He turns around and looks at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Button. It looks good.” For a moment, my chest tenses up, but I shrug out from his touch.
“Mina will be here soon.” I let Dad walk out first. I roll the door closed behind us.
A few minutes later, I hear Mina and Mom come through the front door.
Whenever friends or Aunt Bea or the refrigerator repair person comes over, they go through the front door. Mom insists on it. Something about not seeing all the junk and dust collecting in the garage, but Mina’s not supposed to be a guest.
“We’re here,” Mom says, even though we know. We heard the latch of the door and the creak as it opened. It’s hard to sneak around anywhere in this house. I watch Mina from my place at the counter. I don’t move. I hold my breath.
Mina looks better—her cheeks are flushed pink and her clothes don’t droop off her like they used to. Her shoulders are softer and less sharp.
I know enough from reading the brochures that I’m not supposed to talk about how she looks. But they didn’t necessarily tell me what I should say, either.
Bean trots into the hallway. She eyes Mina carefully and sniffs her left sneaker, then the right one. She takes deep whiffs of Mina’s pant leg.
“She doesn’t remember me,” Mina says dully.
Mom sets down Mina’s suitcase on the rug and smooths Mina’s sleeve. “Of course she does, honey.” Mina doesn’t look convinced.
Dad sets down the knife, and he and Alice step into the hallway. Alice hangs back, wringing the dish towel in her hands, and Dad steps forward, arms outstretched, to hug Mina. His arms move stiffly like he’s rusty at this.
He catches Mina’s shoulder.
A feeling like all this has happened before washes over me.
THEN AND NOW
It was late June.
I had just come home from a sleepover at Hazel’s. Mina was at work, so I expected there to be breakfast sounds coming out of the kitchen: bacon sizzles and the little hiss butter makes when it’s dropped on the griddle. When Mina was gone, it was okay to make good breakfast.
But instead it was too quiet. There was something wrong.
I heard Mom’s voice. “Mina, open the door.”
My first thought was slight disappointment that Mina wasn’t at work. My second thought was that it was strange to hear Mom asking. The week before, she had taken the screwdriver from Dad’s old tool kit he left behind in the garage and removed Mina’s doorknob so she couldn’t lock her door anymore.
Mina liked to be closed up where no one could see her or her secret exercising or her secret notebook. But her secrets had crept out. They hung in our house like cobwebs in the corners. “I’m going to count to three”—Mom used her firm voice—“and then I’m coming in.”
“Leave me alone,” Mina screamed. I winced.
Sometimes it was better if I tiptoed into my room and was super quiet so no one had to worry about me. Other times, it was better if I went to comfort Mina. I’d run my hands through her hair like we used to when we played salon when we were little. I tried not to think about how thin it had gotten.
I was wondering what to do next when Dad stepped into the hallway. “Button,” he said and held out his hand.
Dad. He looked so strange leaning against the door frame. “What are you doing here?” I said. He was supposed to be with Alice in their brand-new house.
“Button,” he said again, like I hadn’t even asked him a question. He lumbered toward me with these slow, careful steps, and I realized that he was there because something terrible must have happened.
“Is it Grandma Bebe?” But how could it be Grandma Bebe? She had sent a postcard just last week from her home in Boca Raton. There were palm trees and blue water and sand and curvy cursive words that read Wish You Were Here. And I did. I wanted to be anywhere but our house.
“No, no, she’s fine.” Dad laid his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Listen.” He half knelt down so we were at eye level. “Mina’s going to go away.”
That didn’t make any kind of sense. I guess my mind was still on the postcard, so I said, “To visit Grandma?”
“No, Emily. To get better. Mina’s sick.”
“I thought we were helping her here,” I said. I think of all the doctor’s visits and dinners and Mom crying and Mina crying and me crying.
Mina burst out of her room. The door hit against the wall with the force of it. “Emily,” Mina shouted when she turned and saw me at the bottom of the stairs. “Emily!” I saw Bean’s head peek around the corner of the hallway railing. “They’re sending me away.” She heaved a piece of paper down the stairs.
I picked it up. It was a brochure. The cover was smooth and shiny. There was a picture of girls walking along a gravel path lined with grass and flowers.
PINEHURST: A Residential Treatment Facility. A place for girls like Mina.
“Mina, please.” Mom’s voice is quiet now. “You need more help than we can give you here at home.” The brochure fell limp against my side.
“You’ve given up on me!” Mina yelled. Her shoulders shook with giant silent sobs. I could see the sharpness of her bones through her T-shirt.
“No, no. Never,” Mom said, reaching a hand out to Mina.
But Mina crossed her arms over her chest. I couldn’t look at her red and splotchy, too-sharp face. “I hate you all,” she said.
I stood, still as a statue. It felt like she was talking right to me.
I’m a statue now again. Two months later.
I should say something. “I made you decorations.”
Mina shifts in her sneakers like it’s uncomfortable to stand there, even though it’s been only a few minutes.
After a moment, she says, “Thanks.” Her voice is flat.
I try to smile. I attempt to pull my face tight. But I can’t. Even though Mina looks different, things don’t feel different. Nothing has changed at all.
“FAMILY” DINNER
I’ve got to give Alice credit for trying. She’s bought Mina’s favorite flowers and arranged them in one of Grandma’s old vases in the middle of the table. I’m glad because it eclipses Mina a little bit, like Earth moving in front of the moon. If I move my head to the left, I can pretend she’s not there.
I can’t say the same for Dad.
“I was thinking,” he says, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of chicken, “that we could do three raised beds this summer. Carrots, lettuce, and peppers. Maybe a salsa garden. Some tomatoes?”
“I didn’t know you were so into gardening, Adam.” Mom’s voice is pinched. She stabs a piece of squash with her fork and smiles up at him, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I see her sneaking glances at Mina, who is staring at her plate.
“I’ve always been into agriculture, Maura,” he says. He turns to me next. “So what do you think?
“About agriculture?” I don’t feel I’ve really formed any firm opinions on the topic, so I stay quiet. I keep sneaking glances at Mina, too. I try to make it look like I’m admiring the flowers when really I’m watching Mina’s jaw go tight.
In an instant, she pushes away the plate. “I don’t want this.” Bean runs from her place under my chair into the family room.
“Mina, please,” Mom says. Her face looks pained. “These are some of your favorite foods.” She puts her hand over Mina’s.
My throat closes. I take a huge gulp of water like it might somehow help and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry about the sign. I wanted to write out Welcome Home Mina.” I’m nervous talking now. “But I didn’t have enough letters.” The i in Mina has fallen to the floor, though, so now it says Hi Mna, like we’re welcoming some entirely different girl into our house.
Mina doesn’t even look at it. She just stares at her plate. I used all that glitter for nothing.
“My stomach hurts.”
“Evie said that could happen,” Mom explains. “It’s normal.” She’s pleading now.
Mina ignores her.
She gestures at Dad and Alice with her fork. “I don’t want them to be here.” I kind of wish she had gestured at me, too, because right now I don’t want to be here. A little part of me doesn’t want Mina to be here, either. Alice looks down at her hands.
“Don’t do this,” Dad says. I can see a little bit of red creeping up his neck. It’s the closest I’ve seen him get to angry in a long while. Maybe it’s hard to pretend everything’s okay when it’s right in your face.
“Don’t do what?” Mina asks. The way she stares at him, it’s as if her eyeballs have developed lasers. “I’m sorry if this isn’t what you expected. Not everything can be happy all the time.” Her words sting even me.
Dad opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he says, “I just want to have a nice dinner. All of us together.” He looks so lost, like he doesn’t have the right words anymore. Maybe that’s why he didn’t come on Wednesdays. He didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know what to say either, but I still came.
“You never cared about seeing me when I was at Pinehurst.” Her voice is thick now and her eyes start to well. “Why didn’t you come?”
Dad holds his hands flat, palms out in front of him. “I had to work,” he tries. His shoulders lift. “I don’t know.”
Mina shakes her head. “Can I eat this later, please? I just want to go to my room.”
Dad pushes away from the table. “Maybe it’s best if we go.” He sounds tired. Relieved maybe. “We can try again next week.” He puts his hand on Mina’s shoulder. She turns away.
Alice stands, too. Mom walks them to the door, leaving me and Mina, half-eaten dinner plates, and this uncomfortable, heavy feeling in the air.
I clear my throat. “Um, I’m glad you’re home.” It seems like the right thing to say.
Mina just puts her head on the table. “This sucks,” she says. She gives a big shuddery sigh. It’s like she doesn’t even hear me.
Later that night, I creep downstairs because my stomach is growling. I barely got to eat myself. I don’t want the leftovers from that evening’s dinner, but I’ll take anything else. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I freeze. There’s a light on in the kitchen. It’s the one over the sink and not very bright, so it makes everything look lonely and sad. Mina and Mom are at the kitchen table. Mina has one of her special milk shakes in a can in front of her. She told me about those. The girls had to drink them after their dinners. She hates them.
I can see Mina’s shoulders shaking.
“Come on, Mina,” Mom says. Her voice is soft. “You’re almost done.” Mina pinches her nose shut and drains the rest of the glass. She cries. Mom reaches out and rubs her shoulder. I sneak away, quiet.
I lie in my bed awake that night for a long time.
WEEKEND BREAKFAST
When Mina’s home, food is the sun and we all revolve around it.
When Mina was away, I’d grab a Pop-Tart and eat it in Mom’s car on the way to the Y’s summer day camp or the neighborhood pool. Breakfast wasn’t something I thought about. It’s just something I did. Now there are place mats on the table and Mom’s standing in front of the stove in her bare-stocking feet making scrambled eggs and toast with jam and butter. There’s bacon in the oven. I can smell it.
It’s special weekend breakfast on a regular weekday.
Mina can smell it, too, I think, because her footsteps are slow on the steps, like she’s taking her good old time coming downstairs on purpose. When she finally gets into the kitchen she sets her book bag down on the table. I sneak little glances at her. She riffles through her papers in super-slow motion, even though I can’t even imagine what she’s looking for because she hasn’t gone to actual high school this fall.
Mom just waits and doesn’t say a word.
Finally, Mina wrinkles her nose. “What is all this?”
“Breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry, though. My stomach hurts.” She wraps her arms around her waist in emphasis.
“Mina.” Mom’s voice is level. “You need to eat the breakfast I’m making you because it’s on your meal plan. Our job is to follow the meal plan.”
“But how did you make it?” She looks anxiously toward the stove. She pulls her sleeves down over her wrists. I watch and wait. One spark, one wrong move, and Mina will ignite—a giant fireball through our house. But instead, Mina slides into the chair across from me.
Mom just dishes up the eggs and bacon and toast on three plates and sits with us at the table. My stomach grumbles, but I’m nervous. I want to get up from the table so bad, but I force myself to stay still. Mom’s moved the flowers to the counter, so now I can’t even pretend that Mina’s not right there in front of me.
“Eating all this is going to make me late for school,” Mina says. She frowns and lifts up one of her pieces of bacon with a fork, like Mom’s hidden something beneath it.
“I’ve talked to school,” Mom explains, spearing a bit of egg. “Your guidance counselors know. They’ll understand if you’re late. I know that this is hard for you.”
Mina’s eyes are pink and watery and maybe about to cry, but she takes a bite. “I don’t want to eat all this toast. You’ve made too much. It’s practically slathered in butter.”
“You need to eat all the toast,” Mom says.
And Mina does. I’m certain that by the time she eats her last bite of eggs they have to be cold for as long as it took. But the whole plate of food is gone. She sets down her fork. She’s managed not to cry. “Did I do good?”
Mom squeezes her hand. “You did.” I want her to tell me that I did good, too.
Mina’s schedule is different now. It’s posted on the fridge along with her meal plan and a magnet with the Pinehurst emergency numbers.
From 8:00–12:00 Mina goes to regular high school. Then from 12:00–3:00 she does outpatient at Pinehurst, and then from 3:00–4:00 she’ll meet with Dr. Oliver. Mom says we’ll still meet with her, too, on Wednesdays. That hasn’t changed. I guess I kind of thought we’d stop when Mina came home.
“Still more work to do,” Mom says. I thought she’d meant Mina, but I actually think she means us.
Mina was right about school—she’s late and Mom’s late and I’m late. Mom walks me into the front office and talks in soft voices with the secretary, Mrs. Rosencrantz, who then looks at me with this soft face and sorry eyes. I know they’re talking about Mina. It makes me the littlest bit mad. School’s the one place I could just be Em Murphy, not Emily Murphy with the sick older sister.
“I’m going to go to Science class now,” I announce in a loud voice.
“Sure, honey,” Mrs. Rosencrantz says, and she fills out a pass for me. The box for excused absence is checked. That makes me a little madder. Excused absences are for things like trips to the orthodontist and well checks, not because your breakfast went long. I don’t want anyone doing me any favors.
Mom gives me a kiss on my forehead good-bye.
I hope she’ll leave, but when I turn around I can still see her talking with Mrs. Rosencrantz through the large glass window.
Anita and Sara are talking quietly at our table when I get into Science class.
“Show her,” Anita says and nudges Sara on the shoulder. Sara pushes a flyer my direction.
“What is this?” I ask. I slide into my seat and pick it up. “Do YOU have what it takes to be a Junior Roosevelt?” There’s a photo of a bunch of girls with their arms around each other. They’re wearing navy blue leotards and hair sparkles.
“It’s the school dance squad,” Anita says, her eyes big. “I thought we could all try out together. I was just telling Sara how good you were at the bowling alley.”
“Really?” I blush, pleased. “But that was just a game.”
“A dance game you were immediately great at. Besides, you said you took lessons.”
“That was a while ago.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Sara says. She motions in the air with her hand like she’s waving away my excuse
s. “Look. It says they’ll teach you the dance. They’re running some clinics after school. And they’re going to post it on YouTube.” In her notebook, I can see she’s sketched a picture of me and Anita and her in some kind of dance line. She’s colored in our headbands with sparkly purple gel pen so they match.
“It would be so fun!” Anita adds. They both look at me expectantly.
I turn it over in my mind. I think of Dr. Franklinton-Morehouse and the After Emily.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I fold the flyer up and put it in my pocket.
THINGS TO NOTICE
Hector arrives five minutes before eleven on Sunday.
I’m at our house instead of Dad’s house. Dad said he thought it would be better for me to spend some time with Mina. I just think he doesn’t want any reminders of everything that went so wrong at the dinner.
I watch Hector out the peephole of the front door. He’s got his book bag and a plate of cookies wrapped in green plastic wrap and what looks like the brand new Unicorn Chronicles/Robots of Doom super special tucked under his arm. I think his dad’s still in the driveway, because Hector keeps motioning for him to leave.
I open the door. Bean shoves her head into the space between my knee and the door.
“Whoa.” Hector jumps back. “You’ve got a dog.”
“We’ve got a Bean. Are you afraid of dogs?” I ask, curious.
“No,” he huffs. Still, he takes a cautious step forward. “I was just surprised by it. We only have hermit crabs.” I take Bean by the collar and guide her out of the way. She’s wagging her tail hard now. Hector waves one final time to his dad and comes in.
“What are their names?”
“Who?” Hector’s distracted. He’s still eyeing Bean and taking little side steps to the left. Bean’s totally oblivious and doing her best to sniff his jeans.
“The crabs.”
“Oh. Nightshade and Starlight. Not as cool as unicorns but close, maybe. Hey, here’s something. Did you know when they need a bigger shell home, they actually measure other shells?” He shoves the cookies in my direction so he can act it out. He raises his arms like he’s going to give me a hug. I step back. He encircles the air. “Just like that. I saw it once. It was awesome. Nightshade tried all the shells to find the best fit.”
Things That Surprise You Page 9