by Lauren Jayne
“Hello, my name is Therese. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Then there was Anna. Although she was four years younger than Therese, she looked bigger; not physically, but she took up more space in the world with her beaming personality. She had dishwater-blonde hair, which looked like she had just woken up and ran out here to play, and a freckled face with light green eyes that oozed with kindness. Anna grabbed Hope’s hand and then mine and brought us to an old wooden box filled with baking supplies. The three of us made the most elaborate mud pies, some in old pie tins, some covered with a pattern of flowers and pebbles, and some with crisscross sticks on top.
A few hours later we heard the upstairs window pull open and Mrs. Miller yelled down in the sweetest voice, “Okay kids, come on and get washed up for lunch.”
Noah, Hope, and I looked at each other and smirked, simultaneously raising our eyebrows. We were used to grabbing something to eat when we got hungry, so this whole thing seemed a little weird to us. The Miller kids were acting like this was part of a school day ritual, so we followed their lead. On their kitchen counter sat a platter of sandwiches without crusts cut into triangles, a big bowl of sliced strawberries, and a bag of chips alongside eight plates.
“Okay kids,” said Mrs. Miller, “grab a plate and work your way down the line; help yourselves and don’t be shy, I don’t want any leftovers.”
Following Noah’s lead, I took a plate. As neatly as I could, I placed one triangle sandwich on my plate, a tiny scoop of strawberries and about three chips. On the rickety oval-shaped wood table were glasses of milk and napkins folded into rectangles at each spot. I looked across the table at Noah, who was already eating a sandwich from his messy plate. I wanted to throw my napkin at him and tell him to be polite. If we acted like a bunch of wild animals, we’d surely be sent home.
Mr. Miller had been playing the piano since we arrived, and I kind of hoped that he would stay there until we were done eating, but no such luck. When we were ready to eat, Mrs. Miller went over to get him.
“Come on in. You can work on that piece later, your lunch is ready.”
I heard them laughing in the hallway. He quickly threw about six triangles on his plate and grabbed a big handful of chips and sat in his spot. It was the only chair at the table with arms.
“Hey, kiddo, it looks like you brought some friends home for lunch. Are you going to introduce them to your dear old dad?”
Mrs. Miller chimed in, “No, these are our new neighbors. Their parents had to go run some errands, and since they’re new to the neighborhood, I told them we’d be happy to keep them. This is Hope–she’s 11.” Hope put her sandwich down and smiled. “And Noah–he’s six.” Noah gave Mr. Miller a big sandwich-filled grin. “And this little doll, this is Lauren, and she’s four.” I barely looked up long enough to meet his eyes and give him a half smile.
Then, surprising even myself, I blurted out, “I’ll be five next week.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Mr. Miller smiled.
He and Noah chatted a little about where we had moved from. He was impressed with Noah’s vocabulary and with the fact that we had already lived in California, Australia, Oregon and now Seattle.
“Yep,” Noah said, “you could say we like adventure.”
After lunch, Mrs. Miller told us to bring our dishes to the sink and then go ahead and play. Mr. Miller went right back to playing the piano. I watched as Mrs. Miller went into the cookie jar and grabbed a few cookies and put them on a plate and then poured a cup of coffee from the pot that always seemed to be steaming and fresh. I was so happy she was finally going to have a seat, but that wasn’t the case. She grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table and folded it into a triangle, walked into the living room, and put the coffee and cookies on the small table behind the piano bench for Mr. Miller. He grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her cheek before she twisted playfully out of his arms and went to the kitchen to do the dishes.
Summer was coming to an end, and there was a crispness in the air that we didn’t really notice until the sun started to set. We played hide-and-go-seek, made more beautiful mud pies, picked blackberries, and played Red Rover with the neighbor kids until we heard the upstairs window open again.
Walking into Mrs. Miller’s warm, cozy house felt like walking into a hug. The smell of warm chocolate chip cookies and a homemade dinner was intoxicating.
When Anna walked into the kitchen, she screamed, “Tacos! Wait ‘til you try Mom’s tacos, they’re the best!”
Mrs. Miller had cut up tomatoes and shredded cheese, chopped lettuce and onions; but it didn’t just look like food, it looked like art, and when she cooked she wasn’t just drudging through the motions, she was an artist. She lined everything up on the counter in little, white glass ramekins. She stood at the stove, frying each of us a corn tortilla on a cast iron skillet until the exact moment that it went from coarse and cold to warm and rubbery. I stood behind Anna with my dinner plate in hand trying to follow her lead. Mrs. Miller put the warm tortilla on my plate and then scooped in some meat and told me to go ahead and dress my taco. I couldn’t believe she did all of this, and it was a Tuesday. A dinner like this meant one thing at our house: that it was Thanksgiving.
I mostly watched as they sat around that old, rickety table laughing and telling stories and jokes for over an hour until Mrs. Miller wiped her hands on the apron that was permanently tied around her tiny waist and asked who wanted to make ice cream sandwiches with the cookies she’d baked. After dinner, it dawned on me – my parents weren’t back yet. A feeling of shame washed over my entire body; I was so embarrassed I felt like I was going to vomit. I pulled Noah into the bathroom and told him we had to leave.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll be back soon. Now I want to go eat my dessert before it melts.”
The Millers stayed up as late as they could, playing board games and card games, waiting for my parents to show up. I watched as one by one the other kids’ eyelids started to fall as they were talking. At about nine-thirty, Mrs. Miller told Therese and Anna to find some pajamas for Hope and me, and Brucey went down to grab some for Noah.
“Just wash your faces and rub your fingers over your teeth with a little toothpaste,” said Mrs. Miller. “Won’t this be fun? We get to have you for a slumber party; we couldn’t be happier to have you here!”
At just above a whisper I said, “Mrs. Miller?”
“Yes, honey.” She was down on one knee so she could hear me.
“Did my parents call you?”
“No honey, I’m sure they just got caught up getting things done.”
“Okay.”
“Lauren, we couldn’t be more delighted to have you. We’ve gotten a chance to get to know you all, and you are welcome to stay here as long as you like. Can I tell you a secret, honey?”
I nodded my head as I stared at the carpet.
“You being here makes my job a lot easier. Now I don’t have to entertain the children all day.”
Then she gave me a smile that made her entire face crinkle up around her sparkly green eyes and, at that moment, I felt okay.
Lying on the floor in a sleeping bag next to Anna, I asked, “When do your parents scream?”
She just laughed at me like she didn’t really know what I was talking about and said, “I don’t know, I’ll tell you if it ever happens, okay?” And she smiled so big her eyes disappeared.
Just then the light popped on; it was Mrs. Miller. “Did you think I was going to forget your story?
“I know, but it’s late, Mama,” Anna said from her quilt-covered bed.
Mrs. Miller scooted her tiny body next to Anna’s, grabbed a book from the old wooden box on the floor, and started to read. When she was done, she gave Anna a kiss on the cheek and then kneeled down next to me. She swept my hair from my face and gently kissed my forehead.
“Did you like that story, sweetheart? Next time you come why don’t you bring one of your favorite book
s.”
I laid on the floor thinking about my favorite books and realized this was my first bedtime story.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, terror pulsed through my body. I had forgotten where I was, but just for a moment. The room was empty, so I quickly put my clothes on and tried to smooth my hair. A waft of warm, sweet air filled the hallway. Clinking coffee cups and the sound of Mr. Miller on the piano greeted me as I entered the kitchen. Behind the wooden, saloon-like shutters that hung from either side of the kitchen entry was Mrs. Miller. She was dressed in a tiny, light blue, sleeveless shirt buttoned up to an ironed Peter Pan collar, khaki capris, and slippers on her feet. She had a new apron around her waist. This one, she told me, her mother had sewn for her as a wedding gift. I watched Mrs. Miller as her eyes blinked like a doll’s, entranced with her mouth that was shaped like a cupid bow with two little triangles at the top, her pink lips curled up at the corners, even at rest.
“Come on in, sweetie. How did you sleep? I thought I’d whip up some cinnamon rolls. Would you like to watch me or go and play with the children?”
I just looked up at her and smiled. Since I didn’t move a muscle, she knew I wanted to watch her bake. Her willowy arms grabbed the huge yellow plastic bowl from the top of the fridge; I worried they would snap like twigs. She set it down and pulled out the stretchy dough one handful at a time. In smooth, knowing movements, like a famous conductor leading his last song, she put her delicate hand into the jar marked “flour” and threw a handful onto the butcher block counter and started to pound down the dough. Then she covered it with a towel and put it back in the bowl on top of the fridge again.
“Now we’ll make the best part.”
I watched as she measured, stirred, chopped and baked. I had never seen or felt anything like it since I was in the kitchen at our club in Double Bay, Sydney. I was in love with the kitchen and the magic it made, and I was in love with Mrs. Miller and never wanted to leave her side. With Mrs. Miller, I felt like I was off duty–like a real kid.
A few days later, the phone rang. It was my parents asking the Millers to send us home.
Chapter 4
Defiance
My first day of first grade I peeked through my plastic roll-up blinds to see nothing but dark clouds and trees shaking in the wind. The dampness outside was so thick it was dripping down the inside of my mildew-rimmed windows. As quickly as I could, I got dressed, combed my hair, washed my face and grabbed a Carnation breakfast bar from the counter. Luckily, I was just in the nick of time to meet Noah at the door before he headed out to school. When he pulled our door open, a whoosh of wind blew it so hard it slammed into the wall behind us. He grabbed it as fast as he could, hoping it didn’t wake Mom. The wind brought in a pile of crumbled brown leaves that crunched under my feet as I made my way to the door. Fred, the dog that our parents let us get a year ago (if we promised to take care of him) sat loyally as we got our coats on.
As I took my first step into the winter cold, I felt a chill deep in my bones. I zipped my coat up as far as it would go, tilting my head back to make sure I didn’t pinch my neck. As I headed to first grade with Noah, the only thing I could think about was the biting cold. Then I started to wonder–are there kids out there without coats? What would that feel like? Right then, I took off my coat. Noah looked back at me and told me to put my coat back on.
“Noah, you know there are kids that don’t have coats?”
“How do you know? And who cares? You do, so put it on, now!”
Later that day at school, I tried to go out for recess without a coat. I explained to my teacher about the kids without coats, but she just furrowed her brow and told me I had to put mine on. Running up to my favorite rock, I watched as the wind whipped the light gray clouds quickly through the dark sky and I came up with a plan as I lay on my coat. I would collect some coats for other kids and then I could wear mine too.
As soon as I got home, I found a wheelbarrow that my dad used to bring wood from the driveway and headed to my neighbor’s house. A woman who looked like a grandmother, with bottle-blonde curly hair that was stuck to her head, and a sweet sideways smile, answered the door. She stood staring at me with a coffee cup in her hand, and I stood staring back at her, forgetting for a moment that I had knocked on her door, and panicked that I didn’t know what I was going to say.
Finally, I blurted, “Hi, I’m Lauren, we live in the green house over there,” and I reluctantly pointed at our dark house.
“Hello, doll. Yes, I’ve been meaning to come by and introduce myself.”
The lady opened the door just enough for me to see an older man reclined in a La-Z-Boy. Then she smiled at me, winked, and asked what she could do for me.
“Well, you know how cold it is outside?” I began.
“Oh, yes, sweetie, come on in, you’ll catch a cold out there.”
“No, I’m okay. But, there are kids without coats, and well, if you have any extra old coats, I will bring them to those kids.”
“Oh, okay hon, is this for Bluebirds or school or something?”
“No.” I just looked up at her with my apologetic, but determined eyes.
She walked away and returned shortly with five of her daughter Laurie’s old coats.
“Thank you!” I beamed.
I couldn’t believe it; she just had these coats lying around. Neighbor after neighbor gave me so many coats they filled my wheelbarrow to the brim. I floated all the way home; I’d never been happier. Thankfully, our garage door was open when I got back. A box of big black garbage bags was lying on the workbench, so I grabbed them and stuffed the coats in.
The next day I asked Mom if she’d take me to school with the coats and she agreed. When I walked into school, my teacher glanced over at me and then ran to the door with a look of horror on her face.
“Lauren, what are you doing with these bags?”
“Well, I collected them for the kids without coats, and I was thinking, since you’re a teacher, you’d know how to get them to those kids.”
She looked at me and in one blink her face went from a cold stare to a warm smile. “I will, Lauren, I promise.”
When Noah and I got home from school, surprisingly, Mom and Dad were both home and in the kitchen talking. I managed to scoot past them and up the stairs to my room without being noticed. Lying on my bed, I could hear their entire conversation; our walls seemed to be made from cardboard. Dad was talking with that tone in his voice, the tone I hadn’t heard since we were driving here eighteen months ago. He had been in a dark mood since he realized our new dream house wasn’t so dreamy and our new life was really just more of the same, landing Mom in an even deeper, darker, sad mood. He’d been stomping around, screaming, throwing anything that was in his way, including me once in a while, for months. I was actually excited to hear this voice again, so much so that I perched myself at the top of the stairs, so I was sure not to miss any of the good stuff.
“Mom, I met this guy through Denny, and he has a fish processing boat in Alaska. Well, he needs to get rid of it fast and Denny vouched for him; he’s a good guy.”
Mom was staring at Dad with her arms crossed, but a half smile on her face. Dad was beaming at her, and as he started to describe the boat, his arms were flailing around like an old Italian grandma’s.
“It’s a hundred feet long, pure steel, indestructible! It has the ability to run through the night, and it already has a crew; they’re just waiting for a new owner. This thing will be paid off in the first year and then it’s all positive cash flow.” His voice was going up and down like a Super Bowl announcer. “Mom, just picture this: we walk onto the boat – our boat, our ship, you and I – and the crew are all clapping because we saved them. We saved their jobs, their beloved ship, and this is how we are going to save ourselves.”
Mom was listening intently, but she was cautious. Sydney was supposed to be a slam-dunk, a one-way ticket to easy street that left us with nothing more than six suitcases to show for. M
om knew she needed to be the responsible one, the one to think things through. But Dad was hard to resist; he had an answer for every question. He had already talked to the bank and arranged to borrow the thirty grand it would take to buy this soon-to-be moneymaker.
“Ok, Joel, go get ‘em. Go get our boat and get us out of here.”
Dad and Noah started planning their trip that night and a few days later they boarded a flight to Sitka, Alaska. They arrived at the small family-run hotel that Denny had set up for them, and within a few minutes he stopped in to pick them up. He was going to take them on one of his seaplane fishing adventures. They walked down the gravel-covered street to Denny’s old pick-up and drove to the splintering dock and onto the rusting seaplane that was bobbing in a quiet, tree-covered cove. Noah looked at Dad and asked if he was sure this was safe, remembering that Mom had forbidden him from taking Noah flying with Denny. Dad just laughed and told him to get in. Within minutes they were up and off, Dad in the front seat next to Denny and Noah behind them.
Denny was pointing things out. “Down there, that’s where I caught my first King. And over there – wait, look – can you see those humpbacks breaching?”
Dad looked back to see if Noah was listening, but his face was pressed up against the small window. He was in awe. When he came home he told me it looked like it was right out of a movie: jagged mountains ripping up through the sea, pods of whales swimming by, just like kids gathering at a playground after school.
“Noah, look, a bald eagle!” Denny said as he whisked them right by the tallest tree to get a closer look at the nest.