Once You Know This

by Emily Blejwas

  The only way to find her is to look for my dad, who I should hate for leaving Mom and me. I could blame him for us being stuck with Jack and losing Patches and a whole bunch of other things but it’s hard because I don’t even know him. But I don’t have to hate my Polish grandma because she doesn’t know I exist. That’s another thing I know.

  • • •

  “I can’t put it off till tomorrow,” Mom says. “No one has any clean socks.” I see the line between her eyebrows crease the way it does when she wants something to be different but can’t make it different. I know how that feels and I know it’s not her fault Jack didn’t give her any money until now so I try not to show how much I just want to stay home and draw pictures of the Polish countryside.

  I wait on the cold sidewalk with my hands on Tommy’s stroller and watch Mom walk up our steps and unlock all the locks. I can’t hear her but I know she’s talking to Granny in her smooth voice which is like a mixture of peppermint and the satin hair ribbons Marisol gave me for my birthday. That voice used to make Granny smile but last week Mom used it one morning when she set Granny’s breakfast down in front of her and Granny didn’t smile or eat any eggs. I thought that was the Worst Sign Yet but I didn’t say so because Mom already knew it.

  Mom comes back with a big black garbage bag stuffed with almost all our clothes. The box calls them leaf bags and I wonder if there are moms somewhere who just use those bags for leaves. Raking them up into huge piles on huge lawns in front of huge houses while the laundry does itself inside. Those bags would probably be lighter with just leaves but maybe not because a lot of anything is heavy. Somehow Mom holds the bag on one shoulder with one hand and does all three locks with the other. “Okay!” she calls from the steps like we’re going to the circus and I try to beam a big elephant smile at her.

  • • •

  Tommy loves the Laundromat. He can stand now (as long as he holds on to something) so he goes back and forth along the bottom row of dryers saying nonsense words and banging his hands on the windows. Every time, he stops at dryer 3 and leans his forehead on the glass and watches for a minute before laughing hysterically. I wonder if my Polish grandma would love Tommy too, even though he’s not a Kowalski. If she won’t, I’ll have to come up with another plan because I’m the only plan Tommy’s got.

  Mom bought me an orange soda (which the mean WIC lady would not approve of because it has no real juice) and a Snickers bar and herself a cup of coffee at the place next door and we’re sitting in pink chairs that are curved like Easter eggs eating our perfect four o’clock snack and watching dryer 3.

  “I don’t see any difference between that dryer and the other ones,” I tell Mom.

  “Me neither. But babies are smarter than we give them credit for.”

  “Was I smart?”

  “Of course. You’re still smart.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What was the name of that Irish pub you worked at?”

  Mom looks at me but I keep studying the dryer. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “It was called O’Lowry’s.”

  Before I lose my courage, I say as fast as I can, “And-what-was-the-name-of-the-Polish-restaurant-where-my-dad-sat-and-drank-that-vodka-with-the-bison-grass-in-it?”

  “U Stasi.”

  Now I look at Mom because I can’t believe she told me just like that and also because I have no idea what she said. But now she’s looking at dryer 3 and so is Tommy, back from his most recent trip to dryer 9.

  “How do you spell it?” I ask quietly, like trying to get her not to notice the question.

  “U, then a space, then S-T-A-S-I,” Mom says.

  I want to write it down in my Plan B notebook in the biggest letters ever but I don’t want Mom to suspect anything so I just keep repeating the letters in my head. The washer buzzes behind us and we both jump. Mom gets up and a red sock I never noticed before flashes at me from dryer 3 like winning! and Tommy laughs and laughs and I do too.

  By the best luck ever, Ms. Sanogo’s class has computer lab Wednesday afternoons and it’s Wednesday afternoon. But we still have forty-three minutes left of school and Mr. McInnis thinks we can solve for x. We keep telling him we don’t know what x is but he says that’s the point. Half the class is checked out because half the class is always checked out and another quarter is checked out because it’s too hard. I’m usually one of the rest who tries No Matter What but today I can’t focus on anything.

  The bell rings and I move so fast I’m the second one out the door but Marisol’s already there, so she must have been the first one out Ms. Sanogo’s door or found some other trick the way she does. She raises her eyebrows and tips her head like a model, then hands me the paper with U STASI in giant letters and the address in her handwriting flowing like a river underneath. I actually lose my breath a little because part of me was sure U Stasi didn’t exist, at least not anymore, and it definitely shouldn’t be as easy to find as Marisol Googling it at computer lab.

  Someone bumps us in the rush and Marisol yells at him in Spanish. “Let’s get out of here,” she says and I follow her down the steps with everyone yelling and shoving and laughing around us. I keep looking at the paper like Marisol’s writing might disappear and she yells over her shoulder, “Why you want to go there anyways?”

  I yell, “It’s where my mom met my dad.”

  I can’t see Marisol’s face because she’s still in front of me but I know what it looks like. “Are you looking for him?” she yells back.

  I’m not, but it would be weird to say I’m looking for my Polish grandma so I just say, “Yeah.”

  We get outside and the noise spreads out into the clouds and we can walk next to each other again and hear each other again. “Why do you want to find him?” Marisol asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m just…curious, I guess.” I can see Mom waiting for me so we stop and I cram the paper into my coat pocket. Marisol waves to Mom and she waves back and Marisol faces me with absolute eyes, which she does not have often. She even holds the edges of my open coat in her fists like a mom telling a little kid to please promise to look both ways. Every time.

  “I just want to say that you have a great mom,” she says. “And maybe you have a great dad too but sometimes people…don’t want to be found. You know?” I nod and Marisol takes a deep breath. “And if that happens, it’s okay. You’ll be okay.” All of a sudden I think of Marisol’s dad Ending It All and wonder who found him. I hug her as tight as I can.

  • • •

  On the bus I don’t think about anything. I only try not to think about things. Like how I stole five bucks from Jack’s wallet on the kitchen table when he was yelling at Mom in the living room and how her palms sounded smacking the wall when he pushed her. And how I’m not sorry I took it but will be sorry if he finds out. And how I’ve never been on the 82 bus and never been this far from home by myself and could get lost or kidnapped in a heartbeat and Mom would never know what happened to me because she thinks I’m at Marisol’s doing a fifth-grade project on the expansion of the universe. Ms. Sanogo tried to talk Mr. McInnis into doing just the big bang but he said we’re capable of more than that.

  Out the window it looks like my neighborhood repeated over and over. We go into a tunnel that’s scratchy at the edges because parts of it are falling off but inside the walls are filled with graffiti so bright and beautiful I actually gasp. I wish the district didn’t slash the transportation budget and we could all take a field trip here and Mr. McInnis could point out the window with his palm facing the sky the way he does and say, “See? Art comes in all forms. Art can be anywhere.”

  On the other side of the tunnel the houses are new and smooth and clean and the graffiti’s behind us. The trees are three stories tall and some of them bend their branches over the street like giving extra shade. There are lots of colors besides brown and none of the windows are broken, or even cracked. The whole street looks like it got a
bath this morning with some kind of special soap. Even the name of the street’s different now.

  But then we get to my stop and the city switches back to real life like it knew I was coming. The driver’s looking in his mirror to make sure I’m paying attention and when I get to the front he says, “Have a good visit, my friend.” I told him I was going to see my grandma so that’s another person I lied to and I’m sorry because he has a kind face that seems ancient, like out of an old storybook, and his eyes are dark and sparkly. Also I showed up on his bus with five bucks and no clue and he got me all the way here plus a ticket home.

  “You can catch the 56 right there,” he says, pointing to the corner. “It will be five minutes at most for the ride so watch closely for your stop.” I want to hug him but I know it would be weird so I just say, “Thanks.” A crazy thing about life is that most people will never know what they mean to you.

  • • •

  I didn’t think I’d really get here. I thought I’d chicken out or miss my stop or the bus would break down or someone would catch me or U Stasi would be boarded up with a faded sign on the side like a drugstore no one wants anymore. But inside everything’s alive. It’s lunchtime and people are laughing and drinking tall beers and the walls are like a log cabin and there’s even a fireplace. Everyone seems shiny like lip gloss and I stare at the walls because my coat is cheap and I have a hole in my shoe. Plus there’s no empty tables and I have no money and I don’t speak Polish.

  “Can I help you?” It’s a girl holding red menus with white eagles on the front, which would have made a better family crest than the happy hot dog.

  “I’m looking for my dad.” I try to clench my teeth to stop them from knocking together but it doesn’t work.

  “Oh. Do you see him?”

  “No. I mean, he’s not here now.” My cheeks are burning, which is weird next to my chattering teeth and I wonder if it would be crazier to stay here or run back to the bus stop.

  “Oh. Was he…here earlier?”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, not today. He used to be here, like, hang out here, before I was born. So I guess twelve years ago. I was just wondering if anybody remembered him.” She opens her mouth to talk but before she can, I say really fast, “He used to sit and drink vodka with bison grass in it and he went to the University of Chicago and studied math and my mom was a waitress at the Irish pub across the street but it’s not there anymore.” Then I look down so I don’t have to see her stare at me with perfect circle eyes (360 degrees).

  She goes to talk to a waitress with long blond hair and black glasses that Marisol would laugh at but on her they look perfect. They talk about me and I pretend to look at a painting of a rooster on the wall like I’ve never seen a rooster before. Which I haven’t. Not in real life anyway.

  “Hey,” the blond waitress says. She’s younger than mom but older than high school so maybe in college because something about her seems smart. It might just be the glasses.

  “Hey.”

  “You hungry?”

  I’m starving. But I also feel like I might puke. “I don’t have any money,” I tell her. “I’m just looking for my dad. I mean, I’m just asking about him.”

  “I heard. What’s his name?”

  “Leszek Kowalski.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Brittany. Kowalski.” My name sounds weird out loud, like on the first day of school when everybody hears your name and then looks at you to see if it matches.

  “Mine’s Agata. Come on and sit up at the bar.”

  “Am I allowed?”

  “Sure. I won’t give you any piwo.” I blink at her. “That’s beer.” I smile a really huge smile like you give your kindergarten teacher but I don’t care because I like her so much. I slide up onto a stool and the man next to me nods. Agata says something to the bartender and he makes me a drink with Sprite and cherry syrup and a skinny red straw and a real cherry floating on the top. It feels like heaven in this place. Maybe that’s why people spend so much time at bars.

  Agata rushes all around but she never looks rushed when she gets to the tables and I wonder if that’s what makes a good waitress. If it is, Mom must have been the best waitress ever because she’s so good at making her outside different than her inside. Thinking about her makes my stomach hurt and the cherry syrup doesn’t help and neither does the thought that my dad could have sat on this same stool. I’m dizzy but I’m afraid to get down in case I fall over and make a scene. Or at least more of a scene than I’ve made so far.

  Agata sets a huge plate of food in front of me that’s still steaming. “Pierogi,” she says, then leaves before I can ask what it is.

  “You ever have ravioli?” the man next to me asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of like ravioli,” he says. “But better.”

  I want to tell Agata again that I have no money but she’s back in the kitchen and the food smells so good so I just start eating. The dizziness stops. I don’t know if it’s the fire popping or the laughing or the tall stool or the cherry drink or the man next to me who smells like a grandpa in church or Agata moving like Mom or everything all together, but somehow the pierogis fill a hole that was way deeper than my stomach.

  I eat every pierogi on the plate and I should probably be embarrassed (about a lot of things) but I’m not. I sit for a while not thinking about my dad or anything but just feeling good. And sleepy. The tables get emptier and the man next to me leaves in a breeze of aftershave.

  Agata sits down on his stool. “I asked around,” she says. “About your dad. And your mom. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but twelve years is a long time.”

  “Yeah. I know.” And I do. Whatever she’s gonna say, I already know.

  “The only person here back then was the cook and he doesn’t remember. But I had him call his mother, Magda, because she knows everyone. You know those types?”

  I think of Odessa and smile. “Yeah.”

  “Well, she also doesn’t remember so it must be that he wasn’t here that long.” She looks at me and I can see how worried she is because her glasses make her eyes bigger. “I’m sorry,” she says and I just stare at her because I can’t believe she did all that for me. Plus the pierogis and the cherry Sprite. Mom was wrong about the Polish waitresses.

  “Thanks for trying,” I say.

  Agata shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

  And just like that, my dad is gone forever. And my Polish grandma and the Polish countryside where I could have seen my first real rooster.

  Agata writes down my name and address just in case but I know it’s over and I don’t mind. I take a yellow coaster from the bar so I can glue it in my Plan B notebook. It’s for a beer called Tatra and the picture has mountains and a huge, frosty mug of beer and a man in a black hat and brown vest holding a pipe and smiling. Maybe he looks just like my grandpa but I’ll never know. I’m ready to go home. I want to see Mom.

  I’m playing with Tommy on the living room floor hoping if I play with him enough he’ll act like Mom and me when he grows up instead of Jack. Mom’s on the couch reading every detail of my assignment notebook and all the different color pieces of paper they send home on Mondays. The ones she already read are stacked neatly beside her in a pile. Granny’s walking back and forth in the hall repeating something like “Twenty-six degrees down” but Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

  I used to go to school without the field trip form signed or wearing normal socks on crazy sock day or missing valentines. I used to complain to Mom and sometimes she would be gazing across the street or thinking about something funny Laila said and I would say, “Mom! Did you even hear me? I said the science fair poster was due TODAY!” But that never happens anymore because Jack made Mom so afraid to make a mistake. Now she reads every line, even about the school buses I don’t ride.

  Mom gasps when she finally makes it to the end of the stack. “Brittany!” she whispers. “Did you…make this?” She’s holding up one of my cu
ltural arts projects. This one worked a lot better than the happy hot dog. We were supposed to think of a person we love and draw how we feel when we’re with them. “I don’t want you to draw a picture of just the person,” Mr. McInnis said. “I want you to draw the emotion.” We groaned, of course, but not as much as we did during Kandinsky when he turned on the classical station and made us paint the music.

  My hands started moving my markers like I wasn’t controlling them, which was kind of scary but kind of cool. I was drawing Grandma Jane. I realized it when my hands were almost halfway done. It was Grandma and me holding hands in a park downtown and running to catch the ice cream truck bumbling along the park’s edge. But it wasn’t just that. It was the sunlight and the trees and the running to catch something we wanted and my small hand tight in hers and knowing she would never, ever, no matter what happened even if we lost the ice cream truck, let go.

  “It’s Grandma,” Mom says.

  “How’d you know?” I ask because the drawing really is an abstract.

  “It’s exactly how I used to feel with her,” Mom says. Did I tell her the assignment? I don’t think so. Maybe she read it in the stack of papers.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Powerful.”

  • • •

  I have seven pages of information in my Plan B notebook but it’s mostly drawings, and when I flip through it nothing pops out. No ideas and no plans. Not even an outline of a plan, the way Mr. McInnis is teaching us to outline our five-paragraph essays before we write them. Most kids don’t write five-paragraph essays until seventh grade but Mr. McInnis says we’re old enough. He also says we’ll never survive college if we don’t know how to write a five-paragraph essay. None of us have the heart to tell him that none of us are going to college.