Wanda, the missing mother. Wanda, the ghost. Where was she now? Somehow Emma knew that Wanda was alive. She knew because of the silence. If her mother were dead, then she would reach out to them, to Emma, Rachel and Sam. Even if she had left them behind in life, in death her spirit would move toward them. They were her children, her unfinished business. Emma would feel it if her mother were dead. She knew it in her heart.
Emma took the books she had put aside, tucked them under her arm, and began putting the other books back in the box. She knew she’d still have to haul the other boxes out eventually, but decided not to do it now. Rachel would likely have sorting out the attic somewhere on her list already. Emma would deal with it later.
The old wooden boards creaked under her feet as she headed back to the small square in the floor. Before she could reach it, the light flickered and died. Her first thought was if she were Rachel, that little thing, the flashlight flickering, would have sent her into a tailspin. The second thought was, ouch! Her foot had struck something hard. There was another box in her path. She hadn’t noticed it when she walked over to the corner; she’d been too intent on finding the book. She stopped and sat on the old floorboards for a moment, and rubbed her sore toe. As she put the flashlight down on the box that had appeared in her path, it flickered back on again. The box was long and rectangular, with the words: Do not open without supervision written across it in black marker. Whose writing was it? It looked like a man’s, boxy and angular, but it wasn’t Sam’s. Emma picked the flashlight back up, held it wedged between her shoulder and her ear, like the receiver of a telephone, and tore the old crumbling cellophane tape off of the end of the box. She opened it, tipping it on end. Inside was a telescope. Emma knew in that moment whose handwriting was on the box. It was Rachel’s dad’s.
Emma took a breath. She figured Rachel would have kept her father’s telescope at her place all these years. Maybe she didn’t know it was up there. It wasn’t Rachel who stacked the boxes, that was for sure; the piles were too untidy. Emma pushed the telescope back into the box, and slid it along the floor towards the square of light that led the way back into Wanda’s room. She left the telescope there, reminding herself to ask Lester to help her get it down later. Emma put the books in the waistband of her jeans, and eased herself through the opening, feet first. She dangled a couple of feet above the chair for a moment, then, let go. One stocking foot slipped off the chair as she landed, and she fell onto the floor. The attic cover gaped open like a mouth.
23.
SAM FINISHED SCHOOL and by July he and Frank Carpenter had found their new place. Rachel didn’t like Emma living in his room. It felt wrong that she should suck up all the air that used to be his. All her life, Sam had gotten the perks of being the older sibling. Now it was Rachel’s turn to fill those shoes. Sam’s room was bigger. If anyone should have it, it should be Rachel.
So Rachel told Emma to ask Grandma if the two of them could trade. Grandma said, “Suit yourself.”
“Emma, you help me move my stuff first, then we’ll do yours okay?” Rachel said.
“Sure, Rachel, no problem.” Maneuvering Emma was a piece of cake, and as time passed Rachel wondered if the threat of being sent to Alaska should be dropped. Emma seemed happy to go along with pretty much anything. Rachel envied how little Emma thought about life. Anything that happened was all right with her. She was one of those people who would just go with the flow.
When Wanda heard the noise, she came to investigate. “What the heck are you two doing?”
“We’re switching rooms,” Rachel said brightly, adding, “It was Emma’s idea,” when she saw the look of mistrust in Wanda’s eyes. Wanda looked at Emma, who nodded in earnest agreement.
“Yes, it was my idea,” Emma said, unconvincingly.
Wanda looked at Rachel suspiciously, then continued on down the hall.
The two girls lugged Rachel’s belongings across the hall. They filled three garbage bags with her clothes, and another one with her dolls and stuffed animals. The final load consisted of Rachel’s Easy-Bake Oven, her Barbie camper, and a suitcase full of books – most about science and astronomy.
“Wow, are all these yours?” Emma asked, impressed by the weight of them.
“Yeah, they’re mine,” Rachel replied. “Maybe I’ll let you borrow one sometime. We’ll see.” The implication of a threat wasn’t necessary, but by now it had become ingrained as habit.
“Thanks!” Emma said, with a brightness that left Rachel feeling guilty one moment, then angry the next.
When the girls had finished moving Rachel’s belongings, Rachel turned to Emma.
“So that’s your stuff?” Rachel asked, pointing to a blue suitcase with wheels on the bottom.
“Yeah, that’s it. It’ll be easy to move me, eh? Easy-peasy, right?” Emma said laughing.
“Yep, easy-peasy,” Rachel replied, reaching for the light switch to give it a flick, as Emma began awkwardly wheeling her suitcase over the shag rug. Two more flicks as Emma managed to get the suitcase into the hall. Rachel breathed deeply, knowing that Sam’s old room was now hers. She closed the door without a word, and did a quick inventory of her belongings, just to be sure that Emma hadn’t taken anything.
During that first summer with Sam away and Emma in the house with them, life started to settle into a predictable rhythm. Grandma would wake everyone up in the morning and make a proper breakfast of eggs and bacon and cereal and toast, while Wanda would make lunches for herself and the girls. Wanda was back at work again. Not at a homeless shelter this time, and not downtown. The new job was answering phones in a law office above the drugstore in the strip mall four blocks down. Grandma got Wanda the job. The lawyer was a son of one of her friends.
“He’s available, you know,” Grandma sang to Wanda one day when she came home.
“Please, Mom. The man is as interesting as a cardboard box. Plus, he wears a pen protector in his pocket. And he smells like a wet dog. I prefer men to cauliflower.”
“He’s an honest, decent man with a good job, Wanda. And he’s not married. I believe that would be a novelty for you,” Grandma said with a laugh that was more annoyed than amused.
Emma and Rachel went to the same school now, but Rachel was one year ahead of Emma. Rachel had warned Emma to give her space when they were at school.
“I don’t want my friends to think that I don’t care about them anymore by spending all my time with you. You understand, right?” Emma nodded.
It took a while for it to happen, but eventually word got around Garden Avenue Public School about the new little brown girl in Miss Hamilton’s class.
“Did you see her?” Marcia Miller asked at lunch, pointing to Emma who sat alone under a tree in the schoolyard, peering up into the branches above her. “She’s so weird. I saw her sitting there one time, and I swear she was talking to the tree. To the tree like it was a person or something.”
Rachel’s face grew hot. She knew the truth would come out sooner or later. “That weird girl is my sister,” she said, letting the word hang before continuing. “Well, half-sister really. She came from Vancouver. Wanda – I mean my mom – went to get her over summer vacation,” Rachel said, telling mostly the truth, but keeping the fact that Emma had been around at the end of the last school year to herself. She knew Marcia would be either mad or bewildered as to why Rachel had kept the news of a secret sister to herself for so long. Marcia had been Rachel’s best friend since kindergarten, and she was the most popular girl at Garden Avenue. She and Rachel had always told each other everything. Now, Rachel needed to worry about damage control.
“She’s your sister! Holy shit, are you sure?” Marcia asked.
Rachel laughed for a minute, relieved that Marcia wasn’t angry, then stopped. The question was worth considering. Was she sure Emma was really her sister? Rachel decided she would look for proof later. See if she could find a birt
h certificate or something official that said Emma was who everyone thought she was. Rachel made a mental note to look during her next house inspection.
Marcia was still in shock. “I mean she’s brown. If you guys have the same mom then that means that her dad must have been a nigger or a Paki or something. Why doesn’t she go live with him instead?”
And there it was, the question arising from the dots that Rachel hadn’t bothered to connect all summer, the obvious that had once again eluded her – Emma’s father. It’s not like Rachel hadn’t thought of him at all, she had. There had been a flash, a snapshot invented in Rachel’s mind of her mom – Wanda – rolling around in bed with some sweaty brown man, someone not Rachel’s dad. But that was about as far as Rachel had gone with it. The thought kind of made her nauseous, so she had tried to put it out of her mind. Now she wondered, who was this other father, this man who had made half of Emma, and where was he now? Rachel would have to ask Emma about it when they were at home. She knew Emma would tell her. Emma told her everything. It was like she had no filter. Once a thought came into Emma’s head it would end up coming out of her mouth in no time at all. In the meantime, Rachel had school politics to attend to.
“I don’t know for sure she’s my sister,” Rachel told Marcia, jumping on the opportunity to give herself an out. “That’s just what they’ve told me. Maybe she’s not though. Maybe my mom and Grandma just made that story up. She doesn’t look like me, does she?” Rachel added.
“No, she looks like a black girl or something. I sure hope she’s not your sister, cause that means that your mom…” Rachel interrupted Marcia before she went any further. She took out a pack of gum, and offered Marcia a piece, before popping one into her own mouth.
“No, I bet they’re lying. They just feel sorry for her, and are probably just saying she’s my sister so I’ll be nice to her. That doesn’t mean I have to go along with it, though. Nobody’s gonna make me. I’ll do whatever the hell I want. And that’s that.” Rachel crossed her arms over her chest, and lifted her chin in defiance.
Marcia looked at Rachel skeptically then blew a bubble the size of an orange that popped then stuck to her cheeks before she peeled it off and put it back in her mouth. Rachel knew there were too many holes in the story for Marcia to be convinced. But the good thing about Marcia was that she was easily distracted.
“Hey, is that Mark Gooding over there by the swing set? He’s such a hunk, eh?” Marcia’s head whipped around towards the playground. Mission accomplished. Emma was forgotten for the time being.
24.
WITH EMMA, LESTER, and the workmen occupied, Rachel made getting to the bottom of the Nina Fletcher, aka Buziak, mystery her number one priority. Just as Rachel was about to begin investigating the link between them, Nina’s purse began to buzz again.
“Excuse me,” she said, and then opened her purse to check her phone. She frowned, then began a rapid fire response on the key pad.
Rachel waited. She knew that every second that passed would give her the upper hand. She didn’t resent the interruption, as it came with information. In spite of her exterior efficiency and polish, Nina had a weakness.
Nina tried to get back to business quickly, asking the remainder of her questions about Wanda, and making messy notes on her yellow notepad. Rachel let her get on with it, impressed with Nina’s professionalism, in spite of her own agenda. It wasn’t until Nina began to pack her papers back up in her briefcase that Rachel broached the subject.
“So you all know each other?” Rachel said, as she stood up from the table.
“Yes,” Nina replied, offering no further information. Keeping her eyes down.
“How?” It was clear Rachel had the upper hand. “How exactly do you know each other?” It was Rachel’s turn to ask the questions now. She was going to get the scoop before she let Nina out the door. No way was she going to spend the rest of the afternoon wondering, nor was she going to stoop to asking Emma or Lester for an explanation.
“I knew them when I was a child. In Vancouver,” Nina said, as she stood and walked to the door.
Rachel stood in front of it, resolute.
“You went to school together? Played on the same softball team? What? How did you all meet?”
Nina sighed. Rachel knew she had gone too far. The tone was all right, but the rapid-fire pace of her words came off too aggressive, demanding, desperate. She didn’t care. Who the hell was Nina to her, anyway? And who knew? Maybe taking the upper hand, putting Nina at a slight disadvantage would work in Rachel’s favor. Maybe it would make Nina want to complete the job that much faster, just to be done with them all.
Nina opened her mouth. She was about to reply, when the door behind Rachel opened.
“Shit, look at that! The old key still works!” Sam stood in the doorway. Rachel looked at him, and then checked her watch. Sam’s flight wasn’t due to arrive until later in the evening.
“I know, I know, I’m early.” Sam threw his head back and laughed, holding his hand out in front of him. “Chill, Rach. It’s cool. I was up late last night and thought to hell with bed. Get on the red eye. Sleep on the flight. I got a deal. Saved myself three hundred bucks.” Sam put his suitcase down, and stepped back onto the porch. “Figured there’d be no point in calling cause you’d be here, anyway.” He looked over to Rachel fondly. “Still the same old Pavlov!” Sam put his right hand straight out in front of him, and his left index finger under his nose. “Still a time Nazi, eh? Hail to the gods of order and scheduling!”
Rachel smiled. Sam could get away with anything, even off-colour metaphor mixing. Sam looked behind Rachel. Now he was the one beaming. Nina. Rachel turned.
“Oh, Sam, this is Nina Fletcher. She was sent over from the lawyer’s office. She’s helping us track down Wanda.”
Sam reached into the pocket of his leather coat, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Wanda,” he said, dropping his bag on the porch. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, an uncomfortable fact. He looked up, and suddenly he was no longer Sam the man. As he lit up, Rachel noticed a slight shake in his hand. But, by the time he exhaled, he was himself again.
“Hi Nina. I’m Sam. The brother,” he said, as Nina brushed past Rachel to meet Sam’s outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother,” Nina said. That was all. Sam looked back at her with an expression of vulnerability Rachel didn’t remember seeing before. It could have been the mention of Grandma or even Wanda. He could just be into her. But Sam didn’t act like that with women he was attracted to. He put on the charm, not this sheepish little boy act.
The moment was over before Rachel could decipher it. Nina was out the door and down the walk. Sam watched her go as he took another puff. Rachel watched him, and realized that she had let Nina go without getting the Vancouver story out of her. Then it hit her.
They must have all been in the same foster home together. Leave it to Emma to make such a simple fact into an epic mystery.
It wasn’t until Nina’s car pulled out of the driveway that Sam stomped out his cigarette, picked up his carry-on bag and took it into the house.
“I thought you were bringing the real estate agent.” Rachel closed the door behind him.
“What, no hug?” His arms were open. Rachel folded into him, then pushed away, laughing as he kissed her on both cheeks, like a European.
“I told the realtor to hold off after I got Emma’s message,” Sam took off his coat and flung it over the nearest kitchen chair.
“Emma? Emma called you?”
“Yeah, she wanted to give me the heads up on the Wanda stuff. That we need her to settle the house. She called this morning. Said you were outside dealing with workmen or something.”
Of course Emma had called him. It was another obvious stalling tactic. What did she want? To move into the house herself? She and Lester and whoever else t
hey decided to rent rooms out to, like musicians who practiced at all hours of the night, or painters who gummed up the floors, or pet psychics, or astrologers or magic healers. Rachel could see them, sitting in the living room, having a sing-along to “Kumbaya,” or a séance, lighting candles and incense, and burning the house down to the ground. No way in hell.
Should she confront her? No. Rachel didn’t have the heart for that. She knew how it would go. Rachel would try to stay calm. She would attempt to speak in an even, measured tone, but then Emma would say something ridiculous, and Rachel would lose it. No. They were all under stress and prone to over-reaction. She would talk to Emma later and gently, but firmly, get her back on track.
Sam sat down at the kitchen table, and ran his hands over the surface.
“Listen Sam, you make yourself at home.” Rachel caught herself. “Well, of course, you are at home, aren’t you?” She picked her purse up off the table and looked at him. “Geez, how long has it been?”
“Five years.” He didn’t miss a beat. He was always quick. Like a rabbit. Bugs Bunny. Rachel smiled.
“Five years. It’s sad that it’s…” No need to finish. Cliché. Why did death bring out all the worst clichés ever uttered? “It’s good to see you,” she said.
Sam stood up.
“I’m beat, Rach. I’m going to take a nap for a bit. I’ll be up for dinner. Let’s order in. Maybe Amato’s?”
Amato’s. Ha.
Over Our Heads Page 15