Serendipity and Me (9781101602805)
Page 5
Our Neverland time is over
but yesterday’s smile gave me hope
for real time.
Now I’m not sure where
that Garrett went.
I stare at the back of his head
and wonder if his hair
is as soft as my kitten’s.
As he passes Kelli’s desk
his hand makes a quick movement
and suddenly
there is a folded triangle note
in front of her.
What happened between my Peter Pan
and the Wendy-imposter?
And if not for the flu
would that note
have been for me?
When I get home
Serendipity is waiting for me
in the window.
I open the door
drop my backpack
and give her a quick snuggle.
But something in the air
is wrong.
No Dad-greeting.
I go through the house to find him.
He is in the kitchen
kneeling in front of the potted tree
digging in the dirt with an old spoon
wearing a disgusted face.
What’s wrong? I ask.
That cat, he says
did her business in this pot.
The kitchen smells bad.
Not like burned food
or spoiled milk
or rotten fruit . . .
like bad kitten.
Now is definitely not the time
to ask questions.
But I have to ask one eventually
after the smell weakens.
When are we going to buy cat food?
Dad raises his eyebrows at me.
Do we really want
to put anything more in
now that we know what comes out?
Serendipity mews and I take a chance
hold her up near his face
and say in a kitty-voice
Please feed me, kind sir.
Dad smiles with his eyes
his mouth still holding
those petrified tears.
We walk to the store
like we walk everywhere.
Dad hasn’t replaced the car
since The Accident.
Dad tells me I should
bring along the posters
to put up on the way.
He mentions utility poles
and bulletin boards
at the used book store
and the coffee hangout.
I tell him the posters
aren’t quite ready yet
and I’ll do it later
with Taylor.
I’m beginning to think
I really am a good actress
because he buys it.
Aren’t parents supposed to know
when their kids are lying?
Dad and I slip silently past the stone dorm
where Mom used to live.
Two kittens
are in one window
looking like fuzzy slippers,
the same as Serendipity.
They must be the same age.
Once before when we saw
a cat in a dorm window,
Dad told me
students aren’t supposed
to have pets in their rooms.
I have a funny feeling
that is Jocelyn’s window.
I see Dad notice the kittens,
blink,
and turn away
like he hadn’t seen
Serendipity’s family
watching us walk by.
I see Taylor’s mom
in the cereal aisle
and an awful scene
begins to play in my mind.
Dad bringing up the kitten situation.
Taylor’s mom knowing nothing about it.
Me—busted.
Taylor an accomplice.
Dad, I call
pointing to something
in the opposite direction
like a cliché in a movie.
Dad looks at what I’m pointing to
and so do I.
It’s a tabloid with a headline about aliens
and a fuzzy green impossible picture.
He looks at me with a question
etched in his face.
It’s a where-did-I-go-wrong question
a that-settles-it
no-more-stupid-movies decision.
He’s ready to lock me in my room
with books, the old classics.
But it’s okay.
Taylor’s mom has left the building.
In the pet aisle
Dad picks out
the tiniest package of kitten food
and a small bag of cat litter.
I almost point out
the price-per-ounce difference
in the bigger bags
then I figure that might give away
my plan for forever.
I reach for a blue litter box
and Dad tells me
Put that back.
We can make do with litter
and a lined cardboard box
for a week or less.
I want to say
If you only knew. . . .
But instead I joke
The kitten’s the one
who’s going to “make doo.”
Get it?
Dad just rolls his eyes
and shakes his head.
Back at home, Dad tucks the kitten food
behind the fruit bowl on the counter
and notices Mrs. Whittier’s soup pot
drying on the drainer.
Can you take this back
and thank her? A lot?
Sure, I say.
I pop Serendipity into the pot
and watch Dad’s mouth drop open.
What could be cuter
than a kitten in a pot?
But Dad doesn’t laugh or even smile.
He turns away.
A heartbeat later it occurs to me—
Mrs. Whittier has lived next door
all my life,
has been a big part of our lives
in the past.
She might know a lot
she could tell me
about family pictures
and why our family
doesn’t look like a family
at all.
Mrs. Whittier takes the soup pot
and croons at Serendipity.
Then she brushes aside my thanks.
Of course, Sara.
I just wish I could do more for you.
And so here is my chance.
Do you think I could
come in and talk?
Mrs. Whittier looks
like I’ve handed her a gift.
Yes, of course, come in.
Tell me all about this little kitty.
I follow her and kitty-in-a-pot
into the kitchen,
explain how Serendipity
was dropped off.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in here
long enough that I don’t recognize
her ceramic pieces displayed on the open shelf
or the bright woven tablecloth
that brushes my knees when I sit.
The usual smell of bread baking
has been replaced by something spicy.
I finish explaining and start to ask
but the question about family pictures
seems too heavy to lift.
I say instead, Where are your kitties?
Mrs. Whittier says, Oh, you want to see them?
She snaps her fingers in a repeating rhythm
and Shoji and Kajiro come running
the tabby a shadow
to the orange and white Kajiro.
From under the tablecloth on my lap
I hear hissing.
Serendipity has become an air hose
of noisy spitting.
Shoji and Kajiro look up curiously.
Shouldn’t they be the ones hissing? I ask.
Mrs. Whittier shakes her head.
They’re secure at home.
She’s the one who feels threatened.
She gives her cats a splash of milk in their bowls
as a reward for coming when called.
I lift the tablecloth to pet Serendipity
and calm her down.
She keeps spitting even though
the cats have gone to their bowls.
Why are you being so silly?
She’ll be fine once you get her back home.
I put the tablecloth
back over Serendipity’s head.
Only if I can keep her.
Mrs. Whittier smiles sadly.
She looks down at her kitties
and I notice they have
new handmade bowls.
How long has it been
since I came to see her?
I’m suddenly ashamed.
Has Mrs. Whittier been as lonely as I have?
I try to remember who she has
to keep her company at home
besides her cats.
I know gentle Mr. Whittier died
sometime after my mom.
Mrs. Whittier has a grown stepdaughter
who was never very friendly
but I don’t think I’ve seen her
since Mr. Whittier died.
I try to think of something to say
to make up for not visiting all this time
but no words come to me.
I thank her for the soup
and make a run for it.
After dinner
Dad asks if I want
to look at The Book.
He seems resigned
to mentioning things
he’d rather not.
I think I’ve changed my mind.
I’m not sure I want to deal
with difficult things, either
not right now
when my visit with Mrs. Whittier
has made me realize
there are more empty spaces
in our lives now
than the space Mom left.
My excuses are pitiful.
I just want a bath
and to go to bed,
I say.
I’m so tired.
Dad looks surprised
but he nods.
I can feel him watching me
from the corners
of his eyes.
Tonight I discover
a new form of marine life.
It is white and fluffy
and crouches on the edge of the tub.
A sea marshmallow.
She wants to understand water.
She sticks her tongue under the faucet.
She watches the waves slosh
when I scooch around.
She waits for me to fill her up a cup.
She likes to drink it warm.
She pats the bubbles.
She leans too far and falls in.
This is more about water
than she wants to know.
I’m shocked enough
by the sight of her
struggling in the deep water
that I yell Dad!
I toss her out of the tub
and hide behind
the shower curtain.
He comes running
but stops when he sees her,
tufted legs splayed
head down,
miserable on the bath mat.
Stops and laughs.
She looks at him in reproach
and shakes all over
so hard she falls down.
Dad grabs a towel
and covers her in it
picks her up like a burrito baby
and roughs up her fur.
You goofy thing, he says.
How’d you get all wet?
She looks wide-eyed into his face
and reaches a sweet paw to his cheek.
Smart girl.
Tonight when Dad comes to say good night
Serendipity is on my chest
covered with my old baby blanket.
The silky edges are frayed
but the balloons make her look
ready for a party.
He feels her around the ears.
She’s still a little wet, he says.
Don’t let her get you sick again.
She won’t. She’s nice and warm.
Serendipity’s head sticks out
just barely from the blanket.
Look how cute she is, Dad.
He looks and his eyes go
from soft to steely.
He pins me with a stare
and he shakes his finger.
Don’t get any ideas.
I mean it, Sara.
What? I ask innocently.
I hear the mumble of his voice
as he leaves my room.
Don’t give away your heart.
Dad trips over Serendipity three times
while he’s getting ready for work—
coming out of the bathroom
taking his shirt from the dryer
moving breakfast to the table.
She has a way of getting under our feet
like a sheepdog
herding us toward her bowl
or a miniature soccer player
disrupting our goal.
I think it’s funny.
Dad doesn’t.
I catch him swearing once
and I shake my finger at him.
That is the wrong thing to do.
He narrows his eyes at me
and mutters, Just a few more days.
This makes him feel better.
It makes me feel awful.
Just a few more days
is the worst curse of all.
I study my kitten posters on poles
as I’m walking to school.
Taylor and I chose the poles
where it would be hardest for Dad
to see the phone numbers clearly
on his regular route to class.
The changed phone numbers
don’t look too suspicious
I hope.
I didn’t make a picture
of the cuteness of Serendipity.
That wrong number would be getting
too many calls.
I count the days—
Today, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.
Wil
l we get Saturday, too?
Four or five days left
for Dad to fall in love
with this kitty.
We need to step up
the irresistible factor.
Quickly.
We’re working on our Middle Ages unit
and I’m not really listening
because I can see Garrett
out of the corner of my eye
and in my mind
he’s wearing the armor of a knight.
My daydreaming is such a cliché.
Then Miss Conglin gets to Joan of Arc
and my ears perk up.
She was so brave and tragic.
Miss Conglin hasn’t told us yet
what the possibilities are
for our character assignments.
We will research and role-play
the type of medieval person
we’re given.
Before, I wanted to be royalty.
But now I think
Joan of Arc would be