Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  But there you have it. I saw the queen in the middle of the day, in the middle of Copenhagen. This city really grows on me day by day. Maybe it’s the size of it; it’s small, only about one million people live here. Or maybe it’s the presence of all these old historical buildings. Soeren told me that some of the buildings here are at least four hundred years old. Isn’t that amazing? And you should see some of the old streets and courtyards in the heart of Copenhagen; dark, narrow, brick. It’s almost like stepping into the world of Oliver Twist. I tell you, this city is bursting with history, bursting with stories, fairytales, and myths. You would love it here, my love.

  I still haven’t heard anything about any promotions, but I guess I’ll hear about it if or when it happens. I wish I could kiss you goodnight, or at least call you every night. How I hate the time difference. Tomorrow I’ll get up at 5 am and call you but until then... I love you, and keep that pretty face smiling.

  Love,

  Frederick.

  PS. The postcard shows a picture of Amalienborg. The flag you see on the left side corner is the Danish flag. It’s called “Dannebrog” and it’s supposed to be the oldest national flag in the world.

  My Love, it was so nice to hear your voice on the phone, so nice I could hardly speak. Oh, how I miss you. We had family time today at school.

  Miss T looked up. “Oops. This letter was stuck right behind the letter from Frederick, but it’s a Martha letter. I guess we could call it a night, or now since I’ve already started it...” She looked up.

  “Just read the damn letter,” Mom and I said at the same time, in sync, still lying down next to each other on my bed.

  “Oh my.” Miss T leaned back in the pile of yarn and continued.

  Today, we had family show and tell at school. A lot of the kids still have contact with some of their biological family members and we try to embrace that. Only if it doesn’t make them feel uncomfortable, of course.

  When it was Thomas’s turn, he stood up and said (very loud and clear), “I remember my granddad Albert. He was a very tall and very angry man with a black beard and blue eyes.” And then, oh boy, Thomas sang one of the songs this man had taught him. Not a nice holiday song like “Jingle Bells,” oh no. Instead a song, judging from the words, about one angry old Albert with a contempt for women on top of that. Thomas had no idea what he was singing, I hope, but he will in a few years, and I hope someone will be around to explain to him that the part about being angry and saying stupid things like “whore” and “bitch” (yes, those were some of the words in the song. I stopped him halfway through) are not appropriate to say out loud, let alone sing them.

  When it was my turn to tell them about my family, suddenly I didn’t know what to say. I had memorized the whole thing, of course. You know, about where I grew up, about my parents always leading by a good example, where I went to school, the name of our old dog Dr. Seuss, and of course about you, my lovely husband, and our beautiful wedding and all.

  But right before I was up, I looked at the picture I had brought - the one of all of us, sitting in front of the Christmas tree at Mom and Dad’s house five years ago, all happy faces, holding hands, smiling at the camera, and I realized how much things have changed since then: My lovely husband is so far away, living and working in a country the kids have probably never heard of. My sister has spent her entire life pretty much resenting me. Dad is facing a few long years of sickness and indignity, growing more and more dependent on Mom to take care of him, which is slowly killing her, too.

  And then there’s me, with all the hormonal ups and downs and all the tests and trials and disappointments. I looked at the picture one more time before I quietly tore it up into little pieces and dropped it in the bin. I looked down at all my little kids and took a deep breath. No way could I cry in front of them, but thankfully, I was saved by the bell.

  After work, I went straight to Mom and Dad’s. I guess I just needed to be with them, needed to see him. Dad was actually looking quite good. He sat in the kitchen, watching Dallas. I sat down and had a cup of tea with him, but when Mom left to go feed Helen’s cat next door, my entire world fell apart. Dad looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I know it’s not fair to even say this to you, my beautiful daughter, but every single night I go to bed, I pray to God that I won’t be here in the morning.”

  I didn’t know what to say after that, so I just sat there, listening to what came next. He told me it’s not about the pain or the fact that he can’t enjoy what he used to do. It’s the humiliation, he said. He hates the fact that Mom has to go to the restroom with him, help him with his diaper, has to put clothes on him, occasionally feed him, too. “It would be better for everyone—me, you, and especially Mom—if I wasn’t here anymore. It would be for the best,” he said again.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. My own father sat there, with a cup of tea and Larry Hagman, telling me how much he wants to die.

  But I have thought about it, you know. I even talked with Mom about it one day after Dad had dozed off. I told her that, deep down in my heart, I know (this was before he told me) he would rather go now before it gets worse. No more pain. No more humiliation. No more regrets. She, being the big Catholic and all, refused even to talk about it, but I told her that this is what Dad wants.

  You know Dad, Frederick. He doesn’t want to be remembered as this weak old vegetable, sitting around the Christmas table eating the Christmas decorations, too drugged up or too exhausted to be who he used to be: my dad, Mom’s husband, the boys’ granddad.

  “That happened to Mrs. Smith down the road, you know,” Dad had told me earlier. I nodded. I remember Dad and I had seen her a few years earlier. Mr. Smith pushed her around in a wheelchair, and she was just sitting there all tucked in, staring at me, drooling.

  I remember Dad squeezing my hand hard, and on the way home, he had whispered in my ear, “Never let your mother see me like that, promise, Martha?”

  I had nodded and promised. I never told Mom, though. Dad knows that Mom would never go against God’s will, but would I? Mom says it would be playing God. I say it would be doing the right thing, to give in to Dad’s last wish on earth.

  Well, Mom just looked at me and said she was going to bed, and that I had to be careful not to let the dog out on the way out. I almost yelled back that I couldn’t believe that they still have that little aggressive, ugly old dog, and that maybe somebody should put him to sleep, too.

  But I didn’t. I just kissed her good night and said I would call her in the morning.

  Tomorrow I will get up and put on my happy face and go to work (thank God, I have my job), and then I’ll come home, make myself a nice dinner, and write to you so you can keep me company with my thoughts.

  Thank God I have you right here with me, in my letters. But how I wish you were in my bed too.

  Love,

  Martha.

  PS. I don’t think I can ever watch another episode of Dallas.

  Miss T folded the letter, and then took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “There’s only one more left in this stack,” she said. “It would make perfect sense to-”

  “-Just read it already,” I whispered, still with my eyes closed. I waited for Mom to say something but heard nothing but heavy breathing. I opened one eyes and peeked up at her; she was fast asleep. No matter how late, she had never fallen asleep in the middle of a letter, but lately, she had been complaining about fatigue and not sleeping well. “Probably just my old woman hormones going at it,” she had explained to Dad, when he expressed his concerns one morning.

  “At forty?” Dad had said, frowning.

  She looked so beautiful with her mouth half open like she was about to say something—even in her sleep. I guess she was just really, really tired. Listening to Miss T’s voice sure didn’t help; it was almost like listening to a lullaby—very soothing. Miss T pointed at Mom.

  “Asleep?”

  I nodded.

  “But then,” she said, looking a lit
tle confused, “we should probably wait, right?”

  “No,” I whispered. “Just one more. She won’t mind. I’ll fill her in tomorrow. And I’ll make her coffee.”

  Miss T nodded. She grabbed the last letter and read.

  Martha, my love.

  You know I’m always there, right? Even though I am technically here, so far away. And I’m so sorry I can’t be there right now – be there with you and your family and your Dad. I tried to call him the other day, but your mother said he was asleep. She seemed happy that I called. I promised her I’d come by soon, and guess what? I might (only might) be able to come home in three weeks. There’s this company meeting in New York and I think I might be going and then I could make a roundtrip to Seattle. It would only be for a week or so, but I would spend every single moment with you and your Dad. I’ll call you as soon as I know more about the meeting, but I’ll do anything to be there soon!

  I have enclosed three little things this time. Number one is yet another postcard. It’s an image of one of the Queen’s guards, surrounding the Royal Palace. The guard is called a “garter.” As you can see, they wear a red and white uniform (like the Danish flag) and are known for their huge furry hats. They wear them all year round, even when it’s hot. Can you imagine the temperature under that thing?

  Item number two (the little green box) is a little pre-anniversary gift for the most wonderful wife in the entire world. I know we’re not supposed to buy each other gifts, but when I went browsing downtown yesterday, these beautiful earrings found me and not the other way around. Yes, they’re earrings and they are called “Daisy” (‘Marguerit’ in Danish). They are designed by George Jensen—a famous Danish designer. I’ve been told that even the Queen wears them (her nickname is Daisy). You can open it now. I can’t wait to see them on your pretty little ears.

  Last thing (which is probably squashed by now) is a special little Danish treat, an almond-chocolate bar from Anton Berg. It’s quite popular over here, and I must admit that I have taken a liking to them as well. Hope they sweeten up your day and help you put on your happy smile.

  Lots of love to my queen of Seattle, sitting all alone in her little Amalienborg.

  Frederick.

  Miss T held up a hand to her ear and said with pride in her voice, “Look. Daisies.”

  I sat up and stared at her, and sure enough, there they were: small beautiful earrings in the shape of petite gold and white daisies. Miss T is wearing the same freaking earrings.

  “I got mine from Georgie when he got back from a business trip to Germany years ago. I never knew he went to Denmark as well,” she added.

  “Denmark? Who?” Mom sat up, her curly hair covering her face like heavy drapes.

  “Georgie picked up the exact same earrings for me in Denmark. Look!” Miss T tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled.

  “Earrings?” Mom rubbed her eyes and looked at Miss T.

  “Isn’t it just marvelous? It sure is a small world, right?” She smiled at Mom and wiggled her eyes.

  “Earrings?” Mom said again.

  “Go to bed, Mom. I’ll explain it to you in the morning.”

  “And make you coffee,” Miss T added with a nod.

  “Coffee?” Mom removed the heavy drapes and looked at me. “Did you two read another letter with me dozing off?” She looked at Miss T, who looked straight at me, waiting for me to confess, I guess.

  “We did. Now get up and go to bed, lazy bones.”

  She gave a lethargic nod and stood. “Well,” she yawned and grabbed the cups on the plastic table. “El, fill me in tomorrow, okay? Good night, my favorite child.”

  I kissed her good night. “Will do. Good night, my favorite mom.”

  “Night, Miss T,” Mom whispered as she headed for the door.

  I grabbed the five-gallon Costco sugar-cookie box and followed Miss T to the door.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, glancing up the empty staircase.

  “Sure.” I held out her coat for her.

  “Did you like being an only child?”

  I nodded. “I guess in some ways I hated not having a sister or even a baby brother to nag. In other ways, it was actually pretty cool to have Mom and Dad all to myself. Why?”

  She looked at me like she was searching for words on my forehead. She grabbed her umbrella. “Did your Mom and Dad, um... Why didn’t Abby and Frank ever have any more kids?”

  I looked down at my fuzzy slippers. I wanted to tell her—again—but I wanted her to hear it from Mom. Besides, I wasn’t the one in a position to make or not make any siblings. Why hadn’t she just asked Mom in the first place? I was about to ask her when I realized why. And this time the answer was actually written all over her face. There was a very good reason why she was asking me this question and not Mom. Somehow, she knew. Somehow, she just knew.

  “I figured.” She grabbed my hand. “Poor Abby,” she said, squeezing my hand tight. “The world isn’t always fair, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed and kissed her good night.

  She was right. The world wasn’t always fair, and I could not even begin to imagine what it must have felt like to be Mom, Miss T, or Martha in a world and in a classroom surrounded by so many unwanted babies when all they ever wanted was a baby of their own. And it made me a little sad all over again, but when I looked down the driveway and saw Miss T walking away in her overwhelming poncho, knee-high rain boots, and umbrella, I couldn’t help smiling. If someone was to drive by right now, they would be dazzled by the look of a blue umbrella walking home all by itself. It sure looked bizarre.

  “Good night,” the umbrella yelled through the rain.

  “Good night,” I yelled back.

  The umbrella nodded and turned a corner.

  The paper house

  I woke up with a Post-it note stuck to my forehead. “Didn’t want to wake you up. At Starbucks with my volunteer-Susan,” it said. “Off to work as usual,” followed by a little heart. I ran my finger over the heart.

  It felt like ages, since I had spent an entire day with Dad. The only time we had together was right after dinner, working on my algebra, or going cookie hunting in the pantry. I actually missed him.

  I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Was she already back? I sat up and grabbed my phone. Ten to ten. “Mom? Mom?” I yelled through the closed door. I heard the sound of fast footsteps coming down the hallway, followed by a knock. Why is she knocking?

  “It’s open, Mom,” I yelled, rubbing my eyes.

  Slowly, the door opened.

  “Morning.” It was Miss T. She was wearing a housecoat and slippers.

  “Are you moving in?” I asked, laughing.

  Her eyes shifted toward her feet like she was a bit embarrassed. After a beat, she looked up and smiled. “Bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning, are we?”

  “Not really,” I said, still adjusting my eyes to the light.

  “Hungry?”

  I nodded and reached for my Target slippers. “Like starving.”

  “Excellent. I was making breakfast earlier and I looked up and,” she said, excitement building in her voice, “there was one of those UPS guys at my door. He got the wrong door, though. It was a little package for you.” She raised her perfectly painted eyebrows and nodded toward the kitchen. “Hurry now; get dressed!” she commanded and started walking down the hallway.

  I grabbed my cardigan and sweatpants, and dressed as I followed her and the delicious smell of pancakes down the hallway.

  The dinner table looked like a Hilton buffet—light on veggies and fruit, heavy on carbohydrates.

  “Whoa, Miss T. You actually made all of this?” I sat down and stared at a three-inch-high stack of pancakes right in front of me.

  “And there’s more where that came from.” She turned and flipped a pancake in the air. “Go on, now, open it. It’s from Hans.” She set the pan down and turned around again and clapped her hands silently together.

  “Why didn’t yo
u say so right away?” I reached for the box, my heart pounding before I even touched it.

  “What is it?” She grabbed a chair and pulled it over next to me and sat down.

  “I don’t know.” I looked at the box in my lap. “Not big enough for a Porsche like yours, Miss T.” I smiled, my heart thumping even harder.

  Gently she placed her hand on top of mine. “He took the time to send you something. No matter what it is, this is his way of showing you that he likes you. He wants to see you again.”

  I had told her all about Hans a few nights earlier–not leaving out any detail—about how I had been so afraid to look him straight in the eyes, how I thought my heart would burst out of my chest, how my face became Pinkalicious every time I was near him, how annoyed I was when Susan One flirted with him, and how sad I had felt when he left me, almost breathless, behind.

  In a confident voice she patted my hand and said, “He’ll call.”

  She’s right, I thought, as I removed the tape and tore off the paper. It was some kind of kid’s shoe box. Carefully, I opened the lid and something yellow popped out. I smiled when I realized what it was.

  “What is it?” Miss T asked, leaning over.

  Carefully, I grabbed it from the box and placed it in the palm of my hand. “It’s a pop-up house made out of Post-it notes. He made me a house of Post-it notes, Miss T.” My smile grew even bigger. I looked in the box. There was a Post-it stuck to the bottom of it that read, “Here’s your own brand-new house just waiting to be filled with memories. You can take it with you wherever you go (even in a U-Haul truck). Now you don’t have to be stuck with just a wall in your room.” The handwriting was typical boy—imprecise and all over the place. His h’s were turned upside down. “See,” I said, showing it to Miss T, “How do you like my new house?” I asked with a smile still stuck to my face, suddenly feeling like the luckiest girl in Seattle.

  Confusion evident on her face, she asked, “A Post-it house?”