Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  After that, they only had a few moments to share thoughts about The Hobbit before it was time to hand the phone to Mom. The last thing he said before saying goodbye was, “How’s your Mom doing?” She was almost annoyed by the question—but not as much as she used to be.

  Madelyn made her way to her bedroom, the happy chatter of her mom’s side of the phone conversation dwindling behind her. She’d realized when talking to Dad, that she hadn’t marked off the completion of week three.

  As she was putting her notepad back in her nightstand, Jillian said, “What’s that?”

  Madelyn spun around. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Well, that’s obvious,” Jillian said, rolling her eyes.

  Madelyn shrugged her shoulders then retrieved the notepad from its place. “I’m marking off the weeks Dad’s gone. It helps the time pass.”

  “That makes sense. But it’s not terrible, you know. My friend Sally, her dad left, but he never came back—at least not yet. I don’t think she even talks to him on the phone.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Madelyn said, plopping down on the bed. She gazed over at her little sister who often felt like the older, more mature one of the two of them. “Hey, Jilly?”

  “What?”

  “You’re also right about Zane. We’ve been friends, but now … well, now I think I like him. But what do I do about it?”

  Jilly climbed up beside her on the bed. “I don’t know,” she said then burst out in giggles.

  Madelyn ruffled Jillian’s hair. “Okay, so you don’t have a lot of experience in such matters. But isn’t he cute? And he’s so nice.” They both squealed and chatted well into the night.

  Monday

  Early the next morning Madelyn made her way to the garage to find the WD-40. She sprayed it on every locking mechanism she could find on their front door then turned every handle and lock to distribute it, just like Dad had instructed. It was a simple fix—she’d certainly tackled harder projects before with Dad. Surveying her handiwork, Madelyn couldn’t help but be pleased. Yet, even though this was more her thing than Mom’s, Madelyn was still secretly annoyed that she wasn’t taking care of such things, or that Dad wasn’t here to make that train of thought unnecessary.

  She kept herself busy throughout the day, just wanting time to pass. Madelyn wrote a short note to Lori in Ohio and hoped she would write back. However, since she hadn’t heard a peep out of her yet, she wasn’t going to hold her breath.

  In the afternoon, Madelyn set up a sprinkler in the backyard for Jillian and Daniel to run through. They alternately squealed and giggled as the cold water shocked then refreshed them. Jillian decided to try doing cartwheels into the sprinkler, but mostly she just fell over sideways, soaking herself even more. She giggled every time, and Madelyn found herself laughing as well.

  In one of these unguarded moments, Daniel snuck up behind her and doused her with a bucket of cold water. Screaming, Madelyn jumped up to chase after him, but he made a dash for the sprinkler. Madelyn ran right after him, grabbed him, and held him right over the nozzle of the sprinkler, even though in the process she got just as soaked as he did.

  If she’d noticed, her own concerns were taking on less and less significance.

  . . .

  After dinner that night, Madelyn curled up on the couch in the living room to read her library book. She was determined to have more self-control with The Hobbit this week. Soon, the rest of the family trickled in to join her.

  Jillian would be starting second grade in the fall and was beginning to read simple chapter books. Tonight, she settled down on the couch between Mom and Madelyn, determined to make it through the book in her hands. Madelyn smiled as she half listened to her stop-and-go reading.

  When Madelyn snuck a glance in their direction, she was surprised by what she saw. She assumed Mom would be following along with each word, correcting any errors along the way, but instead, her head was back, her eyes closed, with a blissful expression enveloping her face. Madelyn stopped what she was doing to study her mom.

  To Madelyn, Mom was the one in charge, the one who ordered her life. She sometimes forgot there was more to Mom than that, that she could simply be proud of her children, loving them unconditionally. There was never a question about whether Mom loved her, but in the day-to-day ins and outs of life, Madelyn sometimes forgot that was at the core of everything. It’s like forgetting trees have roots—you know they do, but it’s not what you think about when you’re looking at their branches and leaves. Madelyn smiled to herself. It’s good to be reminded that you are loved and cared about, even when you’re a teenager—probably especially then.

  When Jillian finished her book, she picked up the old standards and begged Mom to read them to her again before she headed off to bed. Madelyn gave up reading to listen to her favorite childhood books once more, only keeping up a pretense that she was still reading by holding her open book in front of her. Her eyes, however, were on the well-worn pages of Where the Wild Things Are.

  Madelyn settled down to listen to the rhythmic cadence of the words while letting her eyes wander over the playful illustrations. She had her favorite beast—the one with people feet, and her favorite words—“wild rumpus.” They dripped with potential mischief. A wistful smile played on her lips, and Madelyn closed her eyes to listen, watching the familiar illustrations come to life in her mind—when everything went wrong.

  It happened so fast, Madelyn wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Her eyes flew open in time to watch her mom turn the page. It was the identical spot she’d been listening to before, and it was playing out precisely the same way. Madelyn had known then that something was off—only this time she knew what it was, she just couldn’t bring herself to believe it—because if Madelyn was right, it meant her mom couldn’t read!

  1950

  Tommy was the center of everyone’s universe. It was mostly out of necessity, but no one in the family minded. He was a happy child, and little by little he was making progress, which made everyone around him happy as well.

  Rachel might have resented her portion of attention being given to Tommy if it weren’t for her pop. He stumbled upon the very thing she needed without even realizing what he was starting.

  The shared ritual could be traced to a single day about a year after Pop’s return from the war. One day, when Pop knew he would be at work late, he left a handwritten note for her to find. “What does this say, Mommy?”

  Hazel took the note from her daughter. “It says, I love you, little munchkin. Always be good, and remember to save me a hug.”

  Rachel smiled. Taking the note from her mom, she had an idea. Gathering paper of her own, she painstakingly copied the words. She would give the same note back to him. When she was finished, she found her mother working with Tommy. “Look, Mom!”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart. You copied it word for word, didn’t you?”

  “Yep!”

  “You did a great job. Here, let me show you how to fix a couple of these letters. You just have a few of them turned around.”

  When Rachel went back to fix the note, she had a better idea. She took out a new paper and put it right on top of Pop’s note. She could see his dark letters through the thin sheet. When she was finished tracing each letter, she was pleased with the result.

  When Pop found the note late that night, he was pleased too.

  It didn’t happen all the time after that—not so often that it became commonplace. But notes from Pop ended up in her lunch box or her sock drawer or under her pillow. Every time they did, Rachel would put a paper over the top of the note and carefully trace each letter. With each motion of her pencil—each line, each curve—she could feel how m
uch he loved her. Tommy may occupy much of their time, but she knew she occupied a place in Pop’s heart.

  By the time Rachel was in fifth grade, you’d have thought the notes might have changed, but they didn’t. The tradition was about more than the words or the simple handwriting. The pencil strokes were actually heartstrings that bound them together.

  It was in fifth grade that the other tradition began. It was the year the school placed all the kids together in one large reading class instead of the smaller, individualized groups Rachel had been used to. It was the year she would discover favorite classics like Anne of Green Gables and Nancy Drew.

  The first book her teacher handed her that year was Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. When she got home, Mom was busy with Tommy. So, she waited to ambush Pop when he came in the door. “Pop, will you read this with me?” He was moving slowly. It had been a long day. She followed his eyes as he determined what the situation was with Tommy. A smile gradually spread across his face. “Sure, Rachel. We always do things for Tommy, don’t we? Let’s just you and I read.”

  Two or three days a week, Rachel could convince her pop to take ten or fifteen minutes out of his day to read to her from the books she was bringing home from school. When she heard his footsteps, and if things were going well with Tommy, she’d race to her school bag to find her book. If there were papers from the teacher, or even other homework, it was quickly tossed aside in favor of her time with Pop.

  “Hey, this is where we left off a few days ago. Aren’t you reading any of it on your own?”

  “I don’t want you to miss anything. You do want to know what Nancy Drew discovers don’t you?” Rachel would answer.

  Pop would laugh. “Well, I was kind of wondering. I guess we better get started before I need to go help make dinner and you need to help with Tommy. Come here, my perfect little Rachel. Let’s find out what happens.”

  There was a lot they did find out—but a few things they didn’t.

  Tuesday

  The next day was consumed with thoughts of what to do with what she’d witnessed. Could Madelyn prove her suspicions? There were certainly ways, but how could she be subtle about it—not letting on what she knew, or thought she knew.

  It was the first of July, and Madelyn should have been pleased by the milestone. After all, Dad would be returning in August. But even though Madelyn tried to focus on that, she couldn’t. So, despite her resolve not to read The Hobbit too quickly that week, she figured it might be a welcome distraction.

  Madelyn settled herself into a chair in Dad’s study, The Hobbit and a library book, for good measure, in her hands. She opened The Hobbit, but after the fifth time rereading the opening sentence of the chapter, she closed it and set it aside. All she could think about was her mom and how she couldn’t read. No wonder she didn’t have a favorite book. No wonder she never joined them when they gathered to read. And no wonder Dad kept asking if she was okay. Was he worried that Mom couldn’t get along without being able to read, or was the concern that Madelyn would stumble onto their secret? Much as Madelyn had thought it could have been her escape, it was anything but.

  She picked up the library book instead, thinking that something not so directly connected with her family would be better. Only it wasn’t—the reminders not hitting her in the face as with The Hobbit but whispering to her all the same. It had been right in front of her, and she’d never even seen it. Or at least she’d never taken notice before, and now that she had, she could think of nothing else.

  Madelyn gazed around the room. How would she see it differently if she couldn’t read? The books were obvious, but there were other things—the mail that came—bills, letters, all of it. A phone book sat on one corner of Dad’s desk. That would be useless to her mom.

  She got up and began wandering around the house, opening drawers and peeking in cupboards. Cleaning supplies had safety warnings. Children’s aspirin had dosage information. Hot cereal provided directions. Even their clothes came with washing instructions. None of it was accessible to Mom. Madelyn didn’t know whether to be angry at her mom or feel sorry for her.

  Wednesday

  The next morning, with the beginnings of a plan, Madelyn casually walked into the kitchen where Mom was cleaning up breakfast dishes. Pulling out the one cookbook they owned, Madelyn flipped to the chocolate chip cookie recipe Dad used. “Mom, would it be all right if I made some cookies?”

  Mom’s head came up, but she looked perplexed. “Um, sure, if you can make them on your own. I don’t really have the time right now.”

  “That’s fine, but could you tell me what this part means?” Madelyn held the book in front of Mom’s face, pointing to one of the directions.

  Mom barely glanced at it before replying, “I’m not much for recipe directions. I just like to throw in a pinch here and a pinch there.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  Mom looked at her as if Madelyn might say more. When she didn’t, Mom said, “Just make your best guess. I’m sure Jilly and Daniel would love some fresh cookies.”

  Madelyn hadn’t actually planned on making cookies, she just wanted to watch Mom’s reaction. But not seeing any way around it, she gathered all the ingredients and even convinced Jillian and Daniel to help. Jillian sat on the counter and measured ingredients, and Madelyn was surprised by how helpful rather than destructive Daniel was. He read the instructions to them as they went along and particularly loved turning the mixer on as high as it could go. They had so much fun, Madelyn momentarily forgot about Mom.

  When the cookies came out of the oven, they could smell how good they were going to taste, breathing in the scent before even setting down the hot pan. It reminded her of Dad—and thinking about him made her think about their last conversation. She didn’t believe he was right, but why not check it out for herself. “Mom, would it be all right if I took some cookies over to Mrs. Burnham?”

  Mom poked her head in from the other room. Her eyebrow was raised, but after a pause she said, “Sure,” even though her face told her Madelyn must be crazy.

  Jillian decided to tag along, but Daniel was too busy eating a cookie to care, smears of chocolate on his cheeks giving away the fact that it wasn’t his first. The two of them made their way past a mass of dandelions that Madelyn tried to ignore, up to Mrs. Burnham’s front door. Madelyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d stood on this doorstep—probably back when she was young enough to go trick-or-treating.

  The doorbell echoed deep and hollow through the house. It sounded strange, almost eerie—enough so, that Madelyn almost turned and ran. But it also sounded lonely. So, she planted her feet, and with the hand not holding the plate of cookies, grabbed Jillian’s hand to give her courage.

  Mrs. Burnham didn’t come to the door right away, and Jillian and Madelyn glanced at each other, shrugging their shoulders. Maybe she wasn’t home. Just as Madelyn breathed a sigh of relief, thinking they could simply leave, the door opened a crack.

  “Who is it?” It was more like an accusation.

  “It’s me, Madelyn, and Jillian’s with me,” she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt.

  The door creaked open a tad more. Mrs. Burnham appeared disheveled, and Madelyn noticed she wasn’t wearing a wig. “What do you want?” It didn’t sound as gruff as before, but Madelyn still wouldn’t call it friendly.

  “We made some chocolate chip cookies and brought you some.”

  She thought the door would swing wide open at that, but it didn’t, and Madelyn was taken aback when they were met with silence. Not sure what to do, they just stood there waiting.

  Finally, a very small sounding voice said, “Why? Did you burn them or something?”

  Madelyn d
idn’t know how to respond, but before she knew it, words were flying out of her mouth with a mind of their own. “Mrs. Burnham, I don’t like you very much, but I wouldn’t bring you something that was burnt—out of pride if nothing else. They’re good cookies. You can have them if you want. If not, we’ll take them back home and eat them ourselves!”

  Finally, the door opened all the way, and Madelyn could look the woman she had just insulted in the eye. But those eyes were red and puffy. Had Mrs. Burnham been crying? At first, Madelyn thought her words were the cause, and she felt a twinge of guilt. But then she noticed a damp tissue in her hand—her crying was not new.

  Before Madelyn could stop her, Jillian said, “Were you crying?” Mrs. Burnham didn’t answer but quickly wiped her eyes and nose with the used tissue. “Why?” Jillian said while Madelyn squeezed her hand to hopefully shut her up.

  Mrs. Burnham stopped wiping her nose and stared into their eyes, but for once her stare wasn’t full of condemnation. Madelyn sensed she was deciding whether to actually talk to them. In the end, she simply whispered, “No one in this neighborhood has ever brought me cookies before.” Then, all in one motion, she took the plate of cookies and shut the door behind her as she disappeared into the darkness inside.

  . . .

  The incident with Mrs. Burnham disturbed Madelyn and stayed with her throughout the afternoon. She found herself wandering outside to work on the dandelions just so she could be alone with her thoughts. Mrs. Burnham hadn’t even said “Thank you” for the cookies, but then again, Madelyn hadn’t used kind words herself.