Stars in the Grass

by Ann Marie Stewart

  “I said I didn’t feel good and I don’t,” I repeated. “I don’t feel very good.”

  Mom gently peeled back the covers. “If you’re not sick, then you need to go to school.”

  “You don’t understand.” I pulled the sheets over my head.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t understand anybody and I can’t fix anything, but somebody has to keep going, and today that somebody’s going to be you.” And with that, Mom grabbed a jumper and a blouse from the heap and tossed them on top of me, heading to my dresser for socks. “Just be a good girl and go to school.”

  “Just be a good girl. Just be a good girl.” If I had been good, would that have changed anything? If I were good enough now, could I make things better? I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

  Mom sat down on the bed, socks in hand. “I thought going to school would help you get away from this.” She uncurled the socks. “I thought it’d be good for you to hang out with your friends again and learn something new.” Mom moved behind me to start brushing my hair.

  “They’re going to stare and ask questions. Or maybe they won’t talk to me at all because they won’t know what to say!” I said, finding it easier to talk when we weren’t looking at each other.

  She yanked one section of hair into a pigtail and started a braid. It was hard to explain my feelings, but I thought my reasons were strong. “Ouch!” I said, tilting my head away.

  “Hold still!” She twisted the rubber band around my hair and started on the other pigtail.

  I imagined the horror of walking in with all eyes on me. Would I cry? But if I looked happy, they’d wonder how I could smile after my brother died. They’d say I was like Matt, who had jumped right into football and parties and other things we didn’t even know about. What’s wrong with Joel’s older brother? Joel’s brother hasn’t shed a tear. Joel’s brother is getting involved with the wrong crowd. And if I left Mom alone with Dad, would she cry all day?

  Mom finished the second braid and shifted so we both sat side by side on the edge of my bed. She looked at the clock and tapped her fingers on my bed as if playing the keys of the organ. The big first day was now five minutes away, and there was no way I’d be on time.

  “Get your clothes on. You have art at nine. You can just slip in and everybody will be busy painting or drawing. Nobody will notice.”

  As the students filed into Miss Gettman’s art class, I slipped into line and took the empty seat in the back near Rita. Rita never talked, so no one ever sat by her. We might be invisible together. Miss Gettman handed out big sheets of construction paper and crayons. Miss Gettman was short and serious. We always tried to guess why she was still Miss since she seemed so old and her name begged to “Get-a-man.”

  “Every summer has a story to tell,” she began as she moved about the classroom. “A picture is worth a thousand words, so instead of an essay on ‘What I did this summer,’ let’s make a collage of our summer memories.

  “Rita, what’s something you remember about this summer?” she asked as she made her way to the back of the class. Miss Gettman might ask me that same question in front of everybody, and everybody was going to be looking at me and trying to figure out what I would say. And if I wasn’t so worried, I might try to figure out what I would say except I had no idea what kind of collage I could make about this summer.

  Rita looked over at me and then began talking slowly, deliberately.

  “I … liked … some … things …”

  Bless her for stalling. If Rita talked any slower, the class would fall asleep.

  “About … this … summer,” she finished.

  “Well yes, Rita. Why don’t you tell me one or two of them.”

  Normally, Rita would have mumbled something and tried to stay out of the limelight. Rita paused and looked around the room. By now Miss Gettman was returning to the front of the classroom. I had eluded her gaze. Tim Neeves threw a crayon from his desk to the new boy sitting next to him and Rita’s monologue was over.

  “That’s not what we do with crayons, young man, and that’s certainly not a good way to start out your year.” With that, she moved Tim to the empty desk in the back near me and I began a silent prayer that throwing a crayon would be the worst of his offenses.

  “I’d like everybody to think of at least four events from this summer and turn them into a beautiful collage. Collage means a collection of objects that tell a story. It looks like the word college except it has an a in it.” Miss Gettman sat down at her desk and smiled out at us. If only she knew what adding an a to her name could do for her. “You can begin,” she announced as if we were starting a test. For me, it was worse than a test.

  Heads turned as if in question. Shoulders shrugged and kids mumbled. At last Miss Gettman pushed back her chair so fast that it squealed on the floor. Kids giggled and she scanned the room as if hunting for the source of the laughter. Finally she resorted to yet another try at describing her assignment.

  “Let’s come up with ideas together.” She headed to the blackboard and picked up her chalk. “For example, I went swimming this summer.” She wrote swimming across the blackboard. “I took a car trip to Chicago to see my older sister.” And she sketched a car, this time with someone holding a pennant out the window with a big C on it. “Can anyone add something?” She looked out toward the back, and I grabbed a crayon and began drawing furiously. Maybe if she thought I was on to something, she’d leave me alone.

  The crayon I grabbed was brown. Brown is an ugly color and I hate brown. I don’t wear brown, and I don’t like to look at it. But somehow it seemed right for my summer picture. Then I picked up purple and began drawing swirls, then black circles, and I even tried yellow. My picture was a mess, but something felt good. One scribble broke the orange crayon; another scribble ran off the page and onto the desk. I could imagine that I was leaving dents on the desktop. I wasn’t sure which swirl represented the night we watched fireflies on the front porch, or which swirl was the morning Mom cooked blueberry pancakes, or which jagged zigzag was when a car came out of nowhere and took away my little brother. Although my paper was filled with color, it was not bright. When at last my paper was consumed, I looked up to find Miss Gettman eyeing me curiously. As if, how could I be done already? I looked for a blank spot and pretended to put just one more touch on the page. She returned to her paperwork.

  “Write your name on the back, because I’ll be displaying these at open house next week.”

  I looked down at the mess of scribbles. This was not good enough. Joel could have done a better job with his eyes closed. If I ripped it in half, the noise would draw attention. Even if I folded it up, she might spot me trying to smuggle it out.

  I carefully slid the sheet off the top of the desk and inside the open shelf. No one could understand my drawing. Not even me. I did not write my name on the back as she had instructed. No one would miss one picture from an entire class. Abby didn’t have to have her name and art up on the night of open house. Amid a wall full of cottages and sprinklers and lakes and ice cream cones, no one would notice that Abby’s summer was very different from the rest.

  FIVE

  Hi, Uncle Troy,” I said, opening the door wide and taking the plate of cookies from him. It was raining out, a real fall downpour. Uncle Troy collapsed his umbrella, then opened and closed it, shaking out the water. I was glad to see him again.

  “Mary Frances sent those.” Troy had offered the plate of cookies but stood there awkwardly as if waiting for something or someone.

  “Come on in,” said Mom as she joined us. “I’ll make some coffee to go with these.”

  “When I called earlier, you said John was home?” Uncle Troy prompted. Uncle Troy wanted to talk to Dad? Was something wrong?

  “Yes. I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s in the basement.”

  Of course he was in the basement. Last week Dad set up two rectangular tables he had purchased at Salvation Army, hammered shelving behind them, positioned an old
space heater near the tables, pounded nail-like hooks at eye level into all the studs, swept the floors, and dusted away the cobwebs. Dad was up to something, but it wasn’t a sermon.

  “Is there a problem, Troy?” Dad asked, emerging from the basement and closing the door behind him. I thought his question was odd, considering Dad wasn’t taking care of anybody’s problems lately. Uncle Troy stroked his chin as if about to make one of his serious chess moves.

  “Matt didn’t come by to rake the leaves,” Uncle Troy began as Mom headed to the kitchen. That wasn’t unusual; Matt dropped every ball except the one on the football field.

  “Oh, so that’s what this is about. I’ll talk to him,” Dad said.

  “Actually, that’s not why I’m here.” Uncle Troy looked toward the kitchen and his cup of coffee. “I’ll sit down and wait for Renee.”

  The grandfather clock ticked in the background. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. Why couldn’t they say something, anything? Matt took the stairs by twos, a bag tucked under his arm, and had nearly escaped before Dad called out, “Hey, Matt, Mr. Collins says you didn’t rake the leaves. You need to do your job.”

  Matt nodded first to Uncle Troy and then to Dad, and raising his eyebrows in a way that would have gotten him in trouble if Uncle Troy wasn’t sitting on our couch, said, “We all need to do our job,” and shut the front door behind him. Mom returned with cream and sugar and two cups of coffee.

  “Look, I know this has been a difficult time,” Uncle Troy said. “The elders met and we’re trying to keep an interim in place, but we also think it might be good for you to be around your congregation. The people who love you.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return,” Dad said.

  “I understand,” Uncle Troy said. “Just remember, it might not be so much about the church’s needs as yours, too. About how you might need the church, your friends,” Uncle Troy continued softly. He adjusted his tie and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. Uncle Troy looked stiff and uncomfortable.

  “Troy, sometimes I don’t even know if I can come back,” Dad added. “Ever.”

  Mom frowned.

  “I understand why you might feel that way now,” Uncle Troy repeated as if he couldn’t think of anything else.

  “No, I don’t think you do,” Dad answered.

  “Abby, why don’t you go on upstairs?” Mom suggested.

  “She can stay,” Dad said. “This will be short.” Then to Uncle Troy, he said, “Is there anything else?”

  Uncle Troy took a deep breath. “Mary thought it might help if I talked to you.”

  “It won’t,” Dad said. “And it’s presumptuous for you to walk in here and think you can fix things.”

  “John, maybe you should hear what he has to say.” Mom looked over at Uncle Troy, who looked sadder than I could ever remember.

  “Renee, he doesn’t even have any children,” Dad said. I was embarrassed. Dad never treated anyone like he was treating Uncle Troy. But Uncle Troy wasn’t leaving; in fact, he had more to say.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” Uncle Troy hesitated. “Maybe I do understand a little. I’ve lost someone, too. So maybe it would help to share.”

  “But he wasn’t your son,” Dad said shortly.

  “No, but I lost someone, too.” Was Uncle Troy talking about Joel? It didn’t sound like it. “It’s a terrible thing to lose a child,” he continued.

  “You think you know?” my dad said. I bit my lip. I loved Uncle Troy, and Dad was being so mean. We all lost someone.

  “You really think you know?” Dad repeated.

  “I do.” And with those two simple words he silenced my dad and created a huge gap only he could fill. We waited for whatever was coming. “We were pretty excited about having a baby,” he said at last. “Took a long time, but then one day we found out we’d be parents,” he explained. “Mary Frances quit working and we got ready for the baby.

  “Our daughter was born in November. A beautiful baby girl. But she was stillborn. They don’t know what happened. We named her Caroline Ann.” Mom sat down slowly on the couch. Her face had gone from surprise to joy and then gently crumpled in pain as Uncle Troy’s words took on meaning. Revelation.

  “Mary Frances was in the room for so long, and finally they came out and told me the baby had never taken a breath. I thought I couldn’t breathe. I hurt all over. I didn’t know what to say to Mary, so I just went in and held her.”

  “Oh, Troy, I never knew,” Mom said sadly.

  “Mary never wanted to go through that again. I would have liked to try. I wanted a child. I wanted another daughter. Or a son.”

  “I’m so sorry, Troy,” Mom added. Dad stared straight ahead, unmoved.

  “That’s not the same at all,” Dad said. “I had Joel for over three years.”

  I couldn’t believe he said that. That wasn’t my dad. Mom’s face squinted in pain, and she took Uncle Troy’s hand. My stomach hurt in a way it never had before.

  “No, I don’t suppose we can compare pain or grief. I just wanted you to know that I experienced at least a measure of it. I thought that by sharing …”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Dad stood up to indicate it was time for Troy to leave.

  “John, he’s trying to help,” Mom defended.

  “Well he’s not.” Dad walked out and headed toward the back porch.

  “I’m sorry, Troy,” Mom apologized. “I know you meant well. Maybe after he thinks about it—”

  “I was really angry back then, Renee,” Uncle Troy interrupted gently. “Mary and I pulled away from each other. Those were hard times. And so when I see you two”—Uncle Troy looked at Mom and to where Dad had disappeared—“I feel like I’m reliving those days.” Uncle Troy took Mom’s hand. “We want to do whatever we can for you. You’re like family.” Then Uncle Troy let himself out the front door, but before he left, he turned once more. “People care; they just don’t always know how to show it.”

  “Thank you, Troy. Give our love to Mary.” After the door closed behind him, I ran out and gave him a hug good-bye. I wasn’t Caroline, but I could be Abigail.

  When I came back inside, Mom and Dad were arguing again.

  “He had no business coming over here and telling me he knew what I was feeling.”

  “He didn’t say that. He just said he understood.”

  “Same difference. And he can’t understand. He had a daughter for a minute and maybe not even that.”

  “John, you’re heartless! Sometimes I don’t recognize you anymore. He’s your friend, and he came to help.”

  “And that’s what I’m saying. He can’t.” Dad was yelling now. “How is that going to help? How is anything going to help? I don’t want to hear it and I don’t have to.”

  And Dad showed her he didn’t because he left us and slammed the door to the basement.

  When Mrs. Clevenger kept me in during recess for a talk, something didn’t sit well in my stomach. I didn’t dislike her, but she wasn’t Mrs. Jennings, my third-grade teacher. After five weeks of school I didn’t really know her and she certainly didn’t know me or, more importantly, Joel.

  According to the framed pictures on her desk, she had three kids who looked like they were in junior high or older. One picture of her husband and her boys was taken near a boat; they all looked happy, and the water in the background went on and on and on.

  Out the window of our classroom I could see the kids on the swings. Back and forth, back and forth, higher and higher, crescendoing arcs like a pendulum nearly out of control. When the girl in the middle stopped pumping, the pendulum lost momentum. I wondered if that was how life ended, just a swing-set ride that slowed, slowed, slowed. The boy on the end let go and jumped clear over to the sandpile. The kids around him cheered. I smiled a faint ovation.

  Mrs. Clevenger made some noise and said something I didn’t understand. The jumping boy now swung off the rings. Mrs. Jennings, my old teacher, went ov
er to check on him. She would do that.

  “Abby, I spoke with Mrs. Jennings.”

  I turned back to Mrs. Clevenger. I loved Mrs. Jennings. I wandered by her room before school every morning and sometimes spent indoor recess there. When I was in room 32, I could sort of pretend it was still last year.

  “She says you spend a lot of time outside her classroom.” I hung my head. The two had conspired.

  “Abby, can you tell me about these?” I looked up and my face warmed to see a stack of crumpled pages now smoothed: the homework I had never turned in, assignments I had wadded and left in my desk or the garbage can or maybe even hidden in my coat pockets. The newly uncurled pages revealed jagged scratches and scribbles and rips consuming the short story with a beginning but no end, the unfinished worksheet, and Roman numbers that didn’t add up. How could X, L, V, I, and C be numbers when letters were for stories?

  “Can you tell me about these?” No. Besides, I sensed she really wanted me to talk about something even bigger.

  “Abby, do you ever feel like talking … talking about Joel?” Mrs. Clevenger asked. Could she read my mind? If so, I’d have to be more careful what I was thinking about. Or at least maybe throw out a tricky thought and see what happened. Pink elephant. Pink elephant. Pink elephant. “Because if you want to talk, I’m here,” she continued without seeming to notice any pink elephants.

  I bit my lip and shrugged. What else was there to say? He was gone, gone, gone. No one could bring him back, and the hole he left was consuming my family.

  “He was three?” she asked.

  “Almost four,” I corrected. Don’t pretend you know, I thought. Outside, the boy who jumped from the swing began scaling the monkey bar gym. My mom hated those metal cages. She was always afraid one of us would lose our balance, hit our head, or slip through the holes and fall to the ground.

  “That’s pretty rough to lose a little brother.”

  She couldn’t know.

  “You must miss him.”

  I thought about the empty crib in my bedroom storing our old stuffed animals. I considered the fuzzy monkey named George no one would touch because it was Joel’s favorite stuffed animal. Even when Joel outgrew the crib, he wanted to keep it as George’s cage. I wondered why Mom and Dad hadn’t taken away the crib, and why I was stuck with that reminder. I wanted to be angry with Dad for not dismantling it. I wanted to be mad at Mom for ever putting Joel in my room in the first place so that I would feel his absence. So that I would miss the sound of his breathing at night, and his nose peering through the bars as he waited for me to wake up in the morning. “Play with me, Bee!” Dad needed to take down that crib. Dad needed to do a lot of things.