Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  I picked up the price tag. “500 dollars?” I was shocked.

  Mandy smiled, her face lighting up. “I know it’s expensive, but Ted insisted. Said if I liked it, we should get it.”

  “That’s too much.” But I stroked the golden wood. It was easy to see why she liked it. “Just to put my dolls in, it costs too much.”

  “Oh.” Mandy knelt now, till she was eye level. “It’s not for your dolls. We’re going to have a baby.” Her hand went to her stomach, holding in the flowery dress, protective already. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  She stood and kept chattering. “We just found out that the baby will come about Thanksgiving time. I’m hoping for a girl with curly hair.” She touched the cradle and it rocked again, smooth and easy, with just a finger keeping it going.

  Baby. We were having a baby. I knew Ted and Mandy had wanted a baby for a long, long time, and now – this was exciting! I flung my arms around Mandy’s waist, full of joy.

  She took a sharp breath, unloosed my arms and stepped back. “Oh, not so wild. I’ll have to be very careful for the next six months. Till the baby comes.” She leaned over and gave me a small hug.

  I stammered, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” She turned back to the cradle. “I’m going to get it. Right now. We’ll take it home together, put it in the guest room and start turning that room into a nursery. Okay?”

  Tears filled my eyes. I was so happy that Mandy was happy. “Yes!”

  “Is there anything you want?”

  “I want you to name her Emily.”

  “Why?” Mandy laughed.

  “I don’t know. I just like that name. Say it: Emily Payne. Doesn’t it sound great?”

  “We’ll see what Ted says. Is there anything you want from the booths here?”

  I did want the Wedding Barbie, but not today. Today, it should be something special for Emily. “Can I look a little more?”

  “Sure. I’ll just ask them to take the cradle to the front of the store.”

  I wandered the aisles, stopping and looking, but nothing seemed right. I wanted to get something for the baby, something special. Then I saw it. An old quilt. It was red and white, with school houses on it. Small. A baby quilt. Just perfect. Soft and gentle and perfect for the curly-haired baby girl. My sister.

  I carried the quilt to the front, and when Mandy saw it, she sat down on a chair and pulled me close, one arm around my shoulder, the other hand on her belly. “Thank you, Alli. This is really special.”

  Later Ted joined us for lunch. “We are excited,” he said, “but we want you to stay. You’ll be a big sister.”

  But even then, it felt different. I’d lived with them for five years and they still hadn’t adopted me. With the baby coming, I wasn’t sure if they still wanted me. Was Ted just saying that about being a big sister, or did he mean it?

  The Bread Project didn’t need me any more either. So, I could do whatever I needed to see Baby, and then I didn’t care if Miss Brodie-Rock moved me a thousand miles away. I was a big sister, and I would see Baby.

  BREAD PROJECT, WEEK 9

  ALLI

  So, the next week, I did it. On Monday. Right before lunch, I cut school and raced to the post office.

  Right off, I saw that sparrow. I just stepped into the post office, and there it was. Pecking, trying to eat something from off the tile floor.

  Weird, I thought. Just plain weird.

  It was Monday, about noon, just fifteen days before the Thanksgiving banquet, or seventeen days until Thanksgiving itself. Maybe the sparrow was coming inside to get out of the cold. This weekend had turned off really cold. Close to freezing.

  I took another step, and the sparrow got scared. Flew up to the top of the two-story tall room and sat on a windowsill. How long had it been trapped in here? No food, no water. How did it survive?

  Because survival is what life is all about, isn’t it?

  I made sure the money was still in my pocket. Last week, my fingers poked through the pockets on this school uniform. Miss Porter sewed it back up, but I didn’t trust her sewing. Not with that ancient Singer machine.

  Yep, the money was still there, a fat wad of bills wrapped with a rubber band.

  This lady came out of the next set of doors. I was looking at that sparrow, so I forgot I was supposed to be invisible; she saw me, all right. Turned around and stared at me as I walked past. It was the school uniform, of course. But I had a good story to tell. No one would question it.

  I pushed open the first set of double doors. All along the walls were tiny golden brass doors numbered from 1 to—I walked around the corner to see the last number—1 to 500. Floor to ceiling, 500 post office boxes; 500 people getting their mail delivered right there in those boxes. What a sight.

  A fat, sweaty man came in, and I drew back, making myself small. I was good at that. I could do it so fast and so good that people just looked through me. Later they’d swear I wasn’t even there.

  The fat man hitched up his pants. He bent over, his belt cutting his belly in half. Bleh. He fitted a key into a post office box door and pulled out some envelopes. With a grunt, he stood back up, hitched up his pants, and left, without even glancing at me.

  Looking at the 500 boxes, I thought: hope we don’t get one on top, ‘cause I won’t be able to reach it.

  My stomach was thundering up a storm. Ignoring it, I pushed through the next doors and joined the waiting line. Right in front of me, a bottle-blond lady held a box of envelopes.

  “Next.” The clerk sounded like a drill sergeant. He had a five-o’clock shadow, buzz haircut and Army-insignia tattoos on his forearms.

  The lady said, “These are invitations to a baby shower. Do you have any stamps with babies on them?”

  The clerk opened a drawer, flipped things around, and then tossed something at the lady. “Look at these,” he ordered. “Baby Jesus and Mother Mary.”

  “Perfect,” the lady said. “I’ll take 100.”

  Mother and son, that was nice since it was baby invitations.

  “Next.”

  The woman was at the counter, peeling off baby Jesus stamps and sticking them on her envelopes. My turn.

  “Morning.” Control that voice, I thought. “My dad, he’s in the car sick. Got the flu, you know. But he’s got to get a post office box rented today, or his boss will kill him. But then, he’s going home and going to bed. Well, anyway, my dad –he’s running a temperature, really– said I should come in and give you this stuff.” I laid the post office box application and the wad of cash on the counter. My heart was doing such a loud tlot-tlot, trotting so fast that the clerk had to hear it.

  The bottle-blond said, “I’m glad he stayed in the car. I don’t want to get sick.”

  The clerk blinked at her, then at me, and then picked up the application.

  Eliot had signed it real big. “Like John Hancock,” Eliot had said.

  “What?”

  “You know. The guy who signed the Constitution.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Well, anyway, Eliot had signed it real big, and you couldn’t read it. That was OK, though, ‘cause you can’t read most adult’s signatures.

  The clerk ran his fat finger down the application and nodded once, twice, thrice. Eliot must have done it right, ‘cause the clerk picked up the money and counted. It’s weird how some people have to straighten up bills when they count. He turned every bill so the guys’ heads were facing the same way.

  “Only $49. I need $50.”

  “No,” I insisted, “It’s $50.”

  He counted again, faster this time, since the bills were already straightened up. “$49.”

  How stupid! I should have counted it twice this morning, to make sure. Of course, there was no Dad waiting around outside to give me another dollar. My stomach cramped even harder, this time ‘cause I was so mad. Everything was unraveling. No post office box, no posting on the Internet, no Dad.

  “Here.”


  I spun around. A natural-blond guy held out a dollar bill. He had on dress pants, white shirt and tie, but just a jeans jacket. I shivered, realizing I was alone. I stepped back.

  “Here,” he said again. “I don’t want to get the flu from your Dad, and I’m in a hurry. Just the kindness of a stranger, nothing more.”

  “Take it,” the clerk ordered. “How many keys do you need?”

  I obeyed. I grabbed the dollar, spun and handed it to the clerk. “There. Dad said two keys.” I hoped it was OK to take the man’s money. It was in front of the clerk and that lady. And the mail clerk practically ordered me to take it. And I’d never see the blond again. I kept my back straight and didn’t look around at the blond guy again.

  The clerk handed me a receipt and a handful of other stuff. “Box number 491.”

  “Is that a high one or a low one?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Have your dad read the stuff, and if he doesn’t like the box number, he can change it later when he feels better.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked out, but I heard the blond man talking to the clerk, “I need stamps for wedding invitations. My fiancé asked for something with hearts.”

  People sure were picky about stamps.

  I stopped and checked the boxes. 491 was eye-height. Perfect. I grinned, thinking, the next time I looked in this box, I might see a letter from my Dad. That sounded magical.

  Leaving, I looked for that sparrow again, but he was gone. I hoped he wasn’t just hiding; I hoped he was already outside flying around in the big blue sky of that fall day.

  

  Me? After renting the PO box, I felt like I was flying high all afternoon. Barely paid attention in class.

  After the last bell, I had to choose. Help Miss Garrett clean the science classroom, especially the fish tanks. Or, sit in Mr. Porter’s room and do homework. Sometimes I walked home alone, but lately Mr. Porter wanted me to stay at school and finish homework, so I rode home with him. Science room or Mr. Porter’s room? Not a choice, really—I headed for the science classroom.

  Walking down the south hallway, the sun streaming in, I was happy. Daydreaming.

  Dreaming in broad daylight, warm daylight, glorious daylight. I stopped and leaned against the window that overlooked the back parking lot. And let myself dream like I hadn’t dreamed in years.

  My dad was waiting in his car, waiting for me to come out. He’d give me a peck on the cheek. I’d give him a hug. Then ask, every so sweetly, if he could stop by the Ice Cream Shoppe on the way home, and of course, he’d say yes, and we’d stop and I’d get a chocolate shake and he’d get a strawberry one. Did Dad like strawberry? Somehow, I just seemed to know that he did. Of course, he did.

  Suddenly, I froze, the daydream evaporating. There in the back parking lot, getting out of a car, was a blond man in jeans and white shirt. He’d taken off the tie and left the jeans jacket somewhere, but it was Blondie, the man from the post office. Here!

  If he saw me, he’d tell the office that I cut school at lunch. Eventually, I’d be in trouble.

  Why was he here?

  I darted down the hallway and ducked into the library doorway. Peeked out. The door to the parking lot opened and he stepped inside. Blinked, coming from the bright day to the darker hallway.

  Blondie looked undecided, but then turned and walked toward me.

  I stepped inside the library and closed the door.

  “Can I help you?” asked Mrs. Mac, the librarian. She was four foot eight inches tall, just a midget, she always said. But she knew everything about books and which ones you might like to read.

  “Uh, no. I just—” I looked around wildly, trying to find some excuse to be there.

  “I see.” She cocked her head to the side and looked mischievous. “Trying to avoid going to Mr. Porter’s room to do homework right away?”

  I nodded in relief. “Could I check out a book first?”

  “Sure.” Mrs. Mac went back to a cart of returned books and resumed shelving. To reach the top two shelves, she dragged a stool, screeching it across the tile floor.

  I pretended to look at books, but finally gave up and just grabbed one and checked it out at the self-service computer. Where had Blondie gone, and why was he here, at the school? Better not take any chances: I’d hide out in Mr. Porter’s room. No one ever came to see him.

  With the library book, I rushed to my locker and wrestled out my backpack. At every classroom door, I hesitated. Afraid. Was Blondie in this room? Would he see me if I walked by?

  I ducked my head and let my hair hide my face. Not that it was enough to stop the man from recognizing me. But it made me feel better.

  Finally, I reached Mr. P’s room.

  As usual, he was putting. Back of the room, he had a green carpet, a putting green, he called it. Kept a set of golf clubs in his back closet. Sometimes, when you finished homework early, he let a student putt. Not often, but sometimes. Didn’t like the fingerprints all over his clubs.

  He would putt—relax, unwind—for ten or fifteen minutes. Then spend another 30 minutes grading papers or entering grades into the computer.

  Quickly, I did my homework. Then looked at the library book. Oh, great. A book on cyber-safety. Of course, I had been standing by the non-fiction books and just grabbed something from the new bookshelf. I flipped through and realized that Eliot had been right about the PO box. We really did need to be careful about the online stuff.

  Knock! Knock! Without waiting, the door to the hallway opened.

  Startled, I looked up, just as Mr. P stood, scowl on his face.

  “Mr. Porter, I want you to meet my fiancé, Shane Baxter.” It was Miss Garrett, chattering on, “I’ve got ten more minutes of work and he’s bored, and I wondered if he could use your putting green for a bit until I’m ready to leave? He’s really good at golf; maybe you can chat about local golf courses or something. Or, if you’re busy, he could just putt by himself.”

  I stared, horrified. Her fiancé, Mr. Baxter, was Blondie.

  

  As soon as Miss Garrett and Mr. Baxter entered, I covered my eyes with my hand, afraid of being recognized. Didn’t help.

  “Hey!” Mr. Baxter said. “Weren’t you in the post office at lunch?”

  Trouble had found me.

  Of course, Mr. Porter asked for more information.

  “No,” he told Mr. Porter, “I didn’t hear exactly what she was asking the clerk. I don’t know why she was there.” He shrugged, like that was the end of it. Looking around, Mr. Baxter asked, “Wow, is that a real knight’s armor, or just a reproduction? You say you teach social studies?”

  But Mr. Porter’s face was red and blotchy with anger. His hands clenched, a sign of building pressure. “Mr. Baxter, do you mind? I’m sorry, Miss Garrett. I need to talk to Alli and find out why she was at the post office. Would you excuse us, please?” He ushered them both back into the hallway and firmly shut the door.

  “I’ll need an explanation. Now,” he demanded.

  Here’s the thing: Mr. Porter couldn’t stand it that I refused to answer his questions. Refused. I declined, I demurred, I eschewed. (Those are good spelling words: decline, demur, eschew.)

  I said, “No.”

  Mr. Porter glared. Asked me again why I went to the post office.

  I said, “I can’t tell you that.”

  Mr. Porter asked why I cut school.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t answer that.” And truly, I was sorry. I knew I was in big trouble. But I was defiant anyway.

  Finally, Mr. Porter stopped asking me anything. He sat at his desk for a minute, then got up and went to the back of the room and started putting. Thwack. Thwack. I guess it helped him think or something.

  Now that’s when fear really struck, and I started trembling. I wasn’t fooled. This fight wasn’t over, it was just starting. And Mr. Porter held all the aces.

  ALLI

  Mr. Porter was reasonable an
d calm. Too calm.

  On the way home, he stopped at the barbeque place and picked up some sandwiches. He spoke to me only when he had to: “You want milk or juice?”

  I worried about his calmness, even while I tried to imitate his calm voice. “Milk,” I said. “Please.”

  He poured a glass and set it beside my plate. We ate in silence. Then, he said, “Go upstairs now. Finish your homework.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Don’t know what Mr. Porter was planning, but something. My guess? He’d probably call Miss Brodie-Rock in the morning. I didn’t expect to be here much longer. That meant I needed to find out about Mandy’s baby. I needed an Internet connection. Every time I went to Eliot’s house, I checked Ted’s blog. His last post said that Baby could come any day now. But I was sure Mr. Porter wouldn’t let me on the Internet tonight.

  I went downstairs to watch TV, but stopped at the guest half-bathroom, the one Miss Porter liked to use. For me, cold weather like this weekend meant chapped hands.

  The half-bath was most definitely a room Miss Porter decorated. It had pink and green towels, rosebud colors. I found hand lotion in a drawer, squeezed the tube and coated my hands. They were already red all over. On the right hand, the ring finger and pinkie had cracks on the joints. Had to remember to put on lotion every day. Or they could get worse.

  Then, I heard heels clipping down the hall. Coming out of the bathroom, I almost ran into Miss Porter. No skirt, too cold for that. But a rich purple pant suit, probably wool. High heel black boots. And a scarf around her neck. She always dressed so nice for her country club job. She had her cell phone in one hand and ear muffs in the other. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Excuse me.” She went into the guest bath.

  Came out holding the hand lotion and her earmuffs. “You use this?” she asked.

  Uh-oh. I had forgotten to put it back in the drawer. I nodded. Waited. Was I in even more trouble?

  “Let’s see your hands.”

  Trying not to tremble, I held them out.