Define Normal

by Julie Anne Peters

  Mrs. Luther whipped the Beamer into one of the dozen empty spaces and turned off the ignition.

  “You don’t have to come in,” I told her, lifting the door handle.

  “Nonsense,” she said.

  “No—”

  But she was already out of the car and heading toward the room. Jazz scurried out behind her.

  Michael scrambled to his feet when he saw us. “This is my brother Michael,” I introduced them.

  Mrs. Luther reached out a gloved hand. His scared eyes met mine. I didn’t know what to do either, so I nodded okay. He shook the hand limply. She said, “We’ve come to help.”

  Then go away, I thought. Get in that Beamer and drive back to paradise. Leave us alone here in hell.

  “How’s … everyone?” I asked Michael.

  He caught my drift. “Not good.”

  “Why don’t we go inside out of the cold?” Mrs. Luther suggested.

  Michael met my eyes. His sick expression mirrored my feeling of foreboding.

  Mrs. Luther opened the door.

  Chuckie lay curled in a ball on the single bed, his thumb in his mouth. “That’s my other brother, Chuckie,” I said quietly “Let’s just get him and go.”

  “Where’s your mother?” Jazz asked.

  I shot eye-daggers at Jazz. She didn’t flinch, just continued to hold my gaze. Then she blinked off and looked at Michael. His eyes strayed to the corner. Don’t look, I pleaded silently.

  But she did.

  There, behind the TV, sat Mom. She was hunched up, hugging her knees on the filthy floor. “Mrs. Dillon?” Jazz’s mom said softly.

  A sort of whimper rose from Mom’s throat. A wounded-animal sound. Mrs. Luther approached and knelt down in front of Mom. She touched her shoulder. “What’s your mother’s name, Antonia?” she asked without taking her eyes off Mom.

  “Patrice,” I replied.

  “Patrice. I’m a friend, Patrice. Can you hear me?”

  Mom whimpered and scrunched up tighter. I walked over and pulled Mom’s dress down over her knees so you couldn’t see … you know. “She gets like this sometimes,” I said. “When she doesn’t take her medicine.”

  “Medicine? What kind of medicine?” Mrs. Luther stood up suddenly.

  I stepped back. “I don’t know. Something for her nerves.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Luther frowned. “Do you know her doctor’s name?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.” My voice caught.

  “All right.” Mrs. Luther removed her gloves and stuck them in her purse. “I’m going to the motel office to make a few phone calls. Antonia, Jazz, you get Chuckie and Michael into the car.” She handed Jazz the keys. “I’ll be back to help with your mother,” she said to me. Her hand grasped mine and squeezed. “Don’t worry, Antonia. Everything’s under control. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Fine, I thought. Whose definition?

  After she left, Michael grabbed my coat sleeve. “Why’d you bring her?” he snarled. “She’s going to ruin everything.”

  I stared at the motel door. He was right. But for some reason, I felt relieved.

  Jazz said, “Don’t worry, Michael.” Her words didn’t convey much comfort, especially when she added, “My mother’s a control freak. Believe her when she says everything’s under control.”

  “Where are we going?” Michael asked as soon as we were all bundled in the car and driving away. Mom was strapped in up front next to Mrs. Luther, while the four of us crammed together in back. Chuckie lay in my lap, sucking away on his thumb. Out the window, I watched the wavering Wayfarer sign slowly disappear in the distance. “Are you taking us to the cops?” Michael asked.

  Mrs. Luther glanced back at him. She smiled. “Of course not, sweetie. Why would I do that? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I could tell he didn’t believe her. He scootched closer to the side window, scrunching up his shoulders.

  “Where are we going, Mom?” Jazz asked.

  Her mother exhaled. “Home. You’re all coming over to spend the night with us. Won’t that be fun?” She winked at us in the rearview mirror.

  Jazz smiled at me like, See? Control freak.

  Leaning around Jazz, I said to Michael, “They have an indoor swimming pool.”

  He shrugged.

  “And a game room,” Jazz added. “With a big-screen TV We have all the Disney movies.”

  That perked him up.

  She tweaked his cheek. “It’ll be fun.”

  He jerked away.

  Fun. For how long? I wondered.

  We pulled into the driveway at the Luther estate. At night, with the outdoor globes illuminated and lights twinkling in the upstairs windows, the place looked like a gingerbread house. The fragrance of cinnamon even swirled through the air. Or maybe that was Mrs. Luther’s sweet perfume. I opened the car door and slid out, carrying Chuckie. Jazz took Michael’s hand. When Mrs. Luther didn’t follow with Mom, my heart raced. “Where’re you taking her?” I said.

  Mrs. Luther smiled somberly. “I have a dear friend, a doctor. I called him at the motel and he said to go ahead and bring her in.”

  “In where?”

  “St. Joseph’s Hospital,” she said.

  I paused. “She’s afraid of hospitals. Doctors, too.”

  “She’s afraid of everything,” Michael said.

  I glared at him.

  “Well, she is.” He kicked an imaginary pebble.

  Jazz’s mom bent down in front of Michael. “Sometimes we’re scared of things that are good for us. Like doctors and hospitals. We just need someone to help us get over our fears. Okay?”

  He nodded.

  I held Chuckie tighter.

  “Come on.” Jazz tugged on Michael’s hand. “She’ll be okay, guys. Trust us.” She caught her mom’s eye, then blinked back. “Trust me, at least.”

  I looked from Jazz, all black smiles, to Mrs. Luther, all red smiles, and thought, Who are you? I don’t even know you people.

  “By the way, Antonia,” Mrs. Luther added. “Is there someone I should call? A relative? A grandparent? Sister, brother?”

  Mom’s sister, Aunt Hannah—but she and Mom didn’t get along. Besides, she lived in Ohio. “No,” I told her. “There’s no one.”

  “How about your father?”

  Jazz yanked Michael harder. “There’s no one, Mom, okay? Just go.”

  Chapter 15

  I didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep, but suddenly it was morning. A vague memory resurfaced—dragging up the stairs, settling Michael and Chuckie in, falling into bed beside Jazz. Now sunlight streamed in through Jazz’s window, blinding me. I propped up on my elbows and peered over the lump of flowered comforter to Jazz’s digital clock. Nine-thirty-eight. Oh, no! School. Then I remembered it was Sunday.

  Jazz groaned.

  As quietly as possible, I took off the nightgown Jazz had loaned me, put on my sweater, and swiveled my skirt back into place. Tiptoeing out into the hallway, I slipped into my shoes and went in search of my brothers.

  Mr. Luther had put them in a guest bedroom last night. He wanted to give each of them a separate room, but I said no. Chuckie couldn’t sleep alone. He woke up crying at least once every night. He had nightmares. Monsters and bogeymen were always after him. Usually it was me who got up to calm him down. Plus he had that … other problem. Now I felt guilty. I’d slept clear through the night. Who’d gotten up with Chuckie?

  The guest room was empty. I panicked. My family was missing again. Then I heard voices downstairs. The smell of frying bacon hit my nose.

  It took a while to find the kitchen, but there they were —Mr. Luther at the table with Chuckie in his lap. Michael sat across from them. “Antonia, good morning.” Mr. Luther set down his fork and scooted back his chair. He stood. “Please.” He waved to the table. “Have a seat. Would you like O.J. or grape juice?”

  I slid into the empty chair next to Michael. He grinned at me. “I had both.”

  “
Or both?” Mr. Luther grinned at me, too.

  “Orange juice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Luther swung Chuckie over his head and planted him atop his shoulders. Chuckie whooped with glee. “Do you like your eggs scrambled, over easy, or sunny side up?”

  I looked at Michael. “I had scrambled,” he said.

  “Scrambled is fine. Thank you.”

  Chuckie wiggled his fat fingers at me in a wave. I waved back. “ “Have you heard anything about our mother?” I asked as I spread a napkin over my lap.

  Mr. Luther didn’t answer right away. Setting Chuckie on the counter, he cracked two eggs into a skillet. “When Margie left her last night, your mother was resting comfortably.” He smiled across the breakfast bar at me. “I’m sure Margie will have more to tell you when she gets up. Any sign of life from Jazz?”

  “She was breathing,” I said.

  “Rats.” He held up a palm. “Just kidding.” He didn’t smile like he was kidding.

  “What’s everyone doing up at the crack of dawn?” Jazz appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Her smeared black eyes. Grousing, she sank into a chair across from me.

  “Good morning,” her father said.

  Jazz’s forehead crunched the table.

  “Breakfast?” he asked her as he set a heaping plate in front of me. Besides the scrambled eggs, there were three strips of bacon, a slice of ham, a blueberry muffin, and a pile of hash-brown potatoes. For a second I just stared. And drooled.

  “Coffee,” Jazz muttered.

  Mr. Luther sighed. “Antonia, would you like coffee too?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Michael widened his eyes at me. I widened mine back. “Me too,” he said.

  Mr. Luther chuckled. He poured us all cups of coffee. With lots of cream.

  “Make mine a double espresso,” Mrs. Luther said. She sort of floated into the room on a breeze, her lacy blue robe billowing out behind her. “What a night.” She squeezed my shoulder on her way past.

  “And who is this little elf?” Mrs. Luther paused in front of Chuckie. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced.” She tickled his ribs.

  “I’m Chuckie,” he said in a giggle.

  “Nice to meet you, Chuckie.” She shook his pudgy hand.

  Chuckie beamed. “Nithe to meet you, too.”

  Taking her cup from her husband, she said, “You all have such beautiful manners. Don’t they, Jasmine?” She sat down next to Jazz.

  Jazz grumbled.

  “Aren’t you eating breakfast?” her mother asked.

  Jazz made a gagging sound.

  “Yes, she is.” Mr. Luther set a heaping plate in front of her. She shoved it away.

  “Jasmine!” he snapped. “Sit up and eat. Act like a human being. We have guests, for chris’sakes.”

  With a heavy sigh, Jazz straightened herself. Sighing again, she snatched the muffin off her plate and snarled, “Pass the butter. Pleeease.”

  Mrs. Luther turned to me. “Dr. Vargas, my doctor friend, admitted your mother to St. Joseph’s last night. She was resting comfortably when I left. After she’s feeling a little better, he wants to do a psychiatric workup on her.”

  “She’s not crazy!” Michael cried.

  “Of course she isn’t.” Mrs. Luther reached over and patted Michael’s hand.

  He recoiled. “She’s just scared,” he mumbled.

  “Of course she is. And so are you.”

  I met Mrs. Luther’s eyes and swallowed hard. “Can we see her?” I asked. My voice wavered. Hold it together, Antonia, my brain commanded.

  Mrs. Luther smiled. “Give her a couple of days. Let’s get her back on her feet. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to see her like this.”

  Like what? I wanted to say. We’ve been living with her like this our whole lives. Well, not our whole lives. She hadn’t always been this bad.

  My head sank slowly. I wondered if I’d ever see her again. And if I cared. What? I couldn’t believe I was thinking that. I was such a horrible person.

  “Antonia?” Mrs. Luther cocked her head at me. “What are you thinking, dear?”

  “Mother, please,” Jazz cut in. “You’re not her psychiatrist.” She made a face at me, then grinned. “I am.”

  I had to smile. Yeah, right.

  Michael asked the question that was on my mind. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  “Well, now.” Mrs. Luther exhaled. She took a bite of bacon. Brushing off her fingertips, she said, “We really should try to get hold of your father.” She lifted her cup and arched her eyebrows at me.

  I swallowed hard. “That … could be a problem.”

  “Why, dear?”

  My cheeks flared. I stared blindly at my eggs.

  Jazz said, “Because he’s dead. God, Mother. You’re so dense.”

  Mrs. Luther’s lips grew taut. Then she turned empathetic eyes on me. “Is that true?”

  Michael’s eyes locked on to mine. A silent agreement passed between us.

  I nodded. It wasn’t, but it seemed easier than the truth.

  Chapter 16

  “I“m sorry I just blurted it out like that,” Jazz said. We were back in her room, listening to music. At least, Jazz was. I busied myself making her bed. When she looked over at me for a response, I pretended to tuck my pillow in tighter. Jazz turned up the volume on her CD player. She’d picked out a heavy metal band, which I usually despise. Except now the crashing and bashing drowned out my thoughts. It was soothing, in a weird way The words were so angry. “Hurt me, baby. Slash me. Burn me.” I could really relate to them.

  Sitting in front of her lighted vanity mirror, Jazz worked on her makeup. She twirled around on the little stool and tossed me the tube of black lipstick.

  Perching on the edge of her bed behind her, I rolled the tube around in my hand.

  She said, “If your mom’s not working right now, how do you eat and stuff?” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “You don’t have a job after school, do you?”

  “No,” I answered, although I’d been thinking about it. “We have money.” The check Mom got every month. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen the check these last couple of months. Maybe that’s why Mom was using my college money. Which wouldn’t last forever. “Not as much money as you,” I added.

  Jazz clucked and whirled back around on the stool.

  I fiddled with the lipstick tube and decided not to use it. Carefully I replaced the tube on the vanity next to about a hundred others.

  Jazz shot up. “C’mon, get dressed.” She yanked me up off the bed.

  “I am dressed.”

  “Then get undressed.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you another swimming lesson.”

  That seemed a worthwhile way to spend a Sunday. Better than what I usually did, which was laundry and housework and homework—“Yikes! I need to go pick up my homework.”

  Jazz made a face.

  “I mean, so I can do it later.”

  She smiled and slung a swimsuit at me.

  The Luthers invited us to stay again Sunday night, which was a relief since I didn’t know what else we’d do. I figured there were laws against kids living alone. Even though that’s essentially what we’d been doing for the last six months.

  When Mrs. Luther dropped me off to get my homework, I grabbed some clean clothes for the boys. I knew Chuckie’d need extra underwear, too. I packed a couple of blouses that I could wear with my skirt, even though they needed ironing. Everything did.

  Sunday afternoon, Jazz had a piano lesson. “My teacher is Gregoire St. Jacques,” she told me. “Isn’t that romantic?” I was still trying to picture Jazz playing the piano. “Gregoire St. Jacques,” Jazz breathed. She pronounced it San Shock.

  It was romantic.

  She added, “I’d give up the piano altogether if it wasn’t for Gregoire. He understands me. Like he says, “Muzeek comes from ze heart.’ “ Her eyes gleamed. “You probably can’t tell
I’m deeply in love with Gregoire.”

  My eyes widened at her and she laughed. Then she threatened me with a fist. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

  “Gregoire and I never discuss you,” I said, getting out my history homework.

  Jazz whapped me. The doorbell chimed and she leapt off the bed. Fluffing her hair in the vanity mirror, she rechecked her lipstick. Perfectly purple.

  “You’d better stay here,” Jazz said. “Gregoire doesn’t allow other people around during my lesson. Not even my mother.” She grinned. “Another reason why I love him.” She sprinted to the end of the hall, stopped, inhaled deeply, and sauntered casually down the stairs.

  Following her instructions, I got up and closed the door. As I returned to the desk, I sighed. If I had a desk this big, I’d get my work done in half the time. If I had a desk at all …

  I barely had time to review the introduction on pre-Columbian civilizations before the sound struck. A chord. Then a scale. Up and down, up and down. The notes swirled through the air; they beckoned me.

  That, and my curiosity. What kind of person was Gregoire San Shock?

  Jazz’s door opened without a squeak. As I sneaked down the stairs, the trill of another scale swept up to meet me. Like a tidal wave, it swelled from the baby grand in the living room and rolled up the staircase. Even though Jazz was only warming up, the music was breathtaking.

  Gregoire stood behind Jazz, conducting with his left hand as if she were an orchestra. Which, to my ears, she was. Gregoire was tall and thin. He had blond shaggy hair, which he wore in a ponytail. It didn’t cover his bald spot. I only noticed the shiny circle on his head because I was hovering over him, hunched down behind the stair railing.

  “Let us play the polonaise,” Gregoire said in this exotic French accent.

  Jazz groaned. “I hate the polonaise. Let’s jam.” Her fingers trilled the keys and she spun around on the piano stool.

  Gregoire just looked at her.

  She huffed. “God, I was just joking around.”

  “You do not have time to joke around. The Chopin competition is next Saturday. All three pieces must be perfect. Be serious now, Jazz. You can win this thing, you know.”

  “I am going to win it,” she said defiantly. “I’m the best. You said so yourself.”