Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  So, I didn’t mind waiting. When it finally came? Wow. Sourdough bread was sour and sweet and warm. Wow.

  

  Monday morning, I dressed in my school uniform but padded to the kitchen barefoot. My school shoes were way too big and uncomfortable, so I wore them as little as possible. The kitchen was on the west side of the house, and the breakfast table, sitting in the bay window, was shaded for breakfast and hot at suppertime. Mr. Porter was already there, leaning over the kitchen counter and reading the newspaper.

  I walked past him, and he started talking. “Tim did great in his golf tournament this weekend. A birdie on the first hole, par on the second. . . .”

  Meant nothing to me. I didn’t understand golf.

  A pan of water was heating on the stove, and beside Mr. Porter was a French coffee press, a small pitcher with a built in sieve to keep coffee grounds in the pitcher and out of your cup. Mandy had liked French press coffee, too.

  “. . .so with two holes left, he was tied,” Mr. Porter went on, “Wish I could have watched.”

  I fixed a bowl of cereal and poured milk on it and sat at the breakfast table to eat, wrapping one leg around the chair leg. I concentrated on the crunching sound of the cereal.

  Still talking, Mr. Porter poured boiling water into the French press, and the smell of coffee filled the room. “. . .my sister called last night and told me Tim won. Wish I’d been there.”

  I loved the coffee smell. Hated the taste of it, though.

  He opened the fridge and pulled out the milk and–

  –wait, that was the sourdough starter jar.

  He stood stiff, uncomfortable, holding the jar at arm’s length while he moved aside something else before he pulled out the jug of milk. Worried, I raced across the cool tile floor and took the sourdough starter from his hands. “Here, I’ll hold that for you.”

  Mr. Porter poured milk into his coffee and put the milk back in the fridge and closed the door. When he stepped aside, I opened the fridge again and put the starter on a shelf in the door, far away from the milk. The jar fit tightly on that shelf, but it did fit. Would Mr. Porter help keep it alive? Maybe it was the wrong time to ask, but I had to ask sometime. “By the way,” I said casually, “I need flour for the sourdough starter. By Thursday night so I can take it back on Friday.”

  “You telling me when I have to shop?” he snapped.

  I retreated back to the kitchen table. “No, sir.”

  He leaned over the paper again, his frowning face a mass of pockmarks and wrinkles.

  “I was just–”

  He sighed and looked sideways at me. “–just what?”

  “Just trying to give you lots of notice. You know, tell you ahead of time when I might need something. That way, you could work it into your schedule.”

  Nodding curtly, he folded the paper and laid it beside the French press. “I just don’t like this Bread Project.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Porter made a show of refilling his coffee cup, adding milk again, glaring at the starter in the fridge’s doorway. “When Griff–Mr. Winston–started working at the school, we were both bachelors. We golfed, ate out, did a few things together.”

  That surprised me. Seemed like Porter was always mad at the mention of Mr. Winston; weird, since Mr. Winston was dead. I gathered my dishes, dumped out the leftover milk and put everything in the dishwasher. And waited.

  “Look.” Mr. Porter rubbed his hand across his eyes. “You ever have a friend who always one-ups you?”

  “Oh.” Suddenly, I did see. Mr. Porter had let his sister and nephew live with him. But Mr. Winston had adopted Eliot and married Mrs. Winston. Probably lots of other places they were in competition, too, things I wouldn’t even guess about. Maybe scores on certain golf courses.

  “But–”

  “I know.” Mr. Porter waved his hand, cutting me off. “Still.”

  I studied my feet. I rubbed my left ankle with my right foot, not daring to look at him. It was weird for an adult to admit to something like this. I didn’t like Mr. Porter much, but maybe he didn’t like his life much. No family of his own, just borrowing his sister’s. She had called to tell him about the tournament, but she hadn’t invited him along. Instead he had to read the details in the newspaper.

  “I just don’t want that stuff in my refrigerator.” His voice was flat, not angry.

  I had to say it: “It’s a school project.”

  “I know. And I’ll get the flour for you. By Thursday.” He turned to the sink and dumped out his coffee. He ran water over a washrag, wrung it out, and started wiping down the cabinet tops. “Get your shoes. We leave in five minutes.”

  For once, I was grateful my school shoes were too large: I wouldn’t have to ask him about new shoes for a long time. But maybe today, we had made some progress.

  BREAD PROJECT: WEEK 2

  ELIOT

  Friday morning, I was sitting at the counter eating toast when Marj came in.

  “Look at this,” she wailed. She spread her fingers and showed me the new blisters that had popped up overnight.

  I had itched a day or two, then it dried up. Hers kept getting worse.

  “Between the fingers is the worst,” she said. “Itches like crazy.”

  I cringed and tried not to think about germs and get that going again.

  “I’ll have to get a shot today. That’s what Dr. Jamieson said on Tuesday; if it didn’t get better, I’d have to have a shot.” Marj’s freckled face was flushed. Looked almost hysterical.

  A quiet despair shot through me, and I shoved away the cereal bowl. I had only mown the grass. Only trimmed the shrubs. Only tried to help.

  Marj was dressed for work, wearing a business suit.

  I squirmed, awkward, wondering what to say. “You could stay home.”

  She shrugged and blew on her hands, as if that would stop the itching. Then, she looked up, startled. “What’s today?”

  “Friday.”

  “The Bread Project. I can’t do the assembly.”

  The despair? It deepened. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my emotions under control. Nothing could be allowed to stop the Bread Project, or I would have to go to a foster family right away. But I had undermined it myself with that poison ivy. “Maybe Mrs. Lopez could do the assembly today?”

  The wrinkle between Marj’s eyebrows cleared. “Of course. We do have friends.”

  She went to her office, and I heard her muffled voice.

  A few minutes later, she came back barefoot and calmer. “Mrs. Lopez and I decided to cancel the assembly today. I had the sack of names, so I drew one out. Sameer Patel will get the sourdough, but Mr. Benton will call him in to let him know. Alli can give it to him at the end of school. I have a doctor’s visit in an hour, then I will come home and take a nap.” She abruptly stopped talking.

  Relieved that her day would be easy, I picked up my bowl and dumped the soggy cereal into the sink, then put it into the dishwasher. When I looked up, Marj was looking at me.

  I stopped moving, suddenly worried.

  She spoke quietly. “When I wake up, I’ll be cleaning the house. A real estate agent is coming by tomorrow. Just to walk through and tell me what repair work needs to be done to sell the house. Not listing it for sale yet. Just wanted you know.”

  Nice to be warned. “Thanks.”

  

  When I woke early Saturday, there was just one thought: realtor coming. It was a solid reminder of Marj’s intentions to send me to the experts in raising boys. I wanted to fight against it, but how? To fight it, I needed to support everything Marj did and make it easy for her to raise a son. That meant, in spite of my foul mood, I needed to mow the lawn, without her even asking.

  Dressed in old jeans and tennis shoes, I went out to the garage. It was neat, orderly, Griff’s garage. All the tools were on pegboards. Each tool was outlined in black, so you knew where to put it back. So you could find it next time, Griff said.

  If Ma
rj moved, would she let me keep the tools? I’d really like that. I remember Griff holding the wooden handles, his thumb rubbing the polished wood. He especially loved the old wooden plane, the one he had from his grandfather.

  I let the ache for Griff wash through me. But I knew better than to let memory take over, or I wouldn’t get the lawn mown.

  I heaved the push mower onto the workbench and studied the dull, dirty blades. First, I’d have to sharpen the blades. I wiped each blade with a paper towel, and then used one of Griff’s metal files to smooth a few rough spots. Lastly I picked up the grinding paste. Didn’t know if I’d remember everything right, but I had to try.

  Unscrewing the lid, I dipped a brush into the goop and painted it on the last half inch of each blade. Next, I inserted the handle and cranked backwards. It made the mower’s frame into a sort of grinding stone.

  Didn’t take long for my muscles to protest. But I liked the rhythmic noise; it drowned out everything. No thinking, no feeling. Just doing. Grateful for the distraction, I zoned out.

  “Hello!”

  “Wha–” I dropped the crank and spun around. It was the school nurse, standing in the garage door. “Miss Clay?”

  “Oh. You’re Eliot, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Winston. I’m here to look at the house and yard.”

  “What?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’re confused. Well, by day, I’m the school nurse. By night, I’m a real estate agent, a realtor.”

  “Oh. The realtor.” I did remember her saying something about real estate. You just never expect to see teachers outside school. She wore the same khaki pants as at school, but a nicer top and a nametag from the realty company. Suddenly, I worried. “I, uh, haven’t got the yard mowed yet this morning.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s okay. I can tell you’re doing a good job. When we get ready to show it, you’ll have it ready. Right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  “Um, Mrs. Winston. Is she home?”

  I flushed, embarrassed to realize I was staring. I wiped the grinding goop on my shorts and said, “Yes, Ma’am, she’s home.” Then, I shivered. Goop covered my hands. Germy goop.

  Quickly, I led Miss Clay inside. The breakfast nook was bathed in golden light. Marj sat hunched over, warming a coffee mug with her hands, her fingers pale, fragile. The shot for the poison ivy was already working, and her hands were not as swollen, not as red. On the table lay a crumpled bag of pretzels, probably all she ate for breakfast. She was staring out the window, her face a vacant mask.

  When she saw Miss Clay, Marj set down the coffee and yawned. “Sorry. I’m starting slowly this morning.”

  Miss Clay nodded. Almost yawned herself. “Worst part of a realtor’s job, getting up too early on Saturdays.” She smiled at me. “Eliot was working early, too, fixing the lawn mower. I told him the yard looked great, so not to worry about it for me today.”

  Marj leaned her head to one side and smiled at me, too. “Thanks, Eliot.”

  I pulled my germy hands behind my back and nodded, grateful that Miss Clay had pointed out my hard work.

  Marj motioned for Miss Clay to sit down.

  While they chatted, I went to the kitchen sink and squirted liquid soap on my hands and scrubbed. Scrubbed hard.

  By the time I finished, Marj and Miss Clay were strolling around, Marj carrying a notebook and pen. I followed, proud of this house, wanting to watch Miss Clay be impressed by the Winston family home.

  But Marj explained and excused: The fireplace hadn’t been used in over ten years, but it just needed the chimney cleaned, she said. Eliot replaced the doorstop in the hallway for me, but I haven’t had time yet to fix the dented wall. Yes, the arched doorways between the living room and dining room were original. Yes, there were tiny bits of old wallpaper still stuck near the ceiling, but they should be easy to remove.

  Just like Griff, Miss Clay smelled like a school nurse, half Pine-Sol and half rubbing alcohol. On Miss Clay, though, the smell was wrong. Wrong, like letting Miss Clay look around our house was wrong.

  “That rug looks worn,” Miss Clay said, pointing to the runner that stretched up the stairs. “You’ll have to replace it.”

  Outraged, I started to say the rug was soft and easy on bare feet. But I looked again. And saw a couple of bare patches. My face flushed and I was suddenly hot, embarrassed.

  Marj jotted another note, adding it to the list of details that needed to be taken care of before the house might sell. She waved at me to lead the way upstairs.

  So up I went, worried now about how old the carpet was in my room. Coming out of the stairwell, the room opened up and covered the whole second floor. Not that it was huge, it just covered the center part of the house. I always thought of it as the cockpit of a flying saucer. It was sunny and hot in the summer and sunny and cold in the winter. I had loved this room from the moment I saw it.

  Miss Clay had lots to say, though. “Of course, replace this carpet. And that dirty sneaker smell has to go. Get some plug-in room deodorizers.”

  Miss Clay had been unsure of herself at school, but as a realtor, she didn’t mind giving her opinion. She wanted the broken rack in the closet fixed, the ceiling fan dusted, the walls painted. “And try to hire a window cleaner before you put up new curtains.”

  Finished upstairs, Miss Clay led the way downstairs. “I think,” she said, “my client will love this house when you do the few clean-ups and fix-ups.”

  Few? I wanted to fume at her for giving Marj such a long list.

  Miss Clay shrugged. “But he has one more requirement. It’s strange. He wants me to measure the useable space in the attic. His wife has tons of Christmas ornaments–she goes overboard at holidays–and he wants plenty of space to store that stuff.”

  Marj nodded, absently. She was studying the note pad with an accountant’s eye, adding up how much the repairs and new paint and carpet would cost. Too much. I could tell her that.

  “Eliot, will you show Miss Clay the attic?”

  I obeyed, reluctantly, “This way.”

  Back in the garage, I jumped to reach the rope of the pull-down door.

  Miss Clay reached up and helped unfold the steps, then shook her head, her ponytail swinging. “Broken step here. Remind me to tell your mom.” She stopped to look around. “But the garage is really clean.”

  Of course. It was Griff’s garage.

  When I stepped onto the stairway, a loud creak made me stop. Were the hinges okay? Griff never went into the attic that I knew of. When the creak didn’t repeat, I climbed, eager now to see what was up there.

  Poking my head into the attic space, I coughed. And words rattled around my head. Dusty, musty, crusty, rusty. The attic was dark, almost scary. But curiosity won. Marj had said there was a pull chain light just to the right of the opening. I stepped onto a rough wood flooring and waved around until a string brushed my hand.

  Grabbing the string, I pulled, setting the hanging light to swinging. A pale light washed back and forth.

  Unpainted, aged wood–brittle and dark–stretched into the shadows where the roofline lowered to meet the walls. Right around my feet, plywood flooring created a storage area. Past that? Cotton-like stuff covered with an inch of dust, at least. Insulation, but old insulation.

  Miss Clay stood beside me now, and we looked all around.

  Toward the rear of the storage area were some cardboard boxes. And two plastic clothing bags: inside were uniforms, maybe military uniforms, with buttons and sewn-on badges and things. I hadn’t known that Griff was in the military, had no idea if it was Army or Navy or whatever. Maybe they were from some uncle or cousin or grandfather. Curious, I unzipped the bag, but jerked back.

  Mothballs! The smell overwhelmed me.

  I sneezed.

  And then, I shivered. And then, it started.

  I couldn’t breathe. Germs, millions of germs.

  “It’s too dirty up
here,” Miss Clay complained. “Let’s get it measured and get out.” She handed me the end of a tape measure and motioned for me to hold it at the far side. She walked away, pulling the tape out to stretch along the floored area.

  I bent over. Held the tape at the edge of the plywood. I swayed. Dizzy.

  My skin was itchy, cringey. My hand was just inches away from the cottony insulation.

  I bit my lip. Fought to keep control. Now, my heart was pounding, pounding, pounding. Dizzy. About to lose control. About to freak out, right in front of the school nurse.

  “Got that one. Do the other side,” Miss Clay said.

  Her calm, relaxed voice helped me get a grip on the panic.

  I stumbled over the cardboard boxes, sending up a shower of dust. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I shoved the papers and books back into the box. It looked like school yearbooks, maybe Griff’s.

  “That’s right, just hold it over there.” Miss Clay said.

  I barely heard her; the dust settling on me again, the light still swinging and casting long shifting shadows. I bent. Then collapsed. Sat in an awkward cross-legged heap. Somehow, I held the tape in the right place. And fought to keep control. I wanted to leap into a swimming pool and dunk under and get rid of the crawly stuff on my hands, my arms, my legs.

  “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  The tape measure retracted with a thunk.

  I rushed for the square of daylight. Get me out of here. Right now.

  Gritted my teeth. Took two steps down. Shaking too much to put all my weight on my legs, I leaned forward and held onto the attic floor and closed my eyes. The shaking stopped and I half-slid, half-fell down the rest of the steps.

  In the open garage doorway, away from the attic, I slapped dust from my clothes and gulped fresh air in relief. But the dust covered me, like a cloud of worry. I sneezed.