The Three Rules of Everyday Magic

by Amanda Rawson Hill

  Finally, we make it to her house. It looks the same. Lace curtains in the window. Rosebushes in the yard, though nobody seems to have pruned them in a while. Mom takes my hand when I get out of the car.

  “I don’t know what she’s going to be like when we walk in,” says Mom. “She might not seem like herself. Don’t be scared.”

  I’m not scared. Not at all. But I know Mom must be because she needs to talk through her feelings. Dad used to say she was a patient and therapist all rolled up into one person.

  “And I’m a dang good therapist,” she’d reply.

  “And a good patient,” Dad said, nudging her with his elbow. “Very regular appointments.”

  “You ready, Katydid?” Mom asks.

  I wiggle my hand away. Whenever Mom calls me Katydid, it’s like trying to wear a pair of last year’s tennis shoes—something I used to love that pinches and doesn’t fit anymore. It’s been my special nickname ever since I was a baby and seven weeks premature. Mom and Dad said I was small as a bug. A katydid. But I’m not small as a bug now. And Dad’s not here to watch me grow.

  “I’m ready.”

  The home care helper, Margaret, opens the door for us. She’s got on blue jeans and a red polo shirt; she leans in to Mom and says, “She’s ornery this morning.”

  “Good to know,” Mom whispers back.

  When we walk in, there’s a clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen. “Who’s that? Who’s there?” Grammy calls.

  She comes around the corner, her white hair frizzy around her ears. “Kate? Can it be? Come give me a hug!”

  I look at Mom and she nods, so I creep up to Grammy and put my arms around her. She pulls me into her fluffy chest so I can smell the cinnamon and lemon soap on her dress. Before letting go she says, “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten all about me.”

  Mom’s mouth falls open for a second. She does that a lot when we’re around Grammy. “I … am … so sorry, Pat. It’s been … well, it’s been a really hard year for us.”

  Grammy straightens up. “Where’s my Tony? He didn’t come with you?”

  “No, Pat. He’s, ummm, well, he’s …”

  “Late?” Grammy shakes her head. “As usual. That boy. You know, I didn’t raise him that way. I raised him to be on time. Not just on time. Early! We were always early. For church, for school, for parties. But now …” Grammy looks into the distance for a few seconds. Everyone leans in, waiting for her to finish. I tug on her dress a little and she blinks a few times, clears her throat. “What was I talking about?”

  “Being on time,” I whisper.

  Grammy laughs. “Being on time? My goodness, I haven’t been on time for anything in ages. You know, I think my clock’s broken. That must be it. Darn clock.”

  Mom follows Grammy to a couch in the living room. Margaret says goodbye and we all just sit there. We sit there for so long that I wonder if the dust that coats everything in here will start growing on us as well.

  Finally, Mom clears her throat. “Pat, we need to talk about what happened this morning.”

  Grammy waves her hand in the air. “Pish posh. I went on a morning walk. You know how I like my fresh air. And I got a little turned around because of the fog. It could happen to anyone.”

  “Margaret says you’ve been leaving the gas stove on all day.”

  “Well, she’s not complaining about the soup I make for her.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest.

  Mom pushes her hands together and then pulls them apart. Together. Apart. Together. Apart. A slow, silent clap. “She says you shouldn’t be living on your own anymore.”

  “Well, that’s a load of codswallop. I’ve been living on my own all my life. I raised my Tony all by myself after his dad died in Vietnam. I am not about to leave this house with my whole life sitting inside it just because some busybody named Margaret, who comes over here every day like she owns the place, thinks she can kick me out.”

  I bury my face in my knees, trying to block out the anger echoing off the walls.

  “It isn’t like that,” says Mom.

  “Of course it is,” Grammy goes on. “I bet she wants my house. Hoping for a good deal on it. I’ve seen the way she looks at my pool.”

  “Pat, she’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. We just want to help.”

  “Well, then you can leave! That would help!”

  In my mind, I hear the memory of her door slamming. “Don’t say that again, Grammy,” I whisper. But nobody hears me.

  Mom stands up in her I’m-the-boss pose. “Family is family, Pat. We’re not leaving you here by yourself.”

  The room goes silent after that. Mom’s statement sucked every single vibration out of it. Grammy shakes her head, slowly stands up, and shuffles into the kitchen without saying a word.

  I trace my finger around the flowers on the throw pillow, but it doesn’t help me let go of the feeling that I’m a teakettle about to whistle. “Will she ever want to live with us? Without Dad?”

  Mom sighs. “I don’t think she has much of a choice at this point. It’s not like she can go live with him.”

  “Because we don’t know where he is,” I whisper, finishing the sentence Mom has been telling me every time I think of another way to help Dad get better and want to come home.

  “And other reasons,” Mom murmurs.

  We sit in the living room and nobody says anything. Grammy’s gone back to washing dishes and sweeping all the floors in the house. She won’t let anyone help her. We get takeout for dinner even though Grammy insists she can cook. Mom and I sit in that room some more after dinner while Grammy makes a big show of reading her mail in the kitchen. But after a while, she stops shuffling papers and walks back into the living room. She looks down at the floor the same way I do when I know I’m in big trouble. “Elizabeth, can you play ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love with You?’”

  Mom looks up from the Reader’s Digest she’s been thumbing through. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” was Grammy and Grandpa’s wedding song. And even though Grandpa died in Vietnam, Grammy used to play it, and we’d all sing every time we visited. Well, until the last time, when everything exploded.

  “Would you play it for me?” Grammy asked. “I … I can’t.”

  “Of course.” Mom moves to the piano in the corner of the room faster than a bumblebee moving through Mr. Harris’s orchard. She opens it up, carefully wipes the dust off the keys, sets her fingers down, and begins to plunk out the first few arpeggios.

  My fingers push down like there are guitar strings under them, because there usually are. I know the chords to this song by heart. But I keep my eyes on Grammy, waiting to see what she’ll do. Waiting to see if she’ll start shaking again, slam the lid of the piano down, and stomp out, yelling about how she never wants to play that song ever again.

  But that doesn’t happen. Mom starts singing. Her voice is a little stiff, but the notes brush some dust out of the house and bring back the sparkle I remember.

  Grammy sits down in her chair. She closes her eyes, leans back her head, and hums along.

  Then something starts filling up inside me, a warm rising and building right in my chest. And for just a moment, I think that maybe I could sing. Right here. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad to make music without Dad.

  But then Mom plays the very last note. That sparkle shimmers in the air until Grammy opens her eyes, and somehow they seem sharper, like Grammy finally knows what’s going on. “Well, I guess we’d better start packing.”

  Chapter 5

  Dear Dad,

  Grammy lives with us now. She sleeps in your office. I still think of it as your office, not her bedroom. She walks around the house every day and asks for you.

  Remember how you used to write obituaries in your office? I’d sit in the beanbag chair and read. You told me that people lead such interesting lives and you felt honored to write the last memories of them.


  Your office is still full of memories, both old and new. I think you’d still like it. At least I hope you would.

  Love,

  Kate

  Chapter 6

  The second I walk into karate, I feel like a breeze blowing through the orchard, light and sweet.

  “Kate,” says Mr. Amori with a bow of his head. “Nice to see you again. We missed you.”

  “It’s nice to be back.”

  Mom hands Mr. Amori a straw and a large cup filled with diet soda.

  He quickly puts in the straw and takes a sip. “And I missed you, too, Ms. Mitchell.”

  “It’s straight from the drive-thru.”

  He takes another sip. “You know, I really owe you a discount.”

  “Nope,” says Mom. She holds up her own soda. “I understand the addiction. I’m just sorry we left you without one for so long.”

  It’s been three weeks since I went to karate. It’s been three weeks since I went anywhere except school and Grammy’s house. After Grammy said she’d come live with Mom and me, there was a lot to do. Packing up all her things, throwing out the stuff she didn’t need anymore, doctor’s appointments, meeting with realtors and bankers. Mom did as much as she could during the week, while I was at school. But we hopped in the car every Friday and drove to Sacramento to do everything else. That meant missing karate. And sleepovers with Sofia—not that she seemed to really care. Not since play practice started.

  “I didn’t miss too much, did I?”

  “You’ll catch up just fine,” says Mr. Amori, with a wink. “Don’t worry.”

  I take my usual place, tightening the brown belt around my waist. I shake my arms and legs. Stretch my neck from side to side. Look around the room. Mom and Grammy take seats in chairs along the back wall. Mom gives me a thumbs up. Grammy pulls some knitting needles from her big gold bag.

  “Hey, Kate. You’re back!”

  I turn around and see Parker Harris. He’s got a brown belt, too, just like me. That’s what happens when your moms are friends and decide to put their kids in the same activity at the same time. “Hi, Parker.”

  “My mom said maybe you quit karate, but I knew that couldn’t be true. You’d never quit.”

  “Never.” I jog in place for a second or two. “I have to beat you next time we spar.”

  Parker laughs. “Yeah, right.” Then he leans in close to my ear. So close the little hairs on the back of my neck tingle and stand up. “Guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I’m starting school on Monday!” Parker’s grin is huge.

  I stop moving. “What? No way.”

  “Yep. Mom’s having such a hard time with the new baby, she said she didn’t feel like she could do a good job with my homeschooling this year. So … I’m going to be in your class! Miss Reynolds, right?”

  “Right,” I say. It comes out as a squeak. Parker and I have been friends pretty much since we were born. His dad is Mr. Harris, who owns the almond orchard next to our house. We used to play together every day. But then we turned five and I started kindergarten and Parker’s mom decided to homeschool him. My mom went back to work, and we didn’t see each other quite as much. Only once or twice a week.

  That’s when Parker’s mom and my mom decided to put us both in the same karate class. We’ve basically grown up kicking and blocking and chopping each other.

  Something happened about a month before Dad left, though. Parker walked into the dojo and my tongue turned to sandpaper. My hands get sweaty whenever he’s around now, and I say really stupid things that I think about the rest of the night. See, Parker’s smart and funny and nice, and I think my heart finally realized it.

  All of that was okay when it was just karate and Parker was my secret friend that nobody else knew about. But I’m not sure what to think of him being in my class. Will everybody notice my sweaty hands? What if Sofia doesn’t like him? Or worse, what if she does?

  I try to act like it’s no big deal. Maybe if I pretend, my brain will start to believe it. “Well, I hope you get to sit by me.”

  “Me too! That would be awesome!”

  Mr. Amori always says we should know ourselves. But right now, I have no idea what to think or feel. I’m just a mixed-up blob of happy, nervous, sandpapery goo.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to say anything else to Parker because Mr. Amori—Sensei—takes a final sip of his soda, walks to the front of the room, and starts taking us through warm-ups. And finally, finally, I get to relax.

  The past three weeks with Grammy have felt like running a mile in a heat wave. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take of boxes and sorting and taping and markers. I wasn’t sure how much more Grammy could take of it either. She’d constantly forget what we were doing and bark, “What are you doing with my things? What do you want with that? That’s mine!”

  It’s been even worse since Sunday, when she officially moved in with us. On good days, she snaps at Mom for asking her questions, then feels bad and tries to help, which is usually a disaster. On bad days, she wanders the house crying and asking if she can go home now.

  It makes my chest feel tight and prickly. I haven’t had Sofia to help me feel better like usual, either. She tried out for Annie and got a pretty big part. Pepper. It didn’t feel right to talk about Grammy at school where anyone else could hear us. When I tried calling her a couple times in the evenings, she was never there or was on her way out the door. And of course, no sleepovers. Not even tonight when I’m actually home. Sofia didn’t explain why. She just said she couldn’t come.

  But being at karate feels like being spattered by water droplets from a waterfall on the Mist Trail. Like tiny air conditioners are hitting your skin and making the can’t-goone-more-step tiredness fade away.

  I relax into the kata and let the smoothness of each move melt into the next. I can see Parker out of the corner of my eye. He glances at me. Then looks away.

  There is no everything here. No Mom sighing and stomping down the hall. No emptiness and missing. Sometimes, when things around me keep spinning, spinning, spinning, karate is at the very center, the one place where I can stand still.

  When the kata is finished, Sensei says, “We will now practice your jumping side kicks.”

  They must have learned that while I was gone.

  “These are tricky,” Sensei continues. He catches my eye and nods. “Do not worry if you’re struggling with it. You’ll have plenty of time to perfect this move. Remember, effort is better than speed. Quality in performance is a result of quantity in practice. Let’s begin.”

  Sensei demonstrates the move for us, which is exactly like it sounds. A kick to the side while jumping. This isn’t just any karate move, though. It’s one of the ones they always show in movies. It’s the kick I’ve been waiting years to learn.

  Parker and the rest of the class begin jumping and side-kicking. I try to join in, but my kick is wobbly in the air. Parker’s is way better than mine.

  Sensei walks around the room, coaching each person and having us practice kicking a target. I’m one of the last people he comes to. By the time he gets to me, my thighs are burning and my stomach aches. He holds up the black kicking pad and says, “Okay, Kate. Show me what you’ve got.”

  But the target is too high, and I don’t think I can even jump two inches off the ground right now. I lean over to take some deep breaths.

  Parker has stopped practicing and is watching me. Now my cheeks are burning too.

  Sensei slaps the kicking pad. “You can do it.” He lowers his voice, and I know that one of his bits of wisdom is coming. “Do not focus on the pain. Focus only on the next move.”

  Sometimes I think that Sensei knows everything. About karate. About life. About me. I close my eyes, block the ache of my legs, and jump.

  Chapter 7

  After karate, Mom walks up to me and says, “How about ice cream with Parker?”

  I’m old enough to know this really means, I need to have a grown-up conversation
with Parker’s mom.

  Usually, I’d be super excited. Today though, I can’t help having sandpaper tongue and sweaty hands. Plus the wondering about what having Parker in class will be like. These things smash together in my brain.

  So I shrug. “Okay.”

  “Is something wrong?” Mom asks. “Are you tired?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She cups her hand around my face and pinches her lips together. That’s what Mom always does when she’s thinking hard. Finally, her face unpinches. “Okay, let’s go. But I want you in bed early tonight. Remember what Mr. Amori said about sleep.”

  I picture Sensei standing at the front of the dojo with his fist resting in the palm of his other hand. “Every hour of sleep before midnight is worth three hours after.”

  “That’s right,” says Mom.

  We walk down the street to the ice-cream shop. My mom says this used to be the downtown area where everything happened. It was filled up with tiny shops that only sold one or two things. Books, vacuums, repairs, stuff like that. But then the Air Force base was closed and half the town with it. Now this street feels kind of like my house: empty, with memories of how things used to be—and even those are slipping away.

  The bell rings when we all walk into the ice-cream store. Grammy strides straight up to the counter and taps her chin. “Well, I’ll be. I forgot how many flavors of ice cream there were. I swear there weren’t this many when I was a girl.”

  The boy behind the counter smiles. “We like to come up with new flavors every month or two.”

  It’s true. At this ice-cream shop the flavors change with the seasons. You never know quite what you’re going to get. Dad and I used to come here every Saturday to try a different scoop. My favorite was boysenberry vanilla cheesecake, made with the boysenberries growing just down the road. It stained both my and Dad’s lips dark purple. Dad said I might as well finish off the look and let me paint his nails that day, too.