Cammie Takes Flight

by Laura Best

  “Ouija, is Mr. Herb Winters here?” The quiver in my throat makes me feel stupid. I wait for the pointer to start moving like it did when Nessa was asking the questions. It doesn’t budge, not even a speck. I sigh and give it another go. Maybe it doesn’t like me.

  “Mr. Herb Winters,” I repeat. Mister—Pfffff. How ridiculous, calling Herb mister. If he was here sitting beside me he’d be laughing like a fool. Nessa said to be all polite, but she didn’t know Herb.

  “Hey, Herb, how’s it going? Are you anywhere near handy? I’ve got a favour to ask,” I say real loud, remembering that he was sometimes hard of hearing.

  “That’s no way to talk to a spirit,” says Nessa, puckering up her face.

  “Well, it’s the way I always talked to Herb.” I give her back a look that could stop a bear in its tracks. I don’t need Nessa telling me how to talk to old Herb.

  Nessa’s sigh isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out my next, “Are you there, Herb Winters?” She might know how to talk to your run-of-the-mill spirits, but not Herb. Sometimes you’ve got to do things your own way no matter what the experts might tell you.

  “Did you feel that?” I ask as the pointer wobbles. That little nudge gives me confidence. I’ll put on the Turple charm, roll him in slow and steady the same way Evelyn used to reel in a big whopper of a fish down at the river.

  “I need your help, Herb. Are you there?” That nibble has me yearning for the next big bite. We wait. Patience is required when you’re on a fishing expedition. I learned that much from Evelyn Merry. Hardly a fishing trip went by that he didn’t catch something.

  And then, like sliding on an icy pond, the pointer moves across the board to the upper corner and stops on Yes. I wiggle back and forth on the bed. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. I have to hope Nessa knows what she’s talking about, that a ghost knows all and tells all if you catch them in a good mood. Herb was always in a good mood whenever I saw him. I can’t imagine all that has changed now that he’s dead. I clear my throat. I have things to tell Herb Winters.

  “I’m not living with Aunt Millie these days, Herb,” I start in. I skim over most of the details—just hitting the high spots like when you’re taking a bath. Sometimes the less you tell the less complicated things become. “I’m in the city at the blind school. Did you know that, Herb?” The pointer moves all around the board then rests again on the Yes. That brings a smile to my face. At least someone back home cares what I’m doing, even if that someone is dead.

  “Ask him, ask him,” says Nessa, like I’m going to let this moment of truth go without finding out what I want to know. Squirming a little, I get down to the matter at hand. A lot is riding on this one question, a whole lifetime’s worth of spite—not to mention all the unanswered questions that have been festering in me for ages.

  “I’ve been trying to locate my mother, Herb. She’s somewhere in the city and I want to find her. Can you help?” This time the pointer shimmies. It moves around the board and stops on Yes again. By now I’m getting mighty excited. I’m almost too scared to think straight.

  “There’s a supervisor here at the school, Herb. Her name is Miss Turner. Nessa and I have been talking and, well, Nessa thinks she might be my mother. Is she my mother, Herb? Is Miss Turner really Brenda Turple?”

  Nothing happens for a time. Maybe Herb’s thinking it over, trying to decide if this information is something he dares to tell. The suspense is killing me. And then the pointer goes crazy, from one side of the board to the other and back again. It stops like someone suddenly ordered it to. My heart makes a double flip.

  “I knew it!” squeals Nessa jumping up from the bed. “I just knew it!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I know about the baby you gave away. Meet me at the Public Gardens at 3:00 this Saturday to discuss this and other matters—or else.

  Writing with all the force I can muster, I cross my t’s and dot my i’s with eleven years of Turple spite urging me on. If the pencil I’m using snaps in two, I won’t be surprised. There’s plenty more in me to say, but I’m planning to save that for when we’re standing face to face. Imagine finding out someone you thought was so nice is really a wolf living in sheep’s wool. It pains me in a way I can’t begin to describe. How could someone as sweet as Miss Turner have given her baby to Aunt Millie without guilt biting a big chunk out of her?

  My tongue runs along the edge of the envelope. Currents of sheer nastiness tingle in my fingertips as I press it shut. On the envelope I write: For Miss Turner’s eyes only.

  Miss Turner! I let out a pfffff. She sure has everyone here fooled. Well, it’s high time everyone finds out who she really is. I’m prepared to blow her lie right out of the water. This Saturday afternoon will be as good a time as any. She isn’t any better than Aunt Millie when it comes right down to it—maybe worse. At least Aunt Millie isn’t hiding her real self under a bunch of sugary words and syrupy smiles. At least with Aunt Millie what you see is what you get. Imagine pretending to be someone you aren’t, changing your name and never looking back at your past. Worse than that is having her ignore me these weeks since she found out that her sister and my aunt Millie are one in the same. My very own mother, right under the same roof as me, and she didn’t even bat an eyelash. I bet she never thought the secret she’s been toting around all this time would land right here in her lap. I’ll make her sorry she dumped me out at Aunt Millie’s if it’s the last thing I do.

  Seeing how it’s Miss Turner’s day off, I make my way to the supervisor’s sitting room with the envelope stuffed inside my navy blue tunic. I’m not about to get questioned about the letter I’m carrying. I’ve got more wits about me than that. The envelope crinkles near my chest as I walk along. Pulling this off will be a piece of cake with all the practice I’ve had sneaking out of Aunt Millie’s house through the years. Nessa offered to come with me to deliver the letter, but this is a family matter, private business between mother and daughter, something I need to take care of all on my own.

  The sitting-room door is closed. Opening it quickly, I step inside like a thief on the prowl. The room has a sweet aroma that reminds me of Evelyn Merry. The first time I came down for mail call I noticed the room smelled of honeysuckle. A big vine of it grows next to the Merrys’ front verandah. Evelyn brought a handful of blossoms to our secret camp one day.

  “I’m not much for smelling flowers,” I told him. He chucked them outside before I had time to even sniff them properly, dusted his hands off like he’d been holding something dirty. Sometimes I wish I could get those moments back—too late once you’ve ruined them the first time around. There’s never any going back to what was, or what could have been, because by the time you catch up to what you should have done it’s already too late.

  As light-footed as a water skip on a pond, I bound my way to the desk and place the envelope where it’s sure to be seen. Seeing how there isn’t much for clutter on the desk, that shouldn’t present a problem. Looking down at the envelope, a hiccough of joy bubbles inside me. Just you wait, Brenda Turple, I think to myself. Just you wait.

  ---

  Being hot on my mother’s trail, it’s hard to focus on anything else. My mind wanders away during morning assembly. While Nessa plays her piano piece, I can’t even hear if she’s making any mistakes. Me, I’m in the Public Gardens telling Brenda about my crummy childhood living in a bootlegger’s house. Later, while Mr. Allen reads another chapter from Beautiful Joe, I’m laughing in Brenda’s face, telling her about Ed’s plan to adopt me. Funny all the things you can do without having to leave your chair.

  When I make silly mistakes in mathematics class, Mrs. Craig asks me if my mind’s been on holiday this week. Spelling class isn’t much better. When you’re tracking a person’s movements, it’s hard to think of anything else.

  On Thursday evening, who should come moseying on into the recreation room without a care in the world b
ut Miss Turner. Two days until the big showdown, you can bet she’s squirming like a worm on a hook—and me the fish about to grab her. She comes over and it takes a mountain of willpower to keep from saying something snotty right there in front of everyone. But I’m waiting for the right time and that right time is Saturday afternoon. Instead, I say, “Hi, Miss Turner,” like the rest of the girls. I don’t want to blow my cover.

  Jennie has her autograph book out and you just can’t help laughing at some of the verses written there. When you get old and cannot see, I’ll hold the pot so you can pee puts us all in stitches for a time.

  Jennie says she wants me to write something in her book, but I tell her I don’t know any verses. “Besides, I want to find one you don’t already have,” I say, which seems to please her as much as when we’re served bread pudding for dessert. An autograph is a big responsibility and takes some serious thought. Once something’s written down there’s no taking it back. It’s there for a lifetime and I like to think I’ll be remembered for more than holding someone’s pot for them to pee in, no matter how funny it might sound. Not to mention I’m not at all acquainted with autograph books or the verses that go into them, seeing how the girls back in Tanner never gave me the time of day.

  “Here’s one you could write, Cammie,” says Miss Turner, butting in like I’d be interested in her help. “Old friends are like diamonds, precious and rare; false friends are like autumn leaves, strewn everywhere.” I tell her no offense but I’m planning to ask my aunt Millie for her help. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t hang around long after that.

  Nessa keeps asking me what I’m going to say to Miss Turner, because facing your enemy doesn’t happen just any old day of the week.

  “I haven’t yet decided,” I say, flexing the upper hand I now have. And really, how can you plan out what to say when you’re not sure what kinds of lame excuses you’ll be given in return?

  That little bird inside me has been fluttering like crazy ever since Herb told me the truth about my mother. Coming from someone else I might have questioned it, but when he was alive, Herb never gave me reason to question anything he said. I doubt he’d make up anything now that he’s dead. Besides, there’d be no reason for him to lie to me now. It’s not like a dead person would have anything to gain.

  Friday night comes and I can’t stop myself from flouncing around in bed. Tomorrow’s the big day, the showdown I’ve pictured in my mind for the longest while. I can’t stop talking to Miss Turner in my head. Each conversation we have is a little different, usually with me telling her what a horrible mother’s she’s been. I try to state things just right, figure out which words will cause her the most pain. Sometimes I jump right into the middle of a conversation where she’s begging me to forgive her and me, I just laugh in her face. I walk away. She calls me back, pleading for me not to tell her secret. When your world is closing in around you, there’s every reason for you to squirm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sun cracks through the November clouds as Nessa and I walk to the Public Gardens. Seems like a good sign, like maybe God’s smiling down at me. I’m about to be finished with my old life for good. All those loose threads will be tied up good and tight. I’ll be moving on once and for all, wiping my hands clean of this whole mess called my past.

  “I’ll take you to the Public Gardens but I won’t listen in,” said Nessa when we made our plans for the day. Not that I figured she’d be nosy enough to involve herself in my affairs, but not everyone would understand. It’s hard to speak your mind with someone listening in.

  The trees are hanging with colour—red, yellow, and orange. We walk through a cemetery: a shortcut, according to Nessa. Although I’d rather not have to pass all these spooky grey tombstones, I keep my uncertainties to myself. If Nessa doesn’t mind, neither do I.

  Looking up into the sky, I smile back big and wide in a thanks-for-everything kind of way. When you’re about to get the very thing you’ve wanted for as long as you can remember, you can’t help but feel on top of the world. The envelope with Brenda’s address on it crinkles as I walk. I shove my hand in my pocket. My proof. It’s the only link I have to my mother, the one thing she messed up that ended up leading me straight to her. I want to rub it in her face and ask her how it feels to have her past finally catch up with her.

  Nessa’s house is within walking distance of the park. City slickers like Nessa talk about going to the park like it’s something special, but back in Tanner the whole outdoors is one big old park.

  “I’d go with you girls if this wasn’t Mrs. Howard’s day to stop by,” said Mrs. Maxwell. I sent a sly look Nessa’s way. The last thing we wanted was her mother stepping in on my business. Nessa timed our rendezvous with Miss Turner right down to a T. Mrs. Howard never misses a Saturday afternoon visit at the Maxwells’. She’s as regular as Old Faithful, that geyser up north Mrs. Larkin told us about last week in geography. Having Mrs. Maxwell with us would have put a damper on our whole scheme. Battling your enemy is serious dealings for anyone, and you don’t want any witnesses keeping track of the causalities.

  We hurry along lickety-split, arms locked, in a one-for-all-and-all-for-one kind of way. What could be a nail-biting situation, one that should have me as skittish as a cat, just has me raring to get it over with. I’m about to face the person who ditched me right after I was born, let her know just how crummy I think she is, and free up all the feelings I’ve been carrying with me. My heart should be hammering up a storm. But me, I’m looking forward to it.

  Miss Turner wasn’t at the school on Friday. Mrs. Skinner said she’d come down with a bug. A bug, all right—a bug called Cammie Turple. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the pressure finally got to her.

  “Maybe she’ll be too sick to come to the park,” says Nessa.

  “Oh, she’ll be there—a Turple never backs away from a fight,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “I’ve got her right where I want her.”

  By the time we reach the park I’m wondering just how I’ll start things off. When you’re ready to pounce, all those nerves and muscles are just itching to let go. Nessa says not to worry because when you’re on the side of good, the right words find you. I have to assume she knows what she’s talking about.

  “Is she here?” I ask, craning my neck. There are muddled shapes in the distance. I’m not so sure what they are, this being my first time to the Public Gardens. I can make out someone standing beside a bright red bush, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, let alone if it’s Miss Turner.

  “It’s only a little past two thirty—you said three. Where did you tell her to meet you?”

  Meet me? I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand. Why didn’t I think of that when I was writing the note?

  “I just said the Public Gardens. ‘Meet me at the Public Gardens at three.’” Great! I’ve messed it up big time. If I could kick my own rear end I would. The park is a pretty big place. My mother would have to be a mind reader for this to work out right. I wring my hands. A single word from Nessa about how stupid I am could start me bawling like a baby. I chew at the side of my cheek, trying to stuff the disappointment back in.

  “You’re getting worked up over nothing. She’s probably not here yet. We left early, remember?”

  “But what if she’s already here? What if we’ve missed her? She could be roaming around the park by now and we’ll never find her.” My luck, she’s one of those people who shows up with hours to spare, twiddling her thumbs just waiting for the action to get underway. But then I take a deep breath and quickly come up with a plan. I’ve come too far to let a little setback shake me up.

  “We’ll hang out at the park entrance. When she comes through we’ll see her. It’ll be fine,” I say, gathering up some confidence.

  We stroll around in a casual style. I’ve never seen so many strange colours in all my life. Makes me wonder what they’ve got fo
r trees here in the city, a lot different from what we’ve got back in Tanner. I almost gasp at a pink bush rounded up like an umbrella, but I don’t want to sound childish in front of Nessa.

  Seeing what time of year it is, visitors to the park are as scarce as hen’s teeth. When someone walks through, I jump.

  “Calm down, Cammie, it’s just someone walking their dog,” says Nessa. After a spell we sit down on a bench, me trying to play it nice and cool.

  “Do you think she’ll come?” Time’s a-wasting and still no sign of her. Maybe she isn’t as feisty as Aunt Millie. Or maybe Nessa’s right, and she really is sick. Just as I’m thinking she’s not going to put in an appearance, Nessa elbows me in the ribs; not enough to make me howl, but enough to make me sit up and take notice.

  “There she is—I’m sure of it. That’s her blue coat. I’d recognize it anywhere,” says Nessa. I jump to my feet and suck in a big breath of air.

  “Here goes nothing,” I say, hurrying straight toward the blue jacket. I’m stopped in my tracks by a “Cammie” up ahead of me that sounds more like a question than a statement. It is Miss Turner. Nessa was right!

  “What are you doing here? Do you have permission to be off school property?”

  “I’m staying at Nessa’s this weekend,” I state, snappy-like—she has no reason to be concerned about my welfare this late in the game. If she’d been at school yesterday she’d probably know all that. She looks out past me then down at her wristwatch, jumpy as a cat on a midnight prowl. Me, I’m playing it calm. I’m on the side of good, and good always wins over evil. I have nothing to fear.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Cammie, but I’m supposed to meet someone. I really can’t stay and talk.” She looks over her shoulder like she’s afraid she’s being watched. Too bad for her, but she’s looking her enemy in the face and doesn’t even know it.