She shows up at our door a half hour later in a miniskirt and a green sleeveless shirt that shimmers. Whoa. I’m underdressed in my shorts and T-shirt with a kitten wearing brainy glasses and a funky scarf. Hipster kitty.
“You look fancy,” I say.
“Mom and I are going to lunch after.”
When we arrive at the store, Henry collects his things as usual without talking to me. He gives me a nod on the way to the back.
“Henry doesn’t like El,” Grace explains to Blake.
“Grace!”
“It’s the truth.”
“It doesn’t mean we have to tell people about it!”
I’m not sure why I care, but I do. Growing up without other kids, I usually have a good relationship with adults. But not Henry, for some reason. For all I know, he doesn’t like anyone under the age of twenty. It still hurts my feelings.
“Let’s order your book now,” I say, hoping to distract her from any further Henry discussion.
Grace has never shown an interest in the bookstore operations before, but she listens politely as I show her and Blake how the special orders are processed. We find her latest must-see-before-you-die movie guide on the computer, place the order, and note Grace as the customer. “When the book arrives, we mark it into inventory and your name will pop up. We label it with a pricing sticker, then we let you know it’s come in,” I explain. “It should be here on Tuesday.”
“Great. I should get going,” she says.
“Have fun at lunch.”
“Oh yeah, right. See you around seven?”
“Yes, thanks.” Sleeping at Grace’s is something to look forward to. I wonder what she’ll say when I tell her about Mom’s lies. It will be good to talk about it.
“Want to give me more training?” Blake asks. I show him how to work the register and he takes care of his first customer. Then he browses psychology books while I set up a back-to-school display.
My stomach growls at the end of our shift.
“Should we get takeout?” Blake asks. “Stanley and Andrea left us some spending money.”
“My favorite vegetarian place is just past Third Street. Want to go? We can sit in the park and eat.”
“Maybe I can meet you with a cheeseburger.”
I laugh. “That would work, too.”
Veggie Paradise is a small restaurant that mostly does a take-out business, but there are a few round tables by the front windows that always have pink carnations on them. Everyone calls the friendly owner Uncle Fred. I asked him once—he doesn’t have any nieces or nephews in Hoboken. But “Uncle Fred” is even printed on his name tag.
“The usual?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” They make a great veggie sandwich with hummus that I love.
“You are well?” he asks when he rings me up. “Still helping the cats?”
“Yes, thank you. Are you ready to adopt one?”
He laughs. “No, but you will be the first to know when I am. Have a delightful day,” he says, handing me my bag.
I meet Blake in the park and we sit on a bench overlooking the Hudson. It’s pleasant out, not too hot for a change. Mom calls while we’re there, telling me about her jetlag and French food and Rodin sculptures. I mostly listen, trying not to hold a grudge about her lie. We keep the call short because of the expense, and I sit quietly after we hang up.
“You all right?” Blake asks.
“Just thinking about my dad. I wonder if he’s mad I didn’t know the truth all these years.”
“I didn’t know dead people had the capacity to be angry,” he says. “Do you think you might be projecting your emotions a little?”
“Don’t go all psychobabble on me,” I say, even though he’s right.
I hear a sad meow in the distance, a melancholy sound. “That’s one unhappy cat.”
“What cat?”
“You don’t hear that crying?”
Blake shakes his head.
“That’s strange.” I don’t want him to say I’m projecting my sadness onto a cat. “Maybe I’m just thinking about volunteering at the shelter tomorrow.”
“That blue-haired guy from the bookstore is supposed to visit.”
“Right.” I don’t want to get my hopes up. “If he even shows.”
Mrs. Wallace makes us fresh popcorn to take to Grace’s room for our movie night. Piper practically bounces into the kitchen like a kitten on catnip. “That smells yummy. I want to see the movie, too.”
Grace sighs. “Mom, we’re watching something too scary for Pippy.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Okay, Pippy,” Grace says.
“Mom, make her stop!”
It’s going to be a long week. I don’t know why antagonizing Piper brings Grace joy. Being an only child—well, formerly an only child—apparently has its benefits.
“Grace Elizabeth. Say you’re sorry to your sister.”
But Grace takes the bowl and leaves the room without saying anything at all. I mouth “sorry” to Piper and follow Grace up the stairs.
I need to tell her about Mom’s lie, but she really wants to watch the sequel to a poltergeist movie. We don’t talk much until it’s over. I finally get a chance to explain how my dad really died, how Stanley told Blake the truth about his death, and how the psychiatric hospital sent the information. I talk for maybe ten minutes, but it feels like hours have passed.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know the truth about Dad,” I finish.
“But … it’s not like you had a relationship with him. I mean, you never even met him.”
It’s as if Grace has smacked me. “I still know him. He’s my father.” I pause and consciously stop myself from ranting. Maybe it’s my own fault she’s never understood. Something always kept me from telling her about his mysterious warning when I was young. But Grace could be harsh and I never wanted to add to the list of things she made fun of at my expense. “That’s not the point. My mother lied to me. For years.”
“Can’t you talk to her about it? It seems like if you confront her, she’ll tell you the truth.”
“I tried to give her a chance at the wedding. It was too awkward to bring it up directly. I don’t feel like I can ask her on the phone during her honeymoon, either.”
“You’re right. It would be better face to face,” Grace says.
We’re silent for a few minutes. I imagine sitting in the kitchen across from Mom, calmly telling her about what I’ve learned. What would happen next?
“Besides,” Grace says, bringing me back to the present, “maybe you shouldn’t be too judgmental. Everyone lies sometime.”
I stare at her. “Really? I’m not sure that’s true. Or that it makes me feel any better.”
“You never lie?” she asks.
“About what?” I can’t figure out what she’s hinting at, but I can tell by her crossed arms that she’s annoyed about something.
“Remember the night before the wedding, when you rushed me off the phone?” Grace says. “You said your mom insisted that you get a good night’s sleep, remember?”
Uh-oh.
“But at the wedding, Blake slipped up. He mentioned that you guys sat outside drinking together. Which I guess was more important than talking with me. At least you could have been honest about it.”
“I—”
Grace keeps her arms tight over her chest. “Don’t dig the hole any deeper.”
“Sorry. You’re right. I should have told you, but it’s kind of awkward having a new family member. I felt like I had to form some type of friendship with him, that it was important to say yes. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Whatever,” she says.
“It’s not really the same magnitude as Mom’s lie.”
Grace looks unappeased.
“I should’ve told you the truth. I can see why you’d be mad.”
She sighs. “Okay, I guess I forgive you.”
“That’s good, since I’m sleeping he
re forever.”
“How about a haunted marathon tonight? Are you ready for another movie? There’s one about a sinister graveyard.”
“I don’t know. I’m home alone all week. Plus, I want to visit the cemetery tomorrow. It’s not the best time for me to be freaked out about ghosts.”
“You’re not by yourself at home,” Grace says. “Blake, that ultra-hot stepbrother of yours, is there, too.”
I don’t know how to react to that. She could have a crush on Blake, or she could be saying it to tease me.
“You know he has a girlfriend, right?” I say. She avoids my eyes as she hands me a blanket. “And I’m still not sure about ghost movies.”
“If you don’t want more ghosts, we’ll watch serial killers instead.”
“You’re too kind, Grace.”
In the morning, I stop at home to check on Oscar and drop off my overnight bag. Blake’s door is closed, so I guess he’s still sleeping. It feels important to keep my cemetery visit a secret from him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he’s already interfered with my memories of Dad, even if it isn’t his fault that Mom lied. I slip out without waking him.
I could take the bus, but I walk quickly, eager to burn off the nervous energy buzzing through my body. I feel fidgety, agitated, like when several people enter the cattery at once, all looking to adopt a cat at the same time.
At the cemetery, I force myself not to hurry, making my way carefully through the tombstones. It’s ridiculous, thinking that the cause of Dad’s death changes anything. But somehow I feel different coming here today.
The ground is muddy, as if the grass has recently been watered. My walk leads me to Thomas Benton no matter how slowly I trudge. Thankfully, there are no more black flowers. Yet. I find a pebble and stand by Dad’s tombstone, clasping it in my hand.
Dad has been my hero for so long. But now the story is rewritten. I’m angry at Mom for lying to me, but I’m angry at Dad, too, for some reason. As if he could have told me the truth himself. Maybe it’s more than that. What does an accidental overdose even mean? Was it his accident or someone else’s?
I begin to wonder if the car crash and Oscar the Second are the only lies Mom has told me. What if Dad never saved Oscar the First from a storm drain? What if he was the grumpiest vet ever, wishing he’d been an accountant like Stanley instead? What if he loved lilies or weird black blossoms, and I’ve been leaving pebbles for years? Maybe I don’t know Dad at all.
I lost him once. Now I’m losing him all over again.
As I leave my pebble, a piercing wail breaks my reverie. Shrubs and tombstones partially block my view, but I finally spot the source of the crying. Several rows away, a young girl shakes with loud, raw sobbing. The man she’s with—her father?—puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. It does nothing to lessen the sound of her misery.
It weighs on me, this grief-filled air, buckling my knees. Before I know it I’m crying, too. It doesn’t make sense to mourn Dad’s death so intensely now, but the tears don’t care about restraint and logic. They insist. Only weeping eases the heaviness. I kneel in the mud until I can breathe again.
Self-conscious about my outburst, I glance around as I rise to my feet. The father and daughter are gone, but other mourners remain. I recognize a squat gray-haired woman in the far corner: Norma. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me. Part of me wants to rush away before she does.
But first I press my hand next to Dad’s name, leaving a muddy handprint. “Happy birthday,” I whisper.
I’m emotionally drained. The trek home feels longer than ever. Blake texts me while I walk—he’s at the beach and will be home late. I’m relieved as I turn my key in the lock. It’s nice to be home alone. I won’t have to explain my post-cry puffy look.
“It’s none of his business anyway,” I say to Oscar, who’s resting on the back of the couch. I take water from the fridge and press the cold bottle against my eyes for a minute.
My grimy hand leaves traces of brown on the plastic. I head to the bathroom to wash, using my elbow to flick the light switch.
I gasp. My dirty hand flies up to cover my mouth.
A muddy handprint mars the center of the mirror.
11
SHELTER
I stare transfixed, trying to make sense of the handprint. I haven’t touched the mirror. How could it be dirty?
Shivering, I retreat slowly from the bathroom. Then I creep through the apartment, checking to make sure I’m alone. No one else is here.
I don’t get it. With Mom and Stanley away, Blake and I are the only ones using the bathroom. I didn’t mess up the mirror. Maybe Blake did.
In the kitchen, I grab my phone. I want to call Mom, but that would be ridiculous. I dial Blake. It rings and rings. When I’m about to give up, he answers.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I have no idea how to begin. “Um … are you coming home soon?”
“No. You got my text, right? I’m at the beach. Is everything all right? You sound strange. Like you have vegan indigestion.”
How can I ask him about the random handprint over the phone? I lose my nerve. He’ll think I’m too weird. “Just checking in.”
“Okay. See you later. Oh, and El? I lost my keys somewhere on the Jersey Shore. You’ll need to buzz me in.”
“Sure.”
After we hang up, I open my water and take a drink. The only sound is my gulping. The building is oddly silent. There’s no ’80s music from Mr. Wilson’s apartment down the hall, no random toilet flushing, no footsteps overhead. The quiet is disconcerting. The dead of summer must be a popular week for vacation.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, check the mirror. The handprint is still there. I think about wiping it, but I’d like to show Blake. It’s a left hand, reminding me of my cemetery visit, but no one knows I went there.
Except Norma.
She could have seen me. As a building super, she does have a key. But why would she ever come in our apartment and do such an unusual thing?
I sit next to Oscar on the couch, leaning forward in case I need to escape quickly. I’m too fidgety to stay put. Even the normal fridge noises make me jump. After a quick change into my shelter T-shirt, I say good-bye to my sleepy cat.
I could be overthinking this whole thing. Of course, it seems eerie. But there’s probably a logical explanation. Maybe Blake left a mess. That’s what brothers do, right?
At the animal shelter, the beach party theme is in full swing. Adorable Jersey City kittens have invaded from the damaged shelter, which is bad news for Petals. There’s an especially cute gray one, Goedal, and even worse for Petals, a black fluff-ball named Mink. Her odds as an older black cat are looking worse.
I snuggle Petals in my arms. She’s up to week number six at the shelter, which worries me. Hudson Animal Care and Control is a “full resources” facility, which means that when they run out of room, animals are euthanized. I witnessed an injection only once, when the shelter was short-staffed and needed someone to help with a cat named Freckles. He was old, but perfectly healthy, and I sobbed long after he drifted into his eternal sleep. There was something horrible about the unfairness of it all, about killing an animal before it physically needed to die. I’ve stuck to adoption and cat-socialization duties ever since then.
I circle the room, petting the other cats, adding water to the communal bowl, checking that the hand sanitizer is filled. I’m cleaning the litter boxes when the door opens.
A hunched, older woman comes in. Skyler told me that sometimes people find my over-eagerness unnerving, so I finish scooping poop and take the garbage out back while she looks around. When I return, she’s still there. I straighten my HACC Volunteer T-shirt and try to assess her situation. It’s a game I play, trying to guess people’s pet history before they tell me. She has serious eyes behind her round glasses, but she moves self-assuredly like she’s owned cats before.
“Let me know if I can help with anything,” I say. “My name is Ella Benton.”
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Brooks. My dear Grover passed away last spring, after a decade together.”
“Grover, like from Sesame Street? We named my cat Oscar because he used to get into the trash.”
She smiles. “I’m a retired history professor. He was named for the ex-president, Grover Cleveland.”
Not the first Grover who comes to mind, but at least she’s an experienced cat owner. She continues around the room, gently patting each cat. “I don’t want a kitten,” she says. “Something older.”
“Great! Male or female?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
This is an adoption dream. The last couple who came in had been specific down to the eye color they wanted. But I don’t want to be pushy about Petals.
“Well, we have Katniss.” I stroke a Siamese-looking cat with blue eyes. “She’s a stray, a bit independent. This is Carson.” I pause in front of a tabby. “He’s a bit of a rascal.” I point to a white cat with black markings that look like a mustache. “That’s Shakespeare.”
“That face!” Mrs. Brooks says.
“Yes, he’s very distinguished-looking.” I show her Milo, Azula, Phoebe, Cinnamon, and the rest, saving Petals for last. I scoop her up. “They’re all good cats, but this one, Petals, is one of my favorites. A family brought her in when they were moving and couldn’t take her along. She’s playful and very loving.”
Mrs. Brooks strokes her black fur. “She has beautiful eyes.” As if Petals is eager to make a good impression, she purrs loudly.
“Her information is here.” I point to the wall, where we hang photos and large index cards with details about each cat. “She’s spayed and up-to-date on all her shots.”
“So, she’s three?” she asks, peering at the card.
Uh-oh. The three is actually an eight. “Would you like to hold her?”
Mrs. Brooks gently takes her from me. “She is friendly.”
I want her to adopt Petals, but I can’t lie about her age. “Um, Mrs. Brooks? That’s an eight on her card, not a three. But she’s the nicest cat here. I wish I could bring her home myself.”
“Eight is older than I want,” she says. “Are these the only available cats?”
Black Flowers, White Lies Page 7