Uncle Ron laughs. “The responsible big brother. He reminds me a lot of your dad.”
“Yeah, Matt’s almost too good to believe sometimes. Although I really do love him.”
“I think a lot of firstborn kids are like that.” Uncle Ron turns back to the cupboard and removes two very large, brightly colored coffee mugs. Sometimes it seems that everything in Southern California is like that — big and bright and slightly overdone. But it’s kind of fun.
“I reckon. My best mate, Sophie, is like that, and she’s a firstborn too. I sometimes think Sophie’s the main reason I haven’t gotten into trouble yet.”
“Yet?” He turns and hands me a cup of steaming coffee.
I laugh. “No worries, Uncle Ron. I’m not really planning anything.”
He pretends to be greatly relieved as he holds up a carton of something. “Cream?”
“Huh?” It takes me a moment. “Oh, yeah, white, please. And I take a bit of sugar too.”
He brings the carton of cream and the sugar dispenser over to me, and I adjust my coffee and take a sip. “Delicious,” I say. “Thanks.”
“As good as the coffee in New Guinea?” he asks in a teasing tone. “Your dad is always bragging about it, and he sends us some at Christmas, but between you and me, we’re not that fond of it. Or maybe something happens in the shipping.”
I sip the scalding java and smile. “I think this coffee is better than what we drink at home. To be honest, the stuff we drink is pretty gross. It comes in a big can and I don’t think it’s even from New Guinea. Sophie says it’s probably recycled grounds from some little old ladies’ missionary society — you know, like the ones who send us their secondhand tea bags.”
“Does that stuff really happen?”
“I don’t know for sure. It may be an urban legend. Or would that be a global legend? I did a paper on urban legends last year. It was a crackup!”
“Tell me one.”
So I tell him the one about a guy named Fred Gay who was supposedly a Qantas employee flying on a free pass. “So Fred goes to his assigned seat but another guy is sitting there, so Fred thinks no worries and just goes and finds himself another seat. Then an air hostess goes up to the guy in Fred’s seat and asks, ‘Are you Gay?’ Well, the man gets quite embarrassed, then nods. And so she tells him he’ll have to leave. Just as the poor man is reaching for his bag, Fred Gay stands up and shows her his pass and says, ‘I’m Gay.’ So then she tells him that he’ll have to leave. But now a bloke on the other side of the aisle is going schiz at her. He stands up and yells, ‘Well, I’m gay too, and so is my partner. Does that mean we all have to leave?’”
My uncle cracks up laughing and then looks at his watch. “Well, I better head into the office now.”
“You work on Saturdays?”
He nods. “No rest for the wicked.”
I frown. “You’re not wicked, Uncle Ron.”
“Depends on who you’re talking to, Hannah.” As he leaves, I wonder if he means my parents. Not that they preach at him exactly, but I know they’re concerned about the “spiritual condition” of Ron, Lori, and Vanessa. And I know that they pray for this family on a regular basis. I’m supposed to pray for them too, but the truth is, I forget most of the time. In fact, I haven’t been praying about much of anything lately. It’s not that I quit believing in God. I still do. But I guess I’m just tired of everything. Sophie questioned me about this as I was getting ready to go on furlough.
“You forgot your Bible,” she said, holding up the well-worn leather Bible that my parents got me when I was twelve.
“I’m traveling light,” I told her, which was true. I was taking only one very light port for a checked bag and then my pack.
“But it’s your Bible,” she said emphatically, as if informing me that it was the oxygen mask that could save my life while flying across the Pacific.
“Truly?”
“Hannah.” A shocked expression took over her face. “You can’t go to the States without your Bible. It’s your sword and your light and your compass and your — well, you know what it is, and you’ll be lost without it.”
I zipped my backpack shut and, tossing a strap over my shoulder, stood up. “Well, I’m into minimalism,” I told her. “Trying to get by without much, you know.”
She shook her head. “But not without your Bible.”
“Don’t stress, Sophie. I’ll be alright. Do you really think God’s gonna turn his back on me just because I’m not packing a Bible?”
“That’s not it. My worry is that you might turn your back on him.”
“Oh, Sophie.” I gave her my best exasperated expression. But then I heard my dad calling, asking me if I was ready to roll. So I hugged my best friend and told her I’d e-mail her as soon as I got settled. “Catchya!”
“I’ll be praying for you,” she told me with a troubled brow.
And I have no doubts that she is praying for me. But I haven’t even e-mailed her yet. I’m not sure why because I really do love Sophie, and I miss her a lot. But something in me wants to take a break right now. My whole life has been nothing but mission schools, church, and totally “God-centered” activities. I’m not complaining. Well, maybe I am. Maybe I’m just tired of being a missionary kid, living in the spiritual shadow of my parents. Maybe I’m not even sure about what I personally believe anymore. Or perhaps I’m taking a spiritual furlough of sorts. I’m not sure what’s going on with me, but I reckon I don’t really want to think about it either. And the truth is, I haven’t really missed my Bible yet. I do feel a bit guilty about that, probably out of habit, but I’m telling myself that it’s going to be perfectly fine. I’m telling myself that God is bigger than this, bigger than me, and he must understand what I’m going through — since he’s God and all. And in the end, I’m sure that I’ll come out on top.
“Goodness, you’re up early,” says Aunt Lori when she comes into the kitchen looking bleary-eyed and barely awake.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“I know. But Vanessa never gets up this early.”
“Well, my internal clock is still a little mucked up.” I nod toward the coffeemaker. “Uncle Ron made coffee.”
“Good for him.” She heads straight for the pot. “If I could just remember to set it up the night before, no one would have to bother in the morning.” She pours herself a cup and takes a sip. “I guess I should put that on Consuela’s list.”
Consuela is their housekeeper. She’s about sixty or seventy, I think, and drives a tinny little car that looks like it’s going to die at any moment. She comes in every weekday for several hours and always looks hot and worn-out even before she starts working. But, seriously, that woman can clean. I watched her one day, without her knowing it, and she just gets in there and goes for it. I wanted to tell her she should slow down a bit. She could make more money since she gets paid by the hour, but she barely speaks English, and I suspect my aunt wouldn’t be pleased with that suggestion anyway.
“Maybe I could make the coffee for you in the mornings,” I offer. “I want to help out around here, you know. And if there are things that need doing, I hope you’ll feel free to — ”
“We’re not going to turn you into our personal slave, Hannah.” She opens the fridge and takes out the orange juice. “This summer is supposed to be fun for you.” She pours a large glassful. “Want some?”
“Sure.” She hands me the glass and goes back for another. Now this is another thing that amazes me about Southern California. They drink orange juice by the gallon here. Oh, we have it in New Guinea sometimes, but even then we only drink small juice glassfuls. To drink a huge glass would be considered extravagant or wasteful. But not here. Extravagance seems to be the rule. Just watch a few ads on the telly and you know this is true. They’re filled with slogans like “You’re worth it” and “Not more than you need . . . just more than you’re used to.” Everything in this country is about excess. Like the show where Paris Hilton and Nico
le Richie go “roughing it” at some farm, when both those girls are actually millionaires and used to having everything handed to them on a silver platter. The other thing that I find unbelievable is this constant attention to appearances and fashion. Vanessa is addicted to these “reality” shows where they take some poor overweight and not terribly attractive girl and totally transform her with plastic surgery, dentistry, weight trainers, fashion experts, the works. By the time they’re done, she doesn’t even look like the same person.
At first I was somewhat shocked and disgusted by all this, but I reckon I’m getting used to it now.
“I’m already disappointed that Ron has talked you into working for him,” my aunt continues as she sits down with her juice and flips through a thick fashion magazine. “I wanted you to have a fun and carefree summer with Vanessa. You know, the way you girls used to.”
I sigh. “Well, we were a lot younger then. We liked things like bikes and Barbie dolls and painting our toenails purple.”
She laughs. “Vanessa still does purple toenails occasionally. The only difference now is that someone else usually does the painting.”
“Really?” Now, I’m not even sure why this should surprise me, but it does. “Vanessa has someone to paint her toenails?”
“Lan is our favorite. She’s Vietnamese and does the most magnificent manicures and pedicures.” Aunt Lori examines a shiny, pale nail with a white tip that looks like pure perfection to me, especially compared to my stubby nails, which might possibly be dirty as well. I tuck them into my lap just in case.
“In fact,” my aunt continues, “I should probably schedule an appointment with Lan for next week.” Then she looks back at me. “And speaking of appointments, I wanted to take you shopping for work clothes today, but I completely forgot that I have a luncheon date at the club. And, well, that doesn’t leave much time for — ”
“It’s okay.” I hope I don’t appear too relieved. “Maybe I could just — ”
“Vanessa could take you. Oh, I know she overwhelmed you a bit yesterday, Hannah. But that’s only because you’re coming from such a different culture. Your mom told me that you’d probably experience a little culture shock. I guess it’s not easy adjusting to American life.”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s been kind of challenging. But you guys are great,” I say quickly. “And I love being in your new home, and the pool is fantastic.”
She smiles. “Oh, I’m so glad you like it.”
“But as far as shopping, maybe I’ll just head out on my own. Uncle Ron thought I should practice driving. And I remember seeing some shops just a few kilometers, I mean miles, from here — ”
“Oh, you don’t mean Stanley Square, do you?”
“Well, they had what appeared to be a clothes shop. I think it was called Ross something.”
She frowned. “That’s Ross Dress for Less.”
I smiled. “For less? Meaning the prices are lower?”
“Oh, Hannah, you must learn that you get what you pay for.”
I consider Vanessa’s spiderweb-thin T-shirt that cost nearly $200 and just nod dumbly. “But it’s only for work, Aunt Lori. I shouldn’t spend a fortune on work clothes, should I?” I don’t admit to her that I am already feeling a bit pov or that my summer allowance that Dad gave me right before he left only a week ago has dwindled down to less than two hundred dollars already, which is another reason I will be glad to have a job. I had no idea it would be so expensive to do “nothing” with Vanessa. But then, I haven’t wanted her to pay for everything for me either. Although she usually offers. She is quite generous with her dad’s money.
Aunt Lori sighs and looks as if she’s making an unforgivable social faux pas. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt for you to get a few items at Ross Dress for Less.” She acts like I’ve suggested we shop at the Salvation Army or Goodwill. Not that I haven’t shopped in those places before. Last time we were here, Mum and I found some awesome prices on terrific duds. We shipped two boxes back home, and it was like Christmas when we opened them. In fact, I wonder if there are any of those stores in this neighborhood. Probably not. And I’m afraid if I was spotted at one, I would probably scandalize poor Aunt Lori and Vanessa to no end.
“Thanks,” I tell her, feeling like I have just won a tremendous victory in the world of Yankee fashion.
“But why don’t you take Vanessa along with you. She might be able to help you find some, well, some more appropriate things.”
“She’s welcome to come if she wants. But she might not enjoy it very much. I don’t think Ross is exactly her sort of shop.”
Aunt Lori laughs. “Well, it might be good for her. Make her appreciate how far we’ve come during the past five years.”
“Yeah.” I glance out to the shimmering blue pool that seems to beckon to me like an old friend. “I think I’ll go for a swim before I go.”
“Good for you. And really, I’m sorry that I have to bail on you for shopping. You have to promise to let me take you another time.” She brightens. “Maybe tomorrow. Hey, maybe you and Vanessa and I could go together — just the girls. It would be such fun.”
I smile and nod, pretending that such an outing would be absolutely riveting. But the whole idea has me seriously freaked (as Vanessa would say). Three back-to-back days of shopping! I don’t know if I can survive this. It’s almost bad enough to make me want to pray. Alright, not quite. Besides, I reckon God’s got more pressing issues than to rescue someone like me from the tortures of shopping, especially since I’m down here languishing in the lifestyles of the rich and famous while other people are struggling just to get by.
four
“MOM SAYS I’M SUPPOSED TO GO TO ROSS DRESS FOR LESS WITH YOU,” says Vanessa in a less-than-thrilled voice.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her. “I’m good on my own. And I don’t think a shop like Ross is your kinda thing.”
She sighs and looks relieved.
“And really, Vanessa, I don’t expect you to feel responsible for me while I’m here. I understand that you have a life and friends and all that. Honestly, I don’t want to get in the way. I’m normally quite independent.”
“Yeah, I know you are. But I really do like being with you, Hannah. I’m hoping, actually, that your Aussie accent will start rubbing off on me. You reckon it will?”
I laugh at her poor imitation but assure her there’s hope.
“And on second thought,” she says, “it might be amusing to see how you do at Ross Dress for Less. Besides that, I could probably help you from making any serious fashion mistakes.” Now she’s looking unexpectedly enthusiastic. “Hey, it could be like What Not to Wear. I could follow you around like the fashion police, and if I catch you getting something totally lame, I could stop you.”
Now, the idea of my cousin on my back while I’m trying to find a work outfit is a bit unsettling. “You certain you want to come along? I don’t reckon it’ll be any fun for you.” And then I think of something. “And what if one of your mates saw you at that store? Wouldn’t you — ”
“Yeah, right!” says Vanessa. “No worries. None of my mates would be caught dead in a store that pathetic.”
“That certainly makes me feel good.”
“Oh, I’m not trying to put you down, Hannah. And like you said, you’re only getting work clothes. Mom told me that the three of us will go to a good mall tomorrow — to get you some real clothes.”
Real clothes? Like that see-through Prada number Vanessa picked up yesterday? A top like that would wipe out my entire summer allowance.
It takes Vanessa about an hour to get ready to go. I’m not sure why she goes to so much trouble, especially since she doesn’t expect to see anyone she knows at Ross. But maybe she just can’t help herself.
“Ready to bail?” I ask when she finally makes an appearance, looking, as usual, perfect.
“Bail on who?”
“You know, bail, as in leave. Are you ready?”
“Sure.” She grins. “
Let’s bail.”
“Do you mind if I drive your dad’s Jeep?” I ask as I look somewhat longingly at her gorgeous car.
“I guess not.”
“I sort of need practice driving down the wrong side of the road.”
“You mean the right side.”
“Wrong side,” I protest. “At least where I come from.” Then, like a total dag, I open the passenger side of the Jeep and start to climb in.
“Wrong side,” points out Vanessa as she waits for me to get out of the way.
“Just getting the keys,” I say with what I hope sounds like nonchalance as I reach into the glove box to find them. “I gotta take your dad’s golf clubs out of the boot, remember?”
So she gets in and checks her perfect self in the mirror as I lug out the big bag of clubs and set them off in a corner of the garage. Then I come back and get into the right (which feels wrong) side of the Jeep and sit there for a moment to check out the controls and things.
“Can you drive a stick?” she asks.
“You mean manual?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“That’s all I’ve ever driven. The problem is, this is on the wrong side.”
“Right side,” she corrects me. “See, you use your right hand to shift.”
“How do I get the garage door open?” I’ve seen them do this from their cars, but I’ve never quite figured it out.
“That button on the visor.” She points.
So I push it, and presto, it works. Then I start the Jeep, and only grinding the gears a bit, I begin to roll in reverse until I’m in the driveway. Then, grinding the gears just slightly again, I put it in first, and we move forward.
“Don’t you want to close the door?”
I pause and glance at the gaping garage door. “Same button?”
“That’s right.”
“I hope you know that I’m feeling like a real loser right now,” I admit as I slowly back out into the street. “Maybe you’ll come visit me someday, and I’ll make you sit in the wrong side of the car and drive down the wrong side of the road and see how you like it.”
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