by Douglas Rees
This guy who is pushing a wheelchair leaves the chair, grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall, runs into Daddy’s room, and sprays his wastebasket, which is burning like a torch. Everybody is really scared because there is oxygen in that room, and it could have exploded!
It was the guy next to my daddy who’d started the fire. He’d tried to light a cigarette and dropped the match. Clever.
Mommy Angel is furious. The look in her eyes could peel paint off walls. She rips those hospital guys up one side and down the other for letting that guy sneak cigarettes. I didn’t know she could talk like that. If words could start fires by themselves, those hospital guys would be torched. And they don’t even try to answer her back. Because she is right.
And I am very proud of her.
“Mom, I didn’t know you could do that,” I say when she is done and it is just the three of us in the room because El Cigaretto is Out of There. Because Mommy Angel tells them to get his ass out NOW and that is what they do with it.
“Honey, I worked in nightclubs from the time I was seventeen. What you just heard was nothin’,” she says in her best Virginia Lady accent.
“Oh, yes it was.”
But Daddy just says, “Looks like those damn things are going to get me one way or another.”
“The hell they are,” my mother says, and I know she is casting a spell on him.
And BD laughs a little.
Big Daddy laughing? He doesn’t. Ever.
Then he holds out a hand to me and says, “Hello, baby. Hello, Kestrel.”
So I take his hand. It is clammy and soft and weak, but it is his. And he is still here to hold it out to me. For a minute, I am Daddy’s little girl again.
They put him into a wheelchair—and whoever came up with those hospital nightgowns should be made to wear one for the rest of his life and see how he likes it—and we went down to the cafeteria while they cleaned up the room.
“How are you feeling?” I say.
“Pretty good for a guy with phlebitis and two heart attacks, who’s just been nearly burned to death or blown up,” Daddy says slowly. “I’m looking forward to going home.”
“What’s the first thing you want to do?” I say.
“Sit under the trees,” Daddy says.
This does not sound like BD. I was pretty sure he didn’t know we had trees. I am a little surprised that he knows what trees are. But he goes on.
“We get a lot of birds, don’t we?” he says. “I want to look at them. You know I don’t know the name of a single bird? I mean, to look at. I know words, like robin and blue jay. But I have no idea what they actually look like. Do we have robins or blue jays?”
“Robins and blue jays,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “How about hawks and eagles and seagulls?”
“Not in the yard,” I say, before I see he is yanking my chain. “But we do get ostriches.”
“Good,” he says. “I really want to see some ostriches.”
Up to now, Mommy Angel hasn’t said anything but the usual things, which is why I haven’t put any of them down. But now she says something worth writing. She says, “Ted, I really, really love you,” and her eyes are shiny and her hands are tight on his.
“I don’t see how you can,” he says after a minute. “But I’m glad you still do. I’ll make it worth your time from now on.”
“It was always worth my time,” she says. But he interrupts.
“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” he says. “The best thing that’s ever happened to us. It’s going to change our lives. I’m going to learn how to enjoy things. All kinds of things. There’s an old Spanish saying I heard somewhere—salud, pesetas, y amor, y tiempo para gozarlos. It means ‘health, money, love, and time to enjoy them.’ And that’s exactly what we’ve got, except for my health, and I can work on that.”
“I didn’t know your knew any Spanish,” says Mommy Angel.
BD shrugs. The way I do.
“But Mommy Angel is right,” I say. “It is truly weird for you to talk like that. In any language.”
“Push me up the hall, Kestrel,” Daddy says. “I want to talk to you.”
Uh-oh. A lecture about calling Mommy Angel Mommy Angel.
But then he says, “I want to ask you something.”
So I push him out into the hall.
It is hard to push a wheelchair. It steers a little better than a shopping cart, but not much. And Daddy is heavy for me.
On the ground floor, where the cafeteria is, there is a door that leads to a little park surrounded by the hospital. Daddy asks me to take him out there. I park him beside a concrete bench that says In Memory of Wilhelmina Everson, and sit on Wilhelmina’s name.
Remind me never to buy a memorial bench at a hospital.
“How are you and Ariel getting along?” he says. “Really?”
“Great,” I say. “She is way cool. I miss her.”
Daddy says, “I never really understood what she was all about. Maybe I can get to know her better now. And maybe she can help me understand a few things.”
“Like what?” I say, all surprised.
For a long time Daddy doesn’t answer. Then he says, “That night the blood clot lodged in my heart I nearly died. You know that. What I haven’t told anybody yet is what happened to me when they were working on me.”
He doesn’t look at me. He wants to talk, but he’s embarrassed.
“I was somewhere, but I didn’t know where. It was dark and all I knew was I didn’t want to be there, but I couldn’t leave. I didn’t know the way out. And if I took one wrong step, I could never get out. Never come back. I don’t know how long I was there. Time didn’t have any meaning. But then someone was with me. I know I had never seen this guy before. He smiled at me, and put his hands on my shoulders and spun me around and said, ‘That way, ese. And keep going.’ And then he said, ‘salud, pesetas, y amor, y tiempo para gozarlos—health, money, love, and time to enjoy them.’ And I knew he was sending me back to you.”
I just sit there all tingly and dizzy. Then Daddy says, “There’s one more thing. Really strange. He was wearing some kind of uniform. Helmet, boots, patches all over his jacket. Kind of old-fashioned. Like World War II.”
“Not World War II,” I say. “Vietnam.”
31
SO I TELL DADDY ABOUT SAMHAIN and the ofrenda and the wall between the worlds.
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “But what else can I believe?” Then he says, “What do you think Alice would say about this?”
“I think she might say something like, ‘Probably the best thing to do about the universe is to be grateful for it,’” I say.
“And what would you say?” Daddy asked me.
“The same,” I say.
“That sounds good,” Daddy says. “Feels right. I think I can do it. Wheel me back in to my beautiful wife.”
And we leave Wilhelmina the Concrete Bench where she is. And my heart is glowing because I know my Daddy is going to live.
Three days later they let Daddy come home.
HERE’S WHAT WAS DIFFERENT
Just about everything.
Daddy sat in the backyard and watched the sun set.
He had me and Mommy Angel go to the store and buy a feeder and a bath for the birds.
He started reading a book that was not about computers or money. Something Aunt Ariel sent him.
After they talked on the phone.
He was always looking at Mommy Angel and she was always looking at him.
And she started wearing soft-looking things and moving slower.
And here’s the big one. Mommy Angel turned out to be totally not interested in catalogs or shopping or anything but what was going on with BD and me. And that was good because BD needed all of it, and I liked it, too.
And here’s what the universe gave me: sometimes a person needs another person to be all dependent on them and they are. And then things change and the firs
t person is the one who needs to be all dependent and the second person takes over the take-care stuff. And you find out that the second person was always really like this underneath, they just didn’t do it because the first person was so important to them. And that’s my Rentz.
HERE’S WHAT WAS NOT DIFFERENT
Mommy Angel was still singing her old songs. Especially,
When love flies out the window
The best thing you can do
Is keep the window open
’Til it flies back to you.
And I get for the first time (D’OH) that what she’s singing about is what she’s thinking about, really feeling. Which I should have figured out years ago.
And Daddy figures it out, too.
Then I get this envelope from José. It is a picture of my father laughing, smiling, throwing out his arms like he feels great. And he’s so real it’s like he’s ready to get off the page and run around the room. With it is a letter:
Dear Kestrel,
I hope this helps your dad feel better. I did the best I could on it. In fact, this was my third try. Hope you’re back soon.
Anyway, when you do get back, Garbage will be gone. It turned out his big doctor’s degree was a fake. The school board made him resign.
[Way to go, universe.]
I’ve been over to see Ratchy a few times. He’s getting big fast. When he sees me he makes this noise that is maybe “Hi” and maybe means “Where is she, you estúpido? Go and get her.”
English is okay, but no fun anymore.
Blake gave me this to give to you.
I hope everything comes out okay and you come back soon.
Regards,
José
Something from Blake? Too weird. It’s a piece of notebook paper. On the inside is some really big printing in red, black, and orange.
Hey, Kestrel,
Sensei told me about your old man. Just want to say I’m sorry. Hope he doesn’t die or anything. Your aunt found out Garbage’s big degree was fake and told the school board. RIGHTUOUS.
I didn’t know she was soo kewl.
Blake Cump
Oh, yeah. Karate is weird. A lot of it is just sitting. But the dojo’s a good place. I like it better than anywhere else. Someday when you come back I will brake a brick on my head for you. Or maybe one of your brownies. HAHA.
Blake Cump
And with Blake’s letter was a little pale pink piece of paper folded over. It was from Laura.
Dear Kestrel,
I miss you. So do my rentz, José and his mom, Blake, Ratchy, and Ariel. And a lot of people at school have asked me about you and when you are coming back. So when are you coming? José and I met for coven, but it wasn’t the same without you. Blake asked me if he could come, but I told him it was up to you because you’re our head witch. (Is that the right term?) I don’t know how majix he is. But he helps me with mine.
Please come back soon.
Love,
Laura
TIME WAS PASSING. It had been about two weeks already. The days were still warm, but the nights were getting cold. And I wasn’t in school or anything. So I thought maybe I had better mention that. And that night, I did.
“You know,” I say, “if I’m going to stay up here, maybe we should think about sending me to school someplace.”
“Aren’t you enjoying your time with us?” Mommy Dearest says. “I’m certainly enjoying having you home.”
“Sure,” I say. “I just thought you might want me to graduate someday.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Daddy says. “It’s just so great having you around all the time. Trying to figure out who you are and who you’re turning in to. And what you’ll get up to next.”
“Who, me?” I say. Then I blush like some kind of dweeb.
“Where would you like to be?” Mommy Angel says. “Up here or down there?”
“I want her up here,” Daddy says.
“I think we can let Kestrel decide,” Mommy Angel says. “We’ve been treating her as a problem and not as a person for a long time. Let’s let her choose what to do next.”
Wow. I’m going to have to stop calling Mom Mommy Angel.
And Daddy says, “Yeah. I guess so.”
So I think very, very hard. I think about Ratchy and José and Ariel. I think about the smog and the heat down in Jurupa. I think about Blake and Laura and all the Iturrigarays. I think about my Rentz, and how much I want to be near them. Either way, I am going to end up missing somebody a lot.
I can feel the universe slowing, getting deeper, building up some energy, waiting for the flow to go on.
Finally, I feel it move.
“I’m staying,” I say. “But I want to go down and visit a lot. I’ve got things to do down there.”
Daddy hugs me and says, “Thank you, baby. Thank you, Kestrel.”
And Mom smiles and hugs us both.
So I call Ariel and tell her. And I call José and Laura and tell them. And we are all kind of sad about it. As in, Ariel cries and so do I. But it feels like what the universe needs.
Ariel sends Ratchy. He is already more than twice as big as when I got him. When he moves in, he starts out sleeping on my bed. He is a good familiar and knows what I need from him. In less than a week, he is sleeping on Daddy for his afternoon naps.
“I have decided that you are never fully dressed without cat hair,” Daddy says.
He makes Daddy laugh, too. Once, when we are all gone for a day, Ratchy goes into the kitchen as soon as we come back, and starts whapping on things. Finally, he knocks a cup onto the floor and smashes it.
“There,” he looks at us. “That’s what I was trying to say.”
And Daddy laughs, even though it is his own personal coffee cup.
And I go back to school and it’s not bad. It’s not anything, really. It’s just school. I think about starting a new coven, but I don’t really want to. I want my old one back. I cast a few spells, just to keep developing my powers, but I don’t care very much about the outcomes, and I don’t develop anything.
Thanksgiving comes and goes. Daddy gets stronger. I am thankful for that.
After Thanksgiving, Daddy and Ariel start spending a lot of time on the phone. By the week before solstice, which is Christmas for us witches and comes four days before the other one, Daddy and Mom are walking around like they have this BIG secret. So I am totally not surprised when, today, the first day after the start of winter vacation, I answer the door and Ariel is standing there with Chris.
What does surprise me is José. And the car.
“Hey, ese,” I say.
So everybody meets everybody and José says, “Want to see the car?”
And we all go outside and the Cométe is there. The rare, creamy white French coche that Ariel and Chris kissed against the night of the tamalada.
“Bought it with the money from a couple of my paintings,” Chris tells us. “We’re going to have to take you to the gallery and show you the ones that are left. They look a lot better hanging up.”
“Chris gave it to me,” Ariel says. “Much better than an engagement ring.”
“But we are engaged,” Chris says.
“When are you getting married?” Mom and I want to know.
“Soon,” Chris says.
“When the universe is ready for us, we’ll be ready for it,” Ariel says.
So we all have dinner together. It is a big deal in the dining room. And Ariel and Mom and I all put it together and it feels a little like a tamalada, which is nice.
And after dinner, it is like we have all been friends forever. And I try not to think about the fact that it is only for tonight and tomorrow, and to be happy in the flow. But it’s not easy. I keep thinking that, tomorrow, Ariel and Chris and José will be gone and solstice will happen and I will be alone for it. Not alone. I will have Daddy and Mom. But I won’t have these people with me, whom I love just as much in their own different ways.
There is something els
e going on at the table, too. I can’t tell what. All I know is, Daddy is looking more and more excited all through dinner. And Mom and Ariel keep smiling. Okay, Big Secret. Let them have fun. ’Tis the season.
And then the plates are cleared away and it is time for Daddy to spring his Big Secret.
“So, Kestrel, what are you planning to do for solstice this year?” he says.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Nothing much, I guess. Why?”
“I was thinking you might like to go back to Jurupa to celebrate with your friends,” he says.
“How long could I stay?” I ask.
“Tell me what you think of this,” Daddy says, and passes me an envelope. Inside it is a picture of a nice-looking house on a rocky hill. The sky is smoggy.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Think you might like to live there?” he asks.
Oh, my Goddess. This place is in Jurupa. It must be.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“We’re moving to Jurupa,” Daddy says. “Merry Christmas.”
“But you won’t like it there,” I blurt out.