Don't You Dare Read This, Mrs. Dunphrey
Page 9
“MAYBE THAT’S WHY WE KEPT THINKING HE WAS OKAY,” SHE TOLD ME. “IT’S NOT LIKE TODAY, WHEN ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TURN ON THE TV AND THERE’S SOME PSYCHOLOGIST ON SOME TALK SHOW TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO.
“NANA SAYS WHEN DAD AND MOM GOT TOGETHER, THEY THOUGHT HE WOULD SETTLE DOWN, BUT HE DIDN’T. AND WHEN I WAS BORN, THEY TRIED COMING AROUND, BRINGING BABY PRESENTS, VOLUNTEERING TO BABYSIT, GIVING DAD MONEY UNTIL THEY FIGURED OUT IT WASN’T GOING FOR DIAPERS AND FORMULA. BUT WHEN THE MONEY STOPPED, DAD SAID THEY WERE JUST MEDDLING AND TOLD THEM HE NEVER WANTED TO SEE THEM AGAIN. DAD EVEN PUNCHED POPPY IN THE NOSE. THEN WHEN NANA AND POPPY MOVED TO FLORIDA, DAD HUNG UP ON THEM EVERY TIME THEY CALLED. SO THEY GAVE UP NANA KEEPS APOLOGIZING TO ME, SAYING THEY SHOULD HAVE TRIED HARDER, FOR MY SAKE AND MATT’S. SHE KEEPS SAYING, “WE CAN’T MAKE UP FOR THE PAST FIFTEEN YEARS, BUT WE’RE HERE FOR YOU NOW.”
WELL, I GUESS THEY ARE. MATT AND I BOTH GOT SICK LAST MONTH, THE KIND OF SICK WHERE YOU THROW UP ABOUT ONCE AN HOUR, AND NANA STAYED UP ALL NIGHT ONE NIGHT TAKING CARE OF US. MATT’S REALLY TAKEN WITH HER, AND POPPY, TOO. HE SAYS IT’S ALMOST LIKE HAVING GRANMA BACK. IT’S NOT. BUT IT’S GOOD TO SEE MATT ACTING MORE LIKE A NORMAL LITTLE BOY. NANA BRAGS ABOUT HOW MATT PUT ON TWENTY POUNDS SINCE WE GOT HERE, AND POPPY BRAGS ABOUT HOW MATT LEARNED TO FISH BETTER THAN ANYONE, EVEN THE OLD GUYS AROUND HERE WHO DO NOTHING BUT SIT IN THEIR BOATS ALL DAY LONG. PERSONALLY, I THINK THEY’RE OVERDOING THE PROUD GRANDPARENT BIT. BUT WHEN I TOLD MR. SARCUSI THAT, HE JUMPED DOWN MY THROAT AND TOLD ME I WAS JEALOUS THAT MATT’S DOING BETTER WITH NANA AND POPPY THAN HE DID WITH JUST ME. I’M NOT. I JUST DON’T SEE WHAT THE BIG DEAL IS ABOUT GAINING WEIGHT AND FISHING.
NANA AND POPPY TREAT MOM LIKE A LITTLE KID, TOO, BUT THEN THAT’S PRETTY MUCH HOW SHE ACTS. SHE’S BEEN HERE ALMOST AS LONG AS MATT AND ME. WHEN THAT CASEWORKER FROM BACK HOME TRACKED HER DOWN IN CALIFORNIA, DAD HAD ALREADY LEFT HER FOR—GET THIS—SOME NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD. THAT POSTCARD SHE SENT ME AND MATT WAS ALL A LIE. SHE TOLD ME SHE THOUGHT WE’D FEEL BETTER IF WE THOUGHT SHE AND DAD WERE HAPPY TOGETHER, AND SHE DIDN’T WANT US TO WORRY THAT SHE JUST DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO COME BACK HOME. DID I EVER MENTION MOM’S BORDERLINE CRAZY? I THINK SHE AGREED TO MOVE DOWN HERE WITH MATT AND ME AND NANA AND POPPY JUST BECAUSE WE’RE ALL CONNECTED TO DAD. MR. SARCUSI KEEPS FINDING NEW LABELS TO PUT ON HER. HE SAYS SHE’S OBSESSIVE, DELUSIONAL, AND A LONG-TERM VICTIM OF THE BATTERED-WIFE SYNDROME. “SHE MAY SEEM SELFISH TO YOU,” HE KEEPS TELLING ME, “BUT YOU NEED TO BE MORE UNDERSTANDING OF SOMEONE SUFFERING SUCH GRAVE MENTAL ILLNESS.”
I DON’T KNOW SOMETIMES MR. SARCUSI MAKES SENSE—AND I HAVE TO ADMIT, MOM IS STARTING TO ACT A LITTLE MORE NORMAL LATELY. BUT I THINK ALL THOSE LABELS ARE JUST WORDS. WHEN I TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S REALLY WRONG WITH MOM, I KEEP REMEMBERING SOMETHING SHE TOLD ME A FEW WEEKS AGO. SHE HAD MADE MEATLOAF—SHE NEVER COOKED BACK HOME—AND IT WAS ACTUALLY PRETTY GOOD. WHEN WE WERE DOING THE DISHES AFTERWARD, I MADE SOME CRACK ABOUT HOW GRANMA WOULD BE PROUD MOM REMEMBERED HER MEATLOAF RECIPE. MOM BURST INTO TEARS, RIGHT OVER THE SINKFUL OF SUDS.
“I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY,” I SAID. “DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY GRANMA WOULDN’T BE PROUD OF YOU?”
INSTEAD OF JUST CRYING AND IGNORING ME LIKE SHE USED TO, MOM STARTED TELLING ME A STORY. I GUESS WHEN SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL, EVERY MORNING WHEN SHE WENT TO SCHOOL GRANMA USED TO SAY THE SAME THING SHE ALWAYS SAID TO ME, “MAKE ME PROUD.” EXCEPT, WHERE THAT MADE ME FEEL GOOD, IT MADE MOM FEEL TERRIBLE. SHE KNEW THAT SHE COULD NEVER DO WELL ENOUGH TO MAKE GRANMA PROUD, SO HEARING THOSE WORDS EVERY DAY MADE HER FEEL WORSE AND WORSE. THE ONLY THING MOM WAS EVER PROUD OF WAS HAVING SOMEONE AS GOOD-LOOKING AS MY DAD WANT TO DATE HER. SO SHE TRIED EVERYTHING TO KEEP HIM AROUND.
SOUNDS TWISTED TO ME. BUT I CAN KIND OF SEE WHY SHE DID EVERYTHING SHE DID IF THAT WAS REALLY WHAT SHE WAS THINKING. SHE SAID MR. SARCUSI’S BEEN MAKING HER COME UP WITH OTHER THINGS TO BE PROUD OF—LIKE THE FACT THAT SHE KEPT HER JOB ALL THOSE YEARS AND MANAGED TO SUPPORT MATT AND ME MOSTLY BY HERSELF. I COULD SAY SOME THINGS ABOUT THAT—LIKE, HAVING GRANMA’S HOUSE SURE HELPED, AND WHEN I STARTED WORKING, IT’S NOT LIKE SHE EVER SPENT ANYTHING ON ME. BUT I SAW THE BILLS SHE HAD TO PAY. I GUESS SHE DIDN’T DO TOO BAD.
Later
I GAVE THIS TO MR. SARCUSI TO READ BEFORE I SENT IT OFF TO YOU, AND HE REALLY LET ME HAVE IT.
“I WANT YOU TO TRY AGAIN,” HE SAID. “DID YOU DO THIS ON PURPOSE?”
“WHAT?” I SAID.
“WRITE ABOUT EVERYONE BUT YOURSELF?”
I DON’T KNOW. MAYBE I DID. IT’S A LOT EASIER FOR ME TO LOOK AT MOM AND SAY SHE’S GETTING BETTER, OR LOOK AT MATT AND SAY HE’S ACTING MORE NORMAL, THAN TO MAKE SENSE OF ANYTHING ABOUT MYSELF. IT’S NOT LIKE I WAS ALL FLIPPED OUT LIKE THEY WERE, SO I DON’T HAVE TO CHANGE LIKE THEY DO.
EXCEPT, I CAN SEE SOMETIMES HOW MOM AND DAD GOT MY MIND ALL MESSED UP TOO. LIKE, I’LL SEE A CUTE GUY ON THE BEACH, AND I THINK, NOW, THERE’S SOMEONE I WOULDN’T MIND DATING. BUT THEN I THINK, FORGET IT. MEN ARE JERKS. SOMETIMES I WONDER WHAT KIND OF PERSON I’D BE IF GRANMA HAD RAISED ME WITHOUT MOM AND DAD EVEN AROUND. OR IF I’D LIVED WITH NANA AND POPPY ALL MY LIFE. OR IF I’D HAD YOUR BASIC, ORDINARY PARENTS, NOT THE PRIZEFIGHTING CRAZIES I GOT. I’D BE DIFFERENT, I BET. MAYBE I’D EVEN LIVE UP TO THAT PRECIOUS “ACADEMIC POTENTAL” YOU WERE ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT, INSTEAD OF SLOGGING THROUGH SUMMER SCHOOL JUST TO GET TO JUNIOR YEAR.
BUT IT’S STUPID TO THINK ABOUT WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. WHAT HAPPENED, HAPPENED. AND I’M NOT ALWAYS SURE I’M HAPPIER NOW THAN I USED TO BE. SOMETIMES I ACTUALLY MISS THE WAY THINGS WERE LAST SPRING. I WAS HUNGRY ALL THE TIME, I WAS GOING CRAZY WORRYING ABOUT MONEY AND I WAS SCARED TO DEATH SOMEONE WOULD FIND OUT MOM WAS GONE. BUT IT’S LIKE I WAS GROWN UP. I WAS IN CHARGE. HERE, NANA AND POPPY DON’T LET ME WATCH TV UNTIL I’VE DONE MY HOMEWORK, THEY WRITE OUT A WEEKLY LIST OF CHORES FOR ME TO DO, THEY DON’T LET ME GO TO THE MALL UNLESS I I TELL THEM WHEN I’M GOING TO BE BACK—AND GOD HELP ME IF I’M NOT BACK ON TIME. COME TO THINK OF IT, THEY TREAT ME LIKE I’M NOT MUCH OLDER THAN MATT. NANA SAYS, “WE’RE JUST SETTING LIMITS BECAUSE WE LOVE YOU.” WHATEVER. IT’S STILL A PAIN.
I CAN SEE YOU, MRS. DUNPHREY, SCRUNCHING UP YOUR FACE IN THAT I’M-WORRIED-ABOUT-YOU LOOK YOU ALWAYS GAVE ME, ESPECIALLY WHEN MATT AND I WERE STAYING WITH YOU. YOU PROBABLY THINK I MIGHT RUN AWAY OR SOMETHING.
BUT DON’T WORRY. I REMEMBER THE BAD STUFF FROM LAST SPRING, TOO. I AM GOING TO GET SOME KIND OF JOB, THOUGH, SO I’VE GOT SOME MONEY OF MY OWN AGAIN. (YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW MANY “HELP WANTED” SIGNS THERE ARE DOWN HERE. EVERYBODY’S HIRING. I CAN BE PICKY NOW—NO MORE BURGER BOYS!) SCHOOL’S OKAY HERE. I’VE MADE SOME FRIENDS. THERE ARE LOTS OF NEW PEOPLE, SO IT’S NOT LIKE I STICK OUT—EXCEPT THE STYLES ARE REALLY DIFFERENT HERE. NOBODY HAS BIG HAIR—IT’S ALL STRAIGHT AND LONG, BOYS’ AND GIRLS’. WEIRD.
ANYHOW, THANKS FOR THE YARN AND NOTEBOOK YOU SENT LAST WEEK. I DON’T REALLY SEE MYSELF WANTING TO CROCHET DOWN HERE. I GUESS THAT’S A GOOD SIGN. MAYBE I’LL GO BACK TO KEEPING A JOURNAL, LIKE YOU WANTED. MAYBE NOT. BUT I AM HANGING ONTO THE OLD ONE I WROTE FOR YOU. I PUT IT IN THE BACK OF MY NEW CLOSET, RIGHT UNDER MY OLD TENNIS SHOES AND THAT STUPID ORANGE AFGHAN.
—TISH
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Imagine a world where families are allowed only two children. Illegal third children—shadow children—must live in hiding, for if they are discovered, there is only one punishment:
Death.
Read the Shadow Children series by
MARGARET PETERSON HADDIX
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