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

by Charlotte Roth

Mom leaned over and handed me a Kleenex (her new accessory these days). “Here you go, little feet.”

  “Thanks, big feet,” I whispered and blew my nose. I looked down at Frederick’s words again and I felt like someone had placed a five-pound brick on top of my chest. “Mom, don’t you find it a little weird?”

  She looked at me like I was made out of cheese. “Weird? How is it weird? It’s fantastic!”

  “No, I mean, here I am, pregnant, in Seattle, reading a letter from some random guy from the eighties who describes—in the most beautiful way—how it feels to love a child ... and then there’s the whole infertility stuff, and then Miss T’s earrings and ... it’s kinda freaky!” I looked at the words again and shivered.

  “I know.” She nodded “That’s how I felt the first time you read one of Martha’s letters to me, remember?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded. Too close to home were the exact words she had used to describe how she felt. She was right: It was too freaking close to home.

  “It just shows how we’re all connected: you, me, Miss T, Martha, and Frederick. We’re all connected,” she said again, and then she did something I was totally unprepared for. She placed her right hand on top of my belly, which automatically made me jump back. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly removing her hand when she saw the look on my face. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to...”

  “It’s okay,” I reassured her, lying through my almost-chattering teeth. I was so not prepared for that. I mean, that was something you did to really, really pregnant women, not to a seven-week—give or take—pregnant teenage girl. I took a deep breath and glanced down at my flat belly. Even though I had come to terms with me being pregnant, I was still preparing myself to deal with the actual physical changes that my body would be going through. One step at a time. So far, I had written down a list of things to do, like buy folic acid and sign up for one of those online weekly calendars where you can see the development of the fetus week-by-week. (Searching the Internet that same morning I had come across an interview with Tori Spelling, all of people, and that had been her best go-to tip. Great, I thought as I was writing it down, I was taking pregnancy advice from a retired 90201 star!). I had also made a list of things not to do, like don’t read or look at pictures of stretch marks, big protruding belly bottoms, big fat milky breasts, and last, but not least, no pictures or YouTube videos of hysterical women giving birth.

  “It’s okay. I just didn’t see that coming at all. I guess it’s still a little awkward for me,” I said, looking down at my belly. When would people be able to tell? When would I officially become the pregnant teenage girl? I looked up at Mom. How would she feel walking next to me?

  “I understand, baby.” She moved an inch closer and placed a big kiss on my forehead. “You just need some time to adjust. It’s perfectly normal. So did I.” She leaned all the way back and closed her eyes. “Go on then, read another letter, pumpkin,” she whispered, “whenever you’re ready.”

  I nodded and grabbed the letter. I was more than ready to go back to the eighties once again, though this time I was still stuck with a clear image of me with a big fat belly in this century.

  Dear Frederick,

  I’m rearranging the house. I didn’t like the idea of us sleeping on the second floor with Thomas all alone on the ground floor, so we’ve spent all morning moving the master bedroom furniture to the room right off the kitchen. I spent half the day on Wednesday looking at wallpaper, and I picked out this nice floral wallpaper for our room. It might be a bit too much for you (hippie flower power, you would probably say), but I figured it must feel absolutely lovely to wake up in a room full of flowers (now, when I see this in writing, you may be right. There may be way too much hippie written all over the walls, but I do like it.) I have chosen a light blue color for Thomas’s room. I have purposely not chosen a wallpaper with any kind of animals (let alone elephants). I don’t want his room to resemble anything from that terrible house. I tell you, I still get sick to my stomach just thinking about that man and that cigarette-smoking wife of his, but it also makes me quite sad.

  People like them need so much help, but they are often the ones most unlikely to get it. The world isn’t fair to a lot of people, and it breaks my heart.

  Anyway, I had a one-on-one with Ann on Wednesday (before I went all flower power), and she asked me if I would like to be in charge of the Bear Room next year (yet another class of students who all have been traumatized in some way or another). I said I would love to. I will be working with two other teachers: Sara and PJ (short for Penelope Joyce). I had them over for dinner last night, and we had so much fun and so much good wine too.

  Sue is married to Steve, a local gardener who works at a nursery in Woodinville, and PJ is dating someone. She didn’t say who and I think I know why. I think she’s gay, and I think it’s so sad she doesn’t feel that she can tell us. How can loving someone still be a taboo? I’m afraid we still have long way to go.

  Anyway, we had such a fun evening and I’m very excited about us working closely together. I know we’ll make the Bear Room such a good place to be. And I know we’ll get along. It’s so important for the kids to see that the grownups like and respect each other, too. They are not used to seeing this (on the contrary). “Action speaks louder than words,” as Dad, bless his soul, always used to say.

  Oh, Frederick, speaking of blessed: Every single day I wake up and open my eyes I feel so blessed—blessed with my job, with you, my darling husband, and of course Thomas. He asks a lot about you and when you’ll be home. I have explained to him that you won’t be back for a long, long time, but that we might, just might, go to visit you in Denmark. He says he would love that. He has never been on an airplane before.

  Now, it’s all he ever talks about, so I guess we have to go now (even though it’s going to cost us one-third of our savings, but I know it will be worth every penny). I talked with Ann the other day, and she said it wouldn’t be a problem for me to go, so now I guess I have to start looking at airline tickets.

  Are you sure it’s okay with Miss-what’s-her-name that we stay with you all ten days? Oh, I can’t wait to see the castle and the little mermaid, and I can’t wait to go to that old amusement park with you and Thomas. Hello, Denmark; here we come!

  Miss you like crazy.

  M and T.

  “Wow, they are actually going to Denmark!”

  Mom sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Denmark, huh,” she said, followed by a big yawn.

  “Here’s to Denmark.” I raised my big glass of organic, fortified OJ at her and smiled.

  “And to Thomas going on an airplane for the very first time.” She reached for her cold cup of tea and took a sip, making a face as she chugged it down.

  “We should definitely go one day, too.” I peeked at her through the tinted glass. “You always said we would.”

  She nodded. “I know, and we should. I mean, we will. You know what? I promise you: We are going to Denmark this very spring even if it means I have to beg Grandma for money to do it. This spring. Non-negotiable!” She tucked a few stray curls behind her ear and looked at me. Her curly hair had really been working against her lately; it was like all the curls were going in totally opposite directions, which almost made it look like they had been glued onto her head. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “What?” she said, shaking her head slightly, making the curls bounce up and down.

  “It’s just ... your hair. What’s up with the hairdo, Mom?”

  “I know! It’s been crazy for the last couple of weeks. It’s like it suddenly has a life of its own. I don’t know what to do with it.” She wiggled her head and smiled. “Anyhow, let’s tell Dad tomorrow about Denmark and spring, okay?”

  “We could,” I said suddenly realizing why that non-negotiable thing wouldn’t work out, “but then I also would have to explain to him why I can’t go.” I’ll be having a baby, for crying out loud.

  “What? But you just said that-�
� she stopped mid-sentence and nodded. “Oh. I forgot for a moment there. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, I did too, actually. It’s weird having to think like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I know what’s happening, like, a half a year from now but still I can’t—even in my wildest dreams—imagine what it’s going to be like.” I glanced down at my perfectly flat belly again. How in the hell could you prepare yourself for something like this? I mean could anyone, teenager or not?

  “No one can, really, “Mom said, shaking her head, “not until that very special moment when you have this tiny little being in your hands for the very first time. And at that moment, you’ll know exactly what to do and what to feel. At that moment you’ll find peace. It’s how nature works.” She smiled.

  I looked up into the dark night, at nature. It looked anything but peaceful. It actually looked a lot more like a battlefield up there with a large number of wet autumn leaves and small branches falling onto the skylight window. Mom made it sound so easy, but what if I wouldn’t feel it? What if I took one look at “it” and felt nothing but numb?

  “Nature, huh?” I said, watching nature coming right at me from above.

  “Yes, nature! And I know it sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. You know,” she said, like she had her mind somewhere else. “Grandma was only one year older than you are, when she had me. And I was not that much older either. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Maybe not the end of the world, but those extra years sure had made a world of difference; she had been in her twenties and thus over-qualified for the teen pregnancy category. And she had had her baby’s father involved.

  “Well maybe not, but you at least had Dad!”

  “True,” she agreed, still looking a little absent-minded. “But so do you. And me on top of him, I mean on top of that. You know what I mean.” She couldn’t help smiling.

  “Great, Mom, I have you pictured on top of Dad. Brilliant!”

  “But, seriously, you do,” she said, staring at me. “You do,” she repeated, intensifying the stare.

  “I know, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me, and I promise I’ll tell Dad. Soon.” I took a deep breath and nodded with my eyes closed. How am I going to tell him? Will I ever be Daddy’s little girl again after a blow like this?

  Mom looked at me like she knew what I was thinking. She smiled and said, “You know, it’s okay to wait until you feel it’s the right time. I did, remember? Like sixteen years.”

  I nodded. “Little feet very well remember,” I said, trying to imitate Dad’s Yoda voice, thinking at the same time that there was no way in hell Yoda’s Jedi parents could have loved the sound of his ugly little claw-like feet coming down the hallway in the morning. Poor Yoda.

  “Speaking of feet. I think it’s time for these big ol’ ugly worn-out feet to go to bed. I’m so tired these days. I think it’s all the gray. Fall is getting to me, I guess.” She yawned and kissed me on the top of my head. “Good night, baby,” she whispered as she stood up. She looked down at all the mess we had made and sighed as she ran a hand through her stubborn, curly hair. “I can’t,” she whined.

  “Go to bed,” I demanded. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks, honey.” She headed for the door and started tiptoeing up the stairs.

  “Good night, Mom,” I whispered, already heading for the kitchen with my hands full.

  “By the way...” She stopped halfway up the stairs. “I totally forgot, but some girl called earlier today and asked for you.” She paused to display the longest yawn ever seen on a staircase. “I can’t remember her name, but it was something familiar, something that reminded me of...” She looked up at the ceiling. “Never mind! This girl—whose name I can’t remember at this hour—called, and she sounded a little, um, weird? When I asked if I could give you a message, she said that it was a very private matter between the two of you, but if I could please tell you to check your messages on Facebook. And if I may add, I do know what that is, thank you.” She smiled and yawned at the same time. “And then she asked me to tell you—even though she just said, I couldn’t take a message—that it was on Monday at seven. That’s all. Anyone you know?” She leaned against the wall and rubbed her face.

  For a minute there, I was sure it had to be someone confusing me with someone else. I didn’t really know that many people in Seattle (surprise), and I definitely hadn’t made any plans to hang out with some strange girl on a Monday night. But then it hit me; it could only be one person.

  “Stella!” Mom all of a sudden yelled from the top the staircase. She covered her mouth and looked in the direction of the bedroom. “Oops,” she whispered and stood perfectly still, listening. For a moment, the upstairs snoring stopped, but then we heard Dad turn in his sleep, and the snoring continued.

  “Stella. That was her name.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Stella as in Paul McCartney’s daughter. How could I forget a name like that?”

  I nodded. “I know her.”

  “You know a Stella?”

  I nodded and had her sit down on the staircase while I told her about how I had met her at Starbucks that day I had ambushed Miss T to come along with me. Even though it had only been a few days, it felt like ages ago.

  “Poor thing,” Mom said when I was done.

  I looked down at my feet and nodded. “It doesn’t seem like her mom is around that much. She hasn’t told a single soul. Not even her boyfriend.”

  “What does Monday at seven mean then? Do you think that she... that she...” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. We were both thinking the same thing.

  “I guess,” I said listening to Dad’s snoring, “but I’ll go and find out. Right now!”

  Mom kicked off her slippers and got up. “Please let me know if I can help in any way, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks, Mom,” I said as I watched her tiptoe down the hallway with a pair of slippers in her hand. I turned off the light and hurried back to my room and I grabbed my i-Phone from under my bed, and there it was, only two clicks away. It said, “Going in Monday morning at seven. Will you please come with me? Have no one else. Thanks.”

  Ever since we had dropped her off that afternoon, I had somehow been waiting for this message, but now, finally looking at the exact words, I didn’t feel prepared at all. Was she really going through with it? Just like that?

  I looked at Stella’s profile picture again. She looked so tiny, so fragile, and so young, and I guess she was all of the above. I looked at my own picture. I was sitting in front of our old house in Connecticut, wearing a tank top and a pair of ripped jeans. I was smiling and looking straight at the camera. I was fifteen, just like Stella, but somehow I looked a lot older. “You have the eyes of an old soul,” Grandma always used to say, even when I was just a little girl. Maybe she was right. I looked at Stella again. Right now, old soul or not, I was pretty much her only friend in the whole world. Of course, I would go with her. Besides, how would she even get there? Going to the hospital alone, having done what she was having done, was in itself a pretty tough thing to do. Taking three different buses to get there and back was downright cruel.

  “I’ll be there,” I wrote back to her. I looked at the clock. It was almost one thirty. I guessed she would be fast asleep by now, but only a few minutes later she wrote back.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll never forget what you did for me,” she wrote, adding some kind of heart-shaped smiley I had never seen before. I wrote back to her, asking where exactly we were going. “Evergreen Hospital, the Surgical Center,” she responded immediately, followed by a sad smiley. I was about to ask her why on earth she had to go all the way to Evergreen, when she lived, like, five minutes away from Providence, but then I remembered: In her mom’s profile, (she was one of Stella’s FB friends, and yes, of course, I had looked) it said, “staff at Providence.” I guess I would have chosen a different hospital as well. And from what Stella had told me about her mom
, I would have—if given the chance—chosen a different mom altogether.

  I leaned back on my bed and looked up into the dark night. So what if Mom didn’t have a Facebook profile like all the other cool moms? So what if she didn’t have any sense of style or twenty-first century hair-dos? I always used to envy all those girls who had moms that looked and dressed liked them, talked like them, and would even send text messages on their cool cell phones like them. I thought that was so cool. Mom didn’t even have a cell back then, not until one day when Dad had pretty much forced one in her pocket, after she had spent over three hours on some deserted road with a flat tire.

  I remember one cool mom in particular: Erica’s mom. Her name was Sharon, and she was best friends with Maddie’s mom. She was probably around forty-five but looked like a twenty-two-year-old, and Erica and Sharon actually shared each other’s clothes. I just loved having sleepovers at Erica’s house, where Sharon would paint our toes and fingernails as we sat around on the floor and watched The Gilmore Girls together. And when the show was over, Sharon—who was divorced from Erica’s dad—would fill us in on all the guys she was dating. Just like Lorelei! We absolutely adored her, and when Mom picked me up the next day, I always felt a little embarrassed by her—always showing up in some seventies hippie dress or wearing some soft goofy hat and talking to me like I was a little girl.

  I guess when you are fourteen, you are not that big of a fan of parents like Mom, you know, the sensible type of mom always asking embarrassing questions at parent-teacher conferences, or the free-spirited mom, not the least embarrassed to kiss (as in tongue kissing) with Dad in public in the middle of a traffic light, or the “crazy bitch hippie mom” tearing off all of her clothes before jumping into the lake by the lake house as “God made her.”

  I used to think Sharon was the coolest mom in the world with her straightened blond hair, skinny jeans, and high heels, but looking back now I realized that it takes a lot more than just being popular with the girls (and the boys). Sharon was fun all right with all her dating stories and all, but she wasn’t the kind of mom who would sit up till four am in the morning working on some ridiculous Planet Earth science project or make you heart-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for your trip to the zoo the next morning. She was cool all right, but she was never really there, right under your skin (even when you didn’t think you needed her to be), like Mom.