Up from the Blue

by Susan Henderson

  As I panned the store, my eye stopped on a sandy-haired girl who had paused at the entrance to turn one of the book racks. It was not until I saw the one-handed lady move her along to the next store that I was sure who it was.

  “Anything else?” Momma asked again.

  I pointed to the stacks of Ribsy and Ramona the Pest in the children’s section. “Hope likes these,” I said.

  “Hope?”

  I was so curious about the books with girls my age on the covers and the ones Phil used to tell me about, with words like “dumb” and “snot” in them, but no one expected me to read those anymore.

  In the checkout line, I turned to my mother’s favorite chapter in my new book.

  “Oh, is that a sight,” a woman in line said, approving.

  My jaw hurt from what had been a long day of pretend smiles, and I worried, as we stepped back into the glass elevator, that when the door opened we might continue shopping.

  “Do you think maybe we can go home now?” I asked.

  “Oh. Well, I guess we could.”

  The bags were heavy in my hands and I did a quick count. “Aren’t we missing one?”

  She gave a hurried look at what we carried and sighed, “What can you do?” We’d shopped so mindlessly that we couldn’t remember what was in the missing bag or be bothered to retrace our steps.

  • • •

  The air in the mall was icy, and I wished my hands were free to rub my shoulders and warm them. As we headed through the exit, I heard someone shout behind us. Momma kept going, but I turned to find Hope.

  “I thought that was you,” she said.

  We stood on either side of an automatic door, which buzzed and clicked, trying to shut itself. The cold air blew against my kneecaps while the humidity hit the backs of my legs.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Shopping.”

  “Me too.”

  The doors buzzed again as my foot swept back and forth on the pavement, pushing a rock of tar with one side of my sneaker and then the other.

  “That’s my mother,” I said, pointing across the parking lot, remembering they’d never met. Momma adjusted the bags in her hands, continuing toward the car. I worried if I took too long, she might leave for home without me.

  When Hope didn’t say anything else, I said, “You should come over some time.” But even as I said it, it was clear too much time had passed and we would not play at each other’s houses again. The friendship was lost forever, maybe lost long ago, but I’d only just become aware of it. I pushed my thumbs through my belt loops, feeling hot behind the knees and itchy from bugs.

  Hope leaned slightly to one side, holding her hands behind her back, then placing them on her hips. We stood there saying nothing at all to each other, though I tried desperately to think of something because I didn’t want to leave just yet.

  Finally, the one-handed lady emerged from around a corner and called, “Time to go, Hope.”

  I had never gotten a good look at the stump before. It was only the slightest hint of a hand—a wrist, and three bumps where fingers might have formed. Seeing it straight on took away my fascination of it, and my eyes soon wandered to the denim purse she carried on that arm, and the strawberry blonde hair at her shoulder, until, for the first time, I noticed her face, and that she had freckles.

  “Okay,” Hope told her. And then turning back to me, she said, “I have to go.”

  I thought to shake hands with her, wanting to stall or to have some last contact, but it seemed silly, something only boys would do. “Well, see ya,” I said, and slowly turned from her to find my mother. I had to jog to catch up to her.

  “Who was that?” she asked, keeping up her pace.

  “Hope.”

  “Hmmm.” She was focused on reading the row numbers to find where we’d parked.

  “Bug,” I reminded her.

  When we got to the car, we stuffed the bags into the backseat. Then I got in front, cooling my head on the window.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the most enormous bag of potato chips I’d ever seen. “Snack on these if you get hungry.”

  I was still full from the Magic Pan, but I opened the bag and ate anyway, trying to imagine Hope’s room at her new house: lavender walls, dust ruffles around the bed, a portable record player on a small table, and her collection of trolls all around. I thought of us singing and dancing in front of the mirror, and how it might feel to laugh like that again.

  As we made our way through the parking lot, I thought of silly jingles we used to sing: “Mr. Bubble in the tubble …” “My bologna has a first name …” “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese …”

  Momma pulled on to the road, while I ate potato chips until the roof and the corners of my mouth started to burn. “I can’t believe Hope was there,” I said.

  Momma hadn’t heard me. She’d turned on the radio, and sang a little to Debby Boone before switching the station to a Stevie Wonder song. I brought my knees to my chest and squeezed them hard. “Hope was so short,” I said, turning to the window. “I don’t remember her being short.”

  My reflection in the glass—a lost look in the eyes, a greasy mouth that turned downward on one side—showed that the feeling I’d had that morning had traveled with me. It was a stubborn sorrow that would go home with me as well.

  Momma and I climbed out of the car with shopping bags on our arms. I didn’t remember buying so much, but between the two of us, we could hardly carry it all.

  In the dining room, I noticed the table was set, and there were plates of cold dinner at my seat and at Momma’s. I felt sick from eating so many chips and wished I’d waited for Dad’s cooking.

  “We’ll hide these under the table,” Momma said.

  “Who are we hiding them from?”

  “It’s just for fun. Like a game.” She nodded for me to go first into the living room, and I did, with the bags behind my back, though they were still completely visible. It didn’t matter, though. No one was there.

  “The closet,” she whispered, taking a few items from the bags first. “Hide them in the closet. There’s more room.”

  Momma took her regular seat, and using one of the items we bought at the mall—our new Ronco Rhinestone & Stud Setter machine—pressed rhinestones and metal studs onto a new stiff jean jacket for me.

  I opened the door to the closet, stuffed so full of Momma’s things I didn’t know if I could close it again. To make room for our shopping bags, I had to push piles of clothes and random objects to one side, and while I was doing this, I heard a clank. Fearing I’d broken something, I began to sift to the bottom of the pile. I lifted a towel and then a scarf, and underneath, my heart beginning to pound, I found a small, white mug with a broken handle and rubies glued all around the sides.

  31

  Rubies

  I HELD THE CUP, BREATHLESS, and slowly fingered the ridges where the handle had once been. I touched the rim and brought it to my mouth. Everything came rushing back—lying warm in my old bed, Momma coming to sit beside me, talking and reading as if she had all the time in the world.

  I walked back to the couch, the cup in my hands, and sat beside Momma. I sat closer than I normally did and let myself feel small next to her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this. Momma, do you remember how you’d sit by my bed and tell me stories and I’d have my drink in this cup? It used to have more rubies on it. Remember? And how I used to save them in my pillowcase?”

  She tried to laugh but it came out weary. Put on. “That little drink you liked had a way of calming you down. You’d talk and talk and talk, and then you’d talk yourself right to sleep.”

  “It had such a strange taste.”

  “Mostly,” she said, distracted and looking toward the couch, “it was Tang and hot water.”

  “But it was bitter, too.”

  “Well, that was the magic ingredient.” She smiled a bit, but her eyelids drooped, and I could feel our day com
ing to an end.

  “I know! Let’s make it tonight.” I blew the dust out of my cup and wiped the inside clean with my shirt.

  “Oh, I don’t think this is a good time. Aren’t you tired from all the shopping?” Then, meeting my eyes, she sighed. “I suppose I can make you Tang with hot water.”

  “No. Make it just like you used to. I like the bitter. Oh, I know! …” I jumped up with a thought so thrilling I thought I’d burst. “I’ll wait under my covers. You’ve never seen my room before. It’s up these stairs.”

  I handed her the ruby cup, and her hands sank lower as if it were something heavy.

  “Momma, please.” I didn’t know how badly I wanted this until I said it out loud. I wanted her to see my room. I wanted her to tuck me in. I wanted to have back what had been taken from me.

  “Tillie, really, I …” Finally, sighing again, she took the cup. “All right. I’ll make it for you.”

  I laughed with a joy I couldn’t hold in. “I’ll wait for you in my room.”

  I leapt up the stairs, but when I got to the doorway and imagined Momma seeing my room for the first time, I worried she’d be disappointed. If we were so alike, my room didn’t show it, except for the mess. There were no literary classics or choice pins. Instead, she’d find tacked to my wall a picture of Peter Frampton (with his girlfriend Penny cropped out), along with pages of my favorite song lyrics, written in bubble letters. I heard the kettle go off downstairs and knew I only had time to pull the books she’d given me forward on the shelf.

  When I heard her clump up the stairs, I got into bed with my sneakers still on. She slowly rounded the corner, holding my ruby cup. I felt wonderful, excited. My legs were restless under the covers, and I patted the mattress to show her where to sit. She sat near the edge and placed the cup in my hands. I held it just below my chin to feel the steam and listen to the ice cube squeal and pop. The warmth and its sharp smell gave me a strange flash of memory from the old house—Momma with her face close to mine, crying.

  I’m sorry, Bear. I never meant to hurt you.

  I took a sip, then another, hoping for a different memory. The drink burned as it went down, and the bitter taste was strong. It was a drink that forced you to slow down.

  I rubbed my fingers over the remaining rubies. “I was so afraid someone had thrown it away.”

  “You’ll have to ask your brother how it turned up in there.”

  I took another sip, hardly surprised that he was to blame, but I didn’t want to ruin our time with thoughts of Phil. “Do you remember how you used to tell me stories at bedtime?” I asked.

  Her shoulders raised the tiniest bit, then dropped again. “I just can’t think of one,” she said, when Phil burst into the room with something bundled under his arm.

  “Dad’s been pretty berserk looking for you.”

  “He’s always berserk,” I said. “That’s his problem.”

  “Well, he’s been searching the neighborhood for hours and then coming back home to check.”

  Momma stood, arms wrapped about herself, and Phil paused, as if just now taking in the idea that she’d come upstairs. Slowly, she unfolded her arms and extended them toward Phil as if he were still that boy beside the crashed sled, calling for his mother. He shook his head, but barely, and stepped backward.

  “Well,” he said, his voice breaking, “that’s the message, if anyone cares.”

  “We were shopping,” I said. “Why does he think he has to check on us?”

  “I’m just passing along the message.”

  When he turned to leave the room, Momma said, “Phil, I can come tuck you in as soon as we’re done here.”

  Phil, who was so confident when he was rolling his eyes or making one of his rude comments, froze. His face, without its usual sneer, made him look more like the little boy who wore a lucky rabbit’s foot on his belt and picked up pennies on the sidewalk.

  Momma was only a few steps away from his room. All he had to do was say yes, or just nod his head.

  Instead, he took another slow step backward.

  “Okay then,” she said softly. “I’m sure you’re much too big to be tucked in.”

  I almost felt sad for him, the way he had to be the one who didn’t need anything, who could do it himself. But I also wanted him out of my room. This was my time with Momma.

  “I thought you said you had other things to get to,” I told him, gulping down my drink.

  “I did,” he said. “I do.” And then he took the bundle from under his arm and threw it on my floor. “Oh, and I found this ugly thing downstairs. I figure it’s yours.”

  My sneaker caught on the sheet when I sprang out of bed, which just made me all the madder. Never letting go of my cup, I grabbed my new jean jacket. I knew he’d meant to hurt me, thinking I was the one who punched the metal studs onto the back of it, but that didn’t keep the tears from streaming down Momma’s face.

  “Don’t mind him,” I said, picking it off the floor. With my finger, I traced the crooked star she’d begun, then slid my arm into the sleeve. Just the weight of the jacket, as I pulled it around me, gave me an immediate sense of importance, though it also hurt to wear it. The metal prongs that weren’t clamped all the way down scraped my skin. “I love it,” I said, turning in a circle to show her until I came to a dead stop.

  In the doorway, Dad stood breathless, the veins out in his neck and forehead.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. He turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Where have you been?”

  I jerked away from him as Momma whimpered behind me.

  “We were shopping,” I told him. “We were having fun until now. And we’ve already eaten,” I added, my way of telling him we knew how to feed ourselves. We weren’t idiots or pets. We weren’t his prisoners.

  “We decided to have a little fun while you were visiting with the congressman,” she said, her voice chilly, but weak. “Did you enjoy your meeting?”

  Annoyed at the change of subject, he said, “It was a fine meeting. It was a very fine meeting, if you want to know. We talked about some civilian uses for the technology—navigation for commercial airplanes or even ambulances—and he says we’ll get the funding we need.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful,” she said, sniffling. “I’m glad you enjoy your work so much.”

  “Do you know what I like about my job?” he shouted. “When I work hard, I actually see progress.”

  While my father had been saying this, Momma slowly moved closer to me and reached out with shaking hands to take the empty cup.

  “What is that?” he asked. “What’s going on here?”

  Without answering, she began to walk toward the door when he lunged forward, grabbing the cup. She shrieked in surprise while he dipped his finger inside to take a taste. Everything about his face tightened.

  “I can explain,” she cried.

  He squeezed the cup tight and drew back his arm.

  “Dad, what are you doing?” I screamed, as Momma whimpered and covered her face with both of her hands.

  His arm shot forward and my cup slammed against the wall, smashing to pieces. I turned toward the orange stain it left, and felt a fury building inside. “Dad! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Tillie, get into bed,” he said. “Right now.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me, but I flailed my arms and bolted from my room. I passed Phil in the hallway, turned down the stairs, and kept going out the front door.

  “Tillie!”

  My father had taken away everything important to me. Momma. The decorations in our home. Now my ruby cup.

  I ran hard, pumping my arms and legs faster than I knew I could go. I cut through one yard and then another by the time I heard my father yelling from our porch. I knew he’d head to the school, so I took a different street and followed the route of Bus 14.

  • • •

  I could hear myself breathing and panting. My chest burned. It fel
t good to run, to hear the soles of my tennis shoes slapping against the street, to feel my legs on fire, to run faster than the cars that waited at each traffic light. I took shortcuts and ran places I’d never run before. Someone shouted from his car, “Run, girl, run!”

  Finally, I stopped to catch my breath, proud of how far I’d gone so fast, like I’d shown him something—that he could measure my anger by how far I’d run from him.

  It was chilly, surprisingly so for how warm it had been during the day. I found myself on a street with no people—all the buildings dark, except for a bar on the corner with steamy windows and a light that blinked on and off. I turned in each direction, hoping to see the YMCA building that was so big and well lit I shouldn’t have missed it. I felt unsteady and reached out to grab a signpost. I could see cars blurred in the distance, and closer, small animals with glowing eyes, scurrying around the dumpsters, but there was no sound at all, as if my ears were clogged with cotton. The buildings and streetlamps began to sway, and I held tighter to the pole. I knew this feeling.

  I turned round and round, taking in the pawn shop, the bar, the small grocery store, and wondering how far Shirl’s house was, and in what direction. It was getting dark so fast, and each street seemed to lead somewhere even darker.

  “I’m afraid. I’m afraid.” I spoke out loud, but the words didn’t sound right because my tongue was heavy. Someone, however, heard me. A man walked toward me, not saying a word.

  “I’m trying to find …” I couldn’t remember what I was trying to find. My brain wasn’t working right. I didn’t remember the name of the building near Shirl’s, and I couldn’t remember her last name. Finally I said, “I’m lost.”

  “I’ll say you’re lost.”

  Soon, there were many people gathered around me, all brown, and moving closer. I felt dizzy. Confused. A metal prong from inside my new jacket snagged my shirt, pulling it down in back so my collar tightened against my neck. Someone reached for me and I realized I was on the ground.

  “I know this girl. She goes to the school I work at.” A man stepped through the crowd. It was the janitor, and he knelt beside me, trying to lift my head off the sidewalk.