Home Is the Place

by Ann M. Martin

  “Maybe the journals should be our secret,” said Georgia. “I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like sharing them with anyone else. Not yet.”

  Abby considered her great-granddaughter, whose gaze kept returning to the hiding place in the wall. “Hmm,” she said. “All right. They can be a secret for now, okay?”

  “Okay.” Georgia rose and replaced the panel, then taped the magazine cover over it again.

  Abby held out her hand. “Come,” she said.

  Together they left the bedroom and joined the others by the fire.

  Georgia sat on the bottom step of the front stoop and stretched her bare legs in front of her so that they pointed across Blue Harbor Lane to the ocean that was growing gray in the twilight. She rested her back uncomfortably on the step behind her and breathed in the humid air. The day had been hot and muggy, and everything she touched felt wet, including her hair, which had turned into an astonishing mass of curls.

  Behind her, the door to the porch opened and closed, and a moment later Henry sat down beside her. “Seventy-nine days of summer vacation left,” he announced lazily.

  Georgia smiled. This was the first year she hadn’t bothered to count how many days of summer vacation lay ahead. When she was younger she had sometimes made a chart the day after school had ended so that she could see just how much freedom — how many days of ice cream and guitar playing and games with Ava and Talia and Penny — stretched in front of her. (Often, though, she scrunched up the chart near the beginning of August as the days began to dwindle and September was closer than June had been.)

  This year she hadn’t even thought about a chart. She was eager for summer vacation, but she was just as eager to begin her sophomore year at BPCHS. This had come as a surprise to her — the realization that ninth grade had not been the disaster she’d feared and that tenth grade might be even better. Georgia had enjoyed her first year of high school. Her grades had been excellent and she’d made the honor roll. She’d made new friends, too; she’d joined both of the clubs that had caught her attention on the first day of school; and she’d put together a solo guitar performance for the talent show that had earned her the one and only standing ovation of the evening. Her private lessons with Mr. Elden had continued, and at the end of a recent one he’d exclaimed, “Georgia, I don’t think I have anything left to teach you!” She hoped that wasn’t true. She couldn’t imagine Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings without her guitar and her sheet music and Mr. Elden’s enthusiastic encouragement.

  Henry stretched out his own legs, which, Georgia suddenly noticed, were nearly as long as hers. “Want to walk into town and get ice cream?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” Georgia was feeling particularly lazy. She’d spent the day babysitting for a new family down the lane. This was to be her summer job — sitting for the Harrison girls three days a week — and Georgia hadn’t realized just how much energy a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and a six-year-old had, even in the heat.

  Behind her, the door opened and closed again. Georgia and Henry’s parents joined them on the stoop, cups of coffee in their hands.

  “How can you drink hot coffee in this weather?” asked Georgia, brushing her sweaty hair back from her face.

  “It’s a ritual,” said her father, and Georgia turned around in time to see him smile at her mother.

  Her parents had seemed happier lately, she thought. Not much had changed that she could see. Her father still sold real estate spottily and still talked about starting a business that would one day make them rich, and her mother still wrote her novels that sold well but not spectacularly. Yet something had changed. Some adult thing, Georgia thought, and she didn’t want to question it. They’d had a good, calm year, there had been barely any fighting, and her father had stayed put. That was enough for Georgia.

  “Where’s Richard?” asked Mrs. Noble.

  Georgia leaned her head back and rested it on her mother’s knees. “He left with Seth a little while ago.

  “Seth? Seth who?”

  “I don’t know his last name. That new guy.”

  Mr. Noble looked at the driveway. “Well, they didn’t take one of our cars.”

  “Nope. Seth was driving.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the ocean, the calls of the gulls, shouts from down the street where a group of kids were playing basketball.

  “Don’t you want to play with them?” Mr. Noble asked Henry, inclining his head in the direction of the game.

  Henry shook his head. “Not tonight. This is nice. I don’t even want ice cream anymore.”

  The phone rang then and Georgia’s father jumped up and ran inside. He was carrying the cordless phone back to the porch when Georgia heard him say, “What? … What? … Is he okay?”

  His voice was so sharp that Georgia, Henry, and their mother all turned to look up at him. Georgia could tell that her father had been about to sit on the stoop again, but now he remained standing, and his face became hard and tight.

  “What is it?” cried Mrs. Noble, getting to her feet.

  Georgia’s father waved his hand at her. “Is he okay?” he asked again. “Please tell me he’s okay.”

  Georgia looked at Henry in alarm. They jumped to their feet, too.

  “We’ll be right there,” said Mr. Noble. He clicked off the phone. “There’s been an accident,” he said, hurrying back into the cottage. “Richard and his friends were in a car accident. That was the hospital. They wouldn’t give me any more information.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” asked Mrs. Noble. She grabbed her purse from the table by the door.

  “Does it matter? I don’t know who I was speaking to. But the accident sounds bad.” Georgia’s father was scrambling to find his wallet, the car keys.

  “I’m coming, too,” said Georgia.

  “So am I,” said Henry.

  “No, you’re not,” said both of their parents.

  “Yes, we are.” Georgia slammed the cottage door behind her, vaguely aware of lights on, the radio in the kitchen playing softly. She jumped into the backseat of the Subaru, and Henry threw himself in next to her. Two minutes later they were on the road to Barnegat Point.

  * * *

  Mr. Noble brought the Subaru to a screeching halt in the lot at the medical center. “Go inside and find Richard,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll be there as soon as I find a parking space.”

  Three car doors slammed behind Georgia, Henry, and their mother, and they ran through the emergency entrance. Mrs. Noble looked wildly around the crowded waiting room and spotted a young man sitting at a desk. She bolted toward him. “My son!” she cried. “My son was brought in. A car accident. His name is Richard Noble. Where is he?”

  “He’s being taken care of. He —”

  “I want to see him!”

  “Someone will help you in just a moment.”

  “I want to see him now!”

  “Mom,” said Georgia, tugging on her mother’s arm.

  “Ma’am, you’ll have to wait,” said the man.

  “No, he’s my son!” Georgia’s mother paused. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Say he’s alive.”

  “Yes, he’s alive. They’re working on him. I need to get someone who can take you to him. Please have a seat.”

  Mrs. Noble couldn’t sit. She remained standing at the desk and was still there when Georgia’s father hurried through the doors. A moment later, a nurse appeared. “I’ll take you back,” he said.

  “Us, too?” asked Georgia.

  The nurse shook his head. “Parents only.”

  Georgia and Henry sat in orange plastic chairs that hurt their backs, and watched the activity in the waiting room. A man and a woman arrived in a big hurry and ran to the desk. “We’re here about the accident,” said the man. “Our son — his name is Seth — they wouldn’t give us any information over the phone.”

  Georgia glanced at Henry.

  Another couple arrived, the woman crying. The waiting room now se
emed frantic to Georgia. The lights were too bright, and the noise level was rising.

  Georgia drew up her knees and buried her face in them. She and Henry sat nearly motionless, not speaking, until after what seemed like hours she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She raised her head and looked into her father’s eyes.

  “He’s going to be okay,” he said. “Come with me. One of the doctors will talk to us now.”

  Georgia, Henry, and their parents were taken into a small room. A doctor (who looked, Georgia thought, unbearably tired) followed them, and they all perched on the edges of chairs.

  “Okay,” the doctor began, “it was a bad accident, but Richard was lucky. As you know,” she went on, turning to Georgia’s parents, “he fractured his thigh and he’ll need surgery to repair it. He has a mild concussion, too, and lots of cuts. Some required stitches. I expect he’ll be in the hospital for at least a week.”

  “That’s lucky?” said Henry.

  Georgia saw her parents glance at each other. “Kids,” said their father, “the truth is that Richard and his friends had been drinking, and — there’s no easy way to tell you this — the two boys who were in the car with Richard were killed. They hit another car head-on.”

  Henry’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “What about the people in the other car?” whispered Georgia. “Are they okay?”

  The doctor said quietly, “There was just one person in the other car, and he didn’t make it either.”

  Georgia felt the room spinning around her and she gripped the arms of her chair. “Oh no. Oh no,” she moaned.

  It was her mother who spoke next. “We have to be strong,” she said firmly. “This is not the time to fall apart. Richard needs us now.”

  “But three people. Dead,” said Georgia.

  “Richard is going to have to live with this for the rest of his life,” her father said.

  “Why would he let a drunk person drive the car he was in?” asked Henry.

  Mrs. Noble shook her head. “This isn’t the time for blame either,” she replied. “Let’s focus on Richard. He has a long recovery ahead of him. Emotional as well as physical.”

  “What happens now?” Mr. Noble asked the doctor.

  “We’d like to do the surgery first thing in the morning. We’re calling in a specialist from Bangor, someone who has more experience with this kind of fracture than the orthopedic surgeons here do. Richard is sedated now and he’ll sleep through the night. I suggest you go home and get some sleep, too.”

  The Nobles, exhausted, followed the doctor back to the waiting room, where Georgia spotted a clock on the wall behind the desk and was astonished to realize it was after midnight. Blearily, she and her family climbed into their car and drove slowly back to the cottage.

  * * *

  Georgia awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through her windows. She had forgotten to pull the blinds down after she’d returned from the hospital. She hadn’t taken her clothes off either, or even brushed her teeth.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, listening to the sound of the radio playing in the kitchen, then stumbled out of her room and found her mother sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. “I thought you’d already be at the hospital,” she said.

  “Your dad’s there,” Mrs. Noble replied. “I wanted to talk to you before I go back.”

  Georgia sat across from her mother, feeling her heart begin to pound. “Talk to me about what? Richard’s still going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Noble’s voice caught in her throat. “It’s something else. It’s about the driver of the other car.” She opened her arms. “Come sit with me, honey.”

  Georgia didn’t say, “I’m too big for your lap.” She got up woodenly, heart pounding even harder, and sat on her mother’s knees, feeling strong arms wrap around her.

  “The other driver,” said Mrs. Noble. “I’m so sorry, Georgia, but the other driver was Mr. Elden.”

  Georgia felt her world melt away.

  “Are we the only family in America who isn’t having turkey today?” Henry asked Georgia. He was slumped on the couch in front of the television, the last moments of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade playing on mute.

  Georgia made a face at her brother. “You know, lots of families can’t even afford a turkey. Don’t be such a brat.”

  Henry turned to Georgia with wounded eyes. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “Why are you being such a baby?”

  “I thought you said I was a brat.”

  “Maybe you’re both.”

  “Georgia? Could I see you in the kitchen for a moment, please?” called their mother.

  “Ha, ha. Now you’re in trouble,” said Henry, but he didn’t sound particularly happy about it.

  Georgia heaved herself off the couch, made her way droopily into the kitchen, and slumped in a chair. Her mother was at the stove, dropping handfuls of pasta into a pot of boiling water. Georgia sniffed the air and caught the scent of oregano, but nothing that reminded her even remotely of past Thanksgivings. In fact, she realized, there was nothing in the house that spoke of the holiday, except for the parade playing silently on the television.

  “What?” said Georgia.

  “I might ask the same of you,” replied her mother. “Except that I’d do it a bit more politely. What is going on? Why are you being so mean to Henry?”

  Georgia was about to say, “Because he’s behaving like a brat,” but thought better of it. “I don’t know,” she said instead, which was mostly true. She felt as though she’d been in a bad mood for months — since the night of the accident — but she didn’t know why she was taking it out on Henry.

  “Could you please try to express your feelings?” asked Mrs. Noble, turning away from the stove to look at her daughter.

  Georgia studied her mother’s face, which was lined and worn and pale. She wanted to say, “Could you please try to express your feelings?” but she didn’t feel like having a conversation about anyone’s feelings. “No,” she said, and left the kitchen.

  “Don’t slam your door!” called her father from upstairs.

  How did he even know what was going on? wondered Georgia. She closed her door as loudly as she could without being accused of slamming it.

  She lay on her bed, hands behind her head, stared at the ceiling, and thought about the dreary Thanksgiving. They could have had a perfectly nice Thanksgiving, except that no one in her family, including Georgia herself, seemed to care much about the holiday. Not even Henry. Henry wanted turkey, but that was it.

  Her thoughts shifted to the accident, five months earlier. She felt as though everything Richard had done in his life had led directly to that night, to the accident, to the deaths of his friends and of Mr. Elden. His bad behavior, sneaking around, defying their parents, drinking, probably doing drugs (although Georgia didn’t have any evidence of that) — all those things had created a trail like a path on the Candy Land board that led to his climbing into a car with a boy who was already drunk, and then to start drinking himself. He continued hopping along the path from one square to the next until he found that the car in which he was riding was careening across the center line of a back road and plowing into a car driven by an unsuspecting, perfectly sober music teacher. And he survived, while everyone else died.

  It would have been worse, far worse, Georgia knew, if Richard had been the driver. She couldn’t imagine how Seth’s parents felt, losing their son and knowing what he had caused. She also knew that Seth wasn’t the only one at fault.

  Around and around went Georgia’s thoughts. She couldn’t count the number of nights she had lain in bed since June, thinking these exact same things. In those months she had attended Mr. Elden’s funeral, sitting not up front with the rest of his students, but in the back with her family — her parents and Henry, but not Richard because he was still in the hospital — and feeling like a pariah. In fact, Penny and Talia, who had loved Mr. Elden, had been fr
osty to Georgia for weeks following the accident, as if she, not Richard, had been in the car.

  In those months Georgia had watched Richard struggle with his physical therapy, and, to her surprise, take it seriously, push his limits, and exceed what his doctors had predicted. He had stayed close to home and dropped most of his old friends. When school had started, he’d quietly tackled his classes, taking his courses as seriously as he took his physical therapy. Georgia was pleased that Richard seemed to have turned around, but why had it happened at Mr. Elden’s expense?

  In those months, Georgia had not once picked up her guitar. It stood in its case in a corner of her room. She looked at it from time to time, curiously, as though it were an insect she hadn’t seen before, but without enough interest to investigate further.

  “We can find you another teacher,” her father had offered.

  “Why don’t you at least practice?” her mother had asked. “Plan something for the next talent show.”

  “That’s okay,” Georgia had said to both of them.

  Her father hadn’t sold a house in months. Her mother didn’t have an idea for her next book. The Nobles, it seemed, were stalled. Except for Richard, who plowed ahead with his schoolwork and his therapy.

  Now here it was Thanksgiving Day and Georgia’s family had planned a spaghetti dinner for the afternoon, just the five of them. Nobody felt like celebrating.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Georgia heard Henry call. “It’s probably the Quigley boys.”

  “On Thanksgiving?” said her father. His voice sounded nearby, and Georgia realized he must have come downstairs. She looked at her watch. She’d been lying on her bed stewing (as her mother would say) for over an hour.

  The next sound Georgia heard was a shriek. Not a frightened shriek, but a surprised and happy one. And then she heard Henry cry, “Nana Dana!”

  Nana Dana? Here?

  Georgia heard more shouting and laughter, and finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She rose from her bed and opened her door.