“Or if you’d rather be a clock doc, then let’s move to Chicago and find some masterpieces to work on,” Mom suggested.
“I’m not moving,” Matt interrupted.
“I don’t know that we have to move—” Dad began.
“Of course we have to move,” Mom interrupted. “Somebody has to move, or move on, or move out.“
The conversation that began with simple suggestions and teasing took a sudden turn. Matt and I needed to leave, now, but instead I found myself glued to the table even though I wanted to be glued to the TV. But if I stayed, at least I would know exactly what they said, and then maybe they wouldn’t say all of it. Maybe I could keep something bad from happening. Matt turned his back, opened the bread box, and pulled out a loaf of Wonder Bread. He was working in slow motion, as if he, too, needed an excuse to hear the rest of the argument. Matt stuck his knife into the peanut butter, slid it out, and licked off a thick glob.
The popping increased, and Dad shook the pot harder, until it slowed and then stopped, and he took off the lid, releasing a cloud of steam. A few kernels escaped the pot. Something smelled slightly burnt.
“I’ve been waiting for change, but nothing happens. Now I don’t even know what I’m waiting for anymore,” Mom said. “You don’t have to know how to put the whole puzzle back together right now; just start with a few pieces.” I imagined our annual Thanksgiving puzzle. It was as if we’d lost the box-top picture.
Matt picked up his grilled cheese and his peanut butter sandwich, grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, and headed out the screen door, which slapped appropriately. Dad and Mom didn’t even seem to notice. Mom just stared at Dad.
“All I know is that you’re taking your time while your family is falling apart.” And then she took a deep breath and said quietly, and too calmly, “Maybe we need some time apart to figure out where we’re headed. A little distance. A separation of sorts.”
Distance? A separation of sorts? Estrangement? Where was the mom who said divorce wasn’t in our vocabulary? Where was the dad who once ordered me to unpack my knapsack and take off my coat and boots, because McAndrewses never joked about running away? Mom had her boots on and her bags packed, but I wasn’t sure where she was going.
Dad took down only one popcorn bowl, filled it, and planted it in front of me. It was five minutes to seven and our show was about to begin.
“Go on ahead, Abby. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When I stepped out, their volume increased.
“Your answer is to just keep busy. Stay distant,” Dad said.
“I’m distant?” Mom sounded appalled.
“Quit a job, get a job, stay away. There are plenty of ways to avoid facing what happened,” Dad said.
“Facing what happened?” Mom repeated. “Just say it out loud. ‘Joel died.’ No more euphemisms, no more hiding the truth or hiding away,” she said. “I’m not the one holed up with clocks in the basement,” she said. “I can’t play with time, but I’m living in the present and have some hope for the future. It’s time to move forward.”
Dad walked out but he didn’t come join me in the living room; instead he headed for the front door. “You’re not there for us, John,” Mom called out after him. “Somebody has to move on, even if you call it running away.” The front door clicked shut, but Mom finished her thought. “You’ve got to figure out what you need to do, but I need to go on.”
Mom disappeared upstairs and I watched television alone, but it wasn’t NBC.
The next day marked the beginning of a new month. While I was at school, Mom moved into one of Miss Patti’s extra bedrooms, but I didn’t know about it until dinnertime, when Miss Patti took out her tuna casserole, set two plates on the table, then held out two more, awaiting Mom’s response.
“Abby, I’m staying here tonight,” Mom said. Something was different. Working late at Miss Patti’s wasn’t unusual, but tonight Mom seemed strange and awkward. “It’s tax time and we’ve got a deadline and Miss Patti needs me more often.” Mom’s explanation came too easily, as if rehearsed. And besides, she usually went home to eat with Dad and Matt. What would they do now? “You can go eat with Dad and Matt, or you can stay here with us. I’m sleeping upstairs.”
I wanted to believe this was just a sleepover so that I could run next door, grab a sleeping bag, say “hey” to Dad and Matt, then return for a fun evening with Rita. Four plates at Miss Patti’s, two plates at home—that is, if Matt stayed. Matt might not be there that night. Or maybe Dad wouldn’t eat. Or maybe I needed to make it even, three at home, three at Miss Patti’s. I couldn’t decide.
“You’re welcome to stay with me tonight,” Mom offered.
I frowned. How generous. Miss Patti set one more plate down and held out the last one. Which plate, which house? Was this an ultimatum, or was I supposed to be thankful for the invite? My face grew warm, and I felt angry I had to make a choice that felt significant. What happened to “Some things you can never leave behind; you have to work through them”?
“I don’t know,” I said at last and slipped from my seat. Rita followed me out and took my hand. Not knowing what to do, I headed back home. If I didn’t pretend this was only for one night, then I would have to admit something was very wrong.
Rita sat on our back porch while I went into our kitchen. Two cans of unopened Campbell’s tomato soup stood on the counter. A strip of light escaped through the crack at the bottom of the door to the basement. Dad was working, but I didn’t see Matt. I wanted to go downstairs, but I didn’t know what to say and I felt guilty for eating at Miss Patti’s and for what I was about to do. Quietly, I slipped upstairs to my room and opened my drawer. I hesitated, then finally picked out a nightgown and pants and a shirt and one pair of underwear. This was only for one night.
When I came back down, I paused at the top of the stairs, opened the door, and threw my clothes behind it.
“Hey, Dad,” I said as I headed down. I tried to read his face like he read the faces of his clocks. His eyes looked tired, but he smiled at me.
“Hey, Bee,” he said. I came beside him and he folded me into his arms. “You doing okay?” he asked, then corrected himself. “No, I guess that’s a silly question.”
“Daddy?” I began, my face muffled against his shoulder. “Maybe you could …” And then I couldn’t think of anything to say. I hadn’t really figured out a way to fix this. I really needed to think about it. “I love you,” I said at last.
“I love you, too, Bee,” Dad said, and he took in a quick breath. He didn’t want to cry and I didn’t want to see him cry. I wanted to make him feel better, but I should have known that wasn’t possible.
That night, I went to bed alone in the room that wasn’t mine, while Mom worked downstairs with Miss Patti. I heard the chairs roll across the hardwood floors and the wind whistle in the attic above. A few minutes later, the door opened.
“Abby, are you awake?” Mom asked in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll come to bed now.”
“It’s cold in here, Momma.”
“I know. We’re at the end of the hall. We have to remember to keep the door open during the day.”
Their guest room was perhaps the most nicely furnished room in Miss Patti’s house. Rita said it was her grandmother’s furniture, and that we were the first guests to use it.
This was where Rita played our telephone game. She had a tin can at her house and I had one at mine. My telephone hung from the window of Mom and Dad’s bedroom. We strung yarn across and talked to each other on chilly fall afternoons or warm spring Saturday mornings, having more fun than we could have had with a real telephone.
But today the phone line would not have worked. The language spoken between the houses was foreign, and I was no interpreter.
Mom’s nightgown slid over her thin body. In the moonlight, I could see her silhouette and I knew that even if she weren’t my mom, I would think she was beautiful. She ran her fi
ngers through her hair, fluffed it gently, and then leaned back as she massaged her head. I imagined what that felt like. She put cream on her face by the moonlight illuminating the dressing table. I wondered what she saw in the mirror. Did she know she was pretty? Mom tiptoed to the bed and tucked her slippers beneath it. She peeled back her side of the crisp cotton covers and slid in next to me, spooning her body with mine.
“Now you’ll be warm,” she murmured in my ear as she stroked my hair. I felt her heartbeat and soft, rhythmic breath against my neck. I closed my eyes and tried to make our breathing one, but we were too different.
“How many people have you lost?” With my back to her, I could ask that question.
“I know lots of people who have died,” she answered.
“But did you really know them?”
“Some …” Her voice drifted.
“Does it ever get easier?”
“No. And I suppose that’s a good thing,” she said. “If it got easier, it would mean I loved less.”
“What was it like when Poppa died?”
Mom’s breathing changed, slowed. And then she sighed.
“Different,” she said at last. “Poppa was older. I was more prepared. But it was still sad.”
I remembered when Joel was a baby, Mom left for Poppa’s funeral. She took Joel with her and was gone for three days. When she came back, it took her a long time to smile.
“What about your mom?”
“You’re sure curious tonight,” Mom teased, tickling my side. I grabbed her hand and put it on my arm. I loved the gentle caress of her fingers.
“I was just a baby. I didn’t know she died,” she answered.
“So that one didn’t hurt.”
“It hurt. But in a different way. Everybody always had a mom except me. I always missed her even though I didn’t know her. I had to imagine what she was like. I had to pretend things about her.” Mom rolled to her back and I copied her. She folded her hands across her waist and I did the same. We stared at the ceiling.
“I always wondered what it would be like to have a mom,” she said at last. Mom bent her face to her shoulder to dry her eye. “And then when Matt was born, I realized how much I had missed,” she said softly. I could see the other tears sliding down her porcelain face. I touched her cheek and traced the liquid trail with one finger and then the next finger, until I had touched away most of her tears and my fingers were damp. “It hurts no matter what. It just plain hurts to lose someone.”
“I wonder what your dad felt like,” I offered cautiously. “I’ll bet he missed your mom.”
“This isn’t what I wanted, Abby,” she said.
I thought about my dad and wondered if Mom thought about him, too. I leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. Mom reached out and pulled me close, and that was the beginning of our first sleepover.
NINETEEN
When I awakened, I wondered why light was coming in from the wrong direction and the wall had moved. That’s what I hate about sleeping in a strange room. My stomach remembered before my head that something bad had happened. We weren’t at home anymore and we were hardly a family. Separation. Estrangement.
Mom’s side of the bed was empty, the comforter turned back, exposing the white sheets, which were cold to my touch. I shivered in the morning air.
After school that day, I wanted to head home to see what Matt was doing. What did he think about us? I assumed Matt would stay with Dad. Each parent would have a kid, but would Matt miss me? Did he care?
What about Dad? Did he miss us? Should I talk to Dad about it? Could I ask Dad about what Mom did, or should I go home and act like everything was normal when it was so awkward and strange?
“Hey,” I said, coming in the back door.
“Hey, Abby,” Matt said, running his fingers through his hair. “You doing okay?”
“I guess,” I answered. “Did Dad say anything?”
“No. He just went downstairs and worked late. I fell asleep before he went to bed.”
“So you didn’t even talk?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Mom.
“Why would we?” Matt asked. “We never do anymore.”
I shrugged. Matt made it sound so hopeless.
“Well, maybe she’ll come home tonight.”
“I don’t think so, Abby.”
“You don’t know that!” I snapped.
Matt shrugged, picked up his backpack, and headed up the stairs.
“Don’t go,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry about, Bee. It’s just the way it is.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel bad? Don’t you ever get sad?” I asked, trying to remember a time he had really cried about Joel. What was wrong with him, anyway? “Don’t you ever feel like crying?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I can’t stop it when it happens,” I confessed.
“You just have to be angry,” Matt said, as if divulging a secret. “I just think of something that makes me really, really mad and then I don’t cry.”
But what do you do when the thing that makes you mad is also the thing that makes you want to cry? Who knows, maybe he’s mad at me and that keeps him from crying.
Maybe Dad is mad now, too. I almost didn’t want to go down to the basement to find out, but it might be better than imagining the worst.
“Hey, Dad, I’m home,” I called down the stairs.
“That’s great, honey. You want to stay for dinner?” he called back. Was Mom expecting me? What would Dad make for himself? Not that it mattered. I just wondered and I worried. The pause must have signaled my answer.
“It’s okay, Abby.”
No, it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay that two plus two no longer equaled four. Nothing was okay and everybody was pretending it was. I headed down the steps to find Dad putting aside his project, as if waiting for me.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
“I don’t either.”
And then I felt sort of sad for him and sad for me, and my nose started to sting. I scrunched my face to stop from crying and then remembered what Matt said and tried the angry trick. I got mad that Matt didn’t seem to care and that maybe Mom did this to us. But then I felt guilty and quickly discovered that guilt also stops tears.
“I’d better go,” I said.
“Okay, Bee,” he said as I headed up the stairs.
Miss Patti’s table was set for four.
“Today is Dr. Seuss’s birthday,” Miss Patti explained. “He’s sixty-seven years old. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate in Mrs. Clevenger’s class.” Miss Patti hefted a stack of Dr. Seuss books into a cloth bag. “I have a lot of cooking to do tonight, so y’all need to do your homework upstairs.”
By 8:15 the next morning, Miss Patti had her buffet breakfast set out on two long tables under the window in Mrs. Clevenger’s room. Everything was labeled: Green Eggs and Ham, Sneetch Frankfurters, Oobleck, Blue Goo, Pink Ink, Moose Juice, Goose Juice, and Green Grape Cakes. Though skeptical, I filled my plate with a rainbow of foods. Most kids wouldn’t eat anything that looked weird, but I tried everything so I wouldn’t hurt Miss Patti’s feelings.
“Don’t miss the Wumbus milk; it’s my personal favorite,” Miss Patti said with a wink as she spread out a pile of books and let us choose what we wanted her to read.
I had heard the stories before, but I loved to be read to, especially by Miss Patti whose voice made everything sound warm and safe. She began with Green Eggs and Ham and went through If I Ran the Circus, The Cat in the Hat, The Sneetches and Other Stories, Happy Birthday to You, in honor of Dr. Seuss, and ended up with Horton.
Rita looked shyly proud, and I felt happy for her and proud she was my friend. Miss Patti’s house wasn’t home, but Pink Ink and a good friend helped.
My best excuse for going home was to practice my piano, and so I began practicing. A lot. I felt l
ike a Ping-Pong ball bouncing between two houses that didn’t feel like home. But after two and a half weeks, it was obviously not a sleepover and I needed a plan.
“Maybe we should do something about Mom and Dad,” I said to Matt, after I had finished practicing and started my homework.
“Do you have any ideas?” I asked Matt, opening the oven to check on Dad’s brownies. The smell of rich chocolate filled the kitchen and I was really glad I hadn’t given up chocolate for Lent. Matt sat at the table poring over a book. This was one of the first times I had seen him study in the last few months.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Maybe they could have a date or something.”
“Valentine’s Day is over,” Matt said unromantically.
“Then what do you think’s gonna happen?” I asked. Matt seemed unusually gloomy. Maybe it was his calculus, but he didn’t look hopeful.
“I don’t know, Abby. It’s really messed up.”
“I don’t want to live over there forever. I miss you and Dad.” I was tired of straddling my afternoons and my parents, and I didn’t want us to become the Hanleys. “I just want it over,” I said, opening my notebook and taking out pencil and paper.
“What do you want me to do about it? How do you think I can fix it?”
“Can’t you say something to Dad?” I asked. I knew they were spending a lot of time in the basement, where Dad was teaching Matt the trade.
“Can’t you say something to Mom?”
He had me there. Matt slammed his book shut. “I hate this class.” He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “What good does it do to be over there?” he asked, as if I had any choice.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to be over there. But for some reason, she can’t be here,” I reminded him.
“Maybe it’s me,” Matt said with a laugh, before he frowned.
“That’s silly, Matt.”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“It’s not you. It’s more about Dad and stuff.”
“I suppose,” he said with a shrug.
“Really, Matt, you gotta think of something.” I tapped my pencil on the table.
Stars in the Grass Page 17