Once You Know This
Page 12
The market’s closing down all around us when we walk back through, all the vegetables going back in their crates and the cakes back in their boxes. “Bet your mom’s awake by now,” Fuzzy says. “Time to show y’all your new house!” We climb into the truck and I bounce on the springs like a little kid because it’s starting to feel like my spot. The yellow bow is still in my fist and I should have said to Moxie, I’m happy to have y’all too.
Mom’s standing in front of the tall mirror, which is still cloudy even though I sprayed it with so much Windex it dripped on the floor before I could wipe it all. She’s tucking and untucking the shirt she just ironed, which is made out of church fabric and has a curved collar like a flower petal.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Tucked.”
She tucks it back in and slips on the high heels from the thrift store and when she walks to the dresser her skirt sways, just like Odessa said dresses did in the olden days when she rocked her knuckly hand on the front porch with the plants spinning in the wind. I miss her but not as much as I miss Marisol. She’s called me twice, and hearing her voice on Tonio’s phone is both happy and sad, like walking by a classroom you grew out of where the kindergartners are still cutting with round scissors and their tongues are sticking out.
I’m lying on my stomach on Granny’s bed, which now belongs to Mom, watching emojis from Laila pop up one by one on Mom’s phone: smiley faces and hearts and kisses and flowers and a thumbs-up and a tube of lipstick. And finally a trophy, like Mom already got the job. Granny’s bedspread is covered in huge white flowers that remind me of Georgia O’Keeffe. Mom breathes out and says, “Okay. I’m ready.”
I look up and she’s beautiful. She’s wearing clip-on earrings she found in Granny’s drawer that are like little red fireworks. They’re so old-fashioned they’d be ridiculous on anyone else but on Mom they’re perfect, like Agata’s glasses. But it’s not just the earrings or her hair blow-dried straight and curled at the bottom or her new lipstick. It’s something else. Something about how her heels sound clicking on the wood floors.
“You look amazing,” I tell her. “Your posture is just like Granny’s.”
“Aww. Thanks, sweet pea.” She kisses me on the forehead. “When Tommy wakes up give him a snack, okay? There’s applesauce in the fridge.”
“Okay.”
She picks up her phone and walks out of the room but then leans back in. “Why don’t you write Mr. McInnis a letter?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”
“Mom. You’re so old-school. No one writes letters anymore.”
“Well, they should. Getting mail is nice.”
I think of Fuzzy’s big pink envelope in the middle of all that junk, saving our lives. “Maybe I will.”
• • •
Dear Mr. McInnis,
This is Brittany Kowalski. I wanted to write just to let you know I’m safe. Not that you would be worried but just in case. We’re in Montgomery, Alabama. We rode a bus here and it took seventeen hours.
We’re living in my granny’s old house. It’s a little white house with a saggy front porch and when we walked inside my mom sighed super deep and said Jesus, because it really was a mess. But we started cleaning it up and it’s not so bad. My uncle Fuzzy comes over every day to help or bring collards from his garden. He’s old but strong. Have you ever had collards? Mom says they’re an “acquired taste” but Tommy already loves them! (That’s my little brother. He can walk now. He took his first step on the front porch, which is amazing because like I said it’s very saggy.)
Also the church ladies help a lot. We went to Granny’s church last Sunday and since then I swear a church lady comes over with food every day. Our refrigerator got so full Mom brought half of it to Miss Sula across the street. She has an old gray cat with one eye named Sweetie who scares the mailman so bad he delivers the mail to Granny’s house and Miss Sula comes over to pick it up, or sometimes I bring it to her because Sweetie likes me.
My new school’s fine but everyone knows I’m different because I don’t have an accent. It’s hard to fit in when every time you open your mouth you sound like a plain mouse. Plus I miss your art lessons (except for Kandinsky, no offense). My new teacher just teaches regular things. Mom says to give it time and that there’s nothing more important than being at peace in the world. As Uncle Fuzzy would say, “Ain’t that the plain truth.”
Sincerely,
Brittany Kowalski
P.S. The painting is of our new house in four different kinds of light (like Monet).
P.P.S. Please don’t give up on the aquarium. I know you’ll get there someday.
I’m thankful for so many. This list is just the start.
Thanks to my incredibly kind and insightful editor, Wendy Loggia, for pausing one morning in the mailroom, and then bringing a vague idea to life. I will never love anyone’s emails more than yours. To Delacorte Press. To Maria Middleton for the lovely design and Jori van der Linde for the beautiful art. To Jessica Maria Tuccelli for teaching me the publishing ropes and Cara Thaxton for helping me remember Chicago.
Thanks to the teachers who encouraged me and made me better: Barb Lykken, Marilyn Teubert, Kari Stringer, Patricia Strandness, Don Rogan, P. F. Kluge, Conner Bailey. To Barbara Bellucci and all of my victim advocate colleagues for your mentorship and for teaching me what I needed to know.
To my amazing friends: Corby Baumann for being my Marisol. Thkisha Sanogo, who believed in me when I needed it the absolute most. Ashley Cauley, for making this ride insanely fun to share. Jennifer Yeager, Carin Brock, Ali Bolton, Melissa Shaver, Valerie Downes, and Heather Smith, who helped me celebrate every step.
To Regina Benjamin, Julie Taylor, and Beverly Dean, who had faith in me before I had faith in myself. You mean more to me than you can know.
And to my family: Aunt Bonnie, for loving books and loving me. Mom, for every single thing. Dad, Mag, and Sam, for teaching me what family means and cheering me on no matter what. Stan, Andrew, Leo, and Katie, who fill up my whole heart every single day. I could not be more proud of you or more honored to be your mom. And to Andre. Everything is possible because you told me so, and everything is sweet because of you.
Emily Blejwas grew up in Minnesota and now lives in Mobile, Alabama, with her husband and four children. She directs the Gulf States Health Policy Center, has worked in the fields of community development and victim advocacy, and holds degrees from Auburn University and Kenyon College. This is her first novel.
emilyblejwas.com
facebook.com/emilyblejwas
emilyblejwas
@EmilyBlejwas
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