Hope and Other Luxuries

by Clare B. Dunkle

  It wasn’t right. It was wrong. It was terribly wrong. Moods were one thing, but not pushing away a family member—not shutting her out completely . . .

  Your daughter is completely normal.

  I sighed and went back to my writing.

  An hour later, Elena emerged from her room, rumpled, sleepy, and cross.

  “Hey, there,” I said with false good cheer. “Do you want to read this new short story? I just finished it.”

  “Oh, God, Mom!” she groaned. “I’m not a child anymore!”

  And she walked away.

  I couldn’t speak for the sudden pain that flooded through my soul. It wasn’t just the hurtful words. It was her look—that lost, sick look.

  The look of the changeling child.

  Your daughter is completely normal.

  Normal.

  The new normal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When the summer ended, I tried to have meaningful talks with each of my daughters. But those talks didn’t get very far.

  “Are you sure you want to go back to the boarding school?” I asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Elena murmured. “I need to go pack now.” And she slipped away.

  Valerie was a little more amenable to conversation, but when I asked her, she just shrugged. “It’s as good as anywhere else,” she said.

  This time, I drove them to school alone. With the maniac commander running things, neither Joe nor his bosses could afford to take time away from the office. And that wasn’t the only change, either. There was no happy chatter from the backseat this year. Each of my daughters had ear-buds in her ears and was listening in silence to her own music.

  I guess they don’t need me anymore, I thought sadly. They don’t need to talk to me or ask me things.

  But that didn’t turn out to be true.

  A couple of weeks after school started, I got a call. “Hey, Momma, it’s Valerie.”

  “Hey, hon, how are you doing? What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she answered. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  I waited, but Valerie seemed to have nothing further to add. So I filled her in on the small amount of news around the house—until the silence unnerved me, that is.

  “So, how’s class going?” I asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Do you like your new room?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How’s that roommate of yours working out?”

  “Okay, I guess. She doesn’t spend much time in the room.”

  I paused to give Valerie space to talk. But once again, the space just filled up with silence.

  “So, how’s your sister?” I asked after a minute.

  “Okay, I guess.” Valerie’s tone of voice indicated that she neither knew nor cared.

  “Honey, what’s the matter?” I said. “Something’s wrong.”

  Finally, a little color came into the voice on the other end of the line. “Nothing,” Valerie said, sounding slightly surprised. “Nothing’s the matter, really.”

  “So, what’s going on, then?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice. Bye, Momma.”

  I pondered the call that night as I lay in bed and reviewed my day. Maybe Valerie had had an argument at school. Maybe she’d gotten a bad grade and just needed a little comfort.

  But a couple of weeks later, I got another call. And another one the week after that. Each time, they followed the same pattern—a pattern of emptiness.

  “Please,” I said. “Honey, please. I know something’s wrong. Please just tell me what’s wrong!”

  And each time I asked this, Valerie seemed just as surprised. “Nothing’s wrong,” she assured me. “Don’t worry, Momma.”

  But I did.

  At least Valerie still called on occasion. I didn’t hear from Elena at all. Gone were the days of gushing letters full of news. But when the girls came home for their weekends, I could see that Elena, too, seemed to be running down to a stop, like a music box that needed rewinding. She didn’t flare up in anger or bitterness that often anymore. It seemed to be too much trouble. Her white, pinched face seemed to be set permanently in a look of disgust—my chatterbox girl who had once been so in love with life.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with Valerie?” I asked her.

  Elena curled her lip. “All she does at school is sleep!”

  “You mean Valerie doesn’t go to class anymore?”

  “She goes to class, comes back to the room, and sleeps.”

  This didn’t sound good. Not at all.

  “Honey,” I said to Valerie, “Elena says all you do at school is sleep.”

  “So what? Momma, stop worrying!”

  But I couldn’t. Night after night, I lay awake, sifting through the evidence, pondering what I knew.

  Your daughter is completely . . .

  Well, fine. If my daughters were normal, then there must be something wrong with the school.

  When I offered to take Valerie and Elena out of the boarding school, they both seemed glad to come home. Warmhearted and concerned, Sister tried to talk me into leaving them in the program there, but I could see from some of the housemothers’ faces that they weren’t sorry to see Elena go.

  Maybe it was housemother trouble after all, I thought hopefully. Maybe this will finally get better.

  Both girls seemed so exhausted and miserable that I decided against enrolling them in another school right away. They could finish out the school year doing correspondence classes at home. Valerie was so close to graduation that she needed only a few more credits anyway.

  I imagined the three of us, sitting in the office together, my girls and me. Valerie and Elena would be at the big worktable at the center of the room, bending over their schoolbooks, while I sat at the computer desk and typed out my prose. The loudest sound would be the scratch of a pencil or the clicking of the keyboard. The mood would be quiet, absorbed, and content. How could that not be pleasant?

  It didn’t turn out to be pleasant. Not at all.

  From Day One, the girls’ correspondence-school lessons were miserable for all of us. Elena tackled her work with reliable perfectionism, but she was grim and war-weary, and her eyes were full of shadows. The only thing that remained of her former bubbly idealism was a harsh and constant sense of frustration that nothing ever went right in this world.

  Valerie appeared brighter and more accommodating, but I soon learned that this was just an act. Underneath Valerie’s surface of cheerful nonchalance churned savage, vicious anger. If I left her alone to do her work, she did absolutely nothing. Even when I nagged her, she did as little as possible.

  “This is garbage, Valerie,” I said one morning as I proofread an essay of hers. “Take it back and do it over.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m good with it. Send it in.”

  I grappled with my outrage and disappointment. This was my brilliant girl, my sunshiny baby. I had believed in her for years. My belief in her was so powerful, in fact, that it was almost a part of my religion. Valerie and Elena were going to be better people than I was—better in every way.

  “Have a little pride!” I said. “Show what you can do!”

  “I know what I can do,” she said. “I don’t need to show anybody. Why should I care what some mythical teacher in Washington State thinks about me? Seriously, Mom! What difference does it make?”

  I couldn’t even answer. Not to do one’s best work—how was that even possible? I wouldn’t have been able to do shoddy work if I’d tried.

  “Do it over!” was all I could say. “And do it right this time, or I take away your phone, and you’re grounded.”

  She snatched the essay out of my hand and sat back down at the worktable. Elena, doing her algebra on the other side of the table, didn’t say a word, but I saw in her eyes the warm glow of schadenfreude. It seemed to be the only enjoyment Elena took from life these days.

  Sighing, I set the grading folder aside and pulled up my email. A
new message was waiting there, from “your biggest fan.” Perking up, I opened the email. It included six questions about my goblin world and a pencil drawing of Marak, stripy hair and all.

  You know, I thought, that’s really not bad!

  A warm glow of pleasure spread through me. It was obvious that my world really lived for this young woman, and her questions made the world live again for me, too. I clicked reply and started thinking through the answers, typing as I went:

  Concerning Question 1, about the cut on the goblin King’s arm: it isn’t a part of the marriage spells . . .

  “Mom! What are you doing?”

  Surprised, I glanced up. For a few minutes, I’d forgotten my daughters were there. Now I found that they were staring at me with accusing eyes.

  “I’m just answering this reader,” I said. But my heart sank.

  Valerie and Elena hated my reader mail. I didn’t bother mentioning it to them anymore, but they were good at catching me at it. Just now, they must have been able to detect a change in my expression. I must have looked . . . happy.

  “It’s a waste of time!” Valerie scolded. “You tell us not to waste time. Why do you want to spend all that time on strangers when you ought to be spending it on us?”

  Because they’re nicer to me than you are, I answered in my heart. This is the only part of my day I still enjoy.

  But I didn’t say that. Instead, I set aside the fan letter. Valerie wasn’t right, but that didn’t change anything. I couldn’t enjoy it anymore with the two of them glaring at me.

  “I don’t get it,” I said to Joe that night as he ate dinner. “Why do the girls hate my readers so much? You’d think they’d be glad people want to buy the books. Wouldn’t you think they’d be glad?”

  Joe had worked a very long and very horrible day. It was eight o’clock at night, and he had just come through the door.

  “You could answer a fan letter in five minutes,” he said as he spooned up stew. “Those things take you forever.”

  “Well, they ask such interesting questions,” I pointed out. “Do you know, so far, no one’s asked me a question I haven’t already thought of and been able to answer. That’s pretty good if you think about the fact that these readers have gone through the book over and over. One girl wrote that she’d read it twenty-eight times.”

  Joe ignored this happy bit of self-congratulation. Given the day he’d had, I couldn’t really blame him.

  “You should create form letters,” he said. “You should let me take over. I could answer all of your mail in five minutes.”

  I left him eating, trudged up two flights of stairs, and pushed open the door of the garret room. Discarded stacks of games still congregated in this former playroom, silent witnesses to the fact that my children had once been close friends. Needless to say, no one touched those games anymore.

  I pressed the power button on the old PC and waited a ridiculous amount of time for it to start up. My werewolf book was finished and would be coming out the following year. It was time for me to write something different. So, targeting the only reader I had left—Joe—I had decided to write a science fiction story.

  I created a new Word file. It would be the future home of Martin, a thirteen-year-old boy. He looked like my husband had looked at thirteen, and he lived in a kind of parallel future. That was almost all I knew about him.

  Now, I stared at the white Word page and waited for my imagination to take over. What is Martin’s world like? I wondered.

  I could answer all of your mail in five minutes.

  I shook my head like an Etch A Sketch to reset the movie playing there.

  Not my world. Martin’s world!

  Vague patches of color began to blossom in my mind and block out the view of the white screen. Bright colors. Grape soda. Gummy candy.

  Jell-O—that was it! Bright Jell-O colors.

  Almost the first thing I see, when I start to work on a book, is patches or pools of color. These colors set the palette for the whole book. Kate and Marak’s story had started with clear forest greens, along with deep-hued satin and the sparkle of gems. In spite of its gloom, it was a rich, sumptuous world.

  My werewolf’s world had been smudged and gritty, with gray peat smoke, flickering firelight, and the bright red of spilled blood.

  Martin’s world was going to be colorful, I could see that already. It was too colorful, in fact—highly artificial. It was clean, I could see that, too. I took a closer look into the patches of color. Now I could see bright plastic flowers stuck on window glass.

  What are they doing here? I wondered.

  It was spring. That’s why those flower stickers were there. This world had no trees, no flowers, no bugs. That was all this world had left of springtime.

  And now I could see brick around that window. A brick wall. A garage door. A front door. It looked like the door of an apartment or condo: a flat metal door with a peephole.

  What’s inside? I wondered.

  A living room. A little living room. Here was the easy chair, here was the couch. And over here were stacks of papers to grade—I had so many papers to grade! And unfriendly, angry eyes.

  Why should I care what some mythical teacher in Washington State thinks about me?

  Again, I squeezed my eyes shut and gave a little shake. Not my world! I needed to see Martin’s world! Hadn’t this been easy once upon a time? Hadn’t I had to fight to keep my dreamy head in the real world? Now I was having to fight to keep the real world out!

  Slowly, the living room came into focus again. The biggest thing in it was the television. It was on. It had no switches or buttons. It couldn’t be turned off. It was the most exciting thing in the whole boring room— the most passionate thing in Martin’s whole world.

  “The ALLDOG!” the television shrieked. “Large or small, sleek or fuzzy—all the dogs you ever wanted rolled into one!”

  What does a computerized dog look like? I wondered.

  Images flashed through my imagination. Exactly like a real dog, full of energy. Boundless energy and hopeful enthusiasm.

  I needed some hopeful enthusiasm right now. I started typing.

  A large object struck Martin in the chest, knocking his chair to the ground. Something heavy proceeded to dance on him. He gave it a shove and got a look at it. A big golden-coated collie was attacking him in a frenzy of affection, licking his face and yelping ecstatically.

  I smiled. I loved that dog. I loved the affection.

  “He’s all yours, son,” Dad said, helping Martin to his feet. “They had us send in your photo and a dirty sock and programmed him right at the factory.”

  I laughed. It made sense, practically speaking. But it also tickled my fancy.

  The collie, unable to contain itself any longer, began swimming forward on its belly. When its nose rested on Martin’s sneaker, it toppled sideways and began running in place. Its warm brown eyes never left his face for a second.

  “‘The Alldog,’” read Martin’s little sister Cassie, “‘is the perfect pet and particularly good with children. Do not place your Alldog in a strong magnetic field. Some assembly required.’”

  “Mom?” came the voice from downstairs.

  It was Valerie. But Valerie and Elena had had me all day, and they had snapped at me all day. Surely I could have a little time to myself. I kept typing.

  Now I was in Martin’s room, and he and Cassie were talking, but things weren’t so happy anymore. Martin didn’t like his dog, no matter what kind of dog it changed into. It kept switching dog breeds to try to please him, but nothing worked.

  Because that’s what warmth and enthusiasm bring you these days, I thought sadly. They don’t necessarily win you friends.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the garret door pushed open.

  “Hey, Momma,” Valerie said as she came in and sat down on the floor. “Did you ever play the guitar?”

  “Um . . . No.”

  A little cream-colored Chihuahua came crawling o
ut from under the bed, whip tail curled between skinny legs. Its large ears lay against its round head like crumpled Kleenex, and tiny whimpers rose from it at every breath. Its enormous brown eyes practically held tears.

  I had it all: the feel of it, the sound of it, the way the room looked, the emotions, the next four or five paragraphs. But it was slipping. I could feel it slipping. I squinted with concentration.

  “I used to play Gabi’s guitar,” Valerie said. “Do you know the band Echt?”

  “Uh-uh,” I muttered, still typing.

  But the Chihuahua began to look more and more like Kleenex, and that looked like crumpled paper. Stacks of school papers gathered in drifts in Martin’s room. I could see that they hadn’t been graded yet.

  “Before I left the school, I bought a Toten Hosen CD,” Valerie said. “Do you know the Toten Hosen?”

  Toten Hosen? Dead pants? A pair of black pants went walking through Martin’s room, stepping over the stacks of school papers.

  “Dead pants?” I heard myself ask. “What kind of a band name is that?”

  “They were supposed to be the Roten Rosen, the Red Roses,” Valerie said. “But a drunk fan called them the Toten Hosen.”

  Now the black pants walking through Martin’s room had bold red roses embroidered on their pockets. The Chihuahua was a crumpled-up essay because Seriously, Mom! What difference does it make? The collection of words waiting to be racked into the next several paragraphs dripped and flowed into messy, sticky clumps of phrases with no meaning.

  Then it was over. I was back in the garret room.

  But did it even matter? Who would want to read this book, anyway? Joe didn’t have time these days. And let’s face it: my whole family thought that my writing was a waste of time.

  Or maybe they just hated to share me.

  That reminded me of my own mother, tucked away out of reach behind ramparts of college papers. She had never had time—not for anything.

  I had certainly hated to share her.

  So I closed the file. Good-bye, Martin. I hope I see you tomorrow.

  And I said, “So, tell me about these Dead Pants.”

  CHAPTER FIVE