I could tell from the way he spoke in an extra-loud voice that it was a call from Taiwan. That, and the fact that it was a short call because calls from overseas are very expensive.
After he hung up, Ba came to talk to Laney and me. “Nai Nai says that you should not go to the funeral.”
“What?” I said. “Why not?” I hardly knew Nai Nai, my father’s mother. We had gone to Taiwan only once, when I was five. I remembered she had goldfish in her garden pond and she would let me feed them stale bread.
Ba didn’t answer right away. “It’s okay—I didn’t want to go,” said Laney quietly.
“Well, I do.” I wanted to explain some more, but none of my thoughts could be formed into words.
“Nai Nai believes that, as children, you are risking exposure to bad spirits,” Ba explained. “Your souls are unformed.” He rubbed his face, pulling his fingers across his cheeks. “It is not an uncommon belief.”
Bad spirits? Unformed souls? My father, man of science, never spoke that way. “Do you believe in this, Ba?”
“Your Nai Nai has made this request, and we must honor it,” said Ba, not answering my question.
“She’s in Taiwan. She doesn’t have to know anything.”
Ba grabbed my arm, surprising me. His fingers felt like they were pressing right into the bone. “We are not supposed to have a funeral at all,” he said in a sharp, low voice. “No black bands. Do you understand? This is not supposed to happen; white hair is attending the funeral of the black hair. This is not supposed to happen.” He pulled me closer to him. I stared at the frown lines around his mouth. I wasn’t sure what he meant: that Nelson wasn’t supposed to die or we weren’t supposed to have the funeral.
I jerked my arm away from him. “No one in this house has white hair. You’re punishing me, for something I didn’t do,” I said.
“It isn’t a punishment. You may not like what Nai Nai is asking you to do, but this is how you show respect.”
I turned to Mom, who had starting washing dishes. She was down to one plate, which she washed over and over. “Mom, you think Laney and I should go, don’t you?”
Mom didn’t look at me. She stared out the window, the one over the sink. “Do as your father says, Peter.”
Mom had been my last hope. Laney and I didn’t go.
There is a button on our TV, one you have to adjust so that all the separate little black and white dots come together, tinier and tinier, until the picture comes into focus. I didn’t know then that my mom had become like those tiny dots, far apart, out of the picture.
MOM STOPPED COOKING NEXT. THE FIRST TIME IT happened, Ba came home from work and was surprised not to find dinner on the table. You could tell he was surprised, because he stood in the middle of the kitchen, opening and closing his mouth, and looking around.
Elaine and I were not surprised, though, because we had watched Mom watch TV all afternoon. She did not move, not even to adjust the picture when it got fuzzy.
“Your mother did not cook dinner?” he asked. “I told her the casseroles were all gone.”
“No,” Elaine and I told him. “There’s no dinner.”
Ba picked up his keys and began putting his shoes back on. “Your mother must not be feeling well,” he told us. “I will go pick up some dinner. I will be right back. Don’t bother your mother.”
Ba came back with a big brown paper bag. By this time, Elaine and I were very hungry, and Elaine began calling out the different dishes as she unhooked the top of each carton. I set the table while Ba changed out of his work clothes.
“Cashew chicken,” she said. “Shrimp fried rice. Moo shu pork.”
Without even thinking, I said, “That’s Nelson’s favorite.” Because it was.
As soon as I said it, Elaine tilted her head toward the doorway. Mom was standing there, watching us. And then she was gone.
That’s Nelson’s favorite.
Suddenly his name seemed odd and foreign, a stranger among us. I tried to recall the last time I heard his name, and I couldn’t. Where did it go?
His name had trickled away slowly, so slowly I hadn’t even noticed. I tried to retrace my steps. Somewhere along the way, he had gone from Nelson to “your brother” to “your loss” to nothing, a name with no place among us. I remember when people said “your loss.” It sounded like we had lost an umbrella or a set of keys—something replaceable.
All through dinner that night, the food felt hard and dry in my throat. Mom had been eating with us less and less. This time, though, it was my fault. She had been in the doorway, and I had scared her off, like one of Laney’s birds.
At that moment, I understood I was not supposed to say Nelson’s name anymore. That was a rule I had to learn for myself.
After Ba brought home Chinese takeout, Mom didn’t cook again. She stopped leaving the house and pretty much started staying on the couch in the living room, like an island in a carpeted sea. Sometimes she watches TV all afternoon until late at night. Sometimes she doesn’t do anything at all except sit.
She has really only gotten up once, as far as I know, which was to pack up all of Nelson’s stuff. His room just became empty one day, without so much as a speck of dust left behind.
Maybe Mom is following rules, too.
The problem with rules is that they’re not meant to change anything. Rules are meant to keep order, like writing your name at the top of the page.
If nothing changes soon, I think I’ll go crazy.
THERE ARE TWENTY-FIVE STUDENTS IN MS. ROWE’S history class. I know this because when she asks us to choose partners for a unit on presidential elections, twelve pairs of students immediately form. Twelve pairs, and me.
Here’s another rule nobody tells you. If something bad happens to you, you better start acting normal pretty quickly, or your friends will start leaving you alone. If you don’t act sufficiently excited when the Pirates win the World Series, for example, you are in trouble.
Chris pairs up with Tom Faitz. During the play-offs, Tom refused to change his socks until the Pirates won the pennant, and then kept wearing the same socks through the World Series. I guess he and Chris bonded over that. Chris will want to do something about FDR because he’s a nut about World War II. I wonder if Tom knows that.
Ms. Rowe puts her hand on my shoulder. “Peter,” she says brightly. “Shall we add you to another group? You all could study one of the great three-party elections. The election of 1912 had Republicans, Democrats, and Teddy Roosevelt’s Bull Moose party.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind working alone.”
This answer does not please Ms. Rowe. “I know! I can be your partner.”
I know that Ms. Rowe means well, she really does. She’s one of the youngest teachers in the school, and she wears her hair long and straight, like the students, instead of hair-sprayed and in a bun, like the other teachers. She’s one of those teachers who always wants to know how you’re feeling and gives you points for sharing. What she doesn’t realize, though, is that she’s making things worse.
“No,” I say. Then I add, “Thank you.”
“You’ll have to do two reports, one about the winning candidate, and one about the losing candidate,” she warns me.
Now Chris and Tom have taken Melissa Albrecht’s notebook and are pretending to read through it. Melissa squeals and reaches for it, but she doesn’t really seem to mind.
“I’ll do both,” I tell Ms. Rowe. “It’s not a big deal.”
The bell rings and everyone starts gathering up their books, but Ms. Rowe does not leave my desk.
Ms. Rowe kneels down next to me. “Peter,” she says. “I think you and I know that there’s something else going on here, yes?” She puts her hand on top of mine. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about? About your family, perhaps?”
I quickly pull my hand out from under hers, and then check to make sure no one saw, especially Chris. “No!” I say. “Everything is fine.”
“Really?�
�� she says, poking out her lower lip. “I know I always feel better when I can rap with a friend about my problems.”
“I don’t have any friends,” I say, closing my textbook with a snap. My ears turn hot when I hear my own mistake. “I mean, I don’t have any problems.”
My chat with Ms. Rowe makes me late for English with Miss Gunderson. When I hand Miss Gunderson my late pass, she pulls her glasses to the end of her nose and sniffs, like a watchdog smelling a stranger.
“I see you were with Ms. Rowe,” she says, dragging out the zzzz sound of Ms.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, trying to get back under the radar as soon as possible.
Miss Gunderson is definitely a hair-spray-and-bun teacher. She is not interested in being my friend, or anyone else’s friend, for that matter. “I don’t understand these young people, trying to introduce some new form of address, when Miss and Mrs. have been doing perfectly well for centuries. It’s nonsense if you ask me.”
Ms. Rowe is the first teacher at my school to use Ms., which, as far as I could figure, was meant to blend Miss and Mrs. What no one has been able to explain to me, though, is what Ms. is short for.
When I don’t respond, Miss Gunderson continues, “I suppose I should just be thankful that she’s not asking you to call her by her Christian name. I understand that’s becoming quite popular in the more liberal enclaves.”
Ms. Rowe’s note puts Miss Gunderson in such a bad mood that she announces that we have a pop quiz. “We do things the old-fashioned way in this room,” she announces. She claps her hands together for emphasis. “The! Old! Fashioned! Way!”
For once, I’m on Miss Gunderson’s side, even though everyone around me grumbles as they take out clean sheets of paper to answer questions about Steinbeck’s The Pearl. It’s not that I’m going to do well—I’ve only read the first ten pages and I barely remember what happened. It’s just that I’ll take cruelty over pity any day.
As soon as the school doors open, I run. I spin past the clumps of little kids and moms, the bigger kids, and the buses. I let the houses and mailboxes go by in a blur, listening to my feet slap along the sidewalk. Thwack thwack thwack. I leap over the curbs and listen to the dogs bark. I run until the air begins to burn my lungs, and my legs beg to stop.
I run every day after school. It’s easier than trying to figure out who will—or more likely, will not—walk with me.
I check my watch; it is 3:26. Not bad. I sit on the concrete front steps of the house, breathing hard.
“Here he is,” says a voice. “The most loyal customer of the United States Postal Service.”
I shade my eyes and look up. “Hi, Mr. Kerns.” Mr. Kerns is our mailman.
He hands me a thin bundle of mail. “There you go, Peter. Still not trusting that mailbox, huh?” Mr. Kerns’s eyes crinkle up at his own joke.
If you had told me in the Before that one day my life would revolve around Mr. Kerns, the mailman, I might have laughed at you.
Instead, though, I go into the house and sort the mail on the counter. There is a bill from the water company, which I put to the side for Ba. For Mom, though, there is a new issue of Family Circle magazine. One of the headlines promises recipes for quick and easy meals. Perfect.
I roll the magazine into my hand and walk into the living room.
“Hi, Mom. I’m home.” I try to make my voice bright against the darkness.
I wait for Mom to answer. Sometimes she does, but you have to give her a few moments.
“Hi,” says Mom. She has a blanket draped across her shoulders and is watching Days of Our Lives.
“Look, Mom.” I unfurl the magazine. “You have a new issue of Family Circle.”
Mom looks at the magazine in my hand, but does not try to take it. “Maybe I’ll look at it later.”
I give the magazine a little shake. “There’s recipes in here. Easy ones.” I hold it a little closer to her. “Here.”
“Not now, Peter,” says Mom. She does not even try to take it. “Please.” She pushes deeper under the blanket, and stares at the television. She is getting very thin; even with the blanket over her, you can tell that there is not much there.
After I had messed up about Nelson’s name, I started to think about all the other ways that Nelson’s name might come into the house. I decided my job was to protect my mom from letters addressed to Nelson, from stupid people and machines that don’t know not to send him mail anymore. That’s why I have to be home every day after school, to get the mail. I’ve intercepted letters from the Harmony Record & Tape Club (Twelve records for only a penny, Mr. Lee!), a postcard from a girl named Natalie, and a couple of magazines. Each time, I tear them up and take the pieces out to the garbage can.
Sorting the mail is a lot trickier than it sounds, because it’s not just about keeping things out, it’s what I let in. Back during Christmas, for instance, it was really tough. Stupidly cheerful cards—dancing snowmen, crazy Santas—out. Quiet cards with candles or wreaths, and sayings like “Season’s Greetings”—in. The hardest ones were pictures of families. Whole, smiling families. They made me wonder if we ever took a picture, if people would be able to see what was missing.
It’s all kind of stupid, I know, sorting mail and presenting magazines like I wrote them myself, but it’s the only thing I know how to do.
Nelson used to say that the great athletes are great because they’re consistent—anyone can have a flash of brilliance, but the really good ones show up day after day and perform. Lou Gehrig played with broken bones; he even stayed in the game after getting hit in the head. So bringing in the mail every day—that’s what I do. It’s the only thing I can think of.
I THINK I HAVE HAD A PRETTY BAD DAY AT SCHOOL until Elaine comes home.
“Hey, Laney,” I say.
Elaine shoves her way past me.
“Leave me alone!” she screams. Then she punches me in the arm before she runs up to her room.
If Elaine had done something like this in the Before, I’m pretty sure Mom would have gone after her and found out what’s wrong. Then again, Elaine didn’t do things like this in the Before.
I listen for a moment, hoping that I’ll hear Mom get up and move. Nothing.
I walk up to Elaine’s room and knock on the door frame. Elaine is sitting on her bed, with her eyes wide open and the bottom of her face squeezed up. Her nostrils are flaring. I know that trick. You make that face when you don’t want to cry.
“Um.” I’m not sure what to say. “Everything okay, Laney?”
Elaine blinks hard and the not-crying face goes away. “No, everything is not okay.” She swipes her nose with her shoulder.
I take a step back, out of punching range. “What’s the matter?”
“We’re supposed to bring something for the bake sale tomorrow,” says Elaine. “We’re raising money for our class field trip to the zoo.”
I don’t understand why this is a crisis. Laney loves the zoo, the bird house most of all.
“So, do you want to call Ba and ask him to bring home cookies from the store?” We’re not really supposed to call Ba at work unless it’s an emergency, but from the way Elaine is acting, I can say it is one.
“No,” says Elaine. “That’s the problem. It can’t be store-bought. My teacher said so. It’s supposed to be homemade.” Her face turns bright red and she looks like she’s really going to cry. “‘Please make sure your mothers make something special,’” she says, in a voice that is supposed to her teacher’s.
I wish she would go back to being mad; it’s easier than her crying. Mom used to make all of this stuff—the cupcakes, the cookies with sprinkles. Lemon chiffon cake.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I say, though, clearly, Elaine thinks it is.
“Everybody is going to bring something. Everybody but me is going to raise money for the field trip. And then everyone’s going to say, ‘Ohhhh, look at Elaine—she didn’t have anything for the bake sale.’”
I wish I had some
thing to say, something wise and big-brotherly that would make her perk up and smile.
“Sorry, Laney.” I turn to go. “Wish I could help.”
“Wait,” says Elaine. She makes a hiccuping sound. “Can you make something?”
“Me? Boys don’t cook.” At school, only girls take home ec, which is sewing and cooking and stuff. Boys take shop.
“Daddy cooks.”
“That’s like eggs and stuff; you’re asking me to bake. Baking is different.” Even as I say the words, I realize they don’t really make sense. Cooking, baking—it’s all about making food. It’s just that Mom is supposed to be doing the baking.
Elaine crosses her arms and lets out a huge sigh. I think about Elaine in Williamsport, skipping around with the two flags, trying to make the game so that she’d be happy either way. It’s not fair.
“How about I help you turn on the oven and stuff, but you do the main baking part?” I ask Laney.
You’d think I’d given her a million dollars. She jumps up and hugs me. “You’re the best, Peter! The best, best, best!”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I say. “I’m just turning on the oven.”
Of course, I end up having to help Elaine a lot more than just turning on the oven. I help her find a box of chocolate cake mix in the pantry, and take out the oil and eggs. When Elaine explodes an egg into the batter, I convince her that kids like chocolate cupcakes with a surprise crunch. And after she says her arm is getting tired in the middle of mixing the batter, I have to do some of the mixing, too.
While the cupcakes are in the oven, Sean Tyrell knocks on the back door of the kitchen. He lives behind us and goes to St. Leo’s, the Catholic school, instead of public school. He’s not exactly my friend, but then again, he’s the only one who comes over now.
“Wanna go play ball?” asks Sean. “They’re getting a game together over at the lot.”
“He can’t!” chirps Elaine before I have a chance to say anything. “Peter is helping me make cupcakes.”
The Way Home Looks Now Page 4