Tell Me

by Joan Bauer

  I said nothing.

  “Honey, your dad needs to get hold of his anger, and while he does that I think he needs for us not to be around. Okay?”

  Mim is Dad’s mother, but she and Mom are amazingly close. And it’s not that I didn’t love my grandmother, but why did my parents want to live someplace without me?

  Mom leaned forward. She looked so pale. “This is colossally hard on everybody. I want you to be in a place that’s peaceful. I need, honestly, some space to work this through. Okay?”

  I shook my head. None of this was okay.

  “Certainly, Anna, if you don’t want to do this—”

  “I don’t know what I want! I just heard that my parents are splitting up.”

  “Separating, Anna. . . .”

  I pulled out my phone, went to the dictionary. “Separate,” I announced. “To divide, to disunite, to become disconnected or severed.”

  Jen stepped in. “It’s good to define a word, Anna, but sometimes that can label a thing too harshly. Separation can be a step toward divorce, but not always.”

  Mom leaned forward. “Anna, do you want to stay with me at Barry’s?”

  I shook my head no, but at least she offered.

  We sat there not talking.

  Then I asked. I had to.

  “Do you love him, Mom?”

  She shifted in her chair. “Your dad and I have been married for nineteen years.”

  “Do you love him?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  That was my week.

  I stand in the dining room. My suitcase is packed and by the door. Peanut, my dachshund, isn’t sure about anything.

  “It’s okay, girl.”

  Peanut knows this is a deep lie.

  “All right, it’s not exactly okay, but we’re going to handle this.”

  Peanut looks at my suitcase.

  “I don’t think I’ll be gone too long.”

  She looks at me. Peanut has been my dog for eight years—it’s hard to put anything over on her.

  “I hope I won’t be gone too long.”

  I see a piece of broken glass on the floor. I pick it up.

  Brian, what is the matter with you?

  I wonder how anger got so popular—people screaming on TV, ranting on the news, politicians yelling at each other. None of it seems to do much good.

  I throw the broken glass into the trash, sit on the floor, and let Peanut crawl in my lap. “I got a card,” I tell her.

  She sniffs the envelope.

  “Does it smell like Lorenzo?” I open the envelope Lorenzo gave me, take out the yellow card. “Yellow is our favorite color, right?”

  HAVE AN AMAZING ADVENTURE, ANNA!

  COME BACK SOON OR I’M GOING TO BE IRRITATED!

  I smile. Lorenzo is the best friend ever. Inside he wrote:

  * pea in a pod

  * irritated gerbil

  * top of totem pole

  * Health Week monkey

  * beloved oak tree

  These are some of the roles I’ve played over the years. Lorenzo says every role an actor plays stays with them and makes them stronger.

  * comic cupcake

  * angry worm

  * amazing dancing cranberry

  * the lead in Cinderella, the Early Years

  * lonely radish

  Right now I’m feeling mostly like a lonely radish.

  I could sing the “Smile” song, but I don’t want to.

  Mom comes down the stairs stiffly. “Well, honey, are you ready?”

  It won’t do any good to mention that I’m not.

  We lug my stuff out to the car.

  We drop Peanut next door with Mr. Vincenzo, who balances a dog biscuit on his nose, and Peanut hops up to get it. This is their big trick.

  I give her a hug. “You be a good dog.”

  That gets a tail wag.

  Mom and I fold our arms across our chests exactly the same way, then we thank Mr. Vincenzo and head out the door.

  “’Bye, Peanut.”

  “Well . . .” Mom doesn’t finish the thought. We walk to our car, get in.

  Mom sighs, starts the Malibu, and drives down Pine Street toward the Schuykill Expressway.

  HAVE AN AMAZING ADVENTURE, ANNA!

  COME BACK SOON OR I’M GOING TO BE IRRITATED!

  I’m not sure about this being an amazing adventure.

  I am sure that I need a vacation from my life.

  Not a forever vacation, though. A couple of weeks should give my parents enough time to fix things.

  I watch the road signs leading us out of Philadelphia to I-76.

  I slump in my seat. It’s official—the cranberry has left the city.

  Three

  We’ve been driving for two hours. Mom is getting emotional.

  “I need to say this, Anna. I’m just so sad about all that’s happened, and you know that your dad and I are going to be seeing Jen regularly while you’re gone.”

  I know that. Uncle Barry’s house is an hour from Philadelphia.

  “And I’m hoping you won’t worry, honey, because I know how worry can wear you down.”

  I bite my thumbnail, not that there’s much nail left.

  Mom says if I stop biting my nails, she and I can go get a manicure.

  Me, I’m not the manicure type.

  “And I’ve been thinking,” Mom adds. “If you feel dizzy . . .”

  “I’ll sit down, Mom. Unless, I’m walking across a busy street, or I’m running away from evil.”

  “Tell you what. Avoid evil, honey. Got it?”

  Got it.

  No worry allowed.

  No evil allowed.

  If I feel dizzy, sit down,

  but not in the street.

  “Anna, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just want to make sure—”

  “Mom, I want to talk, but could we do it a little later?”

  She takes a big breath and nods. “We’re making good time.”

  We’re in Baltimore; an hour later, D.C.

  Already I miss my life.

  I can hear Mr. Dez at the Children’s Drama Workshop asking, “So, what are you about?”

  You have to know this when you’re an actor, because if you don’t know that, you can’t pull from who you are. You won’t make your mark.

  No matter what size role you get—and I’ve had some dinky parts, believe me—you’ve got to hang onto this:

  There’s something that only I can bring to this part, and I’m going for it.

  Lorenzo and I were the only four-year-olds enrolled in the Children’s Drama Workshop, but we didn’t coast through on adorableness alone. We practiced hard, we learned our lines, and we worked our way up from playing two peas in a pod (in the world premier of Jonathan, Eat Your Vegetables), to almost starring roles.

  My mom and dad came to every performance. Dad always laughed in the perfect places. He has the best laugh of any father.

  Except for this past year. He’s not been laughing much.

  I feel a rumble in my chest. I roll down the window and suck in as much fresh air as I can. I didn’t used to have trouble breathing. I got checked for asthma, but I don’t have that.

  When dad started changing, it got to me—I was closer to him than to my mom, but anger separates people. It’s a wall that goes up. I kept trying to do things that would make him feel better, like making cookies and asking him if he wanted to watch a funny movie. Neither one did much for his mood.

  I feel a little dizzy, put my head down. This is a dead giveaway.

  “Anna, are you okay?”

  “Mostly.”

  I know I don’t seem a
ll that strong right now, but I am strong!

  I get things done. I don’t give up.

  I sit up. “I’m fine now.”

  She puts her hand over her heart. I open my Actor’s Journal. It’s got my notes on the roles I’ve played and how I got ready for them.

  Okay, I'm an oak tree. . . .

  It's a non-speaking part that doesn't showcase my talent, but that means I act entirely with my face.

  A tree has confidence, right?

  I've got to let my roots go down deep.

  When an actor goes the extra mile, that’s when the magic happens.

  Now suddenly, the breeze seems sweeter, everything seems better.

  We’re on a winding tree-lined road, and here come the flowers. Everywhere. They hang from streetlights, they tumble over fences—pink ones, blue ones, yellow, white, red, orange. Mom drives past a hand-painted sign for the Rosemont Flower Festival.

  BIGGER THAN EVER!

  BETTER THAN EVER!

  I wonder if I’ll still be here for the festival.

  I can smell the flowers’ perfume. Mom drives by fences covered with wild roses. Two brown bunnies watch our car go by. I wave at them.

  “It seems like nothing bad could ever happen here, Mom.”

  “Nothing bad is allowed to happen. It’s the unofficial town motto.”

  Mom drives by another sign, much bigger:

  CRUDUP’S COUNTRY MARKETS

  YOU CAN ALWAYS DEPEND ON US!

  There’s a picture of a man smiling much too wide.

  We drive past the Rosemont Stables. A few horses are in the field. I love horses.

  Mom turns onto Flower Road, Mim’s street.

  Every house has stone steps leading to the front, every house has flowering trees and gardens bursting with color.

  Then there’s Mim’s house. . . .

  A painted blue fence, a porch swing, a crazy parrot figure by the front door. A purple banner flaps in the breeze. A trellis is covered with flowers. Warm light shines everywhere.

  Mim is a florist. Actually, she’s more than that.

  She’s got the ultimate green thumb. She’s got a florist shop in town, but she’s really a flower designer.

  Actually, she’s more than that.

  And now I see bubbles rising in the air just above the rosebush in her front yard. They float up near the magnolia tree, carried on the breeze.

  I twirl around laughing as they fly overhead.

  “Well.” Mom laughs. “Your grandmother has outdone herself.”

  Believe me, that’s really saying something.

  Four

  “It makes five hundred bubbles a minute. Aggie’s grandson finally got off his butt and rigged it up.”

  Mim walks toward us. And you have to understand what happens to my grandmother’s face when she sees me; it’s like the sun shines through her. I stand in the perfect warmness of that and give her a long hug.

  “All right now, Anna, let me look at you. . . .”

  I spin around as bubbles land on my face.

  “You’re looking fine, girl.”

  “You are too, Mim.” She’s wearing her growing clothes—dirty jeans, dirty boots, and her big blue-and-white checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her eyes are royal blue; they don’t miss much.

  She puts her arm around Mom. “How are you, honey? You’ve had a time.”

  Mom bites her lip, squares her shoulders.

  Excuse me, but I’ve had a time, too!

  We walk past Mim’s white pickup truck with FLOWER PEOPLE written in curly purple letters. We head up the steps to her green front door, which is always open. Nobody locks their doors here except the sheriff.

  Her old dog, Bean, comes up wagging his tail. I drop my bags, kneel down, and rub him till my hands get tired; he rolls on his back so I can get his stomach. “Okay, that’s enough for now.” Bean looks hopefully at Mom.

  Mim shakes her head. “It’s never enough with this dog. I’m trying to teach him contentment, but he lives for the moment, won’t take the long view.”

  We walk in, past a bright purple wall with a sign: NO WHINING.

  Piles of books are everywhere. There’s a red Chinese chest next to a yellow rocking chair, a fluffy green rug, and above the fireplace in a silver frame:

  GO FORTH AND SET THE WORLD ON FIRE

  That’s what I want to do!

  I flop into the hugging chair and pull the fluffy arms of the chair over my shoulders. It’s big, deep, and soft. There’s something almost human about this chair. Next to a painting of sunflowers that Mim painted is a picture of me and my parents smiling. Mom and Dad had just had a big fight right before that was taken.

  You can’t always trust a photograph.

  But you can trust a hugging chair. I close my eyes and feel about six, the best kind of six, when you’re young enough to jump into a lap and get a bear hug and be covered with a blanket and know, just know, that everything is going to be all right.

  I open my eyes and see Mom standing there. I look at her, really look, the way Mr. Dez taught us to see things as actors.

  Going past her deep brown eyes.

  Her sunburned nose.

  Her feather earrings.

  Her bright green shirt, her white jeans.

  So, if I was my mom right now . . . how would I be feeling?

  I’d be scared at what’s happening to the marriage.

  I’d be grateful Mim is here so Anna can be in a safe place.

  I’d be worried about the future, angry at my husband, and so not looking forward to living with Barry, his wife Pru, and all those eggs.

  I’d be wondering about everything.

  I’d be trying to seem brave.

  I get up from the hugging chair and beam a mega smile at Mom.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  Basically, this is true.

  She studies my face.

  I raise one eyebrow, wiggle my ears. You doubt me?

  She laughs, wipes the tears away.

  “Brownies?” Mim calls from the kitchen.

  You need to understand the power of these brownies. Dad says if astrophysicists discovered this force, life as we know it would change.

  “Maybe just one,” Mom says.

  Ha!

  Mim comes out of the kitchen with a tray of brownies. A tear rolls down my mother’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to cry. . . .”

  Maybe you did, Mom.

  Mom and Mim are in the garden talking, sitting in the deep blue chairs under the arbor covered with grape vines. But I’m in an even better place: on the roof deck of Mim’s house. It fits into the flat part of the roof; there’s a ladder leading up and a thin white railing. There are big outdoor pillows up here. I’m on one of them, eating blue-ribbon brownies. My grandpa Mel built this deck. It’s the best place to quiet your heart.

  I look across from the roses by the split-rail fence to the rich, green grass. The sprinkler is busy watering; the sunshine is better here than anywhere. I look out past Mim’s fence to the next house over—Dr. Gudrey’s house. It sits up on a hill surrounded by trees. A yellow butterfly flits by.

  Mom and Mim look like they’re talking about something superserious. I wonder if they’re talking about me. I wave, but they don’t see. It’s so quiet, not like Philadelphia. My grandpa came up here to think; he said it gave him a higher perspective. Grandpa Mel was a roofer, and he always looked at things from the top down.

  “On the roof,” he’d tell me, “you see things differently. When you can get on top of a problem, you can begin to patch up the holes and the leaks that you couldn’t see before.”

  When Dad wondered if he should go back to school and get his teaching degree, he came up here to think about it. Everything seemed to say yes,
so he did and he taught seventh grade math for five years.

  Then the school had to make budget cuts . . .

  The brand-new teachers were let go . . .

  And then Dad was laid off . . .

  He changed after that.

  He had to go back to being an accountant, which he hated.

  He had to leave the thing he loved, the thing he’d worked so hard to achieve.

  I wish my dad and I could sit here again like we used to.

  And now I see a horse—it’s far away, but it looks white with a black mane. There’s a rider on it. The horse is racing across the hills, and it’s like that person and horse are one great thing of speed.

  I’ve been on a horse exactly twice. The first time went well, the second time I got thrown and sprained both wrists.

  Mom said, “No more lessons.”

  “Mom, that’s breaking the rules. When you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on!”

  “No,” she said.

  I love horses.

  The sprinkler stops; the water droplets gleam in the light.

  My phone pings. It’s Lorenzo—he loves horses, too, as long as they’re not moving. He gets extreme motion sickness.

  His message: This week’s challenge: Do three things you’ve never done before. Are you in?

  I smile, type: Yes.

  Our friend Becca, who is away for the summer, too, writes: Already done 4 things today I’ve never done before. I hate this camp.

  Lorenzo: But have you done this?

  I click on a photo of Lorenzo clinging to a horse on a moving carousel looking like he’s going to lose his lunch: Stayed on for 2 min/didn’t puke.

  Me: Awesome!!!!!

  Mom calls from the garden. “Anna, I have to go.”

  I feel a pang in my heart as I pocket my phone and climb down the ladder.

  I wish she could stay longer.

  She and I fold our arms the exact same way and look at each other. “We can do this, Mom.”