by Cari Noga
At first the mother is cool toward the idea, but then the youngest girl sees the strawberries.
“Please, Mama?”
“She can try one,” I say. “You all can.”
The children crowd around, eager and hopeful, but waiting for approval. When the mother finally nods, they each carefully choose one, then wait for her to eat hers first.
“Quite good,” she says after holding it in her mouth for a moment. “Will you take a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread?”
“Certainly.” I push the produce over while she summons the Lucy girl to fetch a bag.
“Looks like you have your hands full,” I say to fill the silence.
The mother lifts her blue eyes to me. She’s young. Probably not even thirty.
“Yes. Full of blessings.” She smiles, spreading one hand over her expectant belly, gathering her children close to her with the other. “And may God bless you.”
Her words don’t make me flinch like they usually would. The apron’s full of cash. Lucy’s been occupied with the iPad. With the clouds most of the morning, the plot with the still-broken irrigation line shouldn’t be too dry. It’s been a good morning. Maybe even a blessed morning. I keep one bunch of rhubarb after all. I’ll look for a salsa recipe at home.
Chapter 25
LUCY
For the first time since I got here, the little circle connection thing spins and actually connects when I go to Facebook! Graciela left a message last Saturday morning: “Are you there? How are you?” Then time-stamped in the afternoon, “Lucy? ¿Dónde estás?”
I reply. “I’m here! I hate it. It’s boring and the Internet doesn’t work. But today I am someplace with Internet until twelve o’clock. Write as soon as you get this!!”
I click “Send” and look at the clock. Almost six, or almost five for Graciela. Way too early. But Saturdays are when she gets to go online, and Aunt Jane said we would be here all morning, so we should be able to talk.
I rest my head against the window. It’s too early to try Phoebe. And later her mom will probably make her go to temple. She doesn’t like to, but she can’t do anything about it, especially since her bat mitzvah is next year. I wonder if I’ll be invited? Probably not. She’ll have forgotten all about me. She might have already, even.
I’m afraid I might forget Mom and Daddy, too. So I keep watching the slide show. I know it by heart now, the Disney World photo, then the Statue of Liberty photo, then ice-skating, then their wedding. And the music, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and “Abrázame muy fuerte.”
I put the earbuds on and zip up Mom’s Venice Beach hoodie. It’s already completely light out, another weird thing about Michigan. It stays light so late, almost to ten o’clock, and then it’s morning really early. Aunt Jane said it’s because we’re on the edge of the time zone, and she’ll get a shade for my window. It makes it hard for me to fall asleep, but I don’t know if it’s being light or that it’s so quiet or what. Here there’s traffic from the road and people talking and I’m really tired, so it’s easy to drift off to sleep.
A funny noise wakes me. Kind of like an alarm clock, but I’ve never heard it before. For a second I don’t remember anything about Michigan or Aunt Jane and I’m terrified, not knowing where I am. Then there’s the awful jerk of remembering, everything all at once, and then the same sound. From the iPad. I touch the screen, and there’s a reply from Graciela: “I’m here, can you talk?”
She’s there! My cousin is there right now! I touch the chat box, feeling like I’m touching her, and type back. “Yes!”
Below my finger, more words appear in Spanish.
“I can only talk for a minute. Only two hours of Internet today.”
“Why?”
“Exams. Have to study.” She adds a face with a tongue sticking out.
She has exams still? I’ve been out of school for almost a month.
“Two more weeks and I go home. I can talk to Mama then.” This time there’s a smiley face.
Finally! My stomach does its elevator thing, but it’s going up this time.
“Your school is so long there,” I reply.
“Way too long! You’ll have to go, too, if you move here.” She sends a winking smiley face.
School’s better than sitting around alone all day. As long as I could bring Lexie. Do allergies run in families? Would Aunt Bonita be allergic, too?
“Are you allergic to cats? Or your mom?”
“No. Why?”
I look for a picture of Lexie, then send her one.
“So cuuute!!! But you couldn’t bring her to school. Las mascotas están prohibidas.”
No Internet, now no pets. My stomach elevator stops going up.
“Mama would take care of her.”
But she’s my kitty. I stare at the screen.
“How come you go to boarding school?”
“Mama says it’s better than school at home. No boys.”
“Who cares about boys?”
“She does. But maybe, if we were together, she would say it’s OK.”
“You think?”
“She always talks about family. ‘Es muy importante.’”
I hope so. Family is important. Daddy always said so. So why didn’t we visit more often? Why didn’t they come see us? Graciela seems so nice. Maybe if we had always known each other and visited and stuff, she wouldn’t be at boarding school. And I wouldn’t be stuck here. My stomach elevator starts dropping. I can picture Daddy’s face, smiling as usual. But instead of feeling sad, I’m angry.
“I have to go now. But in two weeks I’ll have Internet all the time.”
Not me.
“But keep trying, OK? Even if I’m not here?”
“OK. ¡Hasta luego!”
Wait. I should give her my phone number. Aunt Bonita could call internationally, I bet. Or my address. Both. But the screen tells me Graciela is gone. Sighing, I turn around to check for Aunt Jane in her booth.
She’s gone, too. Where could she be? The back of the truck was full of stuff when we left, and now there’s just empty crates and boxes. Guess I have to look. Thank goodness this is a parking lot. I slide to the comforting gray pavement and sidle alongside the truck. I can see her table now, empty. In front of it is the biggest crowd I’ve seen since the airport, streaming in both directions. Just like that day at the movies, they’re all white, all wearing T-shirts and shorts. Some are pushing strollers or holding little kids. They’re all smiling and happy.
Then a mom bends over to pick up a baby, and in the space behind her, I see Aunt Jane, talking to a lady wearing these weird old-fashioned clothes. A long dark-blue dress with an apron over it and a white cloth covering her hair. She has some kids with her. The older girl is dressed the same way, her hair in super long braids that hang below the white cap. The younger girl has braids, but they’re not covered. Did her sister do them, like Phoebe used to for me? My stomach elevator starts to creak, but then Aunt Jane turns around and spots me.
“Sold out. I’m ready to go,” she says, coming over with a bag.
There’re two boys, too. They have these straps hooked to their pants that go over their shoulders, instead of a belt. Daddy once wore something like that with a tux for an awards show. I can’t remember what he called them. They look like their pants would fall down without them; they’re both really skinny. Their shirts have buttons and collars, not T-shirts like everyone else is wearing. The older boy has a hat on, too, made of straw.
“Did you find what you were looking for online?”
“Kind of.” I can’t stop staring at the family. Why are they wearing those old clothes? “Why did you go over there?”
“Over where?”
“There.” I point. “To talk to them.”
“Oh. To arrange a barter.”
“A what?”
“A trade. Some of my stuff for some of theirs.”
“Why are they dressed old fashioned like that?” That boy’s hat. Straw is like dried-up
grass, isn’t it? My nose crinkles.
“They’re Amish. They practice a religion that requires them to dress that way.”
“Oh.”
“You saw all kinds of different cultures and languages and clothes in New York, right?” Aunt Jane’s voice sounds like a lecture is coming.
I shrug.
“Well, this is one of the Midwest’s. Amish people dress plainly and simply. Men grow beards. To varying degrees, they don’t accept or use modern technology.”
Huh. “I guess we have something in common after all, since I can’t even get online at your house.” As Aunt Jane’s jaw drops, I put my earbuds back in and climb in the truck.
Chapter 26
JANE
It’s work-share day. I straighten up and survey the Livingston crew. Jared disappeared inside more than fifteen minutes ago. His brother, I can’t remember his name, has earbuds in and is singing more than weeding. Now Paul, the husband, is talking on his cell phone, his back to us. The word coach marches across his shoulder blades.
Rebecca is doggedly weeding along. One out of four. I sigh. The Extension people did not address how to instill discipline in the ranks of the working-share customers, especially difficult since enforcement of the “working” aspect crosses with the chief customer relations commandment: the customer is always right.
Pausing to drink from her water bottle, Rebecca catches my eye and seems to read my mind. “Paul!” When he turns, she pantomimes hanging up the phone with one hand, the other on her hip.
He frowns and flashes her a hand. Five minutes. I see her read his lips and back off, hands falling to her sides.
“I apologize. A work call. He’ll be through momentarily,” she says. “I’ll go and fetch Jared from indoors now.”
Jared’s and Lucy’s heads are visible through the kitchen window, not watching us, but engaged in something together.
“It’s all right. Looks like he’s with my niece. If he can break through to her, I’ll credit him five rows of weeding.” Again I tried to persuade Lucy to come out today, on the grounds that she could meet someone her age. Again, she refused. The grass fear gets more entrenched by the day.
Rebecca relaxes her ramrod stance slightly. “How old is she?”
“She’s . . . um . . . going into seventh grade.” I dodge a direct answer. When is her birthday? It must be on one of those papers I put in Matt’s desk.
“Jared will be in seventh this year, too. He just turned twelve.”
I nod, accepting the information. These exchanges of biographical details always puzzle me, have since Matt was a baby. Why did someone else pushing the next swing care how old he was or if he’d walked yet or gotten a tooth yet or started preschool? They were also unpleasant reminders, since I couldn’t help but answer, silently, He’s twenty-three. Lives in Germany, stationed over there. She would have been twenty. Lives—well, never mind.
“She’s visiting, then?”
“Actually, no. She lives here. With me.”
“Oh.” Rebecca turns to face me fully, surprise evident. “Is she at East Middle?”
“No. I, um, I haven’t enrolled her in school yet.”
“Oh.” She pauses. My first-person answers plus her own curiosity minus her instinctive Midwestern reserve have presented her with a riddle. I sense Rebecca doesn’t like riddles.
“It’s a recent development,” I fill in. “She moved here from New York City last month.” I take a deep breath. “After her parents died.”
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. How sad.” The reserve kicks in again, and she changes the subject. She shades her eyes and looks over at her husband. “We lived in New York for a couple years after we got married. It was glamorous then. Paul worked on Wall Street. I was at a law firm in the twin towers. But when we decided to have a family, we moved back home.”
Paul’s walking over now, putting his phone in his pocket. He taps the other son on the shoulder and gives him a high five. The son grins and goes back to his weeding with more energy.
“Sorry. Second quarter’s closing, something crashed, Tina couldn’t run the reports.” He speaks more to Rebecca than to me.
“Fine. It’s straightened out now, then?”
“Yep.” Paul nods, swabbing at his forehead with his T-shirt sleeve. The front bears the community soccer organization’s logo. I wonder if coaching, like the work share, was another Rebecca idea, and if so, whether Paul offered suggestions for family activities, too. Jim either went along, like with Little League, or begged off, as with Plain Jane’s, but rarely initiated anything together.
“So you used to work on Wall Street?” I haven’t looked for a financial adviser to handle Lucy’s estate. Might as well ask a few questions.
He looks surprised and glances at Rebecca. “You tell her that?”
“It just came up in conversation,” Rebecca says. “I’m going to help Jason now.”
Jason, that’s the other son’s name.
“Yes, a hundred years ago, I worked on Wall Street,” Paul says as Rebecca heads for Jason’s row.
“And now?”
“I run my own wealth management firm in Traverse City. Livingston Partners LLC at your service.” He doffs an imaginary cap.
“Wealth management, huh?”
He grimaces. “Marketing speak. There’re no partners, either. I’m the only one. Well, there’s my secretary. Tina.”
I laugh out loud. I like his forthrightness. Someone I could trust.
“Plain Jane’s should hire your consultant. I could use some marketing advice.”
“Well, she’s right there.” Paul nods at his wife.
“Rebecca’s your marketing consultant? She said she worked at a law firm.”
“She did, back in New York. But this town’s overrun with lawyers. After we moved, it took her a year to find a job at a quarter the salary. When Jared was born she decided to stay home, do the marketing gig on the side.”
“I see.” Rebecca’s made Jason take off his earbuds, but his body language says he’s not listening to her.
“We’d better get back at it,” I say to Paul. “Next time I’m in town, though, I’d like to stop by your office. I expect to need some financial advice by the end of the year.”
“You bet. Anytime.” He looks interested. “Strawberry prices at a record high this year?”
“Not exactly.”
“Rebecca could probably help you make that happen.” He sweeps his arm across the farm. “Grown pesticide-free in hand-tilled soil . . .”
And for what seems like the first time since Lucy arrived, I’m laughing again.
Chapter 27
LUCY
I’m in the kitchen with Lexie when a kid bursts in the door. He’s about my age, reaching into his pocket and whistling.
“Oh, hey.” He stops short. “I was looking for the bathroom?”
“Down the hall.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
Lexie brushes up against me as he passes. Outside, Aunt Jane’s talking to a woman. A man and another kid are kneeling a little way away. The toilet flushes and water runs. The kid comes out holding a Nintendo DS.
“Is that your family?”
“Yeah.”
“What are they doing?”
“Weeding. Again.” He rolls his eyes. “We always weed. So boring. And so hot.”
“Want a drink?” I open the fridge. “There’s some juice. And lemonade.”
“Lemonade?”
I pour two glasses. “Why do you come to weed my aunt’s garden?”
He rolls his eyes again. “It was my mom’s idea.”
“Why?”
“She thinks we’re, like, spoiled or something. She says, ‘You boys need to know how a hard day’s work feels.’”
“Oh.” It sounded weird. Days could be hard anywhere. On location, Mom sometimes worked eighteen hours a day. What’s so special about a garden? “Do you, like, get paid?”
He shakes h
is head.
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.” He looks at me kind of sideways. “So, Jane’s your aunt?”
I nod.
“Where do you live?”
“Here.” I pick up Lexie so I can feel the reassuring vibrations of her heartbeat. That’s the first time I’ve said it. I live here, at Aunt Jane’s, in Michigan. I’m not a New Yorker anymore. I don’t live with Mom and Daddy anymore. I’m still their daughter, but it doesn’t feel like that means anything anymore. I pet Lexie a little faster.
“What grade are you in?”
“Going into seventh.”
“Me, too. Are you going to East Middle School?”
“I don’t know.” Talking about school starts my stomach elevator dropping.
“Jared!” A loud voice interrupts. “Where have you been? I hope not playing that DS, young man.”
Jared’s mom comes into the kitchen, her hands on her hips. She’s tall and thin and has the same brown hair as Jared. Coming in the door, she looks mad, but her face changes as soon as she sees me. Maybe she’s bipolar or schizophrenic or has split personality disorder or something, like I read about in the encyclopedias in Matt’s room. I’ve gotten about halfway through them now. She looks normal, but if she signs up to work outdoors, in the dirt, when it’s hot and smelly, for free, then she’s got to be a little bit crazy. Still, I’m relieved for the interruption.
“Well, hello! You must be Lucy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m Jared’s mother. We’re work-share customers of your aunt’s. But Jared here is not doing his share, so I came to check on him.” She holds out her hand. “The game.”
“We were just talking, Mom. I swear.”
“Yeah. We were just talking,” I chime in.
“Lucy’s going to be in seventh grade this year, too,” Jared says.
“How nice. Now, Jared, it’s time to come back outside.”
“Awww, Mom. It’s so hot out there. And I’m so bored.”
“Outside. And the DS.”
“Hey, you wanna play?” Jared turns to me.
I don’t really like video games, but I’m bored, too, stuck in this house, reading encyclopedias. I shrug. “OK.”