by Cari Noga
It’s eight thirty. The rest of the house is quiet. I pet Lexie, trying to slow my racing heart down to her speed. Is it too early to call Aunt Bonita? I wrote down her number, before, when I sent the email. It’s scarier to call, but I have to try.
I tiptoe to the door and peek out. Deirdre’s is closed, and it’s dark under the door. Lexie jumps off my bed and leaps over to the door, mewling.
“Shhhh, Lexie!” I close it quickly and tiptoe back to my phone on the nightstand. I push all the numbers, and then it rings, and then a man’s voice starts talking.
“This call requires an international service plan. Please contact your cell phone provider for further information.” There’s a pause, and the message repeats. “This call requires an international service plan. Please contact—”
I hang up, tears prickling my eyes. Am I just doomed to live on a farm in Michigan?
Now I wish I had a Facebook account. You’re supposed to be thirteen. I won’t even be twelve till August, but I know some kids in my class have them already. I never much wanted one, but maybe I can find Graciela that way.
It only takes about two minutes to set up my own account. I type her name into the search bar, hoping it’s Ortiz. I feel a flash of despair after I click. Aren’t there, like, a bajillion people on Facebook? What are the chances?
But it comes back with a list. “Are you looking for Graciela Ortiz in San Juan, Puerto Rico; in Phoenix, Arizona; in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic; in San Diego, California; in Chihuahua, Mexico?” I choose Mexico.
It’s a girl who looks about the right age. Lots of pictures of her dressed up. She’s got bigger boobs than in the pictures in Daddy’s boxes. It says she likes soccer and movies and pop music. Her “about” information says her birthday is March 14. So she just turned thirteen, actually.
I lean back in the chair, and Lexie jumps onto my lap. I pet her, trying to decide what to do.
“Lucy?” Deirdre knocks on the door “Are you up?”
“Uh, almost. Give me a couple minutes.” I click on “Message” and type quickly. “Hi, I think you’re my cousin. My name is Lucy Santiago-Ortiz and my dad is Luis Ortiz. I live in New York City. I’m trying to find my family because both my mom and dad died last week. Please write back.”
I close the window and pick up Lexie. My stomach elevator is shaking. “Coming,” I say to Deirdre before she can call again.
Chapter 16
JANE
Errands. I fill up at the cheap gas station and replenish the fridge at the grocery store. At the box store I pick up lumber for the new pea trellises and a patch kit for my irrigation lines. It’ll be another month yet before I can test and inspect, but I’ll have to do it eventually.
Back at home I realize I forgot to buy cat food, which I do need now. Damn. Can’t concentrate, can’t focus. Questions about Lucy infest my mind like weeds in July. How much like Gloria is she? How resilient? Do I need to arrange for any counseling or therapy? How will she get to school? How am I going to manage the money? How am I going to juggle the CSA and taking care of her?
I suppose I should call Matt. Let him know what’s going on. I calculate the time difference. He’s six hours ahead and usually works an early shift. So I should probably try around three o’clock his time, nine o’clock mine. Tomorrow, then.
It’s raining the next morning when I dial the long series of digits that goes straight to voice mail.
“Hi, Matt, it’s Mom. Just calling to—” To what? To tell him I’m basically a parent again? That I’ve got another chance at the daughter I never had, while the son I had suffered for it? The idea startles me, emerging fully formed from the wisps of memory, wish and regret that have fluttered since Langley’s first call. Could Lucy really fill that void? “Just calling with some news. Call when you have a chance.”
I hang up and sit with the phone on my lap, thinking back, way back. To Kodiak, before the void was even a fissure. The nautical map on the wall of our cramped but cozy base housing, wind howling outside, Jim parading around with Matt laughing on his shoulders. Taking the pregnancy test on one of Alaska’s eternal summer evenings, creeping in to tell Jim in the bedroom that we’d darkened by hanging sleeping bags over the windows. Our small wedding, Jim in his spotless white uniform, sweeping me up and down the steps of the courthouse to a cab that took us to one of San Diego’s fanciest hotels, where they upgraded us because Jim was a Coastie.
If only.
The phone rings, the long string of digits blinking back on the screen.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Matt!” I’m flummoxed, now that he’s the one reaching out. “Can you talk now?”
“Yeah, I was with the CO when you called. I’m off duty now, don’t have to be anywhere till eighteen hundred.”
I haven’t heard military vocabulary in years, but it comes back in a rush.
“So what’s up?” Matt says.
“Some news.” I hesitate. “Do you remember your aunt Gloria?” I can’t recall when Matt last saw her.
“The one who sent the oranges?”
“Right.” Wherever Jim’s orders took us, Mom and Gloria sent a fruit basket every Christmas. “Some San Diego sunshine,” the cards said. Gloria kept up the tradition wherever she moved to. In Miami, where she lived for most of Matt’s years at home, it was all oranges. Especially after I started Plain Jane’s, their annual December arrival only underscored our different lives. Alien up north, the oranges would sit on the table, silently screaming of the food miles they’d racked up.
“Mom? You still there?”
“Yep. Sorry.” I blink, the vision of the oranges vanishing. “Well. Gloria and her husband, your uncle Luis, they were in a car accident last week.” I hesitate, counting back. “No, almost two weeks ago, really.” This is one of those strange occasions when time seems to both race and stand still. Has it already been two weeks? Can it be only two weeks, with forever stretching ahead?
“Was it—”
“They were both killed.”
“Jesus.” I hear a sound kind of like whistling. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Thanks. It’s, it’s been hard to wrap my head around.” I grope for the right words. “We hadn’t seen each other in years.”
“She was pretty young, right?”
“Thirty-six.” I take a deep breath. “And she had a daughter. Your cousin, Lucy. She’s eleven.”
“Eleven—Jesus.” I hear a sigh over the line. “What’s going to happen to her?”
“She’ll be moving here to live with me. That’s the real news. Gloria named me her guardian.” I hear myself say the words, yet I still can’t believe the impact they wield.
“Wow.”
In the silence that follows, I analyze Matt’s single syllable. Is it “wow,” wistful, as in, poor Lucy? Is it “wow,” incredulous, as in, what was Gloria thinking? Is it “wow,” filler, as in, not interested? His life will go on unaffected, after all, six hours and four thousand miles away.
“It’s like having a kid all over again,” he says finally.
It is having a kid all over again. Maybe the third time will be the charm, like they say. I lost my daughter. Grief and guilt carved a gulf between the mother I wanted to be and Matt. With Lucy, I could get it right.
There it is again. That unbidden desire for another chance. Another bite at the apple. But my apple orchard here hasn’t been tended in years. Back by the rear property line, it’s bearing but overgrown. I had plans to get it in shape—prune the trees, fertilize, and add apples to the Plain Jane’s menu. After Jim, that got buried by a landslide of other priorities and expenses. Now it’s too late. Or is it? I walk down the hall, peeking in Matt’s door. Her room in New York was pink. But at eleven, going on twelve, that might be too juvenile. Maybe a shade of blue? Or a bright green?
“Mom? Still there? Mom?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sorry, lots to think about lately.”
“Uh-huh.” He pauses. “Well, that means you’ll be sticking ar
ound home for a while, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’d be staying here anyway, what with the season starting.” Why would he even ask?
“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’ve got some news, too. I met someone.”
“You met—someone? Like, a girlfriend?” Matt didn’t date much in high school. He went out with friends in bunches but never seemed to pair off.
He laughs. “Yeah. Like a girlfriend. She’s over here, too.”
“In the army?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that OK, to date someone?”
“We’re the same rank, so yeah, it’s OK.”
“Well then, I’m happy for you. That’s great.” I feel more like Matt’s coworker than mother, fumbling for the right words. “Tell me more about her.”
“She’s from Georgia. A little farm. Kind of like me. She’s been here about a year. She’s an MP.”
“What’s her name?”
“Allison.”
Matt sounds happy. A girl from a farm. I feel a little bit proud, like I somehow influenced it.
“We’ve both got leave coming up next month. We’re going to head back to the States, to her family’s. I was hoping maybe you could come down there for a couple days.”
His voice sounds hopeful. But next month? May? Dismay, more like. I shake my head. “Oh, Matt, I wish I could, but that’s not a good time. Especially not this year.”
He sighs. “Dad said you’d say that, but I still—”
“Could the two of you visit up—Dad? You’ve talked to him?” I swallow the lump in my throat, realizing the answer. Clearwater’s driving distance from Georgia. Two sets of parents for one visit if they go to Georgia.
“Yeah.” The conversation lags now, the silence stretching. Damn it. Damn it. Maybe I could get Miguel to look after things again, get away for just a day or two. But would Jim and Kate be there, too? Matt wouldn’t arrange for us to come at the exact same time, would he?
“Well, when you know the dates for sure, let me know. I’ll see if I can work something out.” The expected words leave my mouth, but who am I kidding? May is the mad sprint. May is a frenzy of last-minute everything: plant, cover, sign up. May does not negotiate. I get thirty-one days to set the stage for the growing season. Painting bedrooms isn’t on the list, either. Even if Miguel could manage things, a trip to Georgia would mean a plane ticket not in my budget.
“I’m really sorry, Matt. If only—”
“Mom, it’s OK. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll meet Allison another time. You’ve got the farm, and now getting ready for Lucy and all. I understand.”
There’s the truth in words, and the truth underneath the words. Probably Matt does understand. He was around more than Jim to see how things worked with Plain Jane’s. But it’s also true that if I don’t meet his first girlfriend, and Jim and Kate do, I’ll be falling short. Again.
From Kodiak to Houston to Traverse City and now Georgia, my track record of maternal failures zigzags across the continent, and now aims right at Lucy.
Chapter 17
LUCY
I’m eating breakfast slowly. One Lucky Charm at a time. Because after breakfast I leave for school, and I don’t want to go to school. Every day at school is one less day here and one more closer to moving to Michigan. I still haven’t heard from Graciela yet, and now it’s already May and Deirdre keeps talking about me moving.
She’s buzzing around the kitchen, pouring coffee, buttering toast, checking her phone. Lexie meows and jumps onto my lap, out of her way. I pet her absently, concentrating on my bowl. First I eat a heart, then a shooting star, then a clover and a horseshoe. Then a blue moon, then a rainbow—wait, are the rainbows all gone? I stir around the bowl.
“Right, so, Lucy, I’ve got my appointment at the embassy this afternoon. Straighten out some things with my visa. If you need me, I’ll have my phone, but I won’t be able to pick you up or come to school between one and three,” she says.
There’s a rainbow! I spoon it up. “OK.” Now a balloon marshmallow.
“Do you think you’ll be all right today, then?” She peers at me over her coffee cup.
“I think so.” I’ve called her to pick me up early from school a few times. When I say I feel sad or upset, everybody feels sorry for me and lets me do what I want, including leaving school. Lots of the time I do it on Thursdays, so I can skip seeing Mr. Meinert. His questions give me that jerky feeling of finding out all over again. Today’s Wednesday, though, and now I’m spooning my Lucky Charms faster. They really are lucky today. If Deirdre is out this afternoon, I can get into Mom and Daddy’s closet. She’s like a shadow, never leaving me alone long enough to get back to the boxes and find out more about Aunt Bonita and Daddy’s brother and the rest his family. I try to stay awake until after she’s asleep, but it never works. I take a long swallow of orange juice and finish my toast in two big bites. “Done.”
“Looks like you found a bit of appetite this morning. That’s good.” Deirdre smiles. She pushes my lunch box across the table. “Ready to go?”
“Righto,” I say, adopting my pretend British accent.
She laughs. “Lucy, you seem almost your old self this morning.” My old self, the girl who had two parents. The girl from the slide show, at the Statue of Liberty and the ice rink and Disney World. The girl smiling at the mirror, with Mom. The girl in the picture at the bodega on the rainy day, laughing at Daddy getting wet. And I do feel sad.
At school, when Ms. Kedzie says good morning, I make sure my voice sounds sad. When she calls on me, I pretend to be distracted and not hear her. At recess I go to the swings alone but just sit, away from Phoebe, dragging my feet on the pavement, instead of swinging.
As everyone’s lining up for lunch, I make my move. “Can I go see Mr. Meinert? I don’t feel so good today.”
“Of course, Lucy.” Ms. Kedzie’s voice goes all sympathetic. “Take all the time you need. You can catch up later.”
“Thanks.” I smile a tiny, brave smile. Almost there. I make sure to stop at my locker on the way to the office, getting my backpack with my subway pass.
In the office, the secretary says Mr. Meinert’s away at a meeting. Uh-oh. Every other time he’s seen me immediately.
“He’ll be back by one. You can wait in his office.”
By one I want to be home. “Can you call him or something? I really feel like I just want to go home.”
“Hmm. He’s not on school property. I’ll call Mrs. Creighton.”
Mrs. Creighton comes out, her mouth smiling but her eyes worried.
“What’s the problem, Lucy?”
“I’m just not feeling so good today.”
“Not feeling so good, like sick? Or sad?”
“Sad.”
“And you want to go home?”
I nod.
“All right. I’ll just call your au pair, then, and—”
“No! I mean, it’s fine. You don’t have to call her.”
“That’s our policy, Lucy. She has to come pick you up.”
“But I take the train home alone after school.” Be sad, not mad. I slump in my chair, catching a sympathetic look from the secretary as she leaves with a stack of papers.
“It’s still school hours now. We’re responsible for you. It’s different.”
“All right.” I sigh. “Don’t bother. I know she can’t come this afternoon. She’s busy.”
“Busy?” Mrs. Creighton frowns. “I’ll check if Mr. Meinert can get back here sooner.”
I stare at the ceiling after she leaves. It’s twelve thirty. It’ll take me a half hour to get home. I’m losing my chance.
Wait. I’m leaving this school. Getting in trouble won’t matter. I don’t have to hang around. I can just go.
My heart thuds. I sit up and look around. I can hear the copier down the hall, probably where the secretary went. Just down the hall, out the front door, down the street to the subway.
It’s easy. It’s exciting to be
out of school at lunchtime. The trains aren’t so crowded, so I can sit down. I watch the funeral slide show again and a new video I made of Lexie, playing with a crumpled-up piece of paper. At our building Edward doesn’t say anything, just opens the door for me. I unlock the door and lean against it. The pounding in my chest eases. I did it!
It’s after one o’clock already, but I have another plan. I’ll move the boxes to my room, where Deirdre won’t interrupt me. I have plenty of space in my closet. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.
Lexie meows and follows as I tiptoe into Mom and Daddy’s room, through the bedroom, into the closet. There are the five boxes, two marked with Daddy’s initials, three with Mom’s. Grabbing the top one to take to my room, I see my reflection with the stack of boxes. I stare into the mirror hard, trying to see me and Mom together—the old-self Lucy. But I just see me and the boxes.
I’m headed back for the last one when I hear voices from the kitchen. Deirdre’s home early! No, wait, there’s two voices. A man’s and a woman’s. And the woman doesn’t have an English accent. The man’s voice is Mr. Langley’s. What’s he doing here now? Who’s she? Stay and listen? Go get the last box? The box wins. I tiptoe down the wood hall and back into the closet and grab it.
After I’ve hidden it with the others, I slip out, flattening myself against the wall where the hall opens to the front foyer. Lexie meows. I pick her up and shush her, stroking her back.
“. . . should go for at least two point five, based on the neighborhood comps.” The woman’s voice, her heels clicking. “Midtown location, views of the park, four bedrooms . . . it needs some updating, but still, highly marketable.”
“Good.” Mr. Langley. “I’d like it on the market by July 1.”
“Absolutely. The sooner the better.” The heel clicking stops. They’re almost in the foyer.
“Well, we do have to consider the daughter. She’ll be here until school ends in mid-June.”