So you see, I don’t have a relationship with my mother. I am not quite as lucky as Scout in this area. Scout’s mother, your wife, died when Scout was two, and so she doesn’t remember her. And because you are such a good father, your kids don’t miss her. (Plus, they have Calpurnia making them mind and cooking meals, which must be nice.) For me, I have none of these things. No mother. No brother. No Calpurnia. And a dad who is there, but not there.
And I just realized this, but I know my mother more as Jane Nelson, a sort of famous person who embarrasses me. Anytime I hear the name Jane, my head snaps around and I start to turn red. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your own mother’s name, should you? You would probably tell me I am a low person for thinking that. I will try to improve.
Sincerely,
Sarah Nelson
Chapter 17
Dad is grading papers in the living room tonight, singing some Beatles song. He gets stuck on one old singing group at a time, and that’s all you will hear, twenty-four seven. It was Bob Seger for a while, and now here we are with John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
I go into my room and wonder how a brain remembers lyrics without writing everything down. How it decides which things to keep, which to forget. There must be little memories stuck inside a mind like gum under a table. It takes some elbow grease to get them off, so you have to want them gone or they’ll be there forever, dried up and hard. Sometimes memories pop up out of nowhere, and you have to trace your steps, figure out how your mind got thinking about a certain thing. Dr. Madrigal said this is sometimes called a trigger.
For example, right now I look at the bumpy ceiling in my room and all I can think about are white summer sandals. Why? Because earlier today, I saw a little girl in white sandals running down the sidewalk, chasing after the ice-cream truck. She looked back and shouted to her dad, “Hurry up! Hurry up! We’re going to miss it!” It was so funny because the ice-cream truck drives slower than a person riding a bike. Still, she was getting all worked up, thinking she was going to miss getting an orange Dreamsicle or something.
Well, just seeing that little girl was a trigger to a memory of my mother. Snap your fingers. It was just like that. Here’s what my brain pulled out of a file:
1. I had those same white summer sandals, which buckled at my ankle.
2. I wore them to the hospital to see my mother.
3. Dad hid me under his coat as we walked from the hospital to the car. He said, “I’ve got you. Just watch your feet.”
4. I watched white-sandaled feet move across the hot black asphalt parking lot.
Why didn’t I have enough sense to keep a diary back then? I would be able to remember more, like was I six or seven when that happened? Had I visited her before that day? How many times have I seen her in real life since then? Two? Three? And was this the time I’d announced to my class friends, “Hey, my mom lives in a hospital and can’t live with me”? Maybe I was six. When you are six, you tell everything. I know I told a girl I was leaving school early to go see my mom at the hospital, and she told me she watched her mom pee in a cup at the doctor’s office.
Later, when you are seven, you realize this information will come back to you in a mean way. Then you learn how much to tell, when to lie, when not to say anything. By the time you are eight, your secrets are locked in your diary.
Now, I think about that day in private. The details ache to get out. This is one reason I love Plant. She is a good listener, patient and kind. Right now, I tell her my mind won’t let me loose until I think up some new fact, some new scene. It’s as if my brain computer is putting together a puzzle, but some pieces are lost. Plant wonders if this is because of all the questions counselors asked me. Maybe they put in pieces that weren’t there in the first place. Maybe they invent triggers. I don’t know.
I tell Plant that the time I had on white sandals was right after Dad’s trial. We had our eye on moving away because everyone knew us from the newspapers. Sometimes they did the undercover technique, which is where they pretend to be a friendly neighbor and then start being nosy.
Because of the undercover people, Dad kept me right at his side whenever we walked to our car in our neighborhood or in a parking lot. Yes, that is when I stared at my feet in sandals, walking fast. Anytime I smell his deodorant, I think of being chased by reporters. So when he asked me over pancakes and bacon if I wanted to move someplace where it would just be the two of us, I said, “Heck, yes.” Well, I didn’t actually say heck. I said the other word. He frowned and said it was clear I’d been spending too much time around Gramps and would I please not use that word? It was one of the first trouble words.
And now, I remember more. I tell Plant this was the time Dad said, “Hey, we’re going to the hospital to see your mother. She may or may not talk to you today, but you remember she still loves you, even if she doesn’t look at you, okay?”
So we went.
At the hospital, the doctor said, “Hey, there she is with the light brown hair and blue eyes. She is your mother.” I remember not wanting to go up to her because I was afraid.
I remember the doctor led me and Dad to a small room with a table and several chairs. There was a giant rug made up of multicolored blocks on the floor.
I remember she rubbed her palms on her plain blue pants and kept smoothing them even though there were no wrinkles.
I remember handing her a card I’d made her. Actually, it was a card Dad told me I should make for her. It wasn’t my idea. When she didn’t reach for it, I placed it on the table and backed away.
I remember Dad telling me to go play outside the room, the only problem being there is no place to go play at a mental hospital. I stepped outside the door and sat alone in the hallway, picking at the carpet.
Plant is still listening, so I keep talking.
What else do I remember? I don’t know.
I wonder if I’m adding those details in the way a little kid colors a page, scribbling all outside the lines. It becomes the picture you make it. And no one can tell you if it’s right or wrong. I wish I had a photograph of that day. It would show hard evidence that this visit actually took place the way I think it did. Hard evidence is when you have something that is so true you can’t argue with it.
The only hard evidence I have is this: I remember I wore white summer sandals when I saw her. That is all I know for sure.
Chapter 18
Plant thinks I am wrong, but I’m ignoring her. I told her I’d been worried that I might also turn out like my father and become an alcoholic. I got my dictionary out and read aloud:
alcoholic n.: a person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess
I am not an alcoholic, I tell her, because I do not drink. That is a relief. I might turn out crazy like my mom and not be able to help it. But a person can help it if they pour themselves a drink. As long as I do not do that, I can mark alcoholic off my list of things that will happen to me. But then my brain gives me a good argument. If my mother is crazy and my dad is, by definition, an alcoholic, then I would rather become more like him. Any fool would choose Jim Beam over crazy. And Plant said I was crazy because I was talking to her.
She has a point.
I write these thoughts in my real diary so I can work that out later. Superquick, I grab my fake diary and write a few lines about wanting to enter a spelling bee. Then I stare up at the ceiling fan and pound out its wobbly rhythm on my mattress. I’m in bed thinking about the day and trying to think up a good lie to tell Lisa in case I can’t find someone to kiss. She doesn’t know what a good liar I am. I could say he had a mustache and tell her my lip got all red. I shut this idea out because it makes my brain feel as if it’s trying to solve a mathematical word problem and can’t find the answer. And now I’m fully awake.
Dad is still up late, too, watching a Western on TV. Sounds of shoot-outs travel down the hall and into my room. I have to wonder what kind of pioneer or cowboy came to Garland and thought, Hey, this flat land looks great.
Let’s make our camp here and get to work. His wife, a woman in a shawl with a small child in her arms, would ask, Is it safe to stay here?
And he’d respond, Sure, who else is going to fight us for this, anyway? I don’t see anyone around for miles. And so began a long history of people who don’t care where they put down roots. I can’t think of any other reason Garland exists. This town is like a gray hoodie. It does its job all right, but it’s no fashion statement.
Now I feel a warmth crawl up my neck at the thought of how silly I acted in front of Finn. I wonder if he can tell me more about what boys do. Help fill in some gaps of knowledge. Maybe I’ll find there are things to admire about them, though I am doubtful. They are usually smelly and rude and just won’t open car doors for you, which is a trait Gramps says I should be on the lookout for.
Be on the lookout for boys who don’t open car doors.
Be on the lookout for boys who wear their hair too long. What the heck are they hiding? (I don’t have to tell you that he didn’t say heck.)
Be on the lookout for nice-quality sweaters that can last more than one season.
Be on the lookout for free dinners.
Being on the lookout is big for Gramps.
I sit up in bed and try to figure out if there’s something I forgot to do. Did I forget to water Plant? Or leave my clothes in the dryer? Then I realize I forgot to put the chalk marks on Mr. Dupree’s tires. Maybe this is it.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a horse. And since I know there is not one in our kitchen, I let my feet hit the floor and go to investigate. It is only my dad, now heavily asleep on the sofa with a college paper on his chest, the Western blaring from the TV.
I take the paper from my dad’s hand and then cover him with a blanket. I’ll let him sleep soundly here, where he ends up many nights anyway. His eyes twitch beneath his lids, so I know he’s in a powerful dream. Maybe he’s riding a wild horse, trying to keep up with a cowboy. Well, let him dream.
I find the rest of the students’ papers and stack them neatly on the coffee table, the most recently read one on top, turned askew. Something in the first paragraph leaps off the page:
If she had wanted to, she would have. She would have continued to pursue the work before her, earnestly and intently. Instead, she left it behind and never once looked back again. Her talents heretofore unused dried up like a crisp fall leaf.
F.
I would give this a big fat F. The reader has no idea what work or talents she has or had or left behind. My father always says a good piece should be understood by a twelve-year-old. Now I see what he means. I cannot make sense of this at all, and I’m already too bored to keep reading. This must be what put my father to sleep. He says most of his students write as if they just discovered Shakespeare and the dictionary on the same day.
A sound of two glasses clinking together comes from my father’s computer down the hall. I go into his office and spy a small yellow box at the bottom of the screen with a question mark blinking. I sit in his office chair and have a look. It’s a message from PBroom—Are you still online?
Who is PBroom and how does my father know how to do these things? Like Mr. Wistler, Dad is an antitexter. I see the cursor blinking and cannot resist. It’s as if it’s saying Answer Now Answer Now. I type Yes and hit enter. The computer makes the glass-clinking sound again. Up pops another message from PBroom, and I can’t help but answer.
I can’t sleep either. What are you doing?
Grading papers.
Ugh. Sounds fun.
Yeah. There’s a stupefyingly bad one. I want to give it an F.
Ouch! That’s harsh.
Well.
Coffee was fun the other day. As always.
Yes.
I think you’re spoiling me.
LOL. I’ve got to go.
Good night.
And PBroom is gone. I scan the instant chat again. There are so many questions. He’s had coffee with PBroom. He or she knows how to reach him through instant message. He/she is thinking of him at this time of night. Worse, he would never use “LOL” in a message. I am totally busted.
I hear two cowboys having a confrontation in the living room. This is my father’s favorite part, so I leave it on, let it sink good and well into his dreamtime. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and feel heroic. He’ll picture himself as one of the old-fashioned good guys. And then I’ll make him superstrong, black cowboy coffee and buttered toast and send him back out into the world to fight another day. Ha-ha! And I can find a way to ask him about PBroom without sounding like I know anything. Without sounding like I pretended to be him for sixty seconds.
On the way back to my room, I take a detour and—voilà—I am in the garage. It’s as if my feet took me here and didn’t tell my brain. The bottles are behind the paint cans. I don’t know why he hides them there. It’s not as if both of us don’t know he drinks. I pull out a half-full bottle. I unscrew the cap and think about taking a sip. I just sniff it, though, and it’s awful. The smell of it almost burns my nose. I still don’t see why he drinks this.
By the time I get to my room, a shameful feeling rises up. I almost took a drink! And I pretended to be my dad on the computer. I have to wonder if this is a part of the new me. A criminal.
There on my pillow is my green composition book, and I know Atticus would look at me over the top of his glasses and I would feel his precise disappointment, all in one look. Atticus would make a great cowboy. I picture him wearing a wide-brimmed hat and one of those long coats, maybe a shiny sheriff’s badge. You know right from wrong, he would say. And that would be enough to make you bite your lip to keep from crying.
Chapter 19
I hate our house, and I think it hates me.
On mornings when I want to sleep late, the pipes in my dad’s shower whistle at a high pitch until the water is warm. I sit up in bed and then remember it’s summertime and I don’t have to hurry. At least I have the luxury of keeping my pajamas on for a while. Still, I want to be the first one in the kitchen in the mornings. It’s a tiny thrill to arrive somewhere before anyone else, like you might be the first to make a discovery and everyone will cheer you. Hey, you were the first here. That’s amazing! This is my house, and I claim it when I can.
I toast a frozen waffle. My father and I like peanut butter and syrup on our waffles, so I decide this is what I will make today. Get his day off to a good start before I ask any questions. Plus, I have a big day ahead as I investigate what is happening with the Duprees. The morning already has palpable electricity in it. Palpable is my current favorite word.
palpable adj.: capable of being touched or felt; tangible
Anything could happen. It’s not even seven o’clock yet. The day still has to make an appearance. But there is one thing I do know about it: Today is the first day I will have a cup of coffee. I worked out that coffee is the opposite of alcohol, so I am going to go that direction.
He comes into the kitchen, and I put out his favorite mug, a small blue one with a flying dog. I’m good at making coffee now. I pour him a full cup. Then a full cup for me. He just looks at me and nods like he knows it’s a good decision.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says. “Coffee is just what I need.”
Yes, it sure is, I think.
“You fell asleep watching TV.”
“Thanks for the blanket.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I was thinking of pork chops tonight. With stuffing on the side.”
“Sounds good, kiddo,” he says, drinking his coffee. It makes him look peaceful the way he half closes his eyes when the mug reaches his face. “What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just hanging out, I guess.” I take a big sip of coffee. I try to look peaceful like him, but it is so bitter and hot. I choke it down anyway. This is just what I must do.
He says, “You’ll remember to tell Charlotte I’ll need to talk with her brother this week.”
“He’
s no big deal. He’s studying words at college or something. Plus, he stays in his room because Charlotte is crazy in love with her boyfriend and it annoys him.”
He tosses me his skeptical look, the one that brings his eyebrows low to his eyes.
“Crazy in love, huh,” he says.
Now I try to correct what I’ve said. “Well, not crazy in love. He respects how hard she’s working on her thesis and all.” There. That should do it. Except I did use the word crazy again. I pour a nice dose of syrup over his waffles, hoping this will help change the subject.
“Mmm-hmmm” is all he says. This means I will have to allow him to meet Christopher, too.
“I don’t think Charlotte’s brother will be around much,” I say. “He delivers pizza, too.”
“Where does he go to school?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Why do you have so many questions?”
“I just want to know who you’re hanging out with, Sarah,” he says. “Tell Charlotte I’ll be calling her today.”
“Dad!” If I protest, it will make it worse. I already know their conversation will be a game show of a thousand questions Finn will never answer correctly. My dad is getting in his Secret Service mode again.
“And I’ll have some questions for the boyfriend, too.”
“Seriously, you don’t need to do that.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to have to go to your grandparents’.”
It’s sharp the way he says this, and it just gets to me between my ribs. Words fall out of me before I get the chance to imagine myself saying them. “Who is PBroom?”
The air holds still between us. An invisible rope hangs there, and each of us waits for the other to tug it a little. I must look as surprised as he does at this moment. I take another long drink of coffee. Show him I am older.
Sure Signs of Crazy Page 8