My mother used to sing me to sleep at night.
When she sang, it sounded like stars twinkling, I wrote.
My mother taught art classes before I was born.
She was an artist.
My mother was captain of the swim team in college.
She was a real-life mermaid, probably.
My mother loved to read books and would take us all to the library.
Her favorite book was Charlotte’s Web.
My mother and I would sit together and watch the same movie over and over again.
Her favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz.
On and on I went, until the entire piece of paper was filled with my mom’s life. In the center, I’d written one word. It was larger and darker than the rest, in all capital letters, surrounded by a wiggly box.
PHENOMENAL.
My dad didn’t like to talk about my mom too much. I think it was because it made him sad. But on those rare occasions when he did, he would get a distant look in his eyes. His voice would soften, and at some point during the conversation, he would always, always say the same thing.
“Your mother was phenomenal.”
I’d woken up that morning determined to do more than just remember my mom. I mean, anyone could do that. I realized that I wanted to know her. Like, really know her. I could feel her sometimes, like a breath on the back of my neck, but it wasn’t enough.
Lately, it seemed like I was chasing a ghost but was getting a little farther behind every day. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my mom, but just like in the nightmare, her face was blurry. Had it always been this way? I could just make out her eyes and nose and mouth, but everything else was like a reflection in a pool of rippled water. Instead of seeing any details, her face was a misty haze in my memory.
I opened my eyes and dropped my pen onto the desk. Despite the fuzzy vision, I felt a little better after writing down my list, at least good enough to eat some breakfast. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and headed downstairs.
As usual, my whole family was there, with all three of my brothers slumped around the kitchen table like blobs of melted Silly Putty. The sticky syrup from Arnie’s waffles dripped down his dimpled chin as he welcomed me with a smile. It took everything I had not to reach across the table and wipe it off, but my dad has a very strict rule at the kitchen table and it goes like this: KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF. It was all on account of this one time last summer, which was all my brothers’ fault.
Jackson was being his usual Jackson-y self and kept flicking his green peas at me, so then Arnie started throwing his peas at me, too. Seth lobbed a spoonful of mashed potatoes that hit Jackson in the forehead. Arnie started laughing because of the potato splatter, but because he still had mashed-up peas in his mouth, green spit dribbled out all over his chin. So Jackson yelled “Gross!” and threw his napkin at Arnie’s face, which of course made Arnie cry, so I did the only thing I could think of and hit Jackson with my mashed potatoes. Except I also hit him with my spoon, but because it still had mashed potatoes on it, the spoon part shouldn’t even count. But my dad, however, decided that the spoon part did count.
So it was all their fault that we were no longer allowed any physical contact while in the presence of green peas.
Or food in general.
Or silverware.
The smell of bacon made my stomach grumble and made Kota spin in circles around my dad. For a second, it distracted me from all the swirling thoughts about my mom, but they quickly came back. I couldn’t help but wonder if my brothers were also losing their memories of her. I glanced at Jackson scribbling on his drawing pad, and Seth staring blandly at his waffles. Did they forget things, too? Or could they still see her clearly in their minds? I would never ask them, of course. We didn’t discuss those sorts of things. They would probably just make fun of me anyway.
Or worse: What if they thought I was a bad person?
I debated talking to my dad, but I was afraid he would be disappointed in me. Who forgets the most important moments of their life with the most important person in their life? I was the worst daughter in the world. Tears stung my eyes, and I quickly rubbed them away.
As I watched my dad open the oven to check on the bacon, I had a sudden burst of courage and decided to tell him everything—but I needed to do it quickly, so I couldn’t change my mind. It’s not like he could disown me. I was his only daughter. I cleared my throat, unsure how to start.
“So, um, Dad?”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, shuffling to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs.
I didn’t want him to be sad, but there was a good chance talking about my mom would make that happen. I knew that as soon as I mentioned her, he would force on his plastic smile. I call it plastic because it’s fake—it doesn’t go all the way to his eyes. Real happiness always shines through a person’s eyes.
When I didn’t continue, he looked up. “What is it, Blue?”
I stuffed down the shame of what I was about to admit and said, “I wanted to ask you . . . Well, actually, I wanted to tell you—”
“Arnie spilled his orange juice!” Jackson said, which was followed by a loud wail from Arnie.
“Arnie didn’t spill!” Arnie said, now crying in full force. But Arnie did spill, because he was now covered from head to toe in sticky orange juice.
“Blue, can you grab the paper towels?” my dad asked, but I was already at the sink, pulling on the roll. I handed him a large wad and kept some for myself, shooing Kota out of the way so I could wipe up the puddle forming on the floor. The whole entire time, Arnie screamed between sobs, “Arnie didn’t spill! Arnie didn’t spill!”
“Arnie’s lying. I watched him do it,” Jackson said calmly, which was completely unnecessary. I mean, it was pretty obvious the kid spilled his drink.
“It’s just orange juice. Everything is fine,” my dad said, lifting Arnie out of his chair and carrying him toward the bathroom. “But, Arnie, do you know what lying is?” They disappeared around the corner.
This meant my dad was now out of the kitchen. This also meant that the kitchen rules no longer applied. Normally, I would take advantage and attack immediately, before Jackson even saw it coming, but this morning I just wasn’t in the mood. When Jackson took a piece of Arnie’s waffle and threw it at my elbow, I calmly plucked it off my arm. I mean, I threw it back at him, of course. It stuck to his forehead, which is pretty much like hitting a bull’s-eye, and Seth pointed and laughed. But instead of rejoicing in the victory like I usually would, with an In your face! or a Take that, loser! I just sighed and looked away. My heart wasn’t in it this morning, even if my skills were clearly on point.
Arnie followed our dad back into the kitchen, staring down at his feet and sulking.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“Arnie spilled the juice,” he finally admitted, still not looking up. I tried not to smile at his kind of adorable pouty face.
Arnie returned to his chair and started eating his now-cold waffles and swinging his legs. Seth was shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days, and Jackson had already gone back to drawing, like usual. I took a deep breath and tried again to tell my dad before I lost my nerve. “So, um, Dad, I, um, wanted to—”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The fire alarm blared, the shrill blast instantly piercing my skull. I covered my ears with my hands and my brothers did the same. My dad lunged for the oven door and threw it open. A rush of smoke billowed out, filling the room with a murky cloud. I might have coughed a tad more dramatically than was necessary as I waved the smoke away from my face.
“The bacon!” my dad said, tossing the pan on top of the stove. Crispy black strips of ash lined the bottom of the pan, all covered in a greasy goo.
I was officially no longer hungry.
“Here, let me help, Dad.” I grabbed the dish towel hanging from the oven door and fanned it in front of the smoke detector, waving the smoke away. I knew the drill. My
dad, bless his heart, cooked a lot for the family. This meant lots of smoke alarms blaring, blackened toast burning, and water boiling over pans.
While my dad soaked the pan in soapy dishwater, I grabbed myself a bowl and filled it with Frosted Flakes.
“Sorry about the bacon,” my dad said.
I patted him on the back. “Don’t be sorry, old man. We can’t all be perfect at everything.”
I poured some milk into the bowl and sat down at the table. Arnie already had another trail of syrup, this time running down his forehead. Once again I resisted the urge to clean his face, but seriously, was the orange juice not enough? Did he have to bathe in all his breakfast foods? I tried to tell him to wipe his face mentally. I chanted the words in my mind, concentrating as hard as I could, while drilling my eyes into his own.
Wipe your forehead, Arnie. Wipe it. Arnie, wipe forehead.
Arnie put his finger in his nose. I looked away, gagging.
Unable to communicate with my brother psychically, I decided I’d rather stick a piece of my cereal onto his syrupy face. I was making the difficult decision as to whether I should use a soggy or a crunchy Frosted Flake when Seth interrupted my thoughts.
“Hey, Jackson, don’t you have a baseball game today?”
Jackson’s eyes grew wide, and my dad glanced at his watch.
“We’re late!” my dad cried, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Jackson, quick! Go get changed and meet me in the car.” Jackson flew out of the room, and my dad rushed to pack up what was left of his breakfast, mumbling, “I can’t believe I forgot.”
They were gone a few minutes later, and with them went my failed attempt at being brave enough to talk to my dad. I was so disappointed; I didn’t think I’d ever be able to work up enough courage to tell him again.
I went up to my room and quietly shut the door. I pulled out my Box of Randoms—a shoebox full of my greatest treasures—and rifled through its contents: a half-empty tube of ChapStick, a clip-on feather for my hair, three jelly bracelets, my purple sparkle pen (I forgot I had that), a postcard from when Seth went to Spain for a soccer tournament, a fluff ball keychain, a deck of cards . . .
Ugh. Where is it?
I started to get nervous until I finally found it buried at the bottom of the box, hidden underneath my favorite bookmark.
I picked up the bottle of nail polish and studied the color. It was a dark red, less like a tomato and more like a really ripe cherry. There were sparkles floating around inside, and I gave it a little shake, watching the flecks dance inside the bottle.
I found this nail polish years ago underneath my dad’s bathroom sink and took it, knowing it belonged to my mother. I was positive my father would have given it to me if I’d just asked him, but I didn’t. I just grabbed it. At the time I didn’t want anyone to know I had it, and for reasons even I can’t explain, I still didn’t want anyone to know.
Once, I painted one of my toenails with it. Just one. It was the second toe on my left foot. I didn’t want anyone to know, so I went around wearing socks for weeks until it finally wore off. But at night, when no one was looking, I would stare at that toe, shining red in the darkness, and I would remember my mom. It was like a secret between us, one that no one else could be a part of—especially my brothers. I mean, they would never have anything to do with something as girly as nail polish. They barely even trimmed those raptor claws they called toenails.
I very carefully opened the bottle and wiped the extra paint off the brush. My hand shook just a little as I swept the color onto my thumb. It was kind of thick, probably because it was so old, but it still spread okay. I held it up to the light and tried to ignore the paint that I’d accidentally brushed on the skin surrounding my fingernail. I needed a little practice.
Okay, I needed a lot of practice.
I was working through the rest of my fingernails when the door burst open. Arnie stood outside my room with his fingers in his mouth and his Winnie the Pooh blankie trailing behind him.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked.
It was too late to hide the nail polish, so I told him the truth. “Painting my fingernails. Go away.”
He did not go away, which was actually not a surprise. Arnie was always there, like a stinky, gooey shadow. Or like gum you can’t get off your shoe.
“Arnie wants to paint,” he said, making himself at home. He sat on the floor next to me, taking an incredibly long time as he wiggled into a comfortable position.
“No.” I finished off my pinky finger and put the brush back into the bottle, twisting the cap back on. I still needed to do my other hand, but I knew it was going to be even harder than the one I just did. I was left-handed, and when I went to use my right, I was going to make an even bigger mess of my nails. Sometimes all the girly stuff that makes us pretty isn’t very easy to do.
Especially when you have no one to teach you.
“Arnie wants to paint,” he said more forcefully. I ignored him, but I did let him stay, which was very nice and friendly of me.
“Looks like a tomato,” he said.
“It looks like a dark red cherry,” I corrected.
He cocked his head to the side. “Tomato.”
“No. Cherry.”
“Arnie wants to paint, too.”
“No way.”
“Arnie wants to paint!”
I could hear the beginnings of an Arnie cryfest coming on as I stared down at the colorless nails on my left hand. I didn’t know how I was going to get the polish onto my fingernails without getting it everywhere else at the same time. I glanced at Arnie and wondered if he would do a better job than me if he tried. I stared down at his tiny, syrupy hands. Then I licked my finger and tried to rub the syrup off as I shook my head. I wasn’t that desperate yet.
“Come here,” I told him, and he bounced up and down with excitement. He plopped down next to Kota, almost sitting on his tail. “Hold out your hand like this.” I showed him how to spread his fingers apart. “Now stay still.”
It was much easier to paint Arnie’s nails than it was to paint my own, and I was done in no time. Arnie was mesmerized as I started on another layer. I was halfway through when Seth came wandering into my room. I quickly hid the bottle of nail polish under my leg.
“Do not make yourself comfortable,” I said. “Better yet, take Arnie with you on your way out.”
“Chill out,” Seth said, stretching out on my bed as if it belonged to him.
“Is my bedroom the new clubhouse or something? How come I didn’t get a vote?”
“I was looking for Arnie.”
“Well, you found him, so take him.” I shooed them both with my hand. “Go ahead. Be gone.”
Seth sat up. “What’s that? Did you paint your nails?”
“What?” I asked, embarrassed. I tried to cover my hand, but it was too late.
“You did,” Seth said, coming over to me and sitting on the floor. He smiled shyly as he reached for my hand. “Let me see.”
I put my tiny hand in his much larger one and rolled my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”
But it kind of was a big deal, because I had actually never worn nail polish before.
Seth ruffled my hair, which both annoyed me and made me feel special all at the same time. “Why didn’t you paint your other hand?”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I got a brilliant idea. If there was anyone who would help me, it was my big brother. “Seth? My favorite brother?”
“Hey!” Arnie said. “What about Arnie?”
“No,” Seth said.
“But I haven’t even asked yet.”
“Nope. I can tell by your voice that I’m not going to want to do it, so my answer is no.” He stood up and headed toward my bedroom door. I couldn’t let him escape.
“Wait. I was only going to ask if you would help me with something. It’s super-easy and it’ll only take a minute, I swear.”
“No.”
“Will you pretty please paint my left hand?
” I was embarrassed about the next part, so it came out much quieter. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Really?” Seth brushed his hair out of his eyes as he thought about it. “You want me to paint your nails?”
I nodded.
He looked down at my hands again before shaking his head ever so slightly. He looked confused as he asked, “You painted them red?”
I nodded again and held my breath. Did he know why they were red? Was he remembering our mother’s nails like I often did?
He shook his head again, but then scooted Arnie over and sat down next to me with a sigh. “Give me your hand.”
I wiggled happily and held out my hand, grinning up at my big brother.
“Thank you! Thank you!” I told him.
He chuckled. “Yeah, right. You knew I would say yes all along.”
“Seth, paint your nails, too,” Arnie said.
“I’ll do yours next,” I offered to Seth.
“No way.”
“Why not?”
He thought about it and shrugged. “Okay, fine. But only if you paint them red.” He held my gaze, and I knew then that he remembered.
Seth opened the bottle and removed the brush. “Do you remember the time,” he started, “you got into Mom’s nail polish?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You were about Arnie’s age, I think. She went into the bathroom and found you on the floor, painting the cabinets with one of her bottles. Red, of course.” He looked at me pointedly again.
“I really did that? She must have been so mad.” It made me kind of giggle, thinking I would do something so naughty.
“Stop moving,” he told me as he worked on my thumb. “I thought she was going to be mad, too, but she wasn’t. All she did was laugh and say, ‘We have another artist in the family.’ Then she cleaned it up, lifted you onto the counter, and painted your toes.”
The Messy Life of Blue Page 2
