“And you don’t like them?”
“They’re fine,” I say, exasperated because there’s no escaping Jeanette when she wants to know something. “I don’t know what to say to them, though, and as soon as they find out I like reading and playing bandoneón, they’ll think I’m weird, and since I’ll be leaving soon anyway, I’m sure Sarah will pick them over me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jeanette grabs the edge of the table with both hands. “You’ve just written off your entire friendship based on what you’re afraid might happen?”
I slurp the last spoonful of milk and lean back in my chair. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
“Not with her,” Jeanette says.
I shrug. “I should go practice. Frank’s given me a lot of work to do.”
“Give Sarah a chance, Ellie.” She hesitates for a second. “It might be good to have a friend here, you know.”
Something about the way she says it makes me look up. Her eyes are bright, but I see tension in her face too. She snatches up the tea towel and folds it into a tiny, nervous square before meeting my eyes. “I wanted to let you know that you’ll always have a home with me, Ellie, whenever you need it.”
“Thank you.”
“What I’m saying is, you don’t have to go back at the end of the summer, if you don’t want to.”
“What?” I can’t believe she’d take the game of favorites this far, but equally unbelievable is how I’m flooded with images of walking to school with Sarah, doing homework in the friendly quiet of this kitchen and riding my bike to bandoneón lessons for the rest of the year. How can I get mad at Jeanette when I’m obviously so willing to imagine the new life she’s suggesting?
“I mean it,” Jeanette says, leaning her elbows on the table. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now, but I’d like you to think about it. Don’t worry about offending me, no matter what you decide. I promise to back you up, no matter what.”
I could quit violin lessons, self-defense class and French lessons and just read, hang out with Sarah and practice bandoneón. I might get to go to some tango concerts. If I hang out with Sarah at school, maybe I’ll learn to make friends as quickly as she does.
“Think about it,” Jeanette says. “I don’t mind talking to your Mom if you want me to.”
My images of life in Victoria burst like soap bubbles. “What would you tell her?”
“How much you’re blossoming here, how you have access to a world-class bandoneón teacher and how much he thinks of your playing.”
I wince. “My parents don’t know about the bandoneón. I never told them.”
“No problem. I did.”
“Oh.” Now Mom has undeniable proof that I’ve been keeping things from her. That’ll be enough to send her imagination searching for a million other secrets I must be hiding. If Jeanette asks her to let me stay here for the year, she’ll be convinced I’ve become an Uncontrollable Teenager for sure.
TWENTY
Ineed a good twenty-four hours to figure out what to say to my parents. Not about moving here—I haven’t made that decision yet—but about the bandoneón.
Withholding information is a big deal in my family. Like I said, my parents believe in discussing everything with me, from their first sexual experiences (“knowledge that might help you make your own decisions”) to what they’re presently arguing about (“as a member of the family, you deserve to know”). They’ve always assumed I would be open with them too, and I have been, until now.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to telling us,” Mom says when I bring up the bandoneón. “Why did you keep it a secret?”
I can think of no safe way to answer this, so I choose the least painful version of the truth. “I wanted it to be a surprise. You know, I show up at the end of the summer able to play a whole new instrument?”
Mom says nothing at first. “Why wouldn’t you want to share your excitement with us, though, as you experience it?”
“I didn’t know you’d find it so exciting,” I say. “I know Dad, for one, hates anything that sounds like an accordion.”
Another long silence. Dangerously long. I brace myself.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” she whispers. “You keep saying everything’s fine, but if it were really fine, you’d tell me things. Why don’t you tell me things anymore?”
I don’t know how to respond to that, and I guess my silence lasts a moment too long, because I hear her take a deep breath, and I know any hope of rational conversation is gone.
“I can’t stand this anymore,” she cries. “We need to talk. I’ll get on a ferry first thing tomorrow morning. I can be there by nine.”
“No,” I say too quickly, then scramble to save myself. “I mean, I’d be happy to talk to you, but no, we don’t need to talk. Everything’s fine. I love you, Mom.” She’s crying quietly enough for me to add that I didn’t mean to hurt her, and I’d love to see her, but I also understand that work is very busy and I wouldn’t want her to fall behind to come over here when everything’s—
“Everything’s not fine between us!” she wails. “I can hear it in your voice.”
I cast a pleading look at Jeanette, who’s suddenly standing next to me. She holds out her hand for the phone, but I know I have to say something to calm Mom down before I hand her over. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just let me come,” she says. “I need to see you.”
“I—”
Jeanette snatches the phone before I can say any more. “Gloria, what is going on?”
Even from a foot away, I can hear Mom’s garbled moan.
“Why are you second-guessing your own daughter?” Jeanette asks. “Has she ever lied to you before?…No, she’s not. In fact, it took considerable courage for her to tell you how she feels…Of course you’re still welcome to come. When have I ever locked my door on you?…Forget the poor-me stuff, Gloria. She doesn’t hate you. She simply said you don’t need to come here on her account. That’s good news. Nothing worth wailing about.”
Jeanette turns and finds me staring at her. She shoos me away with one hand, but I stay rooted to the floor, wondering why Mom hasn’t slammed down the phone yet. I think, too, about my dad hiding away in his basement office. I suspect he won’t be coming out to comfort her this time, and part of me wants to clamp a hand over Jeanette’s mouth. The other part of me wants to reach through the phone and shove my mother across the room.
I turn and run.
TWENTY-ONE
I’m not much of a runner, and by the time I reach the end of the block, I have to slow down. I storm across Douglas Street to the park and head to the stone bridge over Goodacre Lake. Sarah and I often came here on hot days to watch turtles sunning themselves on the rocks. It’s a breezy evening now, though, so the turtles have all hidden away, and Sarah’s probably holed up with her family playing a happy game of Scrabble. Her dad probably made a chocolate cake, and all five of them are savoring each mouthful, basking in their perfect family-ness.
“Hi there.” It’s Sarah, of course, the last person on the planet that I want to see—well, second-last, after my mother. She is sitting at the water’s edge, poking a stick into the dirt next to her.
“What are you doing here?” I mean it as a curious question, but I admit it comes out a bit harsh.
She looks startled. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“I mean, I thought you’d be with your family.”
“Nah,” she says. “Jennifer’s at music camp, and my parents and Wylie are watching some movie about dinosaurs.”
“Oh.”
I sit down on the grass, kind of beside her but a little bit apart. It would be rude to leave, but I don’t want her to feel like she has to talk to me either.
Neither of us says anything for a while.
“So what’s up with you anyway?” she asks, poking at a bit of algae floating on the water.
I swallow. “W
hat do you mean?”
“Why have you been avoiding me lately?”
I wish I hadn’t come here tonight. I wish a giant UFO would suck me up and take me away, never to return. I close my eyes, but nothing happens. When I open them, Sarah is still there, waiting. “I—”
“I was good enough for you when you first got here, but now you’ve found better things to do? Is that it?”
“What?” I ask. “No, that’s not it at—”
“Then what?” She’s jabbing at the algae now.
How do I explain that she’s got it backward? How do I say that I don’t know what to talk to Michael and Steve about, that if it weren’t for her hanging out at the petting zoo in addition to looking glamorous, I never would have even tried talking to her? How do I say any of that without sounding pathetic?
“If I did something to make you mad, why don’t you just say so?”
“Why is everyone so convinced I’m mad at them, for god’s sake!” I’m surprised to find myself shouting.
Sarah jumps up. “Don’t yell at me, Ellie. I’m not deaf, and I didn’t come to the park to get yelled at.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a rough day.” I tell her about my conversation with Mom.
She sits back down. “Sounds like she needs some serious help.”
“That’s what Jeanette says.”
She finds a stone and tosses it into the pond. “What do you think?”
“Maybe. Jeanette wants Mom to see a therapist.”
“Think she will?”
“No.” I don’t tell her that it hurts to think of Mom on a psychologist’s couch. Mom always says that psychologists are for people who don’t have family and friends to talk to. If I’d listened properly, instead of getting so caught up in my own world, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.
“So is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asks. “Because you were upset about your parents?”
I shake my head and admit that I didn’t want to hang out with Michael and Steve. “They’d just think I’m weird. Guys always do, and then you’d have to choose, and I didn’t want to be dropped.”
“That’s the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard, Ellie. You don’t just ditch someone for something they might do.”
“I didn’t ditch you,” I say.
“Hard to tell.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I can’t be perfect all the time.” The words—ones that Mom always uses and that I hate—make me squirm.
Sarah tosses her stick into the lake and gets up.
“If you ever feel like hanging out instead of feeling sorry for yourself, let me know.” She heads back down the path, leaving an emptiness far bigger than the one I’d had when I came to the stone bridge in the first place.
Jeanette is waiting for me in the living room. “I made some tea. Chamomile. For the nerves.” She brings me a steaming mug and hands me a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. “These are for your soul. Did your walk help?”
“Next question,” I say.
She hands me the plate. “Eat. Very few things don’t improve with chocolate.” I obey, and she tells me she’s asked my mother to leave the next call up to me.
The cookie turns to dust in my mouth. “Oh great. Thanks, Jeanette.”
“No problem,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Someone’s got to stand up for you, Ellie.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how you can talk to her the way you do.”
“Why not?” She grabs a cookie. “It’s a valuable skill to learn, being respectful but firm. And don’t forget, she’s my little sister—I’ve had a lot of experience talking to her.”
I blow on my tea. “Hate to say this, but I’m not sure how respectful it is if everything you say makes her fall apart.”
“Ellie,” she says, “right now, anything anyone says will upset her, so we might as well say what we think. She needs professional help. You can’t hold yourself responsible for fixing her. Or your father either, for that matter.”
We go around and around the same issues for another twenty minutes or so before I tell her I’m going to bed.
The chocolate has done nothing for my soul, and the chamomile hasn’t helped either. I stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time my parents were both happy. What comes up instead is the picture Facundo talked about, of his father playing the bandoneón and his mother clapping behind him. I imagine them, Andrés with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, and Caterina grinning. I hope Facundo can hold that image in his mind rather than imagining their faces as they were killed.
I’d like to ask Facundo how he manages to smile, how he can know what he knows about his parents and his life and still find moments of happiness. I want to ask him why my mother, who has a home, work she loves and a daughter who gets straight A’s, can be miserable.
Christmastime, I suddenly remember. Right after my violin recital, my parents looked at me like I’d won the Nobel Prize, and they didn’t stop grinning all evening.
I close my eyes, clinging to that image, but more recent memories blur it within seconds.
TWENTY-TWO
Isail home from my bandoneón lesson on my old bike, humming the piece that Frank played for me. It’s by a Finnish composer. Who knew that tango was wildly popular in Finland, of all places?
I bump up onto the sidewalk and ride through the tiny park at the end of Jeanette’s cul-de-sac. As I swing off my seat in front of my aunt’s house, I spot Sarah next door, reading on the steps. I say hi, and she raises her hand in greeting but doesn’t look up.
I have to apologize, especially if I plan on staying here. I still haven’t decided one way or another, but the more I play my bandoneón, or sit in Jeanette’s garden, or ride my bike, the more I want to stay. I’ll definitely have to learn to cook in self-defense, but how hard can it be? Besides, I’d like to do something to earn my keep.
I wheel my bike through the gate at the side of the house and lock it up.
“Ellie?” Jeanette is at the front door. “Is that you?”
“Yup. I’m back.”
“That’s good,” she says, “because your mother’s here.”
She’s sitting in the kitchen, reading a magazine. Her face is red and tear-streaked, but worried rather than angry. Worry is okay. I can deal with worry. I smile big and fling my arms around her.
She hugs me back, but her face remains tense. “You’re looking well.”
I look down at my faded blue shorts and the old black T-shirt. My legs and arms are tanned, but other than that, nothing about me has changed—on the outside anyway.
“I’m doing great,” I say, hoping she’ll add now that you’re here on her own.
She closes her magazine and pushes it away. “Please sit down.”
I drop into the chair opposite her. Jeanette remains standing, but grips the back of the chair beside me and offers us tea or juice. Mom shakes her head, her face so serious that for a split second I wonder if Dad’s been hit by a truck or something. Jeanette doesn’t look grief-stricken though. She looks mad.
“I think it would be best for everyone if you come home,” Mom says.
I stare at her. “Now? In the middle of the summer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mom looks from me to Jeanette. Her lower lip quivers dangerously, and she closes her eyes. “I don’t want Jeanette turning you against me,” she whispers.
The words are like ice water down my neck, but it’s what’s left unsaid—I don’t want her to take you away—that makes my stomach turn. All my life, Mom has talked about how Jeanette saved her from their alcoholic father and crazy mother. Now she’s glaring at my aunt as if she were a kidnapper.
My mother is being totally irrational, and I know I should get up now and go around the table to where she’s sitting. I should put my arms around her, whisper that she’s mistaken, and hold her close while she cries. She’ll break down and tell us about her problems with Dad
, the stresses at work, and her worries about me. I’ll prop her up, talk to her gently, and eventually convince her that no one could ever turn me against the mother who’s done everything for me. She’ll nod, eyes shut as she regains control of her breathing, and finally she’ll smile and say thank you. She’ll stay for a few days and return home alone, leaving me to enjoy the rest of my summer.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Jeanette is not turning me against you,” I say. “Just because I want to spend the rest of the summer here, like we planned, doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Mom’s eyes fly open. She stares at me, scrunches her eyes shut again and takes a few deep breaths. “I. Want. You. Home.”
I cast a pleading look at Jeanette.
“Believe me,” Jeanette says, “I’ve spent the past hour talking to her, but she won’t budge. I can’t keep you here without her consent.”
I close my eyes and try to breathe. “When are we going?”
Mom looks at her watch. “We’re still on time for the five o’clock ferry.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “I’m not leaving just like that! I have friends to say goodbye to.”
Mom looks startled. She’s spent so much time harping on me to socialize more, and now she seems unable to believe I have friends. “Don’t forget Ellie’s dentist appointment tomorrow,” Jeanette puts in. Good old Jeanette. She’s knows how to hit where it counts. Mom is obviously flustered, and Jeanette goes for the jugular. “You know we’ll have to pay in full if we cancel now anyway, and it’ll take a few weeks to get her another one at home.”
Mom glares at her sister. “Fine,” she says through clenched teeth. “But this time tomorrow, we’re leaving.” She gets up and leaves the room, and I watch her go.
I tell myself everything will be okay. My parents love me, feed me, keep a roof over my head and give me all the stuff they never had as kids. At my age, Mom had escaped from her abusive parents, was living with Jeanette and babysitting to help make ends meet. Who knows what my dad was living through? I really have nothing to complain about.
Out of the Box Page 8