The Moment Keeper

by Buffy Andrews

  My Christmases were nothing like Olivia’s. Most of my gifts came from the dollar store and the others through the Salvation Army’s Angel Tree program. Each year, Grandma filled out a registration sheet with the items I needed. The charity wrote the items people submitted on paper angels and hung them on trees at area businesses. People would pick an angel off a tree and buy the items listed. There was one angel for each child.

  I always got pajamas and underwear, things that Grandma didn’t feel right buying used at the Goodwill store. But there was usually something fun, like a toy, to go with it. And our church always gave us a box of food and a turkey so we always had a nice Christmas dinner.

  When I got too old for the Angel Tree, Grandma said that I would get only three gifts. One for each of the wise men.

  “I wish I could give you more,” Grandma said. “But I got too many bills.”

  “Gram. Who cares about gifts anyway? You don’t have to buy me anything. I don’t buy you anything.”

  “You’re my gift, Sarah,” Grandma said. “And I thank the good Lord for you every day.”

  “But that’s not the same as getting something,” I said. “Like a new toaster. Only the one side works on the one we have and that’ll probably go soon. And I know how much you love your toast in the morning.”

  “I’ll look at the Goodwill store the next time I stop. I’ll get me a toaster soon enough. If they don’t have one, I’ll tell Phyllis, the clerk who goes through the donations, to keep her eye out in case one comes in. She’ll put it back for me. She’s done that a time or two before when I needed something special.”

  I never had any money to buy Grandma gifts so I made things to give her. When I was little, I dug a coffee can out of the trash and covered it with a piece of white construction paper that I had decorated with blue and red stars. Then I wrapped it using paper Grandma had saved from presents we had received. In our house, Grandma always recycled, from empty bread bags to plastic grocery bags. She found a use for everything.

  “It’s a drum,” I told Grandma when she unwrapped it that Christmas.

  “Just what I always wanted,” Grandma said. “A drum to play. And I love the red and blue stars.”

  Grandma sat the drum on her dresser and every now and then she would parade around the house tapping on the plastic lid. She acted as if that drum was the best gift she had ever received. When she died, I put the drum in her casket, just in case she wanted to play it in Heaven.

  Olivia comes in from outside with Daisy and the puppy snuggles in her arms. She takes Daisy to her room, away from the other kids. She doesn’t want to share Daisy just yet. She sits on her bed.

  “You’re the best present ever,” Olivia tells Daisy. “I will always take care of you just like Mommy and Daddy take care of me.”

  Elizabeth is listening outside Olivia’s room. She smiles and walks in.

  “Ready to join everyone else?”

  “Do I have to share Daisy?”

  “Well, it would be nice to let the other kids hold her. Just for a little.”

  Olivia’s shoulders drop and she sighs. “OK. If I have to.”

  I begged Grandma for a puppy but the closest I ever got was a toy one that, with the help of a battery pack, walked, sat, flipped over and barked. We found it at a yard sale and the lady put batteries in it to show us it still worked.

  “You know we can’t have any pets in the apartment,” Grandma said.

  “Why do we have to live in a stupid apartment anyway?” I shot back.

  “Because it’s what I can afford.”

  “Well, I’m tired of being poor. Everyone else has a puppy but me.”

  “Not everyone,” Grandma said.

  “Almost everyone. Rachel does. And some kids at school got them for Christmas.”

  “Sorry,” Grandma said. “Even if we could have one in the apartment, I’d never have the money to spend on keeping a dog. They cost money. Just like humans, they got to go to the doctor’s when they get sick and for checkups and shots. Plus, you got to buy them food. Just too much money.”

  I marched to my bedroom and slammed my door. I was a brat and Grandma deserved better.

  The kids gather around Olivia and Daisy, and Olivia gives each one a turn holding the puppy. Grandma Cindy is talking to Elizabeth. They are standing nearby so I can hear them.

  “One of my Angel gifts didn’t have one toy listed,” Grandma Cindy says. “It was all essential stuff, like underwear and socks and mittens. But I just had to add a toy or two. Every kid should have at least one toy to open Christmas morning.”

  “Olivia loved going shopping for her Angel gifts,” Elizabeth says. “Tom brought home two from work. One was a little boy, eight, and the other a little girl, six.”

  I smiled. It was fun to watch Olivia pick out gifts for other children, and I couldn’t help remember that I had been on the receiving end of such generosity growing up. When I got older, Grandma insisted that we give back. So, we participated in the Salvation Army’s Red Kettle Christmas Campaign. Grandma would sit next to the tripod holding the red kettle and I would ring the bell, hoping people would make a donation. My cheeks always hurt from smiling so much. People always seemed more willing to give around Christmas, I thought. I never understood why that feeling couldn’t last the whole year.

  Chapter 15

  Olivia sees Elizabeth and Tom pull into the driveway. They are returning from a parent-teacher conference with Olivia’s fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Beshore.

  It’s the first time I notice how Olivia’s left eye and thumb twitch when she’s nervous or stressed.

  Olivia greets them at the door. “Did she say anything bad?”

  She steps to the side so her parents can walk into the house.

  “She said you’re an excellent student but there is one thing you need to work on,” Tom says.

  Olivia follows her parents into the living room where Grandma Cindy is knitting Olivia another scarf. Olivia sits on the chair and her mom and dad sit on the sofa facing her.

  Elizabeth starts. “You’re way ahead in reading and writing and where you’re supposed to be in math. But, you talk too much.”

  Olivia knew she was going to get in trouble for her talking. Just that day, Mrs. Beshore made her spend her recess writing, “I will not talk in class.”

  “But I have so much talking to do and there’s never enough time to do it.”

  “Listen, Libby,” Tom says. “We’re glad that you’re outgoing and sociable and everyone’s friend. But when the teacher is teaching, you can’t be talking. It’s disrespectful and rude. And it needs to stop.”

  Olivia looks down. “OK, I’ll try.”

  Grandma Cindy looks up from her knitting needles. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Grandma Cindy smiles at Elizabeth. “Go on. Tell her about it.”

  “Mom.”

  “No Mom me. You were a talker, too, and just like Libby you had to learn how to zip up during class.”

  Olivia looks at her mom. “So you liked talking, too?”

  “Did she ever,” Grandma Cindy says. “She was always spending recesses inside or staying after school. Like mother, like daughter.”

  “OK, yes, I did like to talk,” Elizabeth says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Like your dad said, you can’t talk when you’re not supposed to. Not only will it impede your learning, because if you’re talking you’re not listening, but that of others.”

  “What’s impede mean?” Olivia asks.

  “Hamper. Hinder. Hurt. Not only will it hurt your learning but it will hurt the other boys and girls because you talking gets in the way of their listening.”

  Olivia chews her lower lip. “OK. I’ll try harder.”

  “That’s all we’re asking for, Libby. That you work on it,” Tom says. “We don’t expect you to become a silent wallflower because that’s just not who you are, but we do expect you to be respectful.”

  To me, Olivia was a forget-me-not with its five bl
ue lobes and a bright yellow center. After you met her, you never forgot her. She had a contagious energy that endeared her to others and made them want to be her friend.

  I was a wallflower. Unlike Olivia, I never got in trouble for talking too much. In fact, I didn’t talk enough. My teachers thought something was wrong with me. They put me through a bunch of testing. Turned out I was smart, just quiet. Besides Rachel, I didn’t have any friends.

  I envied girls like Olivia who were so happy and carefree and outgoing. Just the other day I watched Olivia walk into the ballet studio and all of the girls rushed toward her. It was as if she were the queen bee and they were the worker bees. They couldn’t help but be attracted by her sunshiny optimism. Grandma told me once that I wear a frown like a piece of favorite clothing. She was right. I wish she had been wrong, but she was always right.

  Elizabeth loads Olivia’s costumes into the back seat of their tan Mercedes Benz. Tonight is Olivia’s dance recital, and she’s performing in numerous numbers – jazz, tap, ballet, modern.

  Olivia’s smile takes up most of her heart-shaped face. With her hair pulled back in a tight bun and eye shadow and mascara on, she looks older than nine.

  I’ve watched Olivia dance since she was three, and I’ve never seen her happier than when she’s on stage. And, as her moment keeper, I feel the greatest joy at these moments. I’m filled with intense warmth, not the fleeting kind that comes and goes, but a warmth that hangs on like a summer haze.

  Olivia and the stage are like a lock and key – they fit perfectly. When opened, everything else falls away except for Olivia, a whirl of movement so beautiful that it grabs your breath before you know it’s been taken. I have never seen someone dance as naturally as she dances. It’s no wonder that her parents have decided to enroll her in the most prestigious dance academy in the state. Even if it does require them to travel more. Olivia is that good, and they know it. All she wants to do is dance. That is her dream.

  I’ll never forget the time Rachel talked me into participating in the talent show. We were in fifth grade. It was the one and only time I was on a stage. I hated being in the spotlight. I was more comfortable hiding in the dark wings, out of view.

  “Rachel, you’re next,” Grandma said.

  I stepped to the side so Grandma could measure Rachel.

  “You girls are about the same size,” said Grandma, rolling up her yellow tape measure. “Are you sure you like the material?”

  Rachel and I nodded. Grandma was making us matching outfits for a skit/dance number that we, well, mostly Rachel, had choreographed. She was making us red pants with elastic waistbands and short-sleeve white tops with red polka dots that tied in the front. She found the material on the clearance rack and picked it up for pennies.

  “Well, OK, then. I should have your outfits done by the end of the week.”

  Rachel and I hugged Grandma. By the night of the talent show, we had practiced our number so many times that even Rachel’s dog left the room when he saw us moving the furniture so we had room to dance. Normally, that shaggy mutt wouldn’t leave Rachel’s side.

  That’s why I could never figure out what happened the night of the show. Maybe it was because Grandma had a severe case of bronchitis and couldn’t come. Maybe I was nervous because we followed Tracey Carmichael, who wore the most beautiful ballet costume I had ever seen. It was pink with sequins and pearls on the bodice and a tutu with four layers of heavily gathered tulle.

  I’m not sure what it was, but I froze. I couldn’t move. So Rachel did what she always did. She covered for me. She danced around me and made it look as if I was supposed to just stand there. I didn’t know what to do. But I had remembered that Rachel had told me that if I got too scared, just to smile and pretend I was enjoying myself. So, that’s what I did. And eventually my brain believed that I was happy and I began to move. A little. Then more until I mirrored Rachel’s movements. People thought I was supposed to be a doll that came to life, and Rachel never told them any different.

  Chapter 16

  “Mom,” Olivia shouts. “Can I play the flute?”

  “I’m in the basement,” Elizabeth yells. “I can’t hear you.”

  Olivia walks down the basement steps. Elizabeth looks up from the box she’s packing with old Christmas decorations to take to the Goodwill store.

  “Can I play the flute? Can I? Can I?”

  “What in the world made you ask to play the flute?”

  “We got this paper today in school about learning to play an instrument. If I play the flute, I can be in the band.”

  “And you think that you have enough time in your busy schedule to play the flute?”

  Olivia nods.

  “Let’s talk about it tonight when Dad gets home.”

  Olivia sighs. “OK. But I really do want to play.”

  Grandma wanted me to play the violin. She had an old one that had been in her family for years. She took it to an instrument repair shop and struck a deal with the owner. He would put new strings on it, rehair the bow, and throw in a cake of resin and a chin rest. In exchange, Grandma would alter a couple pairs of pants that no longer fit him since he had a gastric bypass. Everyone was happy, most of all Grandma.

  The teacher who directed the junior and high school orchestras gave lessons to third-graders who were just starting out. I was in a group with three other students. We met once a week during the afternoon recess in the music room.

  My heart just wasn’t into playing the violin. I wanted it to be. I wanted to make Grandma proud. I thought that if I played the violin and got really good at it that it would give Grandma something to brag about to the other ladies she worked with at the bridal shop where she did alterations. But I stunk.

  “Sarah,” Miss Wagaman said one day. “Can you stay after class for a minute? I’ll write you a pass to return to your class.”

  I packed up my violin, taking my time so that the other kids had a chance to leave. I felt my face heat up. I thought Miss Wagaman was going to yell at me.

  “Come, sit beside me.”

  I sat on the cold metal folding chair next to her.

  “Do you like playing the violin?”

  I looked down at the tan speckled floor streaked with black shoe marks. “My Grandma wants me to play. This violin has been in her family forever.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Do you want to play?”

  “Well, I practice all the time. Every day.”

  “Sarah, look at me.”

  I stopped looking at the floor and looked at Miss Wagaman.

  “Do you want to play the violin?”

  I bit my lower lip.

  “Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. It’s OK whatever the answer is. I won’t be mad.”

  I shook my head no and started to cry. “But Grandma wants me to play and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “It’s OK, Sarah. Playing the violin isn’t for everyone. Just like playing a sport isn’t for everyone. Hopefully you’ll find your passion one day and when you do, you won’t practice because you’re told to but because you want to. And there’ll be a big difference in the outcome.”

  “How will I know what I’m good at?”

  “By trying different things,” Miss Wagaman said. “You tried the violin. You’ve tried for nearly a year now and it’s not for you. And that’s OK. So, maybe it’s time to try something else. Not because your grandma wants you to or I want you to but because you want to.”

  “But how will I tell Grandma? I don’t want her to be mad at me.”

  “Just tell her. Sometimes what we fear the most is what we should fear the least. Your grandma doesn’t love you because you play the violin. She loves you for you. And, adults are pretty smart. They often have things figured out way before kids do.”

  “Was I really that bad?”

  “I could just tell that your heart wasn’t in it and I’d rather have you find something that your heart is in.”

  “What if I don’t find
anything?” I asked.

  “You will. Life has a way of leading us down paths that we didn’t know were there.”

  “Dad, Dad.” Olivia runs to greet him at the door. “Can I play the flute?”

  Tom looks at Elizabeth.

  “Hey, Libs, let me at least get in the door.”

  Olivia follows her dad as he hangs up his overcoat, sits his leather briefcase in his office and grabs a cup of black coffee.

  He pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down. “Now, what’s this about the flute?”

  “We got this paper today about playing an instrument. Emma’s going to play the flute and I want to play the flute, too.”

  “Because Emma’s doing it or because you want to do it?”

  “Both.”

  “Do you think you have enough time to play the flute and dance?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom looks at Elizabeth. “Remember last year when you wanted to play the viola and quit after a few weeks?”

  Olivia nods. “But that was different.”

  “How so?”

  “It made my arms tired and my chin hurt.”

  “What about the time you wanted to play basketball? And soccer?”

  “I had to run too much.”

  “Here’s the deal, Libs. Your mom and I want you to try new things. We understand it’s part of growing up. Heck, I tried a lot of different things when I was a kid. But we don’t want you to do something because your best friend is doing it. We want you to do it because you want to do it. Don’t be a follower or feel pressured into doing something just because other people are doing it. And, I don’t like you starting stuff and not finishing it. That’s a bad habit to get into.”

  “Your dad’s right, Libby.”

  “But I really want to play the flute.”

  “How about you think about it for a couple of days? If you still want to try it then, we’ll talk about it again.”

  Olivia hangs her head. “OK.”

  I thought about my talk with Miss Wagaman the rest of the day. By the time I got home I had rehearsed my speech to Grandma so much that when I opened my mouth the words gushed out as if they had been held hostage and couldn’t wait to be freed.