d have our tuck-in time. And somehow we put all of our hope into the move—that things would be better once we were in the new house. The new house was where we’d begin again.

  Steadily, the music and decorations disappeared. Dad used the end of the hammer to pull nails out of the wall, though the holes remained. And last of all, the day before we moved, he unstuck our blue front door, using a putty knife to break the seal. He was touching up the paint along the edges when his secretary pulled up.

  Phil and I peeked from the open doorway.

  “Go on and say hello,” Dad said, pushing us down the walkway to greet her. “You remember Anne.”

  I did. Anne kept a candy dish on her desk at the weapons lab, and she wore sweaters and jewelry that matched the holidays. She’d once worn a little Santa pin with a small red light bulb for a nose. If you pulled the string, it lit up, but Dad told me not to pull it.

  Anne stood by the curb in her very ironed skirt, her hair just above the collar of her blouse, so groomed she reminded me of a store mannequin. She shook Phil’s hand; then she turned to me.

  “You’re getting so big,” she said. “You must be almost seven by now.”

  “I’m eight.”

  “Oh, don’t wrinkle your nose at me,” she said. “Some day you’ll be glad to look so young for your age.”

  She reached for me with both arms and before I knew it, my cheek was pressed against the belt of her skirt. I held my breath and tried to stay calm. Dad told me I had to get used to being hugged, but it made me feel cornered. I kept my eyes open wide and my shoulders hiked up to my ears as her belt dug into my cheek. And when it seemed I might smother to death, I pushed back from her, gulping air and rubbing the side of my face.

  Anne laughed a weird, high laugh, and my father chuckled once but at the same time gave me the look that meant, Be nice.

  “I’ll get those papers for you,” he said, and headed back down the walkway toward the house. When she followed, he told her, “The house is full of boxes. It’s a real mess.”

  What he meant was that she should wait outside, but she went right in and began sniffing the air. “Is everything okay in here?”

  It was a smell I noticed when I returned from school, but it gradually disappeared the longer I was home, especially when Dad shut Momma’s door.

  “I’ll open some windows,” he said, weaving between the cardboard boxes to reach the nearest one. “I’d hoped to be further along. I’m scheduled to pick up the U-Haul tomorrow morning and plan to be on the road before dinner.”

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “Some neighbors are going to help with the furniture. I don’t anticipate needing anything else.”

  “Well, if you do, just ask.”

  “Dad, I’m hungry,” I said.

  “Tillie, just hold on. I need to find where I put my briefcase.”

  “Would you like me to find something for you to eat?” Anne asked me and walked toward the kitchen.

  “No, no, please,” Dad said. “Tillie needs to learn to be patient.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “Really, I don’t mind.”

  She found a loaf of bread on the counter and took out a slice, but after opening several empty cupboards, she found nothing to spread on it. Phil had been standing stiff like a wooden soldier as Dad and Anne scurried around him, but he suddenly turned toward the hallway, his cheeks growing pink.

  Momma was out of the bedroom. It was so rare to see her during the day, and as she came around the corner, it was clear she’d dressed in a hurry—lipstick freshly applied but her hair uncombed. Her dress, while pretty, was pulled from the bottom of the hamper. She was barefoot and marching straight for the kitchen.

  “Want me to do a load of dishes, Roy?” Anne asked, unaware that Momma had walked up right behind her. “I can—”

  “May I help you with something?” my mother asked.

  Anne startled at the sound of Momma’s voice, and Dad looked up from the box he’d been searching in and rushed to the kitchen, a slight panic in his eyes.

  “Anne is here to pick up some documents,” he said.

  “From our kitchen?” Momma asked.

  “No, of course not. It’s just that Tillie was hungry.” He turned to Anne. “She’s been under the weather,” he said in an attempt to explain Momma’s appearance.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Harris.”

  “I’m certainly well enough to ask you to stay for dinner,” Momma said, and my brother and I exchanged looks of surprise. We knew very well that she didn’t like company, and it had been weeks since she sat at the table with us.

  “Really. I couldn’t impose.”

  “She just came for some documents,” Dad said. “I’m sure she has other plans. The moment I find my briefcase—”

  He tried to catch Momma’s eye as if to relay some secret message, but she turned away from him and toward Anne with an odd sort of smile on her face. “I absolutely insist we have dinner together,” she said. “I just need a little time to get ready. Maybe everyone could go for a walk around the neighborhood to give me a few moments.”

  “If we’re going for a walk,” Phil said, “we could bring my pennies to the bank.”

  He kept an old Goober’s jelly jar on his desk where he saved the pennies he found, as well as those Dad emptied into it at the end of each day. Whenever the jar was full, we walked to the bank so he could trade them in for silver dollars.

  “Well,” Anne said, putting her hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Who could say no to an invitation like this? A trip to the bank and dinner with such fine company? I’m going to have to say yes.”

  And suddenly everyone had agreed to something I wasn’t sure any of us thought was a good idea.

  I walked on my heels through our yard while we waited for Phil to come out of the house with his jar.

  “Won’t you be chilly without a jacket?” Anne called.

  I shook my head, and later, during the stroll through base, I kept to the patches of sun so she wouldn’t catch me shivering. Phil’s jar of pennies clanged each time he took a step. He kept perfect beat.


  “Come on, Tillie. Keep up,” Dad said.

  I zigzagged behind them. Unless I watched my feet, I couldn’t walk a straight line.

  We passed the movie house, the bomb-proof buildings you couldn’t enter without ID, the enormous hangars, and runways that reflected so much sun you had to shield your eyes.

  I had always felt pleased with how well I knew my way around, and I liked the smiles and laughter I received from strangers when I went by—though I was never sure what was so funny.

  We passed the playground where the kids on summer vacation chased each other up the monkey bars, pumped high on the swings, and pushed the merry-go-round so fast they could barely jump on. I longed for Momma to take me there, and she had said, Maybe one day.

  When we got to the bank, we stayed just inside the entrance as my brother got in line between the velvet ropes, never once touching them, as I would have. I tried to catch his attention so I could remind him to get me a lollipop, but he kept his eye on his favorite teller. Even if all the other tellers were free, he’d wait in line to see the one person on base who still treated him like a kid.

  “Should I be concerned about you, Roy?”

  I turned my head toward Anne, who put her hand on Dad’s wrist and then promptly removed it.

  “There are some problems right now,” he told her. “But things will get better once we move.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not my business,” she said. “Only if you want it to be.”

  I heard the sound of pennies being poured from a jar, and knew Phil was now at the window. He stood with his chin against the counter. The teller held up one pointer finger as if he were about to sneeze, and after a dramatic lead up, he did sneeze, and a silver dollar fell out of his nose. He did this again and again until Phil’s shoulders jiggled because this stranger would keep it up until he made my brother laugh.

  “That’s awfully thrifty of you to save all those coins,” Anne said when Phil had joined us again with his roll of silver dollars and his nearly empty jar. Then, laughing, she added, “But you might want to rinse them in some hot, soapy water when you get home.”

  I pushed between them, trying to see if he was holding anything besides coins. “Did you get me a lollipop?” I asked.

  He moved the roll of silver dollars to his other hand and dug in his pocket. “Here. You can have mine.”

  It was green, the flavor neither of us liked, but with no other flavors to choose from, it would do. I took it and tore the wrapper off with my teeth.

  “You’re a real gentleman,” Anne told him, a compliment I was certain she meant as a scolding for me. I thrust the lollipop into my mouth and danced out the door and along the curb of the sidewalk.

  “Be careful, Tillie,” she said. “You’ll choke.”

  “No I won’t. Watch.” I hopped on one foot to prove my point, but Dad swatted me on the behind, and we headed for home.

  We walked past the perfect rectangle houses, stopped at driveways if cars pulled in, and saluted the men who stepped out of them. Soon, our blue door came into view and I wondered, as I often did when I approached my house, what I’d find inside.

  I half expected to smell mushroom chicken cooking, but when we opened the door, there was only the same odor that seemed to bother Anne so much, although this time, rather than scrunching up her nose, she had the most unusual grin on her face, as if she had just won a game of some sort.

  Momma had spruced up. Her hair was combed and she’d finished putting on her makeup. She wore a pretty pair of heels and had squirted herself with perfume, though it was clear she hadn’t had time for a bath.

  “Welcome back,” she said. Her voice sounded put on, as if she were pretending to be one of the officers’ wives she disliked so much. She tucked her hair behind one ear, and once we were all inside she said, “I’ll go start dinner.”

  “Would you like me to help you put something together, Mrs. Harris?” Anne asked.

  Momma shook her head, shooing us with her hand, but Dad followed her into the kitchen.

  “Here,” he said, and pulled a pan from the lower cupboard. “Let me cook some spaghetti.”

  “I can do it,” Momma said, then whispered, “I can make spaghetti. Please.”

  “Let me help you,” he said.

  “Just sit down in the living room.” She stared directly into his eyes as she took the pan from him. Then suddenly smiling at the rest of us she added, “Everyone relax in the other room. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Phil went first and sat tall and stiff on the couch. I slouched beside him, swinging my legs, staring at the room, stripped of its life—all but the dolls Momma had made, which peeked their heads out of the cardboard boxes.

  “I’m happy to give you a hand,” Anne shouted occasionally toward Momma, but there was no answer—only the sound of her lighting the gas burner and filling the pan with water.

  “I’m sorry for causing such trouble,” she said to Dad.

  “It’s no trouble,” he said, but when I listened closely I could hear Momma sniffling in the other room.

  Dad searched again for his briefcase, making more noise than necessary to drown out the sounds coming from the kitchen. When he finally found it right beside the chair he’d been sitting in, Anne smiled, trying not to laugh.

  I kicked my feet to pass the time. Usually when Momma made dinner, we just found something at our placemats—a bowl of cereal, a sandwich and chips, an avocado sliced in half with dressing where the seed had been. This would be something if she cooked a hot meal and sat down to eat with us.

  Phil sat expressionless while Dad wound his watch, and Anne studied something on her blouse. “I have to learn not to wear light colors,” she said, dusting her hand across her bosom. “The red clay gets on everything.”

  It seemed for a moment that my father and his secretary were the only two in the room. Their smiles were long and strange, my father’s face an embarrassing pink.

  “Dinner.” Momma’s voice broke as she spoke this single word, standing in the center of the room with oven mitts over her hands and her shoulders trembling.

  We sat at the table as Momma brought out the pan of spaghetti, then a jar of sauce, which she opened and poured in without stirring. We served ourselves, and Anne asked, “Would you like me to make a side of vegetables or some garlic bread for—? Mrs. Harris, are you all right?”

  Momma sat quivering and staring at her empty plate. This was no longer something that alarmed our family—Momma not eating or speaking. Sometimes she tapped her nail over and over on the edge of the table, no sign of life in her eyes, and you knew the reason she didn’t answer you was because she wasn’t there.

  Dad stared at Phil and me and mouthed, Eat.

  We tried to hurry the spaghetti into our mouths, but it was slippery, falling off my fork, slapping Phil’s cheeks. Anne, with a worried expression on her face, did the same. We didn’t bother with drinks, and no one asked for seconds.

  When we had finished eating—in fact, at the very moment when Phil, always the slowest eater, put the last forkful in his mouth—Anne rose cautiously.

  “Well,” she said, straightening her skirt. “I know you have a busy day tomorrow. I should take those papers I came for and get on my way.”

  Momma stood too, collecting the dishes and bringing them to the sink, while Dad, red-faced, walked with Anne into the other room. He unlocked his briefcase and passed her documents with the word confidential stamped in big red letters.

  I ran to be with Momma, tugging on her dress and telling her, “I’m ready for bed.”

  “Bed? But it’s still light outside.”

  “Please, Momma. We’ll read.”

  She gave me a tired smile. “If I tuck you in now, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night.”

  “I won’t. I’ll sleep the whole way through.”

  “I don’t know, Bear.”

  “Please. I want to know what will happen in the book. Then I’ll go right to slee
p and I’ll stay asleep.”

  “Okay. If you promise. The sooner this day ends, the better.”

  “I promise. I’ll wait in my room for our story.”

  “All right,” she said, putting the kettle on. Her voice was tired. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.” And she reached into the cupboard for my ruby cup.

  Before I got to my room, I could hear all three grown-ups in the living room—the hard-to-believe thank yous for dinner, talk about the busy day ahead, hopes that Momma would soon feel better, and finally, the latch closing on our front door. As I waited for Momma, I skated in sock feet over the shiny wood floor, brushing my hand against the walls. In the kitchen, there was the sound of plates clanking into the dish rack and my parents arguing in low voices. My father said, “Pull it together,” and I moved to the far end of my room until their voices disappeared. There, I opened the lid to my music box so the plastic ballerina would turn in circles with me.

  When I heard the whistle of the kettle, I hurried into my nightgown and under the covers. Momma took slow steps into my room and handed me my drink carefully so it wouldn’t spill. Then she sat, slumped, on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking. “I’ll just sit here tonight,” she said. “We’ll read tomorrow.”

  Alice in Wonderland was turned upside down on the night-stand. We had one chapter to go. I chattered about Alice and ballerinas and a new hole in my sock. She placed her hand on me. “Sh. Enough talking now.” She was crying, and when her tears fell on me, she gently rubbed them into my skin. “It’s been a long day, Bear,” she said.

  She handed me the cup filled with bright orange liquid, an ice cube melting inside of it. I felt the rough edge where the handle had broken off, listened to the ice squeak and crack as I took tiny sips. My eyes never left her.

  She sat there, trembling, trying to keep it in, but soon covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Mascara and the ivory base she used to coat her skin melted down her face and between her fingers.

  “Don’t cry,” I said out of habit, though I loved how she was so full of emotion. She was like the beautiful women who cried on the movie screen, the scenes you remembered even after you forgot what the rest of the movie was about.