Terrible with children, she writes. Greasy hair. She pauses to read what she’s written, sets down the pen, looks at her clothes. Then she scoops them into her arms and heads for the bathroom. I’m relieved when I hear the shower running.
12
Kit and I pull up to a Queen Anne house painted a hopeful powder blue with white gingerbread trim and a picket fence surrounding the yard. A lattice arbor loops over the gate to the front walk, which is lined with box hedges.
“This place is for rent?” I ask Kit. Ivy drapes out of an old milk can set beside a wooden porch swing.
“It’s a B and B, but one of the owners got sick. They’re renting the place for a year until their son can move to town and take over the business.” He says the place is called Colonel Cranson’s, after the original owner—a retired Civil War colonel who used to manage the railroad station back when the train ran through Ashland.
“It looks like the Happily-Ever-After Institute.”
“We can commit you on the first of the month.”
“Do I have to like scones?”
The inside of the house smells like an attic—like mothballs and cedar and musty fabrics. Sunshine spills through the warbly glass in the windows onto the long oriental runner in the front hall. I admire the doors’ glossy porcelain knobs. We creak past the living room, which is crowded with antiques that remind me of old ladies. Wingback chairs with tea party posture. Pedestal tables with demure padded feet. A grandfather clock at the end of the long hall lets out a loud gong. I jump and grab Kit’s arm, then quickly let go, embarrassed.
The bright kitchen still smells of yeast and coffee. I run my fingers over the grain of the oak table, which is surrounded by chairs with embroidered seats.
“Sold!” I tell Kit.
Dear Ethan: Don’t worry about me. I live in a Pepperidge Farm ad now.
“There might be mice.” Kit swipes cobwebs from a windowsill. “And rumor has it there’s a ghost.” He pushes open the back door, which leads to a porch alongside the house. We step outside. “This is where the guests eat breakfast.” Directly across the street there’s a gas station equipped with a car wash. Machinery whirrs and water gushes. A car chugs through the giant spinning black and blue brushes, the driver blinking into the sunlight as he emerges. “It’s a little noisy,” Kit admits. He’s sort of the anti-realtor—without bluster or hype.
I shrug. “My car will always be clean.”
We sit in wicker rockers on the porch and review the rental agreement. Kit lowers his voice and leans toward me. “The ghost’s name is Alice.” He laughs. “She’s the Cransons’ daughter, who died of pneumonia. The owners claim she rustles around in the kitchen in the middle of the night and once she left the milk out on the counter.”
I can relate to Alice. Restless and hungry in the middle of the night, milk carton absentmindedness.
“No problem. I’ll take it.” I’m used to living with ghosts.
Soon after I sign the lease for Colonel Cranson’s, Big Brothers/ Big Sisters calls to say that my background check has been cleared and that I’ve been matched with a thirteen-year-old eighth-grader named Crystal Lowman. During the intake meeting, I told the counselor that I didn’t care what age the child was. She said this might make for a faster match. But secretly I hoped for a littler girl, like Simone, with whom I could finger-paint and build Legos. “It’s a henhouse!” Simone shrieked with glee the time we built a simple red Lego building. Will a teenage girl be this easy to please?
Now the counselor explains that Crystal lives alone with her mother and has trouble at school. “She’s bright enough but spends a lot of afternoons in detention,” the woman says. “Her mother doesn’t seem to participate in her life much. But I’m sure you’ll make a great role model.”
Role model! Sure, let me show you how to lose your job and your house and gain fifteen pounds in no time.
Crystal, her mother, and I meet for the first time at the agency with a counselor. Crystal looks young for thirteen, with a thin, boyish figure. Her face is pretty, though, with high rosy cheekbones like Ruth’s and a small pointed nose that’s chapped on the end. Her skin is flawless and translucent, with an almost bluish tinge, like skim milk. Her short hair is so blond that it’s nearly white. Roxanne, Crystal’s mother, is a larger version of her daughter—thin and sinewy, with long legs. She looks younger than me, more like a sister than a mother.
When we discuss what day of the week to get together, Crystal’s indifference makes my stomach drop. “Whatever,” she says with dramatic exhaustion when I suggest Sundays at two. It’s as though she thinks our get-togethers will be about as fun as detention. She barely looks at me during our meeting. Instead she systematically examines her split ends, her eyes crossing as she tugs pieces of her short hair in front of her nose. As for her mother, she’s either had too much caffeine or there’s someplace else she has to be. Her Reebok-clad foot circles the air frenetically, and she keeps checking her watch. She and Crystal exude an impatience that makes me wonder why they came to the agency in the first place.
A few days later, I attend an orientation meeting for “Bigs.” The counselors recommend that we take our “Littles” on outdoor adventures, such as hiking or ice-skating. They warn against letting our Littles persuade us to always take them shopping, to the video arcade, or out for junk food.
“It’s not about you being their sugar daddy,” a counselor explains. “It’s about forming a friendship and being a mentor.”
Wrong house? I wonder, standing on Crystal’s front porch the afternoon of our first date. I double-check the address on the paper in my purse. No, this is right. I’ve been stood up. By a thirteen-year-old! This isn’t supposed to be like dating.
Wedged between the aluminum storm door and front door of her house, I ring the bell a second and then a third time. Nothing. I knock, but no sounds come from inside the house, which is painted the weirdest color: a pale powdery pink that makes it look like a giant after-dinner mint.
There are probably a hundred other things a teenager would rather do than hang out with a thirty-six-year-old on a Sunday afternoon. I peer into Crystal’s empty living room. Everything is tidy and sparse—a TV with little flags of tinfoil attached to the antennae, a sofa with square red pillows nestled neatly at each end.
Finally I give up and jot a note on the back of a checkbook deposit slip for Crystal: I stopped by, but you weren’t in, I write, wanting to sound casual. Call you later. Sophie. I tuck the note in the mailbox so that one corner’s sticking out. As I head back down the porch steps, I don’t feel like a very big Big.
Stepping onto the front walk, I notice a white starfishlike clump in the grass. I jump when I realize it’s a hand, palm open, fingers spread wide. The long sleeve of a navy blue sweatshirt snakes into the rhododendron. I crouch and peer into the bushes, where I see Crystal sprawled on her back, arms and legs spread open as if she’s making a snow angel.
“Crystal?”
“Yeah?” A white wisp of breath curls up from her mouth.
“Hi.”
She rolls her head to look at me. “I was waiting for you,” she says. Her smoky blue eyes are outlined in heavy black liner, and her lips shimmer with pink gloss.
“Usually people wait in the house or on the porch.” I laugh nervously, realizing this isn’t particularly funny.
“No shit! My mom told me to wait outside.”
“In the bushes?” My thighs ache from my morning jog. I sit cross-legged on the cold, hard sidewalk.
“She’s a bitch.”
“I see. Well, what would you like to do today?”
Crystal turns onto her side and hoists herself up onto her elbow, resting her head in her palm. A crescent of short blond hair falls across her forehead. “Do you have a cigarette?”
“Sure, I have a cigarette and some crack. Would you like some? No, I don’t have a cigarette. I don’t smoke. And if I did, I wouldn’t give you one, silly.”
Crystal rolls
her eyes and collapses back onto the ground, squinting through the bushes. Already I feel as though I’m not fun or cool. I want to be cool. I wish Ethan were here. He wouldn’t be shy or nervous. For a computer nerd, he was cool.
Crystal reminds me of those girls in junior high who were sexy and moody and gravelly-voiced early on, while the rest of us still piled stuffed animals on our beds. I remember cowering in the last stall in the girls’ room as they smoked and talked about the boys they planned on cornering behind the gym after school. Crystal doesn’t look as voluptuous as those girls, though; she’s too skinny and childlike.
She rolls over suddenly, crawls out of the bushes, and stands up, the hood of her big sweatshirt falling onto her shoulders. Her jeans are slung low around her narrow waist, with flared bell-bottoms tattered and caked with mud. She smacks dirt from her hands. “Dude,” she says. “Let’s go to the movies.”
“Nice wheels,” Crystal says of my Honda as we head toward Medford to the multiplex.
“Thanks. It’s practically the only thing I own right now. Except for cardboard boxes of stuff.”
She rests the waffle soles of her clunky platform sneakers on the dashboard and jams two sticks of gum into her mouth. “How come?”
“Just moved here.”
“You mean you, like, live in this hick hole on purpose?”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t exactly call Shakespeare a hick.”
“You work at the festival?”
“No.”
Silence. Gum snapping. “Seen the plays?”
“I hope to see all of them.”
Crystal turns up the heat. “My class went last year?” She poses most of her statements as questions. “Sucked hard core.”
I try not to seem alarmed by Crystal’s language.
“If you like plays, you’ll like this movie.” She juts a chunk of newspaper in my face to show me an R-rated movie circled in pen. I’ve read reviews and I know there’s lots of sex and swearing involved.
“Oh.” I push the paper away so I can see the road. “Well, that’s rated R. How about we compromise and pick a PG-13 movie?”
“How is that a compromise, chiquita? My mom doesn’t care if I see an R-rated movie. You want to call her?” Crystal cracks her knuckles, pulls a cell phone out of her jacket pocket, and flashes it at me. “I’m not allowed to call anyone but my mom on this. It’s like the Mom Police hotline. She’s at work. We can ask her.”
“Okay,” I agree warily. Already I’m faltering! I should be able to put the kibosh on this movie without having to bother Crystal’s mother.
Crystal presses one button on her phone and it automatically dials a number. She shoves it across the seat toward me and the next thing I know there’s a voice on the other end.
“Roxanne Lowman,” a woman says briskly. I explain that Crystal wants to see an R-rated show.
“It’s a coming-of-age story,” Roxanne says, annoyed. “It’s better to be open with teenagers than to try to hide everything. Teenagers have sex, you know.”
“I, uh …” They do? Crystal does? I look at her across the seat, her arms and legs as thin and delicate as willow tree branches.
“Okay,” I tell her mother, trying to sound confident.
“See?” Crystal says, vindicated as she snaps the phone shut. “All my mom cares about is that my grades don’t fall below a C average and that I don’t go to jail. She’s, like, all about attaining a respectable level of mediocrity.”
This seems a sadly grown-up interpretation for a thirteen-year-old.
In the theater, Crystal takes a long sip from her barrel-size Coke, then tugs at the straw with her teeth, making it squeak loudly.
“Hush,” scolds one of two college-age boys in front of us.
“Okay, douche bag,” Crystal says, lightly kicking the back of the boy’s seat with her chunky sneaker. I doubt she’ll ever want to play checkers or sing along to The Sound of Music.
He snaps around and glares at me, and I shrug.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Crystal giggles.
“Watch the language,” I tell her.
She huffs a sigh and crosses and recrosses her arms and legs. She’s in constant fidgeting motion, as though her bones are trying to get out of her body. I wonder if what she really wants is someone to set boundaries for her. Maybe I just need to work up a tough-love shtick. I’d rather call Big Brothers/ Big Sisters and ask for a younger, easier-to-manage kid. A little girl with pigtails who would want to color or bake. But I know I should give Crystal more of a chance. No one said this would be easy.
The movie starts and there’s tons of swearing and sex. Crystal finally stops fidgeting, her mouth hanging open, her pointed chin still. I swear next Sunday will be different: Jiffy Pop and a game of Risk by the fire.
“Married?” Crystal asks, pointing at my wedding ring. She digs into the whipped cream and nuts cascading over the giant banana split I bought her after the movie. So far I’ve established myself as a pushover, letting her mow through all the popcorn, soda, and ice cream she wants. But it looks as though she could use a few extra pounds.
“Widowed.” I take a bite of pralines and cream.
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
“How come you still wear the ring?” Crystal doesn’t swerve tactfully around the questions everybody really wants to ask.
“It’s not like I’m divorced.”
“But you’re not married and you’re, like, never going to get a boyfriend if you wear that thing.” She raises her eyebrows and nods at the ring.
My ice cream is bland and waxy. Suddenly I would rather not be sitting at Baskin-Robbins with Crystal. I’ve run away from Silicon Valley to Ruth’s house, and I’ve run away from Ruth’s house to the movies with Crystal, and now I want to run away from Crystal to the rest room and lock myself in a stall for six months, surviving on Lifesavers and purse lint.
“That’s not the point,” I tell her. “Anyway. Your house is an unusual color.”
“Yeah, my mom likes pink. Hello! What a freak show!” Her eyes brighten. “Hey, you can buy me beer.”
“I’m not buying you beer. And we’re not seeing any more R-rated movies, either.”
“Whatever.” There’s fudge sauce on her chin, and I resist the impulse to lick my thumb and rub it off. I push my ice cream aside and watch her eat, noticing for the first time that there are pea-size red rings across the tops of her hands. Some have rusty scabs, while others shine like red licorice. Crystal catches my gaze and tugs the sleeves of her too big sweatshirt over her hands, bunching the fabric in her fists.
After digging around in her black backpack, she pulls out a compact of blush. She rubs her forefinger into the pink cream and dabs it across her cheeks. It’s too bright and uneven, making her look a little like a clown.
“Let me help you.” Laughing, I get up to sit next to her. (As if I’m the makeup pro!) She doesn’t move over to make room, and I have to balance on the edge of the booth, inhaling her cigarette and baby powder smells. As I rub my fingers in circles over her cheeks to even out the color, she tips her chin up and closes her eyes.
“Your skin looks pretty without makeup,” I tell her, studying the thick globs of eyeliner stuck in her lashes. “You should skip it.”
“I already look like I’m about ten years old.” She wrinkles her nose. “I need all the help I can get.”
I rub what’s left of the blush onto a napkin.
She checks her reflection in the blush’s dusty mirror, clicks her mouth in disgust, then snaps the compact shut. “I’m the smallest girl in my class.” She wraps her arms around her chest. “You know, here.” I sneak a closer look at the mottled red rings on the tops of her hands.
“What are these?” I brush my fingers over the welts, which are surprisingly smooth.
“Nothing.” She shoves her hands in her lap.
“Are you sure?” Her chest whistles faintly as she breathes. I remember that the Big Broth
ers counselor told me that Crystal has asthma and that I should remind her to carry her inhaler on our outings. “What happened?”
“I burned myself.” She licks her mouth and looks sideways at me, edging away.
“How?”
“With a cigarette.”
“On purpose?”
“No, you think?”
Crystal’s sarcasm is irritating and heartbreaking at the same time. “You should use an ashtray next time.”
“Hah, hah.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Whatever.”
She clutches her backpack to her chest. I change the subject, pointing to the silver band just below the knuckle on her thumb. “That’s pretty.”
“It’s my father’s wedding band.” She sits up straighter. “My mother, like, threw it in the garbage, but I found it.”
“Where does he live?”
She licks the back of her spoon and shrugs.
“Does he ever visit or call?”
“He called from a place in Arizona once and left a message? But when I dialed the number that he left, the lady who answered could, like, barely speak English and she didn’t know who my father was. I think my stupid mother wrote his number down wrong. He probably thinks I never called back and that’s why he never called again. He probably thinks I don’t want to talk to him.”
At least the possibility of a wrong number means it could all be an accident.
“He looks like Mel Gibson,” Crystal adds, pushing aside her empty goblet and burping.
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I don’t blame him for leaving my mother. She’s such a bitch. I can’t believe I have to live with her. It’s like being held hostage.”
I can’t imagine having this much disdain for my mother. When I was Crystal’s age, my mother was dead and I missed her so much that sometimes it hurt to breathe. In junior high there was a TV ad for salad dressing in which a mother in a red-and-white-checked apron showed her daughter how to fix salad. “You must never cut the lettuce, but always gently tear it,” the mother explained kindly but firmly to the daughter as they broke up chunks of iceberg and tossed them into a wooden salad bowl. I assumed all mothers, except maybe Joan Crawford, were like this, and I wanted my mother to come back and insist that I be gentle with lettuce and wear a sweater and use sunblock.
Good Grief Page 11