by S. E. Burr
"I think it's a wonderful idea,” said Dad. “Thank you, Mrs. Nelson, for coming up with it."
The two mothers nodded.
"No problem,” said Mrs. Nelson. “Alright, sounds like a plan. The three of you can just stay in my room each day after third period. I'll ask the cafeteria to deliver your lunches.”
I nodded.
"I won't suspend you," said Mr. Sanchez, "but I do think a cooling off period might be a good idea. He looked at our parents. "Do you think you could take your children home with you? They can return to school tomorrow.
They all agreed. Mrs. Nelson left the room first and then we followed her out. Once we got into the hall, Todd said, “bye,” to his mom and tried to leave. She grabbed his arm.
"I can walk," he said.
“No, you can NOT,” she said. “You're not going to spend all day alone at your father’s house. You're coming to your grandparents' house with me.”
He grunted.
She stepped close to him. “I am still your mother, and you will show me respect, or you’re going to have to deal with me and with your uncle too.”
He gritted his teeth and looked away.
Her voice softened, and she said, “Mijo, Abuelito has been asking for you every day. He's so sad that you haven’t come to see him.”
Todd’s face, which had been red, with anger presumably, paled. He sighed and then nodded.
5
Dr. Harmon and Clarity, and Maria and Todd headed out quickly to their cars. There were some parent-child discussions that needed to take place and the parents, at least, were anxious to get them underway. Audrey and her mom left the school much more slowly. Her mom just didn’t walk fast. Audrey was used to it. Mrs. Ortiz also had a nervous bladder, and they stopped at the bathroom on the way out.
When they finally got to the parking lot and neared their car, they saw that something was wrong. The hood on Maria's car was propped open, and Todd was standing in front of it looking like (or trying to look like) he knew something about cars, which Audrey sincerely doubted. Todd get his designer gloves dirty? Right.
Maria was standing beside him with her phone to her ear, looking annoyed. As they approached, she hung it up angrily. "It's busy!" she said.
"Maria," said Mrs. Ortiz, "Need a ride?"
Todd's eyes widened, and he gave a frantic shake of the head, but his mother ignored him. Smiling gratefully, she said, "Yes, please. No one's answering at home."
Maria's house was in an old section of town, one that Audrey immediately recognized. When she was a small child, before her family had moved away, she had lived near here. It didn’t seem nearly so foreign and strange as the rest of the city. Unlike most of the Organo houses built in a faux Mexican style, these were the real deal. They were small, old, and brightly painted. Many of them had bars over the windows. Maria’s house was a bright blue cinder block one with an arched front porch. As they got out of the car and started up the walk toward the house, an old, gray-haired lady came running out. “Oh Todd, Todd!” she said approaching the car. Her accent was heavy and the way she said his name sounded a bit like “toad.” Audrey smiled to herself. She'd have to consider that as a nickname for him.
“Hi Abuelita,” he said, letting the old woman wrap her arms around his chest in a tight hug. She was more than a foot and a half shorter than him.
“Mama,” said Maria. “You remember Natalie and Audrey.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Natalie, of course,” she said, “And no! You're not Audrey!”
Audrey gave a nervous glance toward Natalie, who was smiling at the little woman.
“Uh, yes I am, Abuela Jimenez. I am Audrey.”
“I know!” said the old lady, “But you can't be. You were muy Chiquita when I saw you last y ya eres mujercita. Well, come in. Come in!” She grabbed Todd by the arm and pulled him toward the house.
“My car broke down,” said Maria, going ahead. “The phone's been busy.”
“Yes,” said Abuela Jimenez, with a chuckle. “Hector's been talking to his girlfriend.”
“What?” said Maria.
Abuela Jimenez just laughed.
As they approached the door, Todd pulled back. “I'll wait out here,” he said, taking a seat on a flower painted bench on the porch.
“Todd,” said Maria warningly.
“Come inside,” said Abuela Jimenez. “Abuelito will want to visit with you.”
“I don’t want to go in there, ” said Todd, ignoring his mother, who was staring daggers at him. “Can’t Abuelo come out here? He likes to sit outside, doesn’t he? I'll visit with him out here.”
“Ay!” Abuela Jimenez said, swatting at him. “Fine.” She went inside, and the others followed.
The house was small and clean with a fresh lemony scent that reminded Audrey of the catatonia center. The front door opened into a kitchen with a Saltillo tile floor and a large handmade wooden table. Abuela Jimenez's son, Hector, stood by the wall talking on a phone with a long curling cord. “Get off the phone!” Abuela scolded him. “We have guests,” and then she sent him to get his father. He went into the living room—the two rooms were separated only by an archway—and then went into a room with a closed door. A moment later he was back pushing his father in a wheelchair. He carefully closed the door behind him.
Audrey could not believe how old Abuelo Jimenez looked. She remembered him as a kind man, who liked to work with his hands. She remembered when he and his two sons, Manuel and Hector, had made the kitchen table. She remembered when he carved little bits of wood into toys for the neighborhood kids. Now his hands were twisted and gnarled. His body was shrunken and stooped, and a tube from an oxygen tank hooked into his nose, helping him to breath.
Abuelo Jimenez signaled Hector to stop when they reached Audrey. “Mi gorda,” he said, and smiled though he had to struggle for breath. It meant fat, but it wasn't mean when he said it. It was full of love just like it had been when she was a little girl.
Looking up into her face, he grabbed onto her arm. It made Audrey a little uncomfortable because he wasn't wearing gloves, but she wasn't going to be rude to him, and she didn't flinch.
“Abuelito,” she answered.
He looked at her for a moment, smiling, and then let go of her arm and signaled for Hector to start pushing his chair again. Hector took him out onto the porch to visit with his grandson.
Maria and Hector left to attend to her car, and Natalie and Audrey sat in the chairs Abuela Jimenez offered them at the kitchen table, drank iced tea, and ate biscochitos. Audrey sat quietly while her mother and Abuela Jimenez talked. Natalie asked how Abuelo Jimenez was doing, and the old woman looked sad. “Not good,” she said. “He has cancer and the tumor's too big to operate. The doctors say there's nothing they can do.”
“I'm so sorry,” said Natalie and Abuela Jimenez nodded.
Audrey heard the soft murmur of Todd's and his grandfather's voices outside, as well as long pauses as Abuelo Jimenez struggled for breath. It was so childish and stupid of Todd to refuse to come in the house. Dust and pollen and all that had to be bad for his grandfather’s breathing. He was such a snob.
Her mother and Abuela Jimenez started talking about cheerier things—recipes—and Audrey's mind wandered. It was so peaceful here, so quiet. She ran her fingers along the grain of the wood in the table. It was such a strong, beautiful table. She remembered hiding under it once when she played hide and seek with Todd and his uncle, Tío Manuel. Manuel was so much fun. He was already a grown up when she'd known him, but he was so full of energy; he played like a child. “Abuela Jimenez,” Audrey said.
The old woman looked at her.
“Where is Manuel?”
The woman's eyes darted to the closed door through which her husband had come. “Why?” she said, her voice strangely tense.
Audrey hesitated, surprised by her reaction. “No reason,” she said.
Abuela Jimenez watched her.
Audrey went on, “I was just remembering a game o
f hide and seek with him when I was little. I was just wondering.”
She smiled, seeming to relax. “Yes,” she said, “Manuel loved to play with the children...He isn't here. He moved away.”
“Oh,” said Audrey. She wanted to ask more but didn't. Clearly, there was something more to the story. Maybe they’d had a fight. Maybe he’d eloped with a woman Abuela Jimenez didn't like.
A few minutes later, Audrey’s mother said, “We must be going,” and the women stood up to say their goodbyes. As they moved toward the door, Audrey was surprised to hear a cough coming from the other room, from behind the closed door.
“The dog,” said Abuela Jimenez. “He has a cold.”
“Oh, I didn't know you had a dog,” said Natalie. “You keep your house so clean.”
“Gracias,” said Abuela Jimenez. “See you later,” and then they were out the door.
Audrey said goodbye to Abuelo Jimenez as they walked past, but she didn't say anything to Todd, nor he to her.
6
On the way home, Dad told me he was concerned about my friendship with Audrey, both because of the fight and because of Andrew’s catatonia. He said he was worried that Andrew might not have been the only member of Benjamy using drugs.
That made me a little mad. “You think Audrey’s tried goblin fruit?” I said.
"No,” he said. “I'm pretty sure Andrew beat her to that one." He sighed and went on. "If anyone ever needed a friend, that girl does. I just want you to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I said.
Then he said, "I know," and that was the end of it. He trusted me.
Early that evening, I sat on the love seat in my living room facing out the front window. My “Goblin Market1" storybook was open on my lap, and I was thinking about what a trusting man Dad was in general. Completely trustworthy himself, he expected the same quality in everyone else. It was a little scary. It made me feel a little protective of him. I was far less trusting of people, and I didn’t want him to be hurt.
As I thought about that, he came into the room and sat down next to me. His hand fisted, so as not to touch me with an open palm, he put his arm around me.
"Hey, kid," he said, looking down at the book. It was open to one of its last pages, a golden-haired woman with a bunch of children, her children, all around her. "You looking at your mom's book again?"
I nodded and read aloud, "Then joining hands to little hands would bid them cling together..." I read silently for a moment, before speaking again. "To lift one when one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands."
I held my hand out in front of my face, opening and closing it. "Did you ever hold hands with anyone?" I asked.
"Many times."
I moved away, staring at him in mock terror. "What?"
He laughed. "It wasn't always so taboo. Before goblin fruit and contamination fears it was seen as innocent, like a kiss on the cheek."
Leaning back into his shoulder, I looked back at my hand. “Tell me about Mom again,” I said, “and about this book, and the night at the hospital.”
He chuckled. “Okay.” He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts and then began the story. "It was the middle of the night, and it was a slow night; the hospital was quiet. I was in the little closet-sized office I had there, working on compiling the data from a study I'd been conducting. It had to do with taste and odor—the way different foods could affect mood. It's an interesting topic. I've continued my studies with our patients here, and it seems —"
I Interrupted him, because if I didn’t, I knew he’d get completely off topic and might not make it back. "I know, Dad,” I said. “Please go on."
"Oh, well, then Anna called me. She was the only nurse on shift in the maternity ward. They'd had some nurses call in, so it was good that it was slow, but she sounded worried. She asked me to come up and check on a patient, and since she was cute, I did."
"What!" I said. "You never mentioned that before."
He laughed. "I'm just kidding. I mean, Anna was cute, but it was a tiny crush. She always only had eyes for Nick. Anyway, technically she was supposed to call Dr. Bell, who was the psychiatrist on call, but he was a crotchety, disagreeable man, and the nurses all tried to avoid him. She called me, and I was glad to get away from the data and statistical computations for a while, so I threw a white coat over my t-shirt and went right up.
She seemed relieved to see me. She told me that the patient had given birth to a baby girl that afternoon, and that everything had been fine with the delivery and that her drug screen had come back clean, but since then the woman had started to act strangely. When Anna was bringing the baby back to her from the nursery, she heard her talking to herself. She sounded frightened, and Anna thought she said, 'go away' but there was no one in the room with her.
Anna led me to the patient's room and through the doorway I saw her. She was asleep, her hair all around her on the pillow, golden like a halo, glowing almost. I recognized her right away, and said her name..."
"Sincerity or Sara?" I asked. I knew the answer, but I liked to hear him say it.
"Sara. She was always Sara to me," he said, and then paused, lost in the memory. I loved this story partly because he loved it, at least this first part. That moment when he saw her again after so many years, he could never tell it without pausing, reliving the moment. It was beautiful.
Finally, he cleared his throat and went on. "Anyway, you better believe that startled Anna. She asked me if I knew her and I said, 'a little, a long time ago.' Then Anna stared at me for a while, but I was too busy staring at Sara to answer, so then she told me that she knew Sara too, that she was an artist, and she'd seen her at some of the art parties she'd gone to with Nick. She said that Sara was a real partier and that she used to date one of Nick’s friends—“
“Marcos,” I said.
He nodded. “Marcos,” he repeated. Anna was married to Nick now, and Marcos was his assistant, driver, and bodyguard. Nick had made mega bucks in his job as a researcher for a pharmaceutical company. As far as I could tell, Anna just worked at the catatonia center because she liked it. If you compared her salary to Nick’s, hers would be like a grain of sand and his would be like the planet earth. Anyway, I’d known Marcos, just like Anna and Nick, pretty much my whole life.
Dad went on. “Anna said that Sara and Marcos had broken up quite a while ago, but that she hadn't seen her around lately, hadn't known she was pregnant..."
"Then what?" I asked.
He laughed. "Then you started to wail. You were in a clear plastic bassinet next to the bed, and you woke your mother up. She picked you up and rocked you, making little shushing noises. 'It's okay, baby. I'm here,' she said, and she stroked your head, your wispy, dark little curls, and smiled as she stared into your eyes."
I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together. This part of the story always made me want to cry.
Dad said, "Anna and I went into the room, and Sara smiled when she saw me. I thought that was encouraging. I wasn't sure whether she'd remember me. Anna offered to take you down to the nursery, told her that the doctor—that's me—”
I laughed. “I know, Dad.”
“—That the doctor wanted to talk to her. Your mom said okay and asked Anna for some more water. There was one of those big plastic hospital cups with the lid and the accordion straw on the rolling tray beside the bed, so Anna took you and the cup and left. She singsonged to you as she carried you out, 'Hello, Clarity, hello. What a pretty baby.'”
As he spoke he stared off into space, again caught up in the story. “I told Sara that Clarity was a beautiful name, but she didn't answer at first. She adjusted the bed with the remote so that she was sitting up. Then she meticulously arranged pillows around herself and smoothed the blanket.”
He smiled. “It brought back memories. Sara always delighted in making people wait. At the group home, she was the slowest counter at hide and seek...”
He chuckled softly. “Finally, she folded her hands on her
stomach and looked at me. She said, 'Thank you. It's like my name, Sincerity, but you know that...” and then she gave me this coy little smile and said, 'Frank.'”
“I was so excited that she remembered me,” he said. “I could never have forgotten her, those green-gold hazel eyes, so familiar. I said I hadn't been sure she'd recognize me since the group home was such a long time ago.
She nodded and said, 'You weren't there very long before you were adopted either.' That was true. I hadn't been there very long, though it seemed like forever, and she was the only thing that made it bearable. She was everyone's friend, always smiling, mischievous, always ready for the next adventure. I thought about her all the time after Grandpa, your grandpa, adopted me, but I never knew what had happened to her.”
He frowned and went on. “The mischief was still there in her eyes and her smile, but there was caution too and fear. I thought that something had scared her since I'd seen her last. Badly. 'What about you?' I asked.
She laughed, a little bitterly, and said that she was in the group home a long time, that she'd aged out. She said I was lucky to have gotten parents.
I looked away. I almost felt a little guilty about my good fortune. I said, 'One parent, singular,' but I told her that she was right. I was lucky to have him.”
He looked at me. “The world is so bizarre sometimes, Clara. It's hard to believe that I was adopted, and she wasn't. She was so beautiful and so kind, everything a parent could want in a child...like you.”
I smiled.
“At least when you're not starting brawls in the school cafeteria,” he said, and I laughed and shoved him in a teasing kind of way.
Continuing the story he told me he’d said, “Clarity's lucky to have you, Sara,” and again she didn't answer at first. She was picking at little bits of fuzz on the blanket. Finally, she stopped, sighed, and said, “I'm all she has, and she's all I have.”
She clenched her hands into fists for a moment before folding them once again over her stomach, and she asked Dad what kind of doctor he was.