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

by Charlotte Roth

  “I didn’t know it was about me,” she said, almost smiling.

  “Well, it sure was a beautiful movie.”

  She nodded and looked up into the sky. “You know every time Georgie and I were apart, he would tell me to look up into the stars. ‘No matter where we go, we will always have the same stars to look at,’ he used to say.” She paused and took in a breath of air. “After he died, I would sit and watch the stars all night. It was a great comfort. It was.” She looked at me with a look in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. “Remember, we’ll always have the stars.”

  “We will,” I assured her and smiled even though I suddenly felt overwhelmed by a feeling of loss. I tossed the big black bag over my shoulder and started to walk again. “Whew, sure some serious words on a Monday night, for sure,” I echoed.

  She nodded. “You know, you kinda remind me of that little chubby boy in a way.”

  “Well, gee, thanks.” I turned around and squinted my eyes at her.

  “Not the way you look, silly, but the way he eventually makes the old man feel. He gets to him, like you get to this old one.” She slowed down and reached for my hand, and all of a sudden I felt like I was back in the movie theater, back in row three, trying to hold it back, holding on to the comforting hand next to me, only this time it was Miss T’s. I bit down on my lip and nodded.

  “And you sure remind me of the old guy, minus a few tennis balls and balloons.” I smiled.

  “Ella,” she said, again with that look in her eyes, “don’t worry. You’ll be all right. You and your mom, you will both be just fine. Trust me. I know. I just know.” She stopped walking again. “I love you, Miss C,” she whispered, looking up at me with a serious face.

  “I love you too, Miss T.” I leaned down and kissed her on her cold little chin. “You too,” I said and looked at Harvey Keitel, sleeping comfortably on Miss T’s left arm.

  She nodded and wiped away a silent tear in her eye. “And I’ll miss you, Miss C.”

  “Me too, Miss T.” I dropped the bag on the ground and wrapped my arms around the both of them. “Have a safe trip,” I whispered and squeezed her tight. And there it was again: that sad feeling of loss. Why was it so hard to say goodbye? She was only going to Austin for a week, not freaking Denmark for four years. I stepped back and looked at her and smiled.

  “Say hi to your sister,” I teased.

  She rolled her eyes and handed me Keitel and smiled. “Now, go tell your mom.” She looked up at the house. “And don’t forget to feed him in the morning. And sing for him in the evening.”

  “Sing?”

  “Yes, sing,” she said as she slowly started walking away backwards.

  “Sing?” I asked a little louder, making Keitel turn in his sleep.

  “‘There’s no time like the present’,” she yelled as she turned around and started to walk.

  “What?” I yelled into the night.

  “It’s the name of the song. It’s an old Fred Astaire song,” she yelled from behind the trees. “It’s his favorite.”

  “Oh,” I yelled back, “I’ll sing.”

  “Marvelous,” she replied in a sing-song voice, and then she was out of sight.

  I looked up at the house. I could see Mom in the kitchen window, standing by the sink. She appeared to be doing the dishes. I looked down at Keitel. “Here goes nothing. No time like the present, right?” Keitel opened one eye for a second or two and then she went back to sleep. I guess I was on my own. And so, with a heavy bag, a heavy cat, and even heavier steps, I approached the window of opportunity.

  Wine in Rome

  “Girls night in. Woot woot.” Mom was standing by the kitchen table, trying to open up a bottle of Chianti when I opened the door. She was pulling hard at the cork, her head turning all red. “Girls. Night. In,” she repeated, pulling hard at the same time.

  “Girls night in could sure use a strong man from the outside, I see.” I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down with Keitel in my lap.

  She smiled and nodded at the wine bottle between her thighs. “Where have you been all day? I have called you ten times. I was beginning to get a little worried, you know. Especially with Miss T driving.” She set the bottle down on the counter.

  “Around,” I said in a casual tone. “And look. We have a houseguest now.” I ran my fingers through Harvey’s tail.

  “Austin?”

  I nodded.

  “She told me a few days ago. That sister sure sounds awful.” She looked at the bottle of Chianti and exhaled loudly. “I give up. I can’t. I just can’t.” She leaned up against the table and opened up the top button of her shirt.

  “Come on, Jell-O arm. You can do it. I know you can. We don’t need a man to the rescue.” I bent my elbow and made a fist and kissed my flimsy bicep.

  “Then you give it a try, Rambo.” She grabbed the bottle and handed it over to me and placed a hand on her hip.

  I took a deep breath and pulled as hard as I could, and the cork slipped right out.

  “Huh, impressive, but with me doing all the real hard work on it then...” she said, leaving it to me to finish her sentence. She leaned over and grabbed one of the huge glasses from the cabinet. “Pour!” she demanded.

  “Yes sir!” I got up and poured her a glass.

  “More!” she demanded not even looking at the glass.

  I pointed the bottle at the glass. “But Dad says never to fill it up until there.”

  “Well, Dad’s not home. Besides, he’s not really a wine drinker. He’s more of a beer guy.”

  I cocked my head and smiled. “Maybe because you drink most of it.” I poured a little more.

  “Perfect!” she said, admiring what appeared to be the right amount of wine. She took a huge sip and smiled. “Ah, Chianti.”

  I sat down again and placed the bottle on the table. The label on the back screamed at me with its general warning: “According to the surgeon general women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.” I looked up at Mom. Maybe I should just read it out loud and see where it takes us. Instead I just smiled. “So where is Dad?”

  “Tennis. With Allan, his new tennis pal.” She took another sip and closed her eyes. “Ah, I’m sitting on the top of the Spanish steps in Rome. And I’m eating smoking-hot pizza by the slice from a shop near Piazza Navona.” She opened her eyes and smiled.

  I shook my head and grinned. She always looked so happy when she was having a glass of wine and a slice of imaginary pizza in Rome, and I could easily see why Dad would fall in love with her every time she climbed the famous steps.

  How could I tell her? I leaned back and closed my eyes and put my feet up on the table. They were already starting to feel tight. Why did it have to be so hard? Driving home from Everett, listening to Miss T’s snoring, accompanied by loud acid jazz, I had tried to prepare the whole speech, but nothing sounded right. Maybe I should just come right out and say it without a sugarcoated introduction: “Hey Mom, I’m knocked up, big time.” Maybe not, but sugarcoated or not, I just had to tell her. I had promised Miss T. I had promised myself, and it was such a perfect night, such a perfect opportunity, with Dad out of the house and Mom loaded with Chianti, somewhere in Italy. Would there ever be a more perfect time for me to tell her?

  “Ella. Hello! You here?”

  I looked up. Mom was standing by the stove, cooking something that smelled a lot like Italy. She poured herself another glass of wine and looked at me.

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled, trying to move my feet in little circles. “I was just thinking about Miss T and that whole business with that sister of hers.” And how pregnant I am.

  She nodded. “Uh-huh?” She poured a can of tomatoes into whatever was cooking on the stove. “I guess she’s not a big fan of her.” She grabbed a lid from the cabinet and placed it on the cooking pot.

  “I can’t believe she actually calls her ‘the wicked one.’ At least I never had to worry about that.” Careful
ly, I picked up sleeping Harvey and placed him on the chair next to me.

  “About what?”

  “Having endless fights with some annoying sister.” I got up and grabbed a Sprite from the top shelf and faced Mom.

  “Well, you know what they say: You only fight with the ones you love.” She raised her glass and smiled. “Cheers with the Sprite,” she said with a giggle. “Now can you please go grab me a box of pasta from the pantry?” She nodded in the direction of the pantry.

  “Sure.” I left my Sprite on the counter and turned on the light in the pantry. “What exactly am I looking for?” I stared at about ten shelves of different groceries.

  “It’s supposed to be somewhere among other stuff starting with P,” she yelled trough the pantry door. (Of course, Mom had already organized the pantry by the alphabet.)

  “I know, but am I looking for spaghetti, fettuccine, linguini... what?” I yelled back.

  “Whatever,” she yelled all the way from the stove.

  I grabbed a box of linguini and returned to the Italian cuisine-smelling kitchen. “Isn’t it a little late to make an elaborate dinner? It’s like ... what, eight already?”

  “Almost,” she said with her back to me. She turned around with a big wooden spoon in her mouth. “But I haven’t had a bite to eat since I had a handful of nuts at four.” She took the spoon out and dropped it in the sauce. “I’m starving. How about you? Did you eat?” She leaned up against the counter and reached for her wine glass.

  “No, not really,” I said, suddenly realizing I hadn’t had anything to eat pretty much all day besides a handful of nuts and a few bites of the giant Starbucks cookie.

  “How ‘bout we have TV dinners on the couch? That is, minus the TV, plus the box.” She tilted her head and looked at me smugly.

  “What? You’re not making any sense, Mom. And what’s with the face? Maybe you should go easy on your Italian love drink there.” I pointed at her wine glass. It was almost empty. Again.

  “Don’t blame your slow motor skills on my Italian miracle water. My perceptions are top notch.” She smiled. “But as I was saying,” she said and continued in slow motion, “let’s have dinner in the living room in front of the TV, but instead of TV we take out the magic box of letters. Was that clear enough for you?” She smiled and turned around and emptied—first the box of pasta in the boiling water, then the crystal glass of boiling ideas in her mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and saluted her.

  Seventeen blue elephants in the room

  When the timer went off—announcing dinner was ready to be served—we had already set the coffee table in the true spirit of American TV dinner traditions (minus the TV), and armed with a bowl and a fork each, we settled down for a night of letters.

  I went first, since Mom was too occupied with making love to everything Italian.

  “It says ‘Dear Frederick,’” I informed her. “It’s a Martha letter.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. The ‘dear Frederick’ kind of gave that away, huh?” She winked at me and leaned over and poured herself another glass of wine. “Last one,” she said in a way that made it sound like an apology.

  I nodded and looked at the bottle. It was almost empty. It’s not that I disapprove of Mom and Dad drinking, and it’s not like I’ve ever seen them stupid drunk or anything, but I guess it just always makes me think of Granddad and all those times when both Mom and Grandma would get into fights with him for drinking too much. Mom always ended up crying, and I told myself that when I grew up, I would never have one single drop of the “Devil’s water,” as Grandma calls it.

  I remember one night in particular. I was about ten or so, and I was staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s lake house for the weekend. Grandma had been away most of the day at some event at work, and Grandpa and I had spent most of the day by the lake, swimming, eating pretzels and drinking; sprite for me, beer for grandpa.

  When we returned to the house later that night I remember how startled I got when suddenly Mom came running up to the house, shouting at Grandpa. She was upset, she told me later, that she hadn’t been able to get in touch with us the entire day and she had been worried sick—worried about me at the lake, worried about Grandpa drinking too much. So, she had driven all the way up there after work (it was a three-and-a-half-hour drive). She told me to go grab my stuff and go sit in the car, and I had almost made a scene but the look on her face spoke louder than a teacher’s third warning. This was serious.

  When I got into the car, I silently rolled down the window and listened in on Mom and Grandpa fighting in the kitchen. Mom was accusing him of being in no condition to take care of his little granddaughter and Granddad was accusing her of being overprotective. “I’ve got it covered,” I remember he kept saying. “I’ve got it covered.” Next thing I heard was Mom emptying what I believed to be the bag we had packed for the lake, on the floor. “Thirteen bottles of beer,” she roared, and the next thing I heard was the slamming of the door. I looked up. Mom was running down the steps. Grandpa appeared in the door. “Abigail. Abigail, please! Don’t do this to me. Your mother will kill me, you know it.” Mom didn’t say a word. She just kept walking toward me and the car. When she got to the car, she turned around and flipped the finger. “Cover this!” she said very calmly before she turned to the car, facing me. Of course, at this point, I was pretending to be asleep. She got into the car and after a few of her inhaling and exhaling exercises we drove off, leaving a pair of skid marks on the road. In the corner of my eye, I saw Grandpa sitting on the porch. He had a beer in his hand. After that I didn’t go back there for almost a year.

  I LEANED BACK AND LOOKED at Mom. She was almost lying on the couch, balancing a glass of wine and a bowl of linguini on her belly. She lifted her head and smiled. “What’s with the dramatic long pausing? Special effects?” She sat up and placed the glass and bowl on the coffee table. “Well, I’ve had enough Italian for tonight. You done?”

  I nodded. “It was delicious. I almost made it all the way to the top of the Spanish steps.”

  “It’s a nice feeling, huh?” She smiled. “Well, now let’s move a little further up north.”

  “North?”

  “Of Europe,” she explained like it was common knowledge. “Let’s have some good old English Breakfast tea. Want one, love?” she asked with a misunderstood Irish accent.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling a little relieved. Of course, Mom was having tea. She wasn’t like Grandpa at all, and she never would be. At this point he would probably have knocked down a few tequilas, too.

  “Go on then,” she said and started walking toward the kitchen. “I can hear from here,” she shouted.

  I picked up from the “Dear Frederick” and continued reading in my loudspeaker voice.

  Thanks for understanding. Thanks for your sweet and encouraging words. As I told you last week, this makes me love you even more (if possible). Mom is doing so much better, actually a lot better than I had ever imagined. Here it is three weeks after Dad’s funeral, and she is busy redecorating the house, cleaning up the yard, and even the old barn. She told me that she will take up painting again, and she just looks and seems so much happier, even though I know her loss is almost unbearable. But I guess it’s easier to move on now that Dad is “happy in heaven” as Mom explained to the boys. It’s a good thing she is so strong in her faith.

  I, on the other hand, sometimes feel overwhelmed with guilt thinking about what I have done. Oh lord, I miss Dad so much, but I’m happy that he finally has peace.

  I am busy planning the annual summer camp for the boys. I really wish that Thomas could come along, but he is going to visit his foster dad’s uncle at some lake in Wisconsin. Which reminds me: I can’t remember if I told you, but I went to see him last week, you know, just to check up on things, and the moment I stepped into their house, I still had that feeling that something wasn’t right. When Thomas saw me, he was so happy, he literally dragged me upstairs, where he proudly showed me his
new bedroom with seventeen little blue elephants painted on the walls (yes, we counted, of course).

  “It’s my own bedroom,” he said, showing all of his missing teeth. I sat down on my knees and looked at him. There was so much I wanted to tell him about school, about his friends, about summer camp, but the foster dad, Matthew, a big guy with heavy sideburns and a heavy breath of beer, was standing in the doorway the whole time, almost breathing (beer) down my neck. “It’s the most elephantastic bedroom I have ever seen,” I told Thomas, which made him laugh. I pulled him into a hug and kissed him gently on his head. He smelled so good. With my arms wrapped around him, I realized how much I have missed him, and of course I had to hold back those tears.

  He looked at up me with his clear-blue eyes. “It’s my own bedroom,” he repeated. “My first ever,” he added. Oh, Frederick, it almost broke my heart. Well, we got up and walked hand in hand down the stairs (still with the foster dad right behind me, this time literally breathing down my neck) where I was invited to stay for dinner. I lied and said I had to be somewhere else.

  “But I’ll be back soon,” I promised Thomas when I was about to leave. I could tell he was really upset, even though he was trying very hard not to show it. He said goodbye so quickly and left the doorstep before I could even give him another hug or say goodbye. As I watched him run all the way up the stairs, I couldn’t help feeling like I was just another grownup disappearing from his life. And even though I had a weird feeling, especially about the dad, I really hope that this time it will all work out for him. He sure could use a break from going from foster family to foster family.

  Where is all of this going, I know you’re thinking right about now. Well, this evening something happened, something that changed everything, and me, forever. As I got home tonight, some store manager called from Bartell’s in West Seattle concerning a girl they had caught shoplifting. She refused to give out her full name, but in her bag (he had confiscated the bag with the stolen items) he had found a children’s drawing made on one of our official papers, and they wanted to know if it was one of our old kids. I told him we had never had a Louise-Monique (I sure would remember a name like that) but if he thought I could be of any help, I would be more than happy to drive down there and have a word with her. He said he would really appreciate that, since he didn’t want to involve the police. He just wanted to get in contact with her parents, but he had absolutely no idea (or patience, as I learned later) how to deal with teenagers, he said.