The Third Mushroom

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Then the cat starts purring.

  Like magic, my doubts melt away and a warm lump settles close to my heart.

  “We’ll keep him,” I say.

  Maybe I got a prize after all.

  * * *

  —

  It feels like Herschel’s always been part of our family. He didn’t seem like much of a Connor, so I gave him a new name. I think it suits him. Because he’s always looking out at the sky. The windowsill is his favorite place to sit.

  Herschel has his own quirks. He usually hides when the doorbell rings. He’s never met a moth he doesn’t want to bat down. He alternates who he sleeps with at night between me and my mother and my grandfather, like he’s spreading out his love. But mostly, Herschel really likes to eat. And he’s happy to let you know.

  When I walk in the front door a week or so later, he starts meowing right away. It’s late, almost dinnertime. Raj and I hung out at a local park and ended up watching the old men playing chess. Raj did a play-by-play of the action like a sportscaster. The old men loved it and gave him a few pro tips.

  “Okay, okay,” I tell my cat. “I’ll feed you.”

  He trails me into the kitchen. The rest of the house is quiet. My mom is still at school, and my grandfather is probably sleeping. He had a headache this morning and stayed home from school.

  Herschel is insistent, nudging me toward the pantry drawer. His meowing gets louder and louder. I open a can of wet food and am spooning it into a bowl when I hear heavy footsteps. I look up to see a bald man walking into the kitchen.

  I’m so startled that I scream and throw the can of cat food at him.

  “Ellie,” he says, waving his hands. “It’s me!”

  That’s when I realize that the man standing in the kitchen doorway is my grandfather!

  And he looks like a grandfather now.

  “What happened?” I ask him.

  He sighs. “I guess you could say this is an interesting result.”

  “You took more of the axolotl?” I ask him.

  He looks a little ashamed. “After my appendix, I couldn’t resist! I really wanted a new tooth. Dentures are terrible!”

  “But why did it make you grow old? I don’t understand….”

  “The fruit flies didn’t die from mold,” he says. “Our axolotl made everything grow faster.”

  I think of his beard.

  “The fruit flies died of old age,” I say slowly.

  “Correct.”

  Panic rushes through me. “Wait a minute! Does this mean you’re going to die of old age, too?”

  “Of course I will,” he says, and then his face softens. “Someday. But I don’t think anytime soon.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because fruit flies don’t live very long to begin with. Losing a week for them is like losing twenty years for us. Using that calculation, I’ll likely live to my eighties at least.”

  “How old do you think you are now?”

  “No arthritis. My knees don’t ache. I feel like I did when I was in my late fifties.”

  “But you’re bald!”

  He rolls his eyes. “Ellie, I started going bald in my thirties. Baldness has nothing to do with age and everything to do with genetics.”

  Science is weird. It can make you young. It can make you old. It can make you bald.

  The garage door rumbles open, and I hear my mom’s car pull in. A minute later, she walks in carrying a pizza.

  “We finished striking the set in record time, so I stopped and grabbed a pizza—” She freezes when she sees my grandfather.

  The pizza falls to the floor with a splat and slides out of the cardboard container.

  “Dad! You’re old again!”

  “Thank you for pointing out the obvious.” He looks at the floor. “What kind of pizza did you get?”

  “Uh, veggie lovers’,” she says.

  “No great loss,” he says. Then he grabs the car keys out of her hand and walks out. “I need to borrow your car.”

  “Wait!” she calls. “Where are you going?”

  “To get another pizza,” my grandfather says. “A real one. With pepperoni.”

  The door slams and he’s gone.

  My mom looks at the pizza and then at me and shakes her head.

  * * *

  —

  The first thing my grandfather does is buy a new car.

  Or, rather, an old car.

  “What do you think? It’s a 1955 Ford Thunderbird in Aquatone Blue,” my grandfather tells us in a proud voice.

  It’s a light-blue convertible with big round red taillights and white-rimmed wheels.

  We stand in the driveway and admire it.

  “Just like the one you always wanted, huh?” I ask.

  “Does this thing even have airbags?” my mom asks.

  “It’s got a V-8 engine!” my grandfather says. “Hop in. We’re taking a Sunday drive.”

  When we get onto the highway, my grandfather guns the engine.

  “Let’s see how fast this baby can go,” he says, a gleam in his eye.

  “Dad,” my mom says. “Take it easy.”

  But he speeds up and we’re flying down the highway. People wave at us as we whiz by. The car is eye-catching.

  Maybe a little too eye-catching.

  Because a moment later, I hear a siren. I look back and see a police cruiser with flashing lights. Once we’re on the side of the road, the police officer walks to the driver’s side.

  “License and registration, please,” the officer says.

  My grandfather hands them over without a word. The police officer looks from the driver’s license back to my grandfather.

  “You look great for being seventy-seven, Mr. Sagarsky,” the police officer says.

  “Good genes,” my grandfather says.

  “Sir, you were doing seventy in a fifty-five zone,” the officer says. “In the carpool lane.”

  “Sorry. I guess I was a little excited. I just got the car,” my grandfather explains.

  The officer studies the car. “V-8 engine, huh?”

  “Purrs like a kitten. Want to try it out?”

  My mom smacks her head.

  * * *

  —

  Now, instead of me having to take the bus home from school, my grandfather picks me up in Big Betty. That’s what he’s named his car. Usually we go and get a snack afterward at the little sandwich shop. One thing that hasn’t changed is his appetite.

  I sit across from him as he powers his way through a triple-decker turkey club, a meatball sandwich, a bowl of clam chowder, a slice of coconut cream pie, and black coffee.

  “This pie is delicious,” he says, pushing the plate to me. “You should try it!”

  Now that he’s back to his old self, he seems lighter. Happier.

  “Do you like being old?” I ask him.

  “It’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to having to take the SATs again in high school.”

  “Hello, Ellie,” a voice says.

  I turn around to see Mrs. Barrymore standing there. It’s always weird seeing teachers outside of school, even though my mom is one.

  Mrs. Barrymore’s eyes flit to my grandfather.

  “This is my grandfather, Dr. Sagarsky,” I say. “Grandpa, this is Mrs. Barrymore. She’s the librarian at my school.”

  My grandfather stands and shakes her hand. “Very pleased to meet you. My grandson, Melvin, speaks very highly of you.”

  “Well, I think the world of him. How is he doing?”

  My mother told the middle school that her “nephew” had moved back to Fresno.

  “Uh, he’s doing fine,” my grandfather says. “Thank you for asking.”

/>   “We miss having him around.”

  My grandfather…blushes?

  “How long are you visiting for?”

  “Oh. I recently moved to the area.” He nods at me. “To be closer to Ellie and her mom.”

  “How nice,” Mrs. Barrymore says. “I guess we’ll be seeing more of you, then?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  She looks at his plate. “How is the coconut cream pie?”

  “I highly recommend it,” he says.

  “I’ll have to try it,” she tells him. “I need to be going. I have an appointment. It was nice running into you, Ellie.”

  I nod.

  To my grandfather she says, “Be sure to give Melvin my best if you talk to him.”

  “I will,” he promises.

  After she leaves, my grandfather turns to me. His face is a little green.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think I need an antacid,” he says, and looks down at the empty dishes. “Seems like my stomach got old, too.”

  The middle school parking lot is like a fishbowl where the fish are rushing around trying to get out. I’m sitting with Raj after school, waiting for my grandfather to pick me up.

  “Do you want to do something Saturday night?” I ask him.

  “Movie?”

  I have something different in mind.

  “Comet.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Comet?”

  I explain how I’ve become completely obsessed with Caroline Herschel, and that I really want to see a comet.

  “Sure, that sounds kinda cool,” he says.

  “Great,” I tell him.

  My grandfather walks up to us, shaking his head.

  “This place smells like the Puberty,” he says.

  His eyes widen when he sees Raj’s head. “You dyed your hair blue?”

  “Do you like it?” Raj asks him.

  “At least it’s not permanent,” my grandfather says.

  Then he walks past us into the school.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” I call after him. “I thought you were taking me home?”

  He holds up a book. To Kill a Mockingbird. “I need to return this to the library. I’ll be right back.”

  “I gotta run, too,” Raj says. “Chess.”

  Then I’m all alone. While I wait, I play a test version of Ben’s new game on my phone. He sent it to me last night. It’s pretty cute, and I can’t help but notice that the girl character looks like my mom.

  I’m so engrossed that when I look up, I realize I’ve been sitting there for a half hour. How long does it take to return a library book?

  I decide to go get my grandfather.

  When I walk in, I see him sitting at a table with Mrs. Barrymore, the book between them. She says something and he smiles.

  It’s kind of odd. My grandfather’s normal resting face is grumpy. But this is different.

  This smile transforms his face.

  * * *

  —

  “How was the comet-watching?” my mom asks me as we fold clothes.

  “We didn’t see any,” I tell her.

  It was a little disappointing. It turns out that comets are not like stars. They’re rare. They only show up once in a while, and you have to be in the right place at the right time to see them. Even then, they may be hard to spot.

  My mom holds up one of my grandfather’s shirts.

  “Well, it’s not like he has to buy a new wardrobe,” she says with a laugh. “He was already rocking the whole old-man thing.”

  “You think he’s ever going to do his own laundry instead of sneaking it in with ours?”

  “I imagine he will,” she says. “He’s getting his own place. He told me last night.”

  “What? He is? Why?”

  She looks at me. “Ben’s coming home for good in three weeks. Your grandfather thinks it’s time for him to get his own bedroom.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about this.

  “Where’s he going to live?”

  “He says he wants to stay around here.”

  “I’ll miss having him in the house,” I say.

  “I won’t,” she says. “I want the den back.”

  I look at her. “But I’ll miss him.”

  “You can see him all you want, sweetie,” she says gently. “He’s a grown man. It’s time for him to figure things out.”

  But I wonder. Does anyone ever really figure things out?

  * * *

  —

  My grandfather’s apartment is just a one-bedroom, but he’s excited about it.

  “Maybe I’ll get a pet,” he muses.

  “A cat?” I ask.

  “Maybe a rat. Rats are interesting pets. They’re very smart, you know.”

  “I feel like I’m sending you off to college or something,” my mom confesses as we help him pack up his stuff.

  On moving day, we load up the boxes in my mom’s van and drive to his new apartment. The place has nice wood floors and is bright, with freshly painted walls. He’s already bought some basic furniture—a couch, a coffee table, a kitchen table, and a bedroom set.

  “This is really nice, Dad,” my mom says, looking around.

  We spend the afternoon helping my grandfather put his bookcases together and unpacking. My mom can’t believe he didn’t bother to buy any cleaning supplies, so she heads out to do some shopping for him.

  I put my grandmother’s romance novels on a shelf. My grandfather puts a wedding photo of them next to it. It’s sweet.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask him.

  He knows I’m talking about his life.

  “I’m not sure I want to go back into research. I’m thinking about teaching,” he admits.

  “Middle school?”

  “You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to teach middle school,” he says.

  Me either.

  “High school might be more appropriate,” he says.

  “I think you’d be a great teacher,” I tell him.

  “You’ve always been my best student,” he says with a fond look.

  I pick up The Burning Sands.

  “Can I borrow this one?” I ask him.

  “Of course,” he says. “Just don’t get any ideas about running away with a sheikh.”

  * * *

  —

  My grandfather always seems to have an excuse to swing by the library to visit Mrs. Barrymore when he picks me up after school. He’ll bring her a book he thinks she might like. Or a bag of old-fashioned candy—peppermint sticks.

  Today, he’s brought her a feather he found when he was out walking. They pore over bird books, their heads bent together, trying to identify the feather.

  That’s when it hits me: my grandfather is flirting with her.

  He whistles on the drive home. When he pulls into our driveway, I turn to him.

  “Do you like Mrs. Barrymore?” I ask him.

  “Uh, ahem, Eleanor’s very nice.”

  “You should ask her out on a date.”

  My grandfather’s face turns white. “A date? I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, because…” His voice trails off.

  “You told me it’s important to experiment.”

  “But this is different,” he insists.

  “It might not be as bad as you think. Like me and the mushrooms.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t like mushrooms the first two times I tried them. But the third time, I had this vegetarian lasagna with portobello mushrooms, and it was delicious.”

  “Are you seriously comparing my, my—life!—to mushrooms?”

  I look at him.

&nb
sp; “I think she likes you, too,” I say softly.

  He grips the steering wheel tightly. “What if it doesn’t work out?”

  “But what if it does? What if Mrs. Barrymore is like a comet?”

  “A comet?” he asks with a confused look.

  “Rare.” I pause. “They don’t come around all the time.”

  We sit there in the car in silence.

  Then he sighs.

  “You know, you’re a very wise young lady,” he says.

  “I must take after my grandfather,” I tell him, and grin. “He has two PhDs.”

  Mrs. Barrymore says she’d love to go to lunch with my grandfather.

  But the day before the big date, my grandfather shows up at our house in a panic.

  Raj and I are doing homework at the kitchen table and eating my latest quiche—mushroom and spinach. I’m kind of over tofu. And in spite of everything that’s happened, we’re still perfect quiche eaters.

  We watch my grandfather as he paces back and forth.

  “It’s so nerve-racking!” he exclaims. “What do we talk about? The last time I went on a date, I had hair!”

  “What do you usually talk about?” Raj asks.

  “Well, lately we’ve been discussing finches.”

  “What’s a finch?” I ask.

  “It’s a bird.”

  “That’s easy, then,” Raj says. “Talk about birds.”

  “We can’t talk about birds for two hours!” My grandfather stares at the floor. “This is going to be a complete disaster.”

  I guess even grown-ups get nervous about dating.

  “I have an idea,” I tell him. “What if Raj and I come, too?”

  He looks confused. “On the date?”

  “More people. Less pressure,” I explain. “It’s easier in a group.”

  His face brightens. “Yes! That’s an excellent idea. Thank you.”

  I smile.

  “Now I just have one problem left.”

  “What?”

  He frowns. “I have absolutely no idea what to wear.”