Serendipity and Me (9781101602805)
Page 6
the greatest role ever.
I must still be daydreaming because
Miss Conglin says, Sara
like she’s already
called my name before.
She’s holding out a folded paper.
It must be my character assignment.
I open it and read Peasant.
It figures.
I glance over at Kelli
who is beaming at her paper
like someone who won the lottery.
Kelli is probably a noble lady
and she will ride off with Garrett
on his steel-footed steed.
My kingdom for a horse.
That horse.
With Garrett on it.
I really need to give my mind
something else to think about.
Thank goodness for Serendipity.
I find Taylor at the basketball court
at recess.
I saw your mom
at the grocery store yesterday
I tell her.
Her face looks like—so what?
Then she gets it
and her lips get flat and long
like when she’s making a frog face.
Did your dad talk to my mom?
No. I kept him from seeing her.
Taylor bounces the basketball six times.
Maybe I should say something to her
just in case.
Like what?
She heaves the ball at the basket.
Like . . . Sara’s got a kitten
she needs to find a home for.
You sure we can’t have a kitten?
I nod.
Then at least she won’t look clueless
if my dad says something to her.
This is getting too complicated.
I don’t like this plot anymore.
After lunch, Miss Conglin says
Remember, everyone—
tomorrow I want you to bring in
at least one picture
of life with your family.
We’ll be using them as writing prompts
so having more might help
if you get stuck.
I raise my hand.
Do the pictures have to be recent?
Miss Conglin shakes her head.
No, the age of the photos
doesn’t matter.
I feel like she’s purposely
keeping the compassion
off her face.
Like maybe she knows
I wish my family
was normal.
I remember Peter Pan saying,
Don’t have a mother.
And me telling him,
O Peter,
no wonder you were crying.
I am not going to ask him.
I should not have to ask my father
where there are pictures
of my own family.
I should not have to ask him
why there is no visible evidence
our family ever existed.
No. I will find them on my own
if they are there to be found.
I am not going to beg.
I am not going to plead.
I am not going to do anything
to make him
almost
cry.
I sneak in the house
grab up Serendipity
and let her climb on my shoulder.
I drop my backpack in the corner
and head out the door.
Mrs. Whittier’s is the best place
I can think of
to unearth family secrets.
I will pretend
our last conversation
was easy.
I will pretend
I never drifted away
from Mrs. Whittier’s life.
I am pretty sure
she has forgiven me.
So we will begin again.
Clean slate.
I knock.
She opens the door wide
gauze sleeves fluttering in welcome.
I step inside quickly.
What can you tell me
about after?
Her mouth opens
but no sound comes out.
Then, After what, Sara?
I heave a sigh.
I need a family picture for school.
I can’t find any.
They’re all missing.
Serendipity creeps beneath my hair
and I put a steadying hand on her.
Do you know
what happened to us
after . . . my mom died?
Mrs. Whittier stretches her arms to me
then pulls them back
then looks at her ceramic-rough hands
as if willing them to move.
She sits down on her couch
and pats the leaf-print cushion beside her
then pats my knee as I sit.
I haven’t gotten to hug you for years,
she says.
Do you remember when you used to
lean against me to get a hug?
I shake my head.
Mrs. Whittier says,
When your mother died
all four of your grandparents came.
You were surrounded by family. . . .
She reaches up to scratch Serendipity
under her chin and jaw.
I thought you’d be okay.
Serendipity leans into her fingers
claws tightening on my shoulder.
But when they left
your dad retreated into himself
and he took you with him.
Mrs. Whittier stops petting Serendipity
and turns her clear eyes full on me.
Maybe I should have done something sooner.
But I thought you two just needed time
to lift out of it.
But your dad has never smiled much again
and you . . .
you just disappeared into . . .
She stops.
Into what? I ask.
I don’t know.
Into his sadness?
She shakes her head.
It would break your mother’s heart
to see you both like this.
Mrs. Whittier bumps me with her elbow.
Remember how she used to sing
“Put on a Happy Face”?
With that cheesy tap dance?
She loved to see you smile.
She teases another memory
from way back in my mind—
sunlight bouncing off Mom’s bright hair
as Mom leads me to a backyard room
she made from branches
wound with flowers and floaty scarves.
Mrs. Whittier remembers it, too.
You called it your fairy castle.
In my mind, I see a pitcher of lemonade
in Mom’s hands.
She let me pick blossoms
for the fairies’ cups.
Of course, Mrs. Whittier says.
Your mother got such a kick
out of your imagination.
Serendipity jumps off my shoulder
and into her lap
begging for attention.
Yes, yes, Mrs. Whittier baby-
talks to her.
She would get a kick out of you, too.
I wonder if she is just
making small-talk.
Would she really?
Are you kidding?
Your mother would have loved
this little kitty, Mrs. Whittier says.
I sit quietly
heart beating loudly.
Then why? I ask.
Why did we never get a cat?
Mrs. Whittier looks like someone
who has just said too much.
Cornered.
Shifty-eyed.
She shakes her head.
I’m sorry, Sara.
That’s something you’ll need
to ask your dad.
I consider stomping off in a huff
but then I won’t get to talk
about Mom.
And I need this.
Maybe Mrs. Whittier is thinking
about what I’d face
if I asked Dad.
I remember once
when your dad was grumpy
from grading papers . . .
At the sound of her sudden laughter
Shoji’s and Kajiro’s heads pop up
from where the cats are curled
hidden behind a trailing vine.
Mrs. Whittier’s plants look like
she can never bear to trim them.
They sprawl like
cats outside on a warm day.
She got you and herself
dressed up in fifties-style clothes
and turned on that song from Grease.
She wipes a tear off her laughter.
That one at the end.
And you two danced and sang
on the back deck
for your daddy.
What did he do? I ask.
Don’t you remember?
Matthew smiled so big
he looked like his face would crack.
She tells Mom stories
until my insides feel satisfied
like eating baked potato soup
on a cold night.
About the pictures . . .
I ask finally.
Where do you think they are?
Mrs. Whittier shrugs.
I’m guessing your dad
has them somewhere close
but not out where
he has to see them
all the time.
I take a deep breath.
I’m going to find them.
I’m almost daring her to stop me.
She looks at me steadily
then holds out her arms
and I lean into her.
I think I remember this
after all. . . .
I make my hands like a leash
around Serendipity’s tummy
lean over and let her feel
the grass under her toes.
I’m planning my search
as we make our way
slowly back to the house.
It would be easiest to tell Dad
I need a family picture
but I want more than that.
I want to see them all.
So when he calls out,
I have office hours.
See you at five thirty.
Mrs. Whittier is on standby,
I make my move
at the sound of the door closing.
His room is his sanctuary
so I start there
in the forest green gloom.
I search under the unmade bed
in his messy drawers
in his closet that twangs
with unused hangers
and behind the abandoned tennis racquets
I find the box stashed way in back.
Treasure.
My hands start to shake
so I can barely lift the box.
I take it back to my room.
I don’t want to be caught
with the rose-covered box
in his dark room.
I close my door.
I lift the lid.
I start to cry.
We were a family once.
Here is the proof I remember—
Mom with a garland of flowers in her hair
gazing up at Dad
in their wedding photo.
Sun-soft Mom cradling baby me.
Bright-eyed Dad with toddler me
on his shoulders.
So many smiles.
I can’t stop looking.
I hear Dad come into the house.
My alibi is ready.
I needed it for school.
But he doesn’t come to my room.
I decide I will hide the box here
so I can keep looking.
Dad has dinner ready
soon after he gets home.
When he calls
I pluck out one picture
and shove the box
in my closet
almost a mirror
of where he’d hidden it.
I hear a bump behind me
and back out quick
heart thumping
but it was only Serendipity
knocking three paperbacks
off my bookshelf.
I slip the picture
into my social studies book.
King Tut looks at me
from the cover
slyly keeping mum.
Our family is finally
out of the box
ready to see the world.
I open a new milk jug
to pour our drinks for dinner.
The plastic ring that sealed the lid
pops off and rolls on the ground
a sudden thrill for Serendipity.
She chases
she pounces
she swats and sends it flying.
She races
she bounces
she puts on a tumbling show.
After a while she calms down
picks up the circle in her teeth
and carries it off.
I look at Dad
to see his reaction.
He has just turned back to the stove
but not quickly enough to hide it:
a tiny grin tilting
the corner of his mouth.
Dad puts the pot of tomato soup
in the middle of the table
with a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches.
While he ladles the soup into our bowls
I consider.
I’m torn between asking
once and for all
why no cats are allowed
torn between that
and getting Dad to fall in love
with Serendipity.
I decide it’s smarter
to go with love.
Serendipity is intrigued
by the smell of cheese
and jumps onto an empty chair
then onto the table.
Plan already foiled.
Dad stands to grab the kitten
but she freaks at his sudden move
and tears off the table
and out of the room.
Dad just looks at me
and shakes his head.
Luckily it’s my turn
to do the di
shes.
I’m right near the phone when it rings.
The voice is tentative.
You don’t by any chance
have a kitten
you’re trying to get rid of,
do you?
I’m not lying when I say No.
Sorry. I saw this flyer and called
and the number on it was wrong
and I thought maybe I saw where
the mistake was. . . .
She apologizes again
and I say it’s all right.
But it’s not.
What if someone else
is smart enough to figure it out
and Dad answers?
Dad calls from his study.
Who was that?
Just Taylor, I lie.
Bedtime has become
much more fun
since Serendipity arrived.
She thinks my feet
are small animals
burrowing under the covers
like moles under the lawn.