The little woman smiled and adjusted her skirt. She was wearing pantyhose, a matching red skirt and blouse, a cardigan, pearls, a perfect coat of fresh red lipstick, and a pair of rain boots. She had gray hair, bluish eyes, and the kind of weatherproof skin that surfers are prone to. She appeared to be in her late seventies, maybe early eighties, with that sweet, gentle grandma presence about her.
In a tiny voice that matched her tiny body, she said, “I thought I heard someone in here.”
“Come in!” Mom wiped her chocolate chip covered face with her blouse and smiled.
The little perfectly dressed woman looked a bit baffled—staring at Mom without blinking an eye. I guess she was wondering whether to go outside again with the pitchfork or just leave it right there by the doorway.
“Oh, it’ll be fine right there,” Mom said, pointing her finger at the hallway. I guess she was thinking the same.
Tiny Grandma unloaded the weapon and entered the kitchen.
“Have a seat. Cookie?” Mom grabbed a plate from the counter and placed a hot cookie on it.
“Oh my, I thought I recognized the smell of cookies. Chocolate chip?”
“Cookamundo,” Mom said and sat the plate down. “Please sit.” Mom and I shared amused glances.
“Oh my.” The tiny woman sat down at the kitchen dining table, her feet not even touching the floor. “Thanks, dear. These look delicious.” She took a tiny bite with her tiny mouth. “Oh my, they are yummy. A little hot, though.” She blew on her cookie and offered a lipstick-and-chocolate-covered smile. The hot cookie had melted away half of her perfect coat of lipstick. “I just wanted to come by and say hello. I’m your new neighbor.”
“I see,” Mom said. “Well, we actually just moved here two weeks ago. So, we’re the new neighbors, too.”
“Oh my, well isn’t that a coincidence? My name is Charlotte Johnson but do please call me Charles. Everybody else does. Wonderful cookies, by the way.” She took another tiny bite and placed the cookie on her plate. Excitement laced her voice as she said, “Oh my, this beautiful china. My aunt had the exact same pattern. Twelve people, not a single crack. I always loved to go to her house and drink real tea out of real tea cups.” She grabbed the plate and flipped it over and the cookie dropped to the ground. “Oh sorry, dear,” she said, trying to reach for the cookie with her short arms.
“I’ll get it.” Mom bent down and grabbed the cookie and tossed it in the sink, smiling at me from the corners of her eyes.
“Family heirloom?” Our new petite neighbor flipped the plate over again and sat it down gently.
“No, not really.” Mom looked at me for help. “Well, it’s a rather long and somewhat-complicated story.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed.
“Well...” The little peculiar woman with half a coat of lipstick tilted her head and smiled. “I know it sounds a little ambiguous coming from a little old, wrinkled woman, but I have nothing but time. Do tell.”
I got up and grabbed a new load of cookies and placed a new one on the not-so-much-of-a-family-heirloom plate.
“Thanks, dear.” Mrs. Johnson placed her little gnarled hand on top of mine and smiled.
I sat down next to Mom with the plate of cookies, and for the next couple of hours, we took turns telling Mrs. Johnson all about our last two weeks of time traveling—beginning with Dad’s British asshole remark, and how that had caused us to move all the way to the Pacific Northwest and white men in white socks, to how we mysteriously lost our peanut butter sandwiches—not to mention our entire former life—somewhere between Connecticut and Washington.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Johnson said, looking genuinely concerned, when she learned about the missing load, “Oh my.” (That seemed to be her reaction to everything we said.)
“Yes, oh my ass indeed,” Mom said back and nodded her head.
I smiled and looked at Mrs. Johnson. She was nodding her head, smiling. A Freudian slip, I guess my teacher Miss Kim, would have said without much effort. I leaned back and listened to Mom’s soothing voice. She was almost up to date, describing the day she came home from Target—going straight for the piano in the shed with Dad right behind her. And right at that very moment, I could just imagine myself down the line—many years from now—sitting somewhere at a dinner table entertaining people with this unbelievable story. It was predestined to become yet another Jensen family favorite—criteria being a story too wacky to be true.
“Isn’t it far out? I mean, can you actually believe this?” Mom looked at Mrs. Johnson with a pair of raised eyebrows and leaned back.
“No,” Mrs. Johnson replied and looked like she really meant it.
I glanced over at Mom who was almost blushing. Was she thinking what I was thinking? That if our stuff never returned, would we always have to explain every single time we brought out the china and handmade lemonade glasses. Every time we sat on the antique sofas with the matchy-matchy pillows, played the piano, or hung out in the old hammock out front? Would people feel sorry for us or would they think that we were nuts, or even worse? Lying?
Mom looked at me with a what-the-heck-smile and then she grabbed another cookie and turned back to Mrs. Johnson. “I know,” she said, with half a cookie in her mouth. “As I said, it seems too weird to be true. But there you have it. Welcome to the weird world of the Jensen’s.” She wrapped her arm around me and threw her head back, laughing. She stopped to take in Mrs. Johnson’s reaction. Then for some reason she added in a determined voice, “We didn’t really have a choice,” as if she needed to defend us.
“Of course, you didn’t.” Mrs. Johnson looked at me with a genuine smile, just like Grandma.
Mom relaxed and leaned back in her seat again. “Now you tell us about you, Miss, eh, Charles. Where are you from? Why Seattle?”
“Yes, why would anyone pick Seattle?” I asked, having an instant flashback to that exact moment when Dad had dropped the Seattle-bomb.
Mom shook her head and said, “Ah, she’s a teenager and she doesn’t like the rain. She’s a California girl.”
“I am?” I looked at Mom. “But we never lived in California.”
“Actually, we did. You were four. We only lived there for about three months. Can’t remember why,” she said, looking up at the ceiling, “but something came up ... something that had to do with Dad’s job.” She looked at me and smiled.
“Aha. Big surprise!” I raised my eyebrows at her and nodded.
Mom gave me “the look” and continued. “Now tell us. What made you move to Seattle?”
Mrs. Johnson had finally finished her cookie (we’d already polished off the other dozen), and while she gently took off her glasses and wiped them on her Cashmere cardigan, she told us, “I have actually lived here all my life.” She paused and looked out of the window, her face adopting a lost expression—like she was somewhere else, maybe flipping through her catalog of memories.
Mom kicked me under the table and nodded at the teapot on the stove next to me.
“Anyone want more tea?” I suggested on behalf of Mom.
“Maybe I should have some tea now,” Mom said, looking into her empty coffee cup. “Coffee sometimes makes me a little wired.”
Sarcasm thick in my voice, I said, “Really?” and reached for the pot. Again, Mom kicked me under the table.
“Yes, really,” she said, mocking my voice.
“Yes, please,” Mrs. Johnson said, holding out her cup. “You see, I actually like the rain,” she continued, her eyes fixed on me. She explained how she had moved from a bigger house about an hour away, when her belated husband, Georgie, “rest his soul,” had died. “We sold the house a month before he died of cancer,” she said—cancer merely said as a whisper, which made me wonder why especially women always whisper when it comes to talking about the more socially challenging themes like “cancer,” or “she had some work done,” or “her husband left her for a younger woman,” or “he’s gay.” Maybe they reason that it won’t happen to them if they shut up
about it? Or maybe less is more?
Anyway, Mrs. Johnson told us how George, before he had died had made sure that all the paperwork was ready, so that she never had to worry about anything. “You see, I was never good with numbers. I’m an old English teacher, you know.”
We didn’t, but there was just something about her that gave it away.
“He said he wanted to take that off my shoulders. He said he didn’t want me to worry about that, too. Wasn’t that just darling?”
“It certainly was,” Mom agreed, nodding her head and going for her eighth cookie.
“He took such good care of me and look at me now: I run around in the yard like a stray cat not knowing what to cut and what not to cut. Besides a few simple cakes, cupcakes, and pies, I really can’t cook. See, that was Georgie's special thing. I don’t even know how to drive my own car. Well, I do of course know how to drive, but I haven’t been driving since... since... since...” She started counting with her fingers. “Since Eisenhower!” she said, staring at a spot on the wall. “Oh my!” she added with a startled voice.
“Mom?” I looked at Mom for help. I was never good with presidents either. I have a particular problem with the middle section, starting from Abraham Lincoln all the way up to Roosevelt.
Mom placed a hand on her hip and looked at me like she was sizing me up. “I thought you were the one just out of school?” she said sarcastically. She turned toward Mrs. Johnson. “That must be what? Late fifties? Early sixties?”
“From fifty-three to sixty-one! He was the thirty-fourth president. I used to be an English teacher, you know.”
Mom and I nodded and smiled politely, exchanging a knowing glance about the repeat of Mr. Johnson’s words.
“Well, if you ever need something,” Mom offered, “I mean when I go to the store or something... I go almost every other day and it wouldn’t be any problem. I can get your stuff, or you can even come with me, or we can take your car.”
“My car? Oh dear,” Mrs. Johnson placed her little hand on top of her chest. “Do you know how to drive a manual?”
“No,” Mom said, shaking her head.
“You?” the little woman pointed at me.
“No,” I managed to say, mouth full of little chocolate chip lava bombs.
“Frank can drive,” Mom said and nodded her head.
“Frank?” Mrs. Johnson gave Mom a curious stare over the top of her glasses.
“My husband,” Mom explained.
“Elvis,” I added.
“Oh, I see. That’s wonderful,” she said, beaming and clapping her tiny hands together.
“Speaking of the devil,” Mom said and nodded toward the hallway as we heard someone slam the door.
“Ah, sweet Seattle summer drizzle. Our first. Isn’t it romantic?” Dad yelled from the hallway, not realizing that he had just hung his coat on a giant pitchfork. He walked over to Mom and kissed her on her head. Then he sat down at the chair next to me and kissed me on the cheek. He leaned back and stretched his arms high up in the air. “I see you have been cooking with chocolate again. Any left?” He looked at Mom and her chocolate-covered blouse and smiled.
“Of course, we saved some for you,” Mrs. Johnson replied, making Dad jump in his seat, “and they are delicious.” She leaned over and looked at Dad, smiling.
Poor Dad, I thought as I snickered inside. I guess he hadn’t noticed her right away. Slowly and with a firm grip on the armrest, he leaned over and looked at her, biting down on his lip, smiling. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize we had company. How rude of me. Miss—?”
Mrs. Johnson stood up, which didn’t really make her any taller. “Well, as you can see, it’s pretty easy to miss me. Happens to me all the time,” she said with a small smile.
Dad looked at me, then Mom, then at the tiny woman now standing right in front of him offering her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte Johnson but do call me Charles. Everyone else does.”
Mom and I giggled a bit about her repetition, not making fun of her, but delighted and amused by her charm. Dad made a move to get up but then decided, I guess, that it would be more polite to sit down again. He reached out and shook her tiny hand. “I’m—”
“—Frank,” she interrupted, “I know all about you, Frank,” she lied and looked at him from head to toe. “The girls in this house adore you, and I can see why,” she teased.
Dad let go of the little hand and looked at her. I could almost swear he was blushing. He turned to me and Mom and smiled. “You sure know how to make some nice new friends, huh.”
“I know,” Mrs. Johnson said and smiled even bigger.
“Well, well,” Dad said and started to untie his shoes. “Guess who’s coming for dinner?” He looked up and smiled at Charles.
“Excellent idea!” she said in a chirpy voice. “On one condition. I’m making dessert—chocolate pudding with dark-chocolate cream on top.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s my favorite.” Dad dropped his shoes on the floor and looked at Mom.
“I know,” Mrs. Johnson lied again. She turned toward me and Mom and winked. “As I said, I know all about you, Frank ... Elvis.”
Rule-breaking rules
It was almost midnight when I tiptoed to the kitchen in search of leftover cookies. After eating Mrs. Johnson’s pudding—cream meets chocolate meets butter—not even Dad had been able to squeeze in another bite earlier that night (or at least that’s what he said; his eyes sure said yes, but Mom’s eyes definitely said no). But he had never looked happier, and he invited her back for Sunday night dinner.
I reached for a cookie when I heard footsteps on the staircase. “Shit,” I announced to the room, thinking about the mailbox in the middle of my bedroom floor. Did I close the door behind me?
Mom appeared in the hallway.
“Oh boy,” she said as she stepped inside the kitchen with a smile. “You look like someone caught red-handed.”
In a somewhat shaky voice I asked, “What?” My heart was pounding. Did she see the mailbox and the letters? My hands were damp with sweat.
“Well, yeah!” She smiled and pointed at me, “I mean you literally got caught with your hands in the cookie jar, bunny.”
I looked down at my palms all sweaty and covered in chocolate-chip cookie crumbles. A wave of relief washed over me. With a less-trembling-but-still-weird voice I said, “Oh, yeah.” Get it together now, girl. It’s only cookies. She doesn’t know about the letters.
“Are you okay?” Mom leaned up against the fridge and crossed her arms.
“Sure ... yes. Just couldn’t really sleep.”
“Me too.” She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured herself some water. “I think the million-calorie pudding is making my stomach go all nuts. I can’t believe you are even thinking about cookies now.”
“Well, I didn’t eat that much. Dad, on the other hand...” I smiled and pulled my hands out of the cookie jar.
“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes and yawned. “Well, don’t get to bed too late,” she said on her way out.
“I won’t.” I grabbed two cookies and placed them in the microwave and got out my new favorite cup. Among all the “new” kitchen stuff, I had found this old Indiana Jones coffee cup. It was definitely the work of some kid. It said, “Mom’s Holy Grail” and had a simple drawing on it of someone who was supposed to be Indiana Jones, I figured. I turned it upside down. It said 1982. It was older than me and still it looked almost brand new—like it had never seen the inside of a dishwasher. I looked at the drawing and the words and smiled at the thought of all the early mornings this particular cup had put a smile on someone’s face. And for a moment I was back in our old kitchen with Mom, drinking her coffee out of the cup I had made for her in kindergarten. It was covered with little heart-shaped ladybugs and it said, “Happy Mother’s Day to the best Mom in the world.” Of course, it was gone now—together with all the other stuff, all the other memories.
I was just
about to pour the water in the Holy Grail when I heard her.
“Eleanor. Eleanor, you come right here.”
Shit, she used my full name. I left the cup—and memories of the best Mom in the world—behind and walked down the hallway, my heart pounding with each step.
She was sitting on my bedroom floor by the ugly lamp, the mailbox in her lap. She looked up when she heard the sound of my reluctant steps. Her eyes were dark, and her jaws were clenched.
“Eleanor, which part of Dad’s ‘we are not going to sit here and read about someone else’s very private life like some gossip-starved bitches’ didn’t you understand?”
I took another step toward her and swallowed hard.
“Well, kind of everything, I guess, though Dad didn’t use the word bitch, I think.” I looked at her with a nervous smile.
“Don’t you get smart with me, young lady! I’m waiting.” She crossed her arms, still looking at me without blinking.
I sat down next to her and picked up a few letters, my heart pounding even harder now.
“Mom, I didn’t mean to. I mean, I found the box and I was just going to read that one letter. That was it. Just one more letter to find out where Frederick had gone. I swear.”
Her voice was still firm as she asked, “And then what?”
“Well, I kinda got, eh... I know it sounds a little dramatic, but I felt so drawn to Martha and Frederick. I just couldn’t help myself. The letters are wonderful, so full of love and life, and then Martha started sharing her feelings about... about...”
Her tone softened, just a little. “About what?”
My eyes shifted downward to the mailbox. “Apparently, they’d been trying to make a baby for a long time and I got curious, I guess, and so I had to read just one more and one more and then I—”
“—Enough about you,” Mom said, cutting me off. “So, what happens?” She looked up. Her arms had taken a friendlier position—now resting on top of the Victorian style mailbox.
“But I thought... I mean... what you just said about...”
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 7