I passed another bar and a sushi restaurant. They were both closed. Then I came to a tiny store that smelled spicy, like the Indian dress shop in Baltimore where Mary Kate’s big sister Colleen bought her clothes. It made me homesick, that smell, but happy too. I went in.
The store was crammed full of knickknacks and old clothes, junky jewelry, and bad, dusty art. I pawed around for a bit before a woman in a lacy vintage party dress came out from the back and asked if she could help me.
“I need a present,” I said, “for my mom.”
“Well, what does she like?” asked the woman, fiddling with a dangly silver earring.
My mom worked at the hospital and she made dinner and she went to the grocery store and she read to Lew, and that was about all I could think of. When she was really tired at the end of the day, she watched reruns of Law and Order on TV and had a glass of wine. “She likes wine,” I said.
I knew that wasn’t really true. She didn’t like wine any more than she liked coffee, really. Coffee and wine were just the way she started and ended most of her days. But I didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh, I have just the thing,” said the woman, digging around on a shelf until she found a dusty glass vase kind of thing. She held it in a funny, careful way, lightly, because her fingernails were really long and pointy. They were also dark purple.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a decanter,” said the woman.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“You pour your wine into it,” she said.
“Then what?” I asked.
“Then you pour it into your glass and drink it,” said the woman.
I stared at her. “You pour your wine from one bottle into another bottle, just so you can pour it into your glass?”
The woman nodded. She looked amused with me. I didn’t like amusing her, so I didn’t say anything else. I just turned and left. I didn’t think my mom liked wine like that.
After that, I passed a used bookstore with an orange cat in the window, but I was pretty sure my hour was about up; besides, I didn’t have any clue what books Mom hadn’t already read or what she’d want. She read a lot, mostly books with women on the covers, but I couldn’t exactly walk in and say “I need a book with a woman on the cover” any more than I could say “I need a book for a mom.” I stared through the window at a guy behind the counter, fiddling with his glasses. He couldn’t really have any idea what Mom wanted, unless he was psychic or something.
I didn’t think that was very likely, but wishing he was psychic gave me a brilliant idea. I left the window of the bookstore right away and hurried back to Joe’s, where I plopped down next to Lew and drank the last slurp of his juice.
“Vroom zoom zoom!” said Lew, holding up a red race car.
“Zoom!” I said back.
He giggled.
“Mission accomplished?” asked Gran in a whisper as we walked home.
“I think so,” I said, nodding and walking faster.
At the house, I went to my room and shoved the chair back under the door. I was getting good at that trick. Then I turned to the bread box.
“I wish …,” I said. “I wish I had the perfect present for my mom.”
I wasn’t sure if this would work. It felt like cheating to have the box do the work of thinking up a gift, but when I opened the door, there was something inside: a tiny little spoon, tarnished and bent. A spoon? Of course! A spoon!
I never would have thought to get her one, but the minute I saw the spoon, I knew she’d love it. I almost didn’t want to give it to her, knowing how happy she’d be when she saw it. Mom had collected spoons forever. She had a wooden miniature shelf thing on the wall in the living room at home, where her spoons hung. She’d been collecting them since she was a kid.
I reached into the box and wondered what made this spoon so special, so perfect. Why this spoon? I took it out and held it up to the light for inspection. It was cold, like it had been sitting outside somewhere. The bowl of the spoon was thin and fine, like paper almost. The silver had a yellowish sheen to it. It was a nice-enough old spoon, but it wasn’t nearly as fancy as some of the spoons she already had. Some of them were engraved with windmills or had vines creeping up them. When I was little, I’d played with Mom’s spoons. My favorite had been one that looked like a boat.
I turned the spoon over. On the back was a little scrawl of cursive. It said, To Adda. From Harlan. With love. Who were Harlan and Adda? The spoon looked pretty old to me.
I was a genius. The bread box was a genius! My mom would love this. She’d love that it was old, and she’d love the inscription. Most of all she’d love it because I’d thought of it. Which of course I hadn’t, but whatever …
I went to find a piece of paper to wrap it in. I didn’t have a card, but there was nothing I wanted to say to her that you could put on a birthday card.
That night, Gran served steak and cake. “Steak and cake!” she shouted as she brought the cake, covered with candles, into the room. “That’s what makes a party. Am I wrong?”
I didn’t know about that, but the steak was perfect, hot off the grill in the backyard. The meat sizzled, juicy and tender. Beside a mound of homemade mashed potatoes. We never had steak at home. Dad said we couldn’t afford steaks worth eating.
I have to admit: It’s hard not to be happy when you’re eating a big steak.
And the cake! The cake was incredible. Towering and rich and dark and covered in tall, skinny candles. My mom looked happily at me through the candles as we sang, and I managed not to scowl back at her. The candles were shining and her eyes were shining and she clapped her hands like Lew does when he’s really excited.
I couldn’t help thinking that Mom was usually the person who lit the candles, and baked the cake too. I wasn’t even sure what we’d done for her last birthday, now that I thought about it. I watched her, and then I looked over at Gran and saw that Gran was just as happy as Mom.
We tore into that cake. It tasted as amazing as it looked. Three layers of moist cake with chunks of bittersweet chocolate and fudge icing. A ribbon of raspberry ran through the cake, and Lew managed to smear it all over his nose somehow. We all laughed.
“This is the best cake ever,” I said to Gran.
“That’s because nobody you know made it,” said Gran. “I leave important things like cake baking to the experts.”
Then it was time for presents.
Gran gave Mom a new red leather wallet to replace her ratty old one, which had ink marks all over it from being in her gigantic purse with a lot of leaky pens.
Lew gave Mom a card he’d made (which meant that Gran had made it and forced Lew to draw on it, but still …). Mom oohed and aahed and tickled him and gave him a kiss. He giggled a lot and said, “Welpum! Welpum!”
After Lew was done being cute, I gave Mom my tiny present, folded in newspaper. She held it lightly in one hand, like she was weighing it with her fingers. “I wonder what this could be?” she said with a smile.
I stared at my cake plate and used my fork to draw a flower in the frosting smeared there.
“So do I!” said Gran, sounding more excited than Mom. “Open the darn thing!”
Mom pulled the piece of tape off one end and peeked in. Then she stared up at me, without opening it the rest of the way. “Rebecca! Oh. Gosh. Really?”
“What is it?” asked Gran.
“Yah, wha is?” said Lew, peeking curiously over her arm.
Mom slid the spoon out into her palm and held it up for the others to see. “It’s a Gorham!” she said. “It’s a really rare spoon. A really special spoon. And look, there’s writing.” She read it aloud: “ ‘To Adda. From Harlan. With love.’ ” She looked at me and then back down at the spoon. “Wow,” she said. She looked stunned.
I was almost happy that she was so happy. She seemed so grateful. I was also a little surprised at just how happy she was. It didn’t take much with moms, I guess. She was really happ
y.
“It’s just a spoon,” I said with a shrug. “I remembered you like little spoons.”
“It’s not just a spoon,” said my mom. “It’s the spoon. The perfect spoon. The spoon I’ve always wanted. How did you know?” She turned to Gran. “Did you remember? Did you help her pick this out?”
Gran shook her head. “Nope. Not a bit. What do I know about spoons?”
Mom turned back to me and shook the spoon in the air, seeming almost a little angry. “How did you afford this?” she asked me. “This spoon is worth more than—Well, it’s worth a lot!”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought that part through. I shifted in my chair.
“Rebecca?” My mom was now staring at me in a not-entirely-happy way and holding out the spoon. “Just how did you buy this?”
Then I remembered the junky little store in the village and that silly wine bottle lady. “A junk store!” I said quickly, with relief. “I bought it at a junk store. I didn’t know. I mean, I just thought it was an old spoon, like your other spoons. It hardly cost anything at all. Gran gave me the money.”
“Wow,” said my mom. “Really?” She smiled again, and the wrinkles disappeared from her forehead. “That’s a lucky find. I mean, really lucky. These are rare!”
I squirmed. I wasn’t a very good liar, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell them about the bread box.
“Well, then, good job, kiddo!” said Gran, standing up to clear the table. “You outdid me for sure!” She winked.
“Yay, Babecka!” said Lew.
My mom looked at me thoughtfully as she ran her thumb around the worn bowl of the spoon. “You know, I’ve been hunting thrift stores and yard sales all my life for one of these. For this very spoon. My grandma Molly collected spoons before me, and I inherited her collection. That’s how I got started. But this was the one she was hunting, and here it is, waiting for me, here all the while. Back in Atlanta, just a few blocks from home. It’s almost like … almost like a good omen. Almost like we were supposed to come home—to find it. Almost like we’re supposed to be here.”
“Um, yeah, I guess …,” I said. That didn’t sound good to me at all, but I had to admit that it was interesting to hear Mom talk about her grandmother, the same way it had been interesting to hear Gran talk about my grandfather the day before. Something about being in Gran’s house was bringing these long-gone people to life. Molly? Was she the same Molly from the picture in the attic? Molly with the red dress and the sad eyes? I’d never heard a word about her before. I wished, not for the first time, that my parents talked more about their families. I liked old pictures. I liked stories. I liked other people’s relatives, and if I ever had a chance to meet them, I was pretty sure I’d like my relatives too. I only had Gran. Oh well.
Later, I was lying in bed in the dark when the door opened. Mom hadn’t tried to tuck me in since we’d gotten to Gran’s house. I hadn’t wanted her to, but I was almost glad to see her dark shape in the doorway, outlined with light. It looked … familiar. I wasn’t ready to talk to her about anything that was going on with me, but if she wanted to thank me for the present again, I guess I’d let her.
“Rebecca?” she whispered. “You still awake?”
“Yeah,” I said. I turned to look at her as she walked over. “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday.”
She sat down on the edge of my bed. “Oh, that’s fine. But thank you, Rebecca, for saying that. I’m glad you’re … adjusting. I’ve … missed you.”
I turned away from her. “Know what?” I said. “Dad’s looking for a job. He told me so. He might go back to teaching. And he cleaned the house.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she said to my back, but she didn’t sound like she meant it. Or maybe she didn’t sound like she believed me. “I need to call your father. We should talk. I’ll call him tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, still facing away.
That should have made me happy, but it didn’t. Mom didn’t sound very excited to call Dad, so I added, “It’ll be nice, once we’re home. Won’t it? Once things are better? And we can go back to normal?”
She took a minute before she said, “I hope so. Maybe. We’ll see.”
I didn’t say anything else. I closed my eyes hard, and she kissed the back of my head. There was nothing more I wanted to say. I turned over and breathed into my pillow, until it felt all warm and smothery.
I didn’t move, so finally she left, closing the door carefully behind her with a click.
CHAPTER 9
After that, things started to feel almost normal, as long as I didn’t think too much about the fact that I was in a strange place and my dad wasn’t there and I was pretty much all alone. At home I wasn’t exactly talking to my mom, but I wasn’t not talking to her anymore either. She started working at a hospital downtown, but she said it was a really rough place to work and it wore her out. Since she was just filling in for other people, she mostly got lousy shifts. She was working late at night and sleeping a lot during the day, and I could see she wasn’t happy. It made me feel a little better about everything. That’s mean, I know, but sometimes the truth just is. The sooner she got sick of Atlanta, the sooner we’d go home.
I walked to school in the mornings. During lunch and in the hallways, I hung out with Hannah and her friends and tried not to mess up being Becky. I almost never raised my hand in class, but my teachers were good, and the classes were interesting. Really, it was fun, like I was playing a game. I felt like I was keeping a secret all the time. I tried to think of it as a magical vacation. Sooner or later, I’d go home.
I paid attention to what the other kids wore, and thanks to the bread box, I got some new clothes for myself. That was always fun, the wishing! Things I didn’t think Mom would notice. Better jeans. New tennis shoes. An expensive hoodie like some of the other girls had, but in gray like my old ratty one so it would blend in. Nothing too fancy. Nothing that called attention to itself. I also managed a few small things I wanted, like a cool silver watch. Little things. Each time I wished and then something appeared in the box, I got a shiver down my spine. It never got old.
It took me a while to think of it, but eventually I realized that the best way to use the bread box was to wish for things I could give away. Of course, Mom and Gran couldn’t notice the things I didn’t keep. So I wished for fancy chocolates, which I took to school and handed out in the cafeteria. I wished for handmade beaded hair ties that Hannah said she liked. Soon everyone had a pair. My pockets were always full of gum. I always had an extra pen handy. When someone borrowed my lip gloss in the bathroom, I was able to say, “Oh, here. You can have it. I have a bunch of them!” It was nice, sharing. It was nice when people said thank you. I always had lunch money to spare when people needed to borrow. I was rich for the first time in my life, and I liked it. Other than that, I tried to stay quiet. Mysterious.
A few times, Hannah invited a bunch of us to her big, shiny house. Girls and boys, which made me nervous, so I talked even less than usual. We watched movies on her enormous flat screen and ordered pizza with fancy toppings, and I tried to disappear into the huge pillows on the velvety brown sofa. I never invited anyone back to Gran’s. There was too much I didn’t want anyone to know.
Mostly, each day after school, I’d walk home. Then I’d get a snack and do my homework right away at the kitchen table. Lew always climbed up beside me to scribble with crayons. He said he was doing his homework too. He had to get up on his knees to reach the table. When we were done, we’d watch TV together in the living room. He’d curl up with his blanket, and we’d stare at the baby shows I secretly still liked to watch. Sometimes he’d fall asleep against my arm—a warm bundle. He made snuffling noises when he breathed.
Once in a while, Gran met me at school as a surprise, with Lew in his stroller. Those days we’d get cocoa or something on the way home. We’d stop at the playground, and he’d play with other little kids while Gran and I watched from the swings.
/> If it wasn’t normal, I had to admit it was okay. Gran was nice and school was pretty fun, and Lew was cuddlier than usual. I liked walking everywhere, and I liked the coffee shops near the house, and the playgrounds. If we had been visiting for any other reason, it would have been great.
And if Dad had been there.
Sometimes, when Mom wasn’t at work or sleeping, she went out in the car, wearing high heels and a skirt, which wasn’t usual for her. I was not about to ask her where she went. She was living her life and I was living mine. She didn’t seem to care what I wanted or thought. Maybe she just went for walks in her high heels, and maybe she saw old friends from when she was a kid in Atlanta. Maybe she wandered around Target aimlessly in the evening, eating chips from an open bag she hadn’t paid for yet. That was something she did that drove me nuts. Still, she was usually home to make dinner. Gran said Mom was getting herself together, “taking some space.” I couldn’t tell from the way she said it whether Gran thought that was okay or not.
Every night I’d call my dad, but I had to use Gran’s phone, since the phone I’d gotten from the bread box worked for only a few days, even after I wished for a charger. I tried again with a second phone, but I guess you can’t wish for an account with Sprint or AT&T or anything. I guess the bread box couldn’t arrange that for me, which was too bad.
About half the time when I called, Dad was home. I was curious about what he was doing the nights he was out, but I didn’t ask him any more than I asked Mom. Dad told you what he wanted you to know. Usually he’d just ask what I was studying in school. He never said anything else about the teaching job, and we didn’t talk about Mom. I didn’t tell him nice things about Atlanta, because I didn’t want him to feel sad. There wasn’t a whole lot to chat about, but it was always good to hear his voice.
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