Serendipity and Me (9781101602805)
Page 3
sweet smells and a cushy robe
when we hugged after her bath.
Tonight in my room
I sprinkle Mom’s scented powder
on Serendipity
and I lay my cheek on her side
and I remember
soft.
Serendipity is curled on my pillow.
Her kneading claws
catch on the eyelet edging
her throat rattles from purrs
her head is snuggled into my neck
so sweet it makes
my heart hurt.
I think—
This is what I’ve been missing
all these years.
I think—
I don’t want to miss this
anymore.
I think—
No is not a fair word
when you’re a kid
without a mother
and you need something soft
to hold on to.
I reach for the phone
dial Taylor’s number.
Dad would say ten is too late
but I know Taylor won’t care.
She answers so cheerfully
I have to bury the phone in my quilt.
She must have had a blast
being Nana in the play.
I feel a twinge
but it doesn’t matter as much anymore.
Shhh, I say.
This is secret.
What? she asks, suddenly quiet.
How was the play?
Great—what’s the secret?
Patience is not one of her virtues.
I have a cat for the night, I say.
And I need to keep her forever.
Taylor is always ready.
What do you need me to do?
This is what we work out—
Taylor will pretend
her mom is considering
adopting the kitten.
She just needs a week
to think
to work out the details.
But this will not happen.
Dad doesn’t know Taylor’s mother
is allergic to cats.
Dad doesn’t know
if we keep Serendipity
for a week
he will get over his No
because he will fall in love
with this kitten.
He will get over his No
because he will see
how much
I need her.
He will get over his No.
He has to.
Serendipity has scrambled eggs
for breakfast
this first morning.
She is a miracle cure.
I feel well enough for eggs myself.
Well enough to eat
at the kitchen table with Dad
while we watch Serendipity
nibble near the fridge.
She pats her eggs like they’re
dead mice,
like she wishes
they’d get up and run.
Then she chomps them down
and licks her bowl.
Just like you used to. . . .
Remember?
Dad says
his voice holding memories
of high chairs and laughter.
His hand opens soft
like he’s letting
something
go.
As soon as she’s finished eating
Serendipity comes close
and looks skyward at me.
She gazes with such innocence—
a baby with one blue
and one green eye.
My brain tells me to leave her there
out of Dad’s view.
My heart tells me to pick her up.
I follow my heart.
Dad stares at the fluffy kitten
washing herself on my lap
and his eyes close.
He crumples his napkin
before he’s finished eating
and stands.
I can tell he’s ready
to be tough.
I can tell he’s ready
to break my heart
by taking her away.
I start talking
as quick
as I can.
I called Taylor last night, I begin
and I tell him how she might
be able to take Serendipity in a week.
That’s okay, isn’t it? I ask
We can keep her that long, right?
Dad’s face closes up.
Sara, we talked about this.
The cat goes today.
But she could have a home.
My voice is squeaking.
I grab at a statistic I read once.
Seventy percent of cats
in shelters die, Dad.
Dad clears his throat.
And what happens if Taylor
can’t take her?
It’ll be even harder for you
to let her go after a week.
I—I’ll put up posters, too.
The first person who wants her
can have her.
I’ll find someone—she’s so sweet
someone will want her.
Dad, I croak out the plea,
she needs a family.
Dad looks like I gutted him
with the word family.
Or maybe with the word die.
Now I know what writers mean
when they say hollow eyes.
His eyes are like the deep craggy holes
in broken trees
and they’re pointed
right at me.
I feel my lip start to tremble again.
I think he’s going to say No.
I think he’s going to break my heart
with his own crushed one
but he puts his hand on his mouth.
He stands up I think
so he won’t have to look at me.
Then he kisses the top of my head
like a surrender.
You’re not playing fair, Sara.
He tries for a laugh.
I’ll bet you got the flu on purpose.
He doesn’t wait to see if I smile.
Dad can’t say Yes to a cat
but he also didn’t say No.
That’s as good as a Yes for now.
My heart starts to lift
until I remember
the dark in his eyes.
And when Dad leaves the room
it feels like
something left the very air
of the kitchen.
The smell of eggs
still lingers
but it’s an empty smell.
On the sun-spattered floor
where Serendipity has jumped down
to chase shadows
there is depth
and texture
and warmth.
But here in this breathing space
where Dad left
there is nothing.
I peek around the corner
and find him at his sad place
staring at the bookshelves
poets ordered by alphabet.
Are we going to church this morning?
I ask softly
just to say something.
He doesn’t turn around.
One more day to recover.
You can go to school tomorrow.
Then he reaches out his finger
and taps the binding of a slender book
hooks the book and levers it down
like a drawbridge
returning
to its resting place.
I feel fine now, I say
wanting to move him
in a different direction
like he’s moved the book.
He takes the book
without looking at me
goes alone into his room
and shuts the door.
At first the morning feels as thick
as the terrible Tule fog.
I can’t stand it when Dad is like this.
He can suck the joy out of a room
in seconds
just by looking mournful.
Sometimes I want to say
She’s dead, Dad.
Get over it.
But then I remember
I want something soft, too.
Serendipity changes the air.
She trips and leaps and dodges and twirls
and then falls in my lap to sleep
her face so sweet and fluffy
her breath a gentle stir.
She is good for me.
I know that.
She’d be good for him, too.
Already this morning
she’s made herself at home.
She likes to see where she fits in.
I follow her as she
squeezes into small boxes
dallies in open drawers
slithers into sacks
cozies herself in closets.
We play hide-and-seek and I find her
in my boot in my basket
in my backpack in my bowl.
I can pour her like pudding
into any shape of container.
She spreads out soft like Jell-O.
She fills up any mold.
I call Taylor.
You have to see her.
She’s so amazing.
Taylor says I’m supposed to be
keeping Mandy busy
while Mom fixes
the chicken coop. . . .
Her voice drops in volume.
We’ll bike over real quick, okay?
It seems like Taylor’s
my only easy friend.
Other girls still look away from me
whenever a mother is mentioned.
Taylor moved here
after my mom died.
Taylor never knew her
like these other girls did
these other girls who look at me
and what they see is
what could happen
to them.
Like motherlessness
is a disease.
Taylor rides up on an old blue bike
her little sister trailing behind.
We can’t stay long.
Mom has plans.
She swings off her bike
and hauls Mandy wild-haired off hers.
Where is the cutie-pie?
I turn to show Serendipity’s tiny face
peeking out of my sweatshirt pocket.
Taylor and Mandy both say Aw
and hold their hands out.
I give Serendipity to Taylor
and she holds her close to Mandy
so they can both enjoy
the miracle of kittyness.
She sniffs their hands delicately
a bloodhound looking for clues
about these hands
that hold chickens,
bunnies and ducks.
Taylor’s menagerie.
Taylor holds Serendipity like a baby,
wears the kitten on her head like a hat
then hands her to me.
I believe this is yours.
Dad pokes his head out the door
as Taylor and Mandy
get back on their bikes.
Taking a test-drive with the kitten?
he asks them.
Mandy looks confused
and wobbles on her training wheels.
Taylor rides between
Mandy’s confusion and Dad’s view.
Yeah, she’s a cutie, Mr. James.
Gotta go, though.
See you!
Taylor gives Mandy’s bike a shove
to get her started
and they ride off
then Taylor circles back
and hands me a paper
from her pocket.
Forgot to bring you
the assignments Friday.
We would fail as spies.
Someone paying attention
would notice the fishy vibe in the air,
Taylor’s nonanswer
to the implied question.
But this one time
Dad’s distraction with sadness
works in my favor.
He doesn’t notice a thing.
Dad’s already closed up in his room
by the time I go into the house.
I put Serendipity
on the back of the couch
and lie down.
I look at the note.
Sara,
• Start looking for an interesting picture of your family to use as a writing prompt—due Wednesday.
• Middle Ages unit: Read pgs. 131–133 in Social Studies book
• We’ll get you caught up on the rest after you get back to school. Feel better!
Miss Conglin
It really is assignments
not the hoped-for sly note from Taylor
with more ideas on kitten-keeping.
I’m starting to get hungry.
I go into the kitchen
looking to see if Serendipity follows.
She scampers after me
like a puppy.
I open some cupboards
rattle some pans
hoping Dad will come out
and feed us some lunch.
I hear his door swing open
and his face appears near the fridge.
He’s back—all of him
not just his sadness.
How does mac and cheese sound?
And because I spent so much time
in front of the TV this week
I say, Super-duper.
I open the boxes for him
and fish out the cheese envelopes
while he cuts
apple slices for our fruit
and circles of hot dogs
for the macaroni.
A hot dog circle rolls onto the ground
and Serendipity pounces.
I reach down to grab
then decide to let her eat it.
On my way up,
something catches my eye
in Dad’s room.
The book he took
is lying in his sheets.
I remember seeing the title
when he pulled it down—
Love Songs.
Now I realize
I’ve heard that title before . . .
in Mom’s fairy tale.
Sometime soon
I mu
st get up the nerve
to ask my dad
a few questions.
The doorbell rings
while we’re still eating.
I hop up to answer
wiping grease off my fingers
from sneaking extra bites of hot dog
to Serendipity.
It’s Garrett
the one I was supposed to be
flying to Neverland with
last night.
He looks at me with Peter Pan eyes
as he hands me a DVD case.
Miss Conglin asked me
to bring this to you, he says.
My dad recorded the play last night.
He looks down like he’s reading a note
on the skateboard at his side.
Glances up sideways.
Sorry you couldn’t be there.
I try to think of something clever to say
but I’m so nervous
the best I can come up with is
How did it go?
Garrett straightens
strikes a flying pose.
His stardust hair
swishes across his forehead.
We were awesome.