A couple of hours later, Mom comes back into my room. I am sitting cross-legged on my floor with my eyes closed. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
She waits for me to open my eyes. “I made you some lunch,” she tells me.
“I’m not really hungry,” I tell her, and close my eyes again. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.
I expect her to leave my room. But instead she sits down on the floor next to me. I sigh. Who is this woman? And why won’t she leave me alone?
She waits there until I open my eyes again. Which I do. Because even though I am annoyed, she is my mother. And I know my father will be angry with me for disrespecting her.
“What?” I ask her, in an irritated voice.
“I want to explain everything to you. To tell you things, but I want to do it as a family.” Her voice tightens a bit. I feel the pang as I am reminded aloud of Lizzie’s absence. Even though I feel it all the time, every minute of every day, it hurts so much more to say anything about it aloud. Mom feels it, too; I can see her eyes tear up. But she keeps going.
“I want to talk to you and your father together. I can see you are angry with me and I understand. You have a right to be. Can you wait until tonight and at least hear me out?”
Now I really have no idea who this woman is. My mother never talks like this. Did aliens take over her body in the Arizona desert?
“I guess,” I tell her. She smiles at me. Another real smile.
Then she completely changes the subject. “You were the most incredible baby,” she tells me. “You were so independent. And so smart. You wanted to do everything yourself.You used to say, ‘Me do it.’” She laughs. “It was so cute.You were the most adorable child I had ever seen.You used to make such messes. Into everything. One day you made mud pies, and the next you took apart the pantry. You were head-to-toe covered in flour. You already know that I named your sister after Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of Pride and Prejudice and I named you Jane after her sister, Jane Bennet. But what you don’t know is that by the time you were one year old, I decided I had made a terrible mistake. You were the one who embodied the spirit of the strong-willed, independent Lizzy Bennet, and your sister was more like sweet, compliant Jane.”
She’s right, this is the first time I have ever heard this. I know I’ve heard my mother talk for years about how she always wishes she could be like Elizabeth Bennet. So I think this is the biggest compliment she could give me.
Mom wraps her arms around her legs. “I was so used to everything being perfectly orderly. Everything in its place. And then you came along. I think God sent you to show me the things I had been missing in life. Because when you are trying to make everything perfect, you miss the spontaneity of life. That’s you, Jane. The spark of life.”
I don’t say anything. I am trying to process all of it. I had always thought I was a disappointment after perfect Lizzie. I realize now that I’ve never had the same pressures as Lizzie. Lizzie carried them for me. And maybe the expectation of being perfect like Lizzie wasn’t something my parents ever asked me to do, but was something I forced on myself. Before, I always thought this was because they thought I could never be that perfect, but now I understand that they’ve always seen me for who I am, but that I refused to see myself.
Mom pats my leg gently. Then she stands and is about to leave my room when she notices the crayon drawing on the wall.
“Oh, I remember this,” she says as she steps closer to take a better look. “You and Lizzie drew this together. But she told us you had drawn it all by yourself.Your dad and I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were always in Lizzie’s shadow. So we pretended to believe her. You were so proud of this picture.” Mom touches the picture. She turns and smiles at me before she leaves.
It’s only after she is gone that I realize: she doesn’t smell like cigarettes anymore.
That night, when Dad comes home from work, we all sit down in the living room together. Mom wants to talk to us. I watch them together. To see if they look like people who are getting divorced. We give Mom her scarf. Mom opens it and smiles, then she kisses Dad lightly on the cheek. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for a happy marriage. But it isn’t hostile either.
Dad and I sit side by side on the sofa. Mom sits across from us in one of the armchairs. She has changed into another gauzy tunic. Blue. With matching blue beads. Even when Mom goes bohemian, she’s still matchy-matchy.
Despite all my breathing exercises, my stomach is in knots. I am so afraid my family is going to be broken into even tinier pieces tonight. If they get divorced, who will I live with? Will I have to choose? If Lizzie were here, we could have handled it together. But if Lizzie were still here, I think, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. My palms are hot and my face feels frozen.
“I wanted to talk to you both together,” Mom begins. She takes a deep breath.
Here it comes, I think. I prepare myself for the worst. And it is in that split second that I realize I love my family. I want us to stay together.
“First, I want to apologize. For running away. And leaving both of you here to fend for yourselves. It wasn’t right of me to do that.”
Mom looks directly at me. “And I can understand if you’re resentful or angry. Because I would be, too.”
Then she looks at Dad. “I needed some time to reflect on things. On me. And I couldn’t do it here. Where . . .” Her voice suddenly falters. We know what she is trying not to say: where Lizzie killed herself. “That’s why I tried to clean the room. It was just to help clear my head. I’m sorry if that upset you.” She says this last part to me.
“I just wanted to tell you both that I am so sorry,” she tells us. “It’s all my fault.” Her tears start to flow, and she is bawling. But she’s not trying to hide it from me and Dad. She’s out there in the open.
Dad reaches forward and envelops her in his arms immediately. He kisses her hair, the top of her head. “Shhh, shhh,” he is whispering to her. “We’d both change things if we could.To bring her back. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I said those things to you.”
I start to cry. I have no idea what is going on.
Mom reaches out and grabs me tight. She brings me into their hug. Now I am mushed between them.
Finally, Mom lets go and brushes her tears away.
Dad takes Mom’s face in his hands. Now he’s crying. “I love you, Catherine. I thought I lost you, too.” Then he kisses her.
I have never seen them kiss on the lips before. It freaks me out. I have to look away. But then I peek back. Just for a second. I have to admit that it does feel good to see your parents loving each other. Especially when you thought they were probably getting a divorce.
Then Mom places her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes are the deepest blue. “We are going to get through this. All of us.”
I nod. “I love you,” she tells me. I reach out and hug her. Tight. Probably tighter than I’ve ever hugged anybody in my life. And she hugs me back.
Then Dad hugs me. And I hug him back. And that’s about all the touchiness the Holden family can handle.
“Anyone hungry?” Mom asks.
I don’t know if we’re hungry. But we all go in anyway. And we sit at the table. As a family. With three places instead of four. And even though we all notice, we try to come together and share our memories instead of pretending we feel nothing.
Chapter 17
Mom invites Ethel, Hunter, Hunter’s grandparents, Zoe and Misty and their families over for an end-of-summer party. Mom buys me a new bathing suit for the occasion. It’s an aqua one-piece with three straps across the back and sparkly flowers across the top. For once, I actually like sparkles.
I help Mom make her famous chili and corn bread. Dad decorates the yard with twinkle lights. Ethel brings chocolate cream pies. We go swimming and eat by the pool.
Ethel wears a purple bathing suit with an attached skirt. Complete with matching purple bathing cap. She dives in right away. So does K
ona. For a Holden family gathering, it goes pretty well. We all chat and share stories about our summer vacations.
After she dries off, Ethel presents me with an invitation to her upcoming rose show.
“I was wondering if you would like to come as my photographer,” she says. “I think there are some other folks there who might like you to take photos of their flowers. But none of ’em are as gorgeous as mine,” she adds.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’d love to come.”
“And my neighbor Millie, across the street, would like to call you as well. She shows beagles. And she’d like to hire you to take pictures of her pooches.”
I grin. I guess I have some experience shooting dogs.
I take photographs to remember the day. Mom laughing. Dee and Dum side by side eating corn on the cob. Kona shaking her wet fur. Zoe and Misty, heads close together, sharing secrets. Ethel in all her purple glory. Mom and Dad’s hands, linked together. Hunter, looking at me.
After dinner, Hunter and I take Kona for a walk and I get my second kiss. It sends little butterflies dancing all over my stomach again. I can’t stop smiling. Hunter holds my hand the whole way back to the house.
At the end of the night, I hand out red and white roses to everyone.
“These roses are a symbol of unity,” I tell them. “I would now like to ask everyone to share in a moment of silence. In honor of Lizzie.”
Everyone bows their heads like they are in prayer. Maybe some pray, maybe some think. I don’t pray or think. Instead, I talk to Lizzie. In my heart. I tell her I miss her and that I wish she were here. And that I will never, ever forget her.
When the silence has ended, Dad tells me that he appreciates the idea so much that he thinks it should become a new Holden family tradition. Because even though we are all trying to be more open, it doesn’t come naturally for us. Sharing a moment of silence for Lizzie every night gives us a way to connect with our grief. And to honor Lizzie at the same time.
Before she leaves, Ethel takes me aside and wraps me in one of her hugs. “You grab onto happiness with two hands, darling. Life’s all about the journey.You remember that.”
“I will, Ethel,” I promise.
School starts the last week of August. Mom takes me shopping and I choose a new backpack, jeans, tank tops, sneakers, and a blue fisherman’s cap. Mom takes me to get a haircut.
And as we leave the salon, she surprises me by taking me by the arm and leading me into a jewelry store down the street.
“What are we doing now?” I ask her.
“Getting your ears pierced,” she announces. “I think this moment is long overdue.”
I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. It’s finally happening.
I’m getting my ears pierced.
The jewelry store is a vintage-looking shop decorated like the inside of a house. There are little sofas with flower prints on the cushions and the jewelry is laid out on wooden dressers. A girl with long black hair parted in the middle and a long white lacy shirt over rolled-up jeans introduces herself as Grace and asks us if we need any help.
“My daughter wants to get her ears pierced,” my mother tells her—proud of me. It’s a tone I remember hearing in her voice when she would speak about Lizzie, but never about me. It makes me feel warm right in the center of my chest.
“Okay. First you have to choose your earrings,” Grace tells us. She takes out a box of earrings. There are all different birthstones to choose from—pearls, garnets, amethysts, aquamarines.
“The pink ones are pretty,” Mom comments as she points to a pair of light pink earnings. “Those are usually only used for babies and little girls,” Grace informs us.
That’s enough for me to pass on the pink.
I decide on the cubic zirconias.They look like diamonds set in silver. I know they will go with everything.
Grace leads me to a high stool with a gingham pillow on it. I perch on the pillow and pretend not to be nervous. But the truth is, until this very moment, it never occurred to me that this might actually hurt.
“First I need to clean your ears,” Grace says as she swipes at my earlobes with some cotton pads dipped in something that smells like rubbing alcohol.
Then she holds up a purple pen.
“I’m going to use this to mark the spots before I pierce them,” she tells me.
I nod mutely. Grace hands me a small mirror framed in white wood. I hold it up and watch as she places tiny dots in the center of my earlobes.
“How does that look?” Grace asks.
I peer closely. It looks fine to me. I glance over at my mom. She nods her approval.
“I like it,” I tell Grace.
Then I watch as Grace takes one of the earrings I selected out and slides it into the piercing gun.
I feel my stomach clench.
“It only pinches for a second,” Grace says in a calming voice.
Babies do this, I remind myself as I grit my teeth. Grace positions the piercing gun on my ear. I feel my mother’s hand slip gently around mine and hold on firmly.
“One, two,” Grace counts.
On “three,” I hold my breath and wait for the searing pain. It doesn’t come. Just a little pinch.
“Done,” Grace announces proudly, and moves around to do the other side.
Now I’m an old pro.The second one is done even faster than the first. Grace hands me the mirror.
There they are. Two shimmering earrings. In my ears!
I, Jane Holden, have pierced ears.
Then the flash runs through my mind, as fast as a shooting star across a navy-blue sky. I wish Lizzie was here to share this with me.
“They look beautiful,” my mother compliments.
Hearing her voice brings me back to the moment. I throw my arms around her and squeeze as tight as I can.
Now I am ready to start seventh grade.
School starts on a Wednesday. Zoe, Misty, and I plan out what we are wearing for our first day. We’re going to be sort of coordinated but not matchy-matchy like we talked about it (even though we have talked about it). Hunter e-mails to ask me if I want to watch him try out for the track team after school. I e-mail back and promise to be there.
The first day is exciting and scary at the same time. Because it’s new and old all in one day. New classes, new teachers, new schedules. But also old friends and old routines, like where we meet between classes and for lunch.
For English, I have Mrs. Miller.
“Jane Holden,” she calls out from her list.
“Here,” I say as I raise my hand.
“Welcome,” she greets me. “You are Elizabeth’s sister, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.
“She was my favorite student,” Mrs. Miller says with a smile and a warm look in her emerald-colored eyes.
I smile when she tells me. And I remind her that English was Lizzie’s favorite subject. I feel happy that someone remembers her and thinks of her so proudly. Mrs. Miller is the only teacher who mentions Lizzie all day.
I have algebra with Zoe and Misty and science with Hunter. Unfortunately, Kirsten Mueller is in my Spanish class. She smirks at me.
At lunch, I sit with Misty and Zoe. We people-watch and talk about our teachers. Hunter walks by with a couple of his friends. He sees me and comes over to say hello. He is shy here at school. But then so am I.
“I’ll see you later?” he asks hopefully.
“Definitely,” I tell him.
“Cool.” He smiles at me.
When he walks away, my friends just stare at me. “What?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.
“I guess you are the first one of us to officially have a boyfriend,” Zoe announces.
I shrug. “We’re just friends.” But I can feel my cheeks burning hot.
“Okay,” Misty says. “Whatever you say.”
I pretend to be nonchalant about the whole thing. But really, inside, I am smiling.
“Did you hear
about Kirsten Mueller?” Misty asks after Kirsten and her posse walk past.
“No, what?” I ask, my mouth full of turkey wrap.
“Her parents are splitting up. No one stays together anymore,” Misty says.
Poor Kirsten, I think. Instead of thinking that it serves her right for being so horrible to people all the time, I just feel sad about it. I know how I felt when I thought my parents might be getting a divorce. I can only imagine how Kirsten must feel.
“Karma,” says Zoe.
Later that day, I am in the girls’ bathroom when Kirsten walks in. Alone.
I stare at her.
“What are you looking at, Holden?” she bullies me.
I take a deep breath. I resist the urge to run. I open my mouth and say what I want to say when I want to say it.
“I’m really sorry about your parents,” I tell her. “If you ever need someone to listen, let me know.”
And then I leave. I don’t wait to hear her reply. I don’t expect anything from her. But I am proud of myself.
The thing is, from that day forward, Kirsten Mueller stops smirking at me. And every day in Spanish, she says hello to me. We’re not going to be best friends, but she’s not my enemy anymore either. And that feels good. Causing a change feels good.
Sometimes life has a way of turning things around. So that the things that were upside down are right side up.
On Friday night, Mom and Dad and I watch an old movie together. We share a bowl of buttery popcorn and sit together in the darkened room.We’re trying.We’re all trying our best to move forward. But it isn’t easy. There’s always a feeling in the room, of sadness, of uncried tears, and of the longing that you have for someone you will never see again.
After the movie, I stay up late. I close the door to my room and pull out the shoe box from my new sneakers. I get paints, colored paper, markers, and my red-handled scissors. And I start working. On a memory box for Lizzie.
I print out photos of Ethel’s roses and decorate the box with flowers. Then I cut out pink hearts, turquoise teardrops, and yellow sunbursts. I glue rhinestones stolen from one of Lizzie’s old tutus in the hall closet all over the top of the box.
Jane In Bloom Page 11