Serendipity and Me (9781101602805)

by Roth, Judith

  I didn’t ask again.

  So I ask alone tonight

  Please, God.

  I wake up on the couch

  to sounds in the kitchen.

  Dad?

  Just me, Mrs. Whittier calls.

  Then she steamrollers in

  with a steaming bowl.

  Hungry?

  Here’s some chicken bone soup.

  My mind is cloudy with sleep and sickness.

  What day is it?

  Friday. I’ve got ceramics lab at noon

  so one of the college girls

  will be coming later

  to check on you.

  I force my zombie brain to think.

  The play’s tomorrow.

  Yes.

  Her drab pottery work shirt

  suits the mood because

  by the sympathy dripping off her face

  I can tell I won’t be in the play.

  It is too late

  and Neverland

  has a whole different meaning

  for me now.

  I’m pretty sure Jocelyn

  was one of Dad’s freshmen

  when Mom died.

  Now she’s a serious senior.

  Majoring in psychology, she tells me

  dark eyes wide with compassion.

  She wants to know how I feel

  about everything.

  Either I’m too sick to guard my mouth

  or she’s going to be

  really good at this.

  Because I tell her everything

  I’ve been keeping quiet inside me.

  I tell her how much I love Peter Pan the play

  and how much I like Peter Pan the boy.

  I tell her how much I miss my mother

  and how my dad’s a mess of sadness.

  I tell her how lonely I am

  in my own house.

  I lumber off the couch

  to show her my room.

  She asks about the cats.

  There are pictures of cats

  on every wall

  of my pale-pink room.

  Besides my cuddly stuffed kitty,

  lions and tigers and cougars

  lie helter-skelter on my covers.

  Cat-head slippers peek out

  from under the bed.

  Where’s your real cat?

  Jocelyn asks.

  I don’t have one.

  She raises her eyebrows in a question.

  Mom always said, Ask your father

  and Dad always said, No.

  She purses her lips and then her look rests

  on my book of Mom Tales.

  What’s this?

  Mom used to make up fairy tales

  and write them down for me.

  I show her the first page.

  This one’s about Mom and Dad.

  Beginnings

  Once upon a time there was a magical professor who spun poems around his students. The poems gave his students wings. Sometimes they found themselves hovering in the air as if in a dream. One of his students was a girl named for dreams.

  Aislinn was born with a hunger for words. She took to the winged poems like she was created to fly. She drank the words in. She swallowed them whole. And she soared.

  Each time Aislinn heard the professor speak, her wings grew stronger and she flew toward paradise. But the spell never lasted. When she left the professor, her wings drooped and she drifted to the ground.

  She knew she must keep the professor and his magical words with her forever. So Aislinn decided to cast a spell on him.

  Her plan was a web of beauty. She reversed the spell he placed on his class and spun her own poems around him. Aislinn’s poems captured his heart and sent his soul soaring with dreams of her. And when he was completely under her spell, Aislinn showed him her own dreams of flying with him forever. She offered him the wings of her soul with a book of Love Songs.

  The magical professor took the book. He took the book and read her heart and fell into her soul.

  The sweetest spell of all.

  Jocelyn looks puzzled.

  Wow—your mom was a student?

  Yeah. They were supposed to live

  happily ever after.

  But there wasn’t any ever after.

  Jocelyn’s grown-up mask slips a bit

  and she looks like she wishes

  she didn’t know so much

  about me

  or that she knew

  what to say

  now.

  If this were a TV show counseling session

  now would be the perfect chance

  to say, Our time is up.

  But she doesn’t have the

  counselor’s skill yet

  of ending a conversation.

  Jocelyn pets my stuffed kitty

  pulls at the neck of her sweater

  and smiles at me

  shyly.

  Beneath the fairy tale book

  is a white baby blanket

  decorated with pastel balloons.

  I wrap a satin frayed edge

  around my wrist

  and climb into bed,

  too tired to move back to the couch.

  Jocelyn eyes the blanket

  and I can tell she’s curious

  but this is something

  I will keep to myself.

  My eyes close

  the comfort of the silky edging

  touching my skin.

  The blanket has been used as

  a belt, a kerchief

  a veil, an apron

  while Mom and I acted out fairy tales.

  Used as a token, a flag

  a banner, a snowfall

  while Mom read poetry to me

  and I dreamed of performing the words.

  The blanket was here with me

  through it all.

  It’s still here.

  But Mom is not.

  I must be delirious

  because when I wake up Saturday

  I think I can do it.

  Be in the play tonight.

  I go to the bathroom and open

  the drawer that was my mom’s.

  It’s still full of her stuff.

  Not like her side of the closet

  that only has clanging hangers

  since Mrs. Whittier

  called my grandparents

  to come and help Dad let go

  last year.

  I rattle through her makeup

  and find what I think I need

  for the stage.

  I shower and do my hair

  then play with eyeliner, mascara

  powder, blush.

  Dad knocks on the door.

  Everything all right in there?

  I unlatch the door

  and let it swing slowly open.

  Dad glances in

  then freezes.

  He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  His face scares me

  so I look in the mirror

  to see what he sees.

  And I almost see her.

  Eyes defined, cheekbones sculpted.

  If I squint, the messy makeup

  smooths out

  makes me look older.

  So much more like my mom

  than ever before.

  I turn back to Dad

  and his eyes change like he

&nbs
p; recognizes me again.

  He shakes his head.

  Sorry about the play.

  You know you can’t go, right?

  He makes the dorky sad puppy face

  that used to make me smile.

  I tell him Yes

  and close the door.

  Then I watch myself in the mirror

  as the tears start falling

  and I learn too soon

  what happens to makeup

  when you cry.

  Grandma and Grandpa call

  three hours before the play starts.

  In my mind

  I can see them

  leaning toward the speakerphone.

  Grandpa listening with his good ear.

  Grandma doing most of the talking.

  Hi, Honey—just wanted to wish you luck

  before your big performance.

  Wish we could be there!

  They live in the hills of Pennsylvania

  on the other side of the country.

  Too far away to sense

  my impending heartbreak.

  Thanks—but I’m too sick to do it.

  I try to keep the catch out of my voice.

  Oh, Honey, Grandma says. Oh, I’m so sorry.

  What are you sick with?

  A stupid virus.

  I tell them all my symptoms

  and they both make sympathetic noises.

  Grandma tells me how sorry they are

  and they hope I get better soon

  and she asks to talk to Dad.

  I can tell by Dad’s responses

  he feels awkward with them.

  His own parents do service work overseas

  so Mom’s parents are the ones

  Mrs. Whittier called last year.

  I listened from my room

  when they had their face-to-face chat.

  The words I heard from Dad were

  Intrusive.

  Handling it.

  I need more time.

  The words I heard from them were

  Counseling.

  Grieving too long.

  Not good for Sara.

  Now Dad says, Yes, yes.

  I’m taking good care of her.

  I will.

  He hangs up and turns to me.

  They send you their love.

  Somehow even that small phrase

  sends a tear

  down my cheek.

  I try and keep a low profile

  the rest of the day.

  Dad is not comfortable with tears

  and I don’t feel like

  dealing with him

  not dealing with me.

  Now out there in the world

  the play is going on

  without me.

  A Kelli-Wendy

  is following my Peter Pan

  through the night air.

  Not me.

  I lie on the couch

  like an old sub sandwich

  forgotten and soggy.

  My daisy quilt is damp with tears

  and used tissues.

  Even the cards

  Dad’s artsy students made me

  are wet from weeping,

  the homemade paper wilting,

  the inked letters running.

  I’m a mess not just because

  I’m painfully sick

  and missing the play. . . .

  There on the TV screen

  a sun-bright woman

  gently lays her arm

  across the shoulders

  of her daughter.

  My heart wails

  and I wonder if she can hear me

  from heaven . . .

  wonder if she knows

  what I’m going through.

  It’s no use.

  I can’t stop crying.

  Dad comes in with some apple juice

  sees my tears

  and stops

  totally clueless

  about what to do.

  I feel a sob coming up from my chest

  but it startle-stops

  when our doorbell rings.

  No one is there when Dad answers—

  only a little white kitten

  who darts into our house

  like a paper airplane.

  Dad chases it around madly

  and they look so funny

  I quit crying

  and start laughing.

  Dad stares at me for a moment

  surprised and relieved

  and when he finally catches the kitten

  he puts it into my arms and says,

  Serendipity, Sara.

  Someone’s brought you a blessing

  for a visit.

  The little fluffball licks my nose

  and suddenly

  nothing else matters.

  All I care about now

  is making this visit

  last forever.

  Dad has never told me

  why I can’t have a cat.

  He has just told me No

  and turned his face away

  stared out the window

  or into his book

  his mouth held

  like there are marbles

  resting on his tongue

  like the marbles

  are years of tears

  petrified.

  Dad goes out the front door.

  I hear his footsteps

  scrape past the empty carport

  then stop.

  I picture him

  scanning the horizon

  searching for the troublemaker

  who dropped a cat

  into our lives.

  By the time he comes back

  the kitten is already

  kneading a soft spot

  in my stomach.

  Any ideas who left the cat?

  he asks.

  I shake my head.

  His eyes squint

  into his thinking expression

  figuring a way

  I suppose

  to send the cat back.

  It is lucky for me

  I’m sick and sad.

  Now may be my only chance.

  Can’t I keep it?

  Please?

  The shades come down over Dad’s eyes.

  You know cats aren’t an option.

  For tonight, at least?

  You can’t throw it out in the cold.

  I wipe at my mascara-running eyes

  and tearstained cheeks

  to remind him

  who he’s dealing with

  tonight.

  Dad sighs

  looks at his watch.

  I guess it is pretty late.

  I can take it to the shelter tomorrow.

  I kiss the kitten’s forehead

  and it straight-arms its paw

  on my mouth.

  Boy or girl? I ask.

  Dad sighs again, then checks.

  I think it’s a girl.

  Maybe looking at the end

  reminds him.

  I hope she’s litter-trained.

  I’d better go find a box

  and some newspaper.

  My heart says

  And a way.

  I’d better

  find a way

  that she
can stay.

  At least she is mine

  for tonight.

  I can pretend she’ll be mine

  forever.

  I’ll begin with her name. . . .

  She’s white as a snowball

  but she’s warm

  not frozen.

  She’s squishy and soft and sweet

  as a marshmallow.

  But she’s delicate as an orchid

  graceful as a ballerina

  miraculous as an angel.

  I can’t believe my luck

  that she’s here with me.

  I guess Dad named her

  after all.

  Serendipity.

  It’s been three years.

  You’d think we’d be better

  by now. . . .

  Dad does the best he can

  but I remember

  cheek-kisses

  soft as velvet.

  I remember

  a gentle voice saying

  It’s all right, honey bunny,

  I’m here.

  I remember