When I get close to the girl, I slow, hesitate; she hasn’t looked up from her booklet, and I’m doubting my intentions. Thoughts dance in my head and make it hard to pin down what I was thinking a few minutes ago. Why did I come over here, anyway? Because the girl looked lonely—that’s right. But how can someone like me do anything more than embarrass her?
“What are you working on?” I say.
The girl looks up and I see that she wears cat-eye glasses, only the lenses are missing and the frames are taped in the middle like they’ve been broken in half. The whole effect is charming, if not a little bit sad.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Claire,” she says, and I try not to show my surprise that she knows my name. “I’m just working on my book about The Adventures of Uki, my mom.” She scrunches her nose, I think to move her glasses up the bridge. “Are you feeling better now?”
Giggles from behind me, and I turn to see a teenage girl with short sandy hair that’s shaved on both sides. She looks to be about thirteen or so.
“Hey, Ms. H.,” she says.
Another girl giggles beside her.
“You put your flyer back up,” the first teenage girl says. “And I still want lessons.”
My smile feels as blank as my brain. “Okay,” I say, hoping she’ll lay out more clues for me.
“So can I?”
The girl beside her giggles behind her hand, points to the community board on the wall.
INTERESTED IN BEGINNER GUITAR LESSONS?
CONTACT CLAIRE HINES, APARTMENT 1407
Huh, when did I do that? I roll my shoulders, not upset by the idea. It sounds fun. “My mother taught me,” I say. “But I’m not very good.”
The giggling girl squints her eyes. “If you suck, why are you giving lessons?”
It’s a fair question and one I have no answer to, but before I can respond, a girl’s voice pipes up from behind me.
“You’re a mean girl, Nina!” I turn to find the little girl in cat-eye glasses has risen to her feet, her eyes blazing.
“No, please don’t, kiddo, not for me.” The last thing I want is to start a fight among the kids.
The little girl in black looks at me, her eyes soft. “I think you’re going to the market and then to the school gardens. But it’s probably on your phone.”
“Yes, of course, thank you, uh, um—”
“Maree!” say Nina and the other girl in tandem, followed by Nina’s giggles. “Her name is Maree!”
I give the kids a thumbs-up for their assist. “Thanks, Maree.” Then to the teenager: “Stop by if you’re interested in lessons. I might not be very good at it, but I’m probably the only choice you have around here, right?”
I wave goodbye and head to the market, where Hank sits behind the counter, reading a National Enquirer.
“Another Bigfoot sighting?” I say.
Hank nods. “Last spotted wrestling a grizzly bear.”
“Who won?”
He peruses the paper, lifts his eyes, and winks. “Doesn’t say.” We both laugh and Hank’s bearded face softens. “Kids giving you a hard time, Claire? I’ll speak to their parents.”
I shake my head. “Nah. They’re just curious about me. Actually, I’m kinda like a teenager myself.”
Hank’s big eyebrows meet. “How’s that?”
I smile. “I could be angry one minute, sad the next, happy right after and have no idea why the people around me look exhausted.”
Hank laughs, a deep rumble that shakes his beard. “You always know how to look on the bright side, Claire.”
A little girl is waiting outside the market with her hands on her hips. “Sorry about those stupid girls,” she says.
I shrug. “What girls?”
Her lips quirk up. “Stupid one and stupid two,” she says.
I laugh. “It’s okay; I’ve already forgotten all about the stupids.”
The girl’s eyes widen. “You can forget mean people? That’s like having a superpower!”
“It is, isn’t it?” I smile. “I like the way you think. What’s your name?”
Disappointment flashes across her face, but she covers it up quickly with a smile and an enthusiastic, “Maree! Like Mary with a y but with two e’s ’cause of Anne of Green Gables and stuff.”
“Well, hi, Maree.” My phone buzzes—Gardens—and something about her comfort level with me, or her blue eyes that are so dark they almost look black, makes me want to invite her. “Would you like to come to the gardens with me?”
“Yeah!”
As soon as we enter the room, the sticky moisture clings to my skin, beads into condensation that slips down my back. She picks up an apron and slides it on, then starts rooting around the plants, picking off dead leaves. I raise my eyebrows. Okay, seems like we’ve done this before.
I join her, and for a few minutes, we work in silence.
“Ms. Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think we can do the guitar lessons like we were going to before I ruined everything?”
I freeze.
“Oh, sorry; here.” From her backpack she pulls a flyer that does look like something I’ve put together. “You were going to teach me, and then Ms. Kiko told me that you needed space, but you seem better and maybe now you don’t need so much space?”
I write everything I can into my notebook, but the thought of teaching sounds just like something I’d like to do, so I take a leap. “You know, yes, I think I’d really like to do this.” I check my phone. “Can you do tomorrow, Tuesday? At five?”
Her eyes get big. “Tomorrow! Oh, hell yeah—oops. Sorry, I mean, heck yes!” She looks at me expectantly, her eyes going from me to the notebook, back and forth like a cartoon character. “Did you write it down? Can you do that now so you won’t forget?”
I do, amused, feeling a tingle of excitement run through my arms. I’m going to teach.
Before I leave the gardens, I record the interaction with the girl, Maree, and when I get home, I’m pleased to discover a GUITAR LESSONS file folder in the wire slot holder on my desk. I nearly pat myself on the back for my organization. When I open it, I see that I already have one student, who started over the weekend. His name is Jarrod, and he works as boat watch during the winter, which means he keeps an eye on the boats in the harbor, sweeping off snow as necessary so they don’t sink. But his true calling, he says, is to be the next Bob Dylan and also, my eyebrows rise, he writes poetry. I can’t help but smile. The window presses inward from a gust of wind, creaking softly. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and stare outside. The yellow glow of Whiskey Pete’s is one of the few lights that penetrates the deep afternoon dark.
A soft knock at my door.
Mom, holding a plate of cookies. My eyes widen, but before I say anything, she hands me a card.
Happiness, not in another place but this place . . . not for another hour, but this hour. —Walt Whitman
I live in Whittier now and I’m sober. I love you and I’m not going anywhere. Love, Mom
She holds the cookies out. “These were your favorite when you were three.” She smiles. “Until you turned four and decided you hated raisins.”
I take the plate, balance the note on top, and I find my smile is easy and comfortable. “Thanks.” I hold up the card. “Walt Whitman?”
“I recovered one day at a time, and it’s become kind of my thing.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Your thing?”
She smiles. “Yes, I bake and dispense sage advice about living in the moment, you know, like a recovered Martha Stewart Buddha.”
She’s making a joke about recovery. My mother the alcoholic—who stands here clear-eyed, hair dark and full around her heart-shaped face—is being funny. It starts in my toes, this lightness that dances up my legs, through my arms, and into my whole body, swimming around in delightful bubbles, and I’m laughing with her. For some reason I have an impulse to share something with her. “Do you remember how you taught us both how to play the guitar?”
<
br /> There’s something in her eyes, an expression—surprise? “I do. You were quite good.”
I peek at my notes to get it right. “Well, I’m teaching someone named Jarrod, and tomorrow I’m going to start teaching a little girl named Maree.”
Mom leans against the doorway. “I think that’s great, Claire. Really great. Especially with Maree; she’s got quite a bit of energy, but you’ll do just fine with her.” She sucks in her bottom lip, looks unsure of herself. “Speaking of, I still play—well, I picked it back up as part of my rehab, gave me something to focus on, and I’m playing at open-mic night at Pete’s.”
It’s a part of my mother I know nothing about, and it stings just a bit. “When?”
“Next Wednesday, February 20, around seven or whenever Pete decides to start it. There’s never more than me and maybe Hank if he’s got his harmonica on him.” I think she’s blushing, embarrassed? “I’d love it if you could be there.”
“At a bar, Mom? Is that a good idea?” I know it’s a rude question, possibly hurtful, but I can’t help but ask.
Instead of looking offended, she nods. “Fair question, Claire. I always go with friends, never alone. Ruth and Harriet will be there. Ruth said she could pick you up at 6:45.”
I add it to my calendar. “I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tuesday, February 12
I open the door, and before I can say a word, the girl smiles, points to her glasses, and says, “It’s me, Maree, like Mary with a y but with two e’s instead ’cause I love Anne of Green Gables, and she put an e at the end of her name, so I decided to also ’cept Dad said it had to be two e’s so people knew to make it sound like a y. I have no idea what that means.” The girl pauses her monologue. “You knew I was coming, right?” She breathes through her mouth, little huffs between her words. I nod, hide a smile. She really wants to learn how to play the guitar.
I check my phone, show her the screen, and nod approvingly. “You’re right on time. Very punctual.”
She hops up and down on her toes, glances down the hallway, then toward the other end of the hallway, where Ruth lives. She sucks on her bottom lip so hard it makes her bucktoothed.
“Are you waiting for someone else?” I ask and can’t help but look down the hallway too. It’s empty. “I didn’t have anyone else on the calendar.”
The girl stops fidgeting, stares up at me. “No, it’s just me. But I don’t want Ruth to see me. She doesn’t think I should be here.” Her eyes go round, and she lowers her voice but not by much, because I think the girl has no understanding of volume control. “Ecausebay eshay oesnday wantay me to—” She blows air out her nose. “Pig Latin is too hard. Ruth is worried that I’m too much for you ’cause I’m a real handful.” The girl looks at me through the empty lenses of her too-big glasses.
I smile. “Ruth thinks all kids are a real handful, but that’s only because I was. Come in, Maree. Let’s see how big a handful you really are.”
The girl turns her body to show a small guitar slung beside her backpack.
“I like your guitar,” I say.
“Thanks! The cookie lady gave it to me.” The girl shrugs.
“The cookie lady?”
Maree narrows her eyes, tilts her head. “Yeah. Isn’t she your mom?”
A tingling runs across my back, and my hand is already pulling out a note card from my pocket and it tells me . . . no—I dig my nails into my palm—reminds me about Dad and Mom and Tate. Hash marks cover the note card; I’ve read it dozens and dozens of times. “My mom does love to bake.”
“Oh boy, does she. On Saturdays, she bakes cookies with any kids in the building who want to eat cookies.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling. “Who doesn’t want to eat free cookies? Can we start now?”
I move out of the way, and when she skips past me, I smell flowers tinged with something sweet, like licorice. A perfect kid kind of smell. I take a moment before following her, lean back against the door, breathe deep, and with my eyes closed visualize my notebook and the file folder with Maree’s name written across the tab, because I’m sure I’ve prepared that. I’m going to start by teaching her the way I learned with Mom.
On our first lesson together, I’d scooted so close to my mother that my toe could wiggle across her shin. She was relaxed, beautiful, and untroubled, but even then it felt temporary, like trying to hold water in my palms. Sometimes she’d be sad, and nothing seemed to make her smile. On this day, though, we were a team, learning together, and she was happy. I could tell by the easy smile on her face. In a rush of emotion that made my throat too tight to speak, I’d dropped my guitar and flung my arms around her. Her hair smelled like cinnamon candy. I’d felt her breathe in, her arms squeezing me in a hug. Thank you, Claire bear. And then she released me, wiping a hand across her eyes before turning back to the music booklet. Let’s see here; first, we have to make sure our guitars are tuned. Her eyes opened wide. How the hell do we do that? There was a pause, a moment when I was sure she’d close the book and say it was a bad idea. I’d gripped my guitar tightly. Instead, she’d started laughing, hunched over her cheap guitar, her shoulders shaking, and the sound was so infectious that I started laughing, too. I have no idea how to tune a damn guitar, Claire bear!
The moment fades and I am left standing in the doorway to my apartment, arms wrapped across my body, heart pushing painfully against my ribs.
“Hey, Ms. Claire.” There’s a little girl seated at my table, backpack splayed on the floor at her feet, looking for all the world like she belongs there. She blows air from her cheeks, making them big and round. It’s comical. “Did you lose your memory again?” She places a hand on her chest. “I am Maree and you are Ms. Claire, and today you are teaching me guitar lessons.”
“Yes, thank you, Maree.” I move directly to my desk, and there is a file folder with the girl’s name spelled out on the tab and my notebook. Satisfied, I turn to the girl, who has a notebook of her own opened in front of her beside a camera, the instant kind that shoots pictures out of a thin slot.
“What’s the camera for?” I ask.
“I thought I could take pictures of me and the guitar and stuff, and then”—she pulls a ringed album out of her backpack, grunting with the effort—“Ms. Kiko had an extra one of these and said I could use it to make a scrapbook thing or something, and that’s how you can really remember me for next time, you know, like how I look and stuff.” She stops abruptly, looking pleased with herself, then picks up the camera and snaps a picture of me. The flash stains my vision with black spots.
“Whoa, okay, little warning next time. Not a bad idea, though. I like it!” I clap my hands. “Ready to get started?”
The girl waves the picture back and forth in the air, checks it, seems satisfied, and tapes it onto a fresh sheet of paper on the first page of her scrapbook. With a pink colored pencil, she scribbles under the picture, Guitar Leson #1 with Maree.
Then she opens her own notebook and hovers the sharpened tip above the page, looks up at me expectantly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose, and her glasses slide away from her face. With one finger, she pushes them back into place. “I’m ready to learn.”
I motion with one hand toward the living room. “Great; follow me.”
She gets up from the table so fast she knocks her chair backward, the notebook gripped in one hand, colored pencil in the other.
“It’s not the SAT, kiddo.” I settle onto the floor and point to the space beside me.
She sits down, eyes blinking behind her glasses, which are far too big for her small face. “SAT?”
I laugh. She’s too young to know anything about that. “I mean, relax. You’re not going to take notes, and I’m not going to test you. You’re going to learn as you play. But first we need to tune it.” After our first lesson together, Mom found an old tuner and taught herself and me how to use it. I pick up the girl’s guitar, run my fingers along the wood und
erneath, and get to work.
It doesn’t take too long, but when I look up from the guitar, the girl is staring at me. “My name is Maree,” she says, loudly and with emphasis on each syllable, like I’m hard of hearing. “Like Mary with a y, but with e’s instead. Ms. Kiko said to remind you, but not too much. Is this too much?”
Her utter lack of guile brings an easy smile to my lips. “No, not too much. Thank you for reminding me, Maree.”
“I’m getting pretty good at it, I think.” She tilts her head. “Do you remember how come you started playing guitar in the first place?”
“My mother taught me.”
Maree’s eyes widen. “She did?”
I nod and my ears fill with the harmonic sounds of Mom plucking away at the old guitar she’d traded with somebody in exchange for a month’s supply of her chocolate chip cookies. “She taught herself and taught me at the same time,” I say.
The girl hunches over, pulling at a loose thread of carpet. “My mom left me.”
The sad tone in her voice scratches at my heart, revealing my own feelings of abandonment. I can relate more than this girl could know.
I reach out and touch her shoulder, knowing instinctively that she needs someone to listen. I did at her age.
The girl plucks at the strings of the guitar while she talks. “Dad says she was too sick to be my mom, so she had to leave. But you said once that your mom was sick and had to leave, and she came back as the cookie lady, right? So maybe my mom will come back too.”
Something Ruth used to say to me when I was a young girl crying in the middle of the night pops into my head. “Your mother must have loved you with her whole heart.”
The girl raises her head to pin me with a stare. “That’s what my dad says.”
I nod. “And he would know that best, wouldn’t he?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. He says that she didn’t have a choice.”
I want to reassure her, say anything that can erase the sad look in her eyes, but I can’t because the truth is probably closer to my own, and I know more than most that not all mothers are meant for the job.
Memories in the Drift Page 17
