“See?” Meg grinned. “Now, let’s take those pictures, huh? Unless of course, you want to jump or something.”
I stepped to the edge of the roof, savoring the sound of icy snow crunching beneath my boots. With my toes hanging over the edge, I stared down. If I jumped, I would land in snow. I was already soaked. What would it hurt?
No, a nagging voice in the back of my head whispered. You don’t want to jump…yet.
“I’ll pass.” I stepped away.
****
I am ten years old and want to sign up for a gymnastics class over the summer. Other girls at school are taking it. Mama can’t drive me, though, because she is teaching summer school, and Dad will be away in Albania for most of the summer, writing an article.
Oma takes me instead. She watches from the bleachers with a few parents, and when I do really well, she cheers. I like gymnastics well enough, but the balance beam scares me. I am afraid I will fall.
“If you think you won’t fall, you’ll be steadier during the moves,” Oma assures me.
Her advice helps a little, but I still wobble.
After every class, Oma takes me to Wendy’s. We each get a Frosty and eat them in the car while we watch people walk by. We guess what their stories are.
Chapter 22
When the sunlight struck my face the next morning, I couldn’t get up. My head throbbed, the veins inside feeling ten-times too big. My sinuses ached, and when I tried to breathe, hot stickiness slid down the back of my throat. I rolled over, gagging, and my stomach churned, tightening.
“Jeez.”
The longer I lay in bed, the more my body ached.
“Why aren’t you up?” Oma demanded.
“I’m sick.” Mucus in my throat made it hard to talk.
Oma’s cheeks reddened. “Get out of my house before I come down with it, too.”
Oma called Mama and repeated her statement. After a second, she passed me the phone.
“I’m sick. I can’t get up.” Tears burned my eyes.
“Stay in bed.” Mama paused. “Stay away from Oma, too. Don’t get her sick.”
What about me? Didn’t I matter? I was the ill one, not Oma.
“I can’t get sick,” Oma ranted. “I’m old. I’ll die. You’re trying to hurt me!”
I buried my face into the pillow, but the tears still came. What had happened to the good old days when Oma took care of me?
“Where has the old Keziah gone?” Oma stomped away.
“She grew up,” I muttered at my grandmother’s back, “and now she’s sick, and you don’t even care.”
When Uncle Jan came at noon to feed Oma, he brought medicine and juice. I fell asleep with my lips parted so I could breathe. My last conscious thought involved whether a spider would crawl into my mouth.
Oma kicked the side of my mattress. I groaned, pulling the blankets tighter to my chin.
Oma kicked the mattress again. “Get up.”
“What?” I propped myself up on my elbows. Snot dripped out of my right nostril, so I wiped it on a tissue.
“Where are they?”
“What?” My dry throat hurt so bad my voice croaked. I repeated it three times before Oma heard.
“You know what.” Her voice was as frigid as the graveyard had felt.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“Where are my teeth?”
“Your teeth?” I snuffled.
“They’re gone,” Oma yelled. “Where did you put them? Why do you have to be so mean to me?”
I smothered my groan into the pillow as Oma stood over the makeshift bed shaking with sobs, tears dripping down her cheeks.
“I didn’t touch your teeth.” Ew. Just…ew.
“They’re gone. You put them somewhere.”
“Why would I touch your teeth?” I couldn’t believe we had such a conversation.
“You hid them,” Oma snarled. “You mean, wicked girl. You hid my teeth.”
“I didn’t hide your teeth!” The shout made my throat hurt more, and I coughed as my lungs contorted in a spasm.
Tears drenched Oma’s cheeks as she left the living room. “Where are they? Why do you keep doing this to me?”
“It’ll pass,” I muttered as the bedroom door slammed. “Oma will forget.”
What had Oma done with her teeth? She must’ve put them somewhere, or maybe she forgot where she kept them. In the bedroom, maybe Oma would remember.
When I squinted, I saw the glare of the red lights in the alarm clock. I wouldn’t have to call the school pretending to be Oma, or Mama, for another hour.
The furnace kicked on and the house shook under its ancient force. I felt for the tissue box and found it caught in the blankets. I blew my nose, pondering what would happen if the furnace exploded. It lay right beneath the living room. I would blow to smithereens. Somehow, when sick, that didn’t seem so bad.
As sleep began to reclaim my senses, the bedroom door opened. Oma stormed back into the living room to kick the mattress yet again. How could she have energy for that?
“Why do you do this to me? Why do you hate me? What have I ever done to you?”
I stifled the groan as I sat up. Snot ran down my face into my mouth, so I slapped a tissue over my nose. “Oma, I didn’t do anything. When did you have them last?”
“Last night, as you perfectly well know.”
“Did you look under the sink? You always keep them under the sink.” I coughed into my elbow.
“You hid them on me this morning.”
“I never even got up in the night. Oma, I’m sick!” I found another tissue for my nose.
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“Are you ten?” Sarcasm dripped off Oma’s voice.
“No, I’m seventeen.”
“Exactly. You’re too old to be playing these wicked tricks on me. Where are they?” Oma’s voice rose with hysterics.
“They’re under the sink. I never touched them.” I shoved the blankets aside, managing to sit up before the room spun. I staggered, reaching for anything, and my hand contacted the chair. It tipped, but steadied. My stomach rose into my throat and I gulped. Please no vomit.
“Why are you so wicked?”
Despite the whirling in her ears, I made it to the bathroom. Oma followed, hovering like a cloud. Her narrowed eyes bore daggers into my back. I snapped open the cupboard beneath the sink. The magnets on the corners of the doors squeaked.
Nope, no the plastic cup in which Oma kept her dentures. I dropped to my knees, pausing a moment with my eyes squeezed shut until the throbbing in my forehead lessened. When I opened my eyes again, I pawed through the contents: cotton balls, pads, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a box of Q-tips.
“No teeth.” My heart raced.
“Where are they?” Oma’s hands shook as she tried to rub her wet eyes with a wadded tissue.
“Do you want me to call Uncle Jan?” I grabbed the doorframe to keep my balance.
“No, don’t bring him into your mess,” Oma yelled.
When I dragged myself back into bed, I pulled the covers over my head. Safe within the cocoon of warm cloth, I dialed Uncle Jan’s number on my cell phone.
“Hello?” Uncle Jan answered on the fifth ring.
“Hey, it’s me,” I whispered. “Can you come over? Oma’s being weird. She must’ve put her teeth somewhere, but now she doesn’t remember. She’s crying. She blames me.”
Silence.
“Can you please come over?” A sob burned within my throat. Why did Oma always think the worst of me? I was her granddaughter. I was living with her so she wouldn’t be put away.
Uncle Jan laughed. “I’m sure she’ll find them.”
“Please, can’t you come over? If you’re here, she won’t be so mad at me.”
“Everything will be fine. Look, I’m going out with the guys to Burger King later on. I’ll stop by afterwards to see how things are, but I’m sure she’ll have them by then, oka
y?”
“No.” Tears stung my eyes. “Please. You don’t get it. She’s screaming at me and crying. She thinks I hid them.”
“No, she doesn’t think that.”
“You don’t know what it’s like here!”
“It’s hard when they’re on their last leg.”
I cringed. No one should describe Oma like that. She couldn’t help the anger and frustration. It was the dementia’s fault.
“Please, can’t you help find them and calm her down?”
“I will. I’ll be by later.” He disconnected the call.
I stared at the phone. He really didn’t think it important. I cried despite the pain that lashed through my skull and the sticky bile in my throat.
Uncle Jan stopped by three hours later, sipping a cup of coffee from Burger King. Oma was still hysterical, but after searching the house, he found the dentures wrapped in a tissue. Oma had shut them in her dresser drawer among cosmetics older than I was.
Uncle Jan stayed to feed her. After she’d eaten and he’d left, Oma asked me, “Do you want to help clean out the bedroom desk?”
I ground my teeth, wondering how I could act as if nothing was wrong, but I followed Oma to the desk in case a refusal reminded her of earlier.
I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing my temple while Oma dumped the desk drawers onto the bed. Sponge rollers spilled across the comforter. Broken combs plinked against each other. Pencils fell onto the floor.
While Oma picked through tangled necklaces, I poked at a stack of crumpled notepaper. The top paper featured Oma’s childish scrawl.
“Keziah hid my teeth”, it read, and included the date. I stiffened. My grandmother knew she would forget, so she’d made herself a note.
While Oma fiddled with old watches, I stuffed the paper into my sock to throw away later.
****
I am four years old. Mama sees a flier in the teacher’s lounge for a new ballet school.
“This will be great exercise. You’ll love it.” She signs me up.
The classes for children my age happen during her work hours, so Oma takes me. The studio is an hour away, in another town. I have to wear a pink tutu, tights, and slippers. The tights hurt my legs, and the shoes pinch my toes. The tutu is scratchy.
I hate the instructor. She yells at me when I don’t get the motions correct, but it’s hard because I’m double jointed.
“I want to quit,” I whine after class.
Oma helps me into my jacket. “Your mother really wants you to learn this, and she already paid.”
On the way home, we stop at the library. Oma finds a book of ballet moves. Every day while Mama works, Oma and I practice the moves until I get better. The instructor doesn’t yell as much, but I still don’t like it.
“I don’t want to take another class,” I tell Mama after the end recital.
“But you were so good. You learned so much.” Mama thanks the instructor for “working magic” and making me more graceful.
Oma and I wink at each other.
Chapter 23
For a week after losing her teeth, Oma acted as if nothing had occurred; she must have forgotten. Sometimes, I would awaken in the middle of the night, wondering if she would soon forget about me.
Then, my thoughts drifted back to the anger in Oma’s eyes. How could my grandmother believe I was capable of wicked deeds?
“I’ve got something I want to show you,” Oma said, and popped a cracker into her mouth. A few crumbs landed on her chin.
A blue jewelry box rested on the foot of the bed, dust smearing onto the comforter. The cover was decorated in “gold” embossing, but parts of the curlicues had peeled off. Red paint streaked the edge.
Oma sat beside it and ran her hand over the top, a glazed look flitting across her face.
“This is my jewelry.” She leaned over as if it was a secret.
I wanted to point out she kept it in plain sight on the floor near the dresser, but I refrained. If she wanted it to be a conspiracy, it hurt nothing.
“Do I get to look at it?” I grinned.
“Yes!” The happiness slid off her face, and for a second she looked confused, as if unsure where she was. Then, she smiled again, and popped the brass clasp on the front of the rectangular box. The lid snapped open an inch on hinges in need of oiling. Oma had to force the lid up the rest of the way.
She ran her hand over the contents in the top tray. “Pick up something and look at it.” Oma leaned back. “Unless you don’t want to play. Then, you can just go back into your room and pout.”
“No, I will.” I picked up a piece of paper from the box; a receipt for getting a ring resized.
“What is it?” Oma held out her hand.
I handed it over. “A receipt.”
Oma squinted at the faded print. “There’s nothing on this.” She set it on the bedside table.
“Let’s throw it out then.”
“It’s mine. I’ll throw it out when I’m ready to throw it out.”
“Okay.” I dragged out the word as I picked up the next item, a pink cameo. The point on the clasp pricked my fingertip.
“That belonged to your great-grandmother.”
“Your mom?” I wondered if Oma even recognized the cameo.
“No, your grandfather’s mom. All the old jewelry in here is from her. She gave it to your mom, but you know your mom. She’ll never want it, so you can have it.”
“Really?” I picked up a pair of emerald earrings. A woman in my family had once treasured those. Maybe my great-grandmother had worn them to a tea.
“Isn’t there any jewelry from your mom?” I turned a brass locket over to read the back, but the cursive engraving was too elaborate.
“I lost everything when I joined the Goat Children.” She picked up a silver bracelet. “This is my charm bracelet. I started collecting on my fortieth birthday. See this one? It’s my favorite.”
A miniature outhouse hung from the link bracelet on a small silver loop was.
“There’s a tiny latch. Can you find it? Open it up,” Oma said
I took the bracelet from her and used my fingernail to swing the latch over. The outhouse door opened to show a man sitting inside. The charm was unique, sure, but disgusting.
“Cool.” I hoped I sounded sincere. Since Oma watched, I flipped through the other charms. A tiny silver ship’s wheel had a date, 1987, on the back. The rhinestone star and silver dove also had dates, both from 1989. The silver puppy and silver paintbrush didn’t have dates.
“You can have it.” Oma waved her hand.
I unclasped the bracelet and dangled it over my wrist. “I’ll give it to Phebe.” My sister had a kid’s charm bracelet and always wore it. The adult version would brighten that little face into a ray of sunshine. I smiled.
“No,” Oma shrieked. “No, it is not for her. If you’re just going to give it to her, then give it back. I gave it to you.”
“Okay, fine!” I closed my fist around the charm bracelet. “I won’t give it to her. I won’t even show her.”
How long before the pain of lying faded altogether? I gazed into the mirror over the bedroom desk and didn’t recognize the girl looking back. Her brown hair looked darker, tied in a thick braid down her back. In the city, I’d only worn make-up when hanging out with Tiffany, but now it became another way to stand apart from everyone at school.
“And there’s this one.” Oma held a gold necklace, the thin chain wrapped around her middle finger so the charm dangled.
“Pretty.” I bumped my palm against the heart-shaped charm consisting of a brown stone set in a gold back.
“This one,” Oma held up a bracelet, “is from the Goat Children.”
I sucked breath through my teeth. The bracelet was silver with tiny gemstones. The gemstones were the same color as the stone in my ring. I closed my hand into a fist.
“This is the stone of the Goat Children,” Oma continued. “They gave me this before they asked me to join. If I had refuse
d, they would have taken it back. Ever since I joined, I wore it, up until I left. I never put it on again.”
Oma set the bracelet back into the box and reached for a strand of pearls.
“Let me go get the jewelry cleaner,” I said. “We’ll make all of these shine again.”
As I spent the next hour sitting on the bedroom floor using a rag made from an old nightgown to rub polish over silver, Oma stared out the window muttering memories.
“My mother and I used to share half a sandwich,” Oma said.
“What kind of sandwich?” I wished I could turn the TV on; it was frustrating to listen to Oma’s stories and not know what was true.
“Cheese. Chicken.” Oma sighed. “I used to eat meat back then. I didn’t stop until I joined the Goat Children. I told you that before, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” I rubbed harder at the silver brooch.
“I’m sorry,” Oma whispered.
My head jerked up.
“I always forget things.” Oma’s voice broke on a sob. “I don’t know why. What’s wrong with me?”
“Oma.” I chewed my lower lip.
“I don’t mean to be like this.” Oma sniffled. “If there was something wrong with me, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
I hesitated. Mama didn’t want Oma to know about the dementia.
“She’ll forget as soon as you tell her,” Mama said. “What’s the point in upsetting her? She won’t know what dementia means.”
“I’d tell you,” I lied. “I’ll always be here for you, Oma. You know that.” I set down my supplies to crawl onto the bed beside her.
Oma slid her arm around my back, tugging me close for a quick hug. “I’m tired. I’m going to take a nap now.”
“Okay, I’ll put everything away.” I retreated to the living room and took out the Goat Children notebooks from my stack of novels.
I flipped back through the ones I’d already read. One of them had mentioned the bracelet, but I hadn’t paid much attention. The gemstone on my ring twinkled in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Ah, here. I held the notebook closer to my face as if it would give the words more power.
The Goat Children Page 17