by Lael Littke
“No,” I said. “No, that's not who it is.” Paula wouldn't do that. The timing was all wrong. No, she wouldn't do that. Would she?
But then who was coming with her? Who could it be who wanted to meet me and my St. Paul family?
Chapter 17
In an effort to change the subject, I said, “We all thought it was pretty funny when Paula moved to St. Paul. We called it St. Paula.”
It didn't seem all that funny at the moment, but Mrs. R laughed dutifully. “What did she come here for?”
“Work,” I said. “She graduated from BYU law school and got a good job offer here.”
“She's a lawyer? I wonder if your father knows her.”
I almost made another blunder by saying, “Sure he does.” But I was thinking of my Idaho father. Mrs. R was talking about Mr . R. “I don't know,” I said.
Mrs. R patted the back of the chair beside her. “Sit down, Micaela,” she said. “We have time to talk, since the other lazybones kids seem to be sleeping in this morning. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
I sat on the offered chair. “No, thank you.”
Mrs. R hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Chalk up a fat zero for me. I know Mormons don't drink coffee.” She peered at me. “Do you mind if I do?”
“Not at all,” I said. As she got up to fill a cup from the machine on the counter, I wondered if I should tell her why we didn't drink coffee. Should I explain about the Word of Wisdom? But then I'd have to get into the Doctrine and Covenants where it was found. Then I'd have to go on about how it was a revelation, and that would lead to the Joseph Smith story.
No, I wouldn't get into it now. I'd better wait until the whole family was there, so I wouldn't have to explain all of it twice.
Suddenly I almost wished that Paula would bring the missionaries. They were used to explaining all those things. I knew this stuff from the Sunday School and seminary classes I'd attended over the years, but I'd never had to explain it before. When I did, I wanted to make sure I did it right. Especially since the Russos apparently thought we Mormons were strange, from what Heather said.
Mrs. R brought me a glass of orange juice when she came back to the table. She set it in front of me and sat down, curving her hands around her cup of coffee. “I'll fix breakfast as soon as the other kids get up.” She picked up the conversation, saving me from having to make any immediate decisions about how much to say. “You mentioned BYU. Is that where you plan to go to school?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Some of my family have gone there. My dad for a couple of years, and my sister Naomi, who's a teacher, and my brother Tyler has been going there, but now he's going on a mission. He just got his call. He's going to Romania. He'll enter the MTC next month.”
Mrs. R's frown line came back. “The empty sea?”
I laughed, remembering one of Jack Weyland's novels in which the main character mentions the MTC to someone who doesn't know anything about Mormons and gets the same response.
“Missionary Training Center,” I said. “He'll be there for three months, learning the Romanian language and stuff.”
“There are so many things to learn about your life out there,” Mrs. R said. The “out there” sounded as if Stone Creek were at the end of the earth. “There are several good small colleges here in Minnesota,” she continued. “Macalester, right here in St. Paul. St. Olaf's, in North-field, is a very fine Lutheran College. We'd be glad to pay your way there. I think that's where Heather will be going.”
I sipped my orange juice, deciding to drop the subject of college for the time being. “Is that what you are?” I asked. “Lutheran?”
She shook her head. “No. Your father's and my families are both Catholic. But you know Heather. She's kind of a rebel.” She smiled as she said it, as if apologizing for Heather. “She doesn't want to go to a Catholic college.”
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“A little,” she admitted. “But we've always gotten on well with the Lutherans, which is the predominant church here, what with the high Scandinavian population. My father's best friend was named Ole Hanson. He always laughed about someone named Salvatore Giovanni hanging around with Norwegian Hansons and Larsons and Sorensons.” She chuckled, remembering.
“And Swensens,” I added. “My family is Danish and the names end with e-n, but there are some Norwegian Swensons, with o-n, around, too.”
I knew immediately I'd blundered again. “Your family is Italian, Micaela,” Mrs. R said firmly. “And the names usually end with an i or an o or sometimes an a or an e. “
“Chalk up a big fat zero for me. “I repeated her earlier words, trying to make a joke of it. Then, to get things going right again, I said, “Tell me about Grandpa Giovanni. Is he still alive?”
Mrs. R shook her head. “He died the year after you disappeared.” Her eyes seemed to gaze into the past for a moment, reflecting the pain of loss. But then she laughed. “He was such a sweetheart.”
“I wish I'd known him,” I said sincerely. “Grandpa Giovanni.”
“You did know him for three years. You and Heather were so precious to him. He always carried Lifesavers in his pocket for you. You always asked him to save you the green ones.” She sighed, turning her coffee cup around and around in its saucer. “I think your loss contributed a lot to his death. He was only sixty-one.”
There was so much I didn't know about this family. I tried to bring up a memory of my Grandfather Giovanni, but all I got was Grandpa back home in Idaho.
“Maybe you can show me pictures,” I said. I hadn't seen any pictures since that first night after I arrived, when they had shown me the slides that had revealed who the woman in my nightmares had been. “I'd like to learn all I can about your…” Hastily I changed that to “our family.”
“Thank you, Micaela.” Mrs. R seemed to recognize what a hard time I was having with all this. “It is your family, too. You're part of it. You've always been part of our family. Even when you didn't know it. You always will be a part of this family. Forever.”
I thought of Mom's embroidered “Families are forever” wallhanging behind our kitchen table at home. But there was something wrong. I couldn't be a forever part of both families, could I?
I'd been legally adopted by Mom and Dad back home. But did that still apply now that we knew I'd been kidnapped? What if Mom had to take my name out of her family history books?
No, I belonged there. I was part of that family.
“But what about my Idaho family?” I blurted.
Mrs. R looked at me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she said, “Tell me about that family, Micaela. We don't know very much about them. Tell me what your life has been like.”
Was she going to start picking apart my Idaho family, my Mormon family, the way Heather had done? “What do you want to know?” I said, wondering if I should mention the things Heather had said.
She smiled. “What do you want to tell?”
I could feel my face softening as I thought of home. No, I wouldn't mention what Heather had said. That seemed too much like tattling. (“Mama, she said I was bad.” Was this another fragment of memory, this pointing a small finger and whining about what Heather had said?)
In my mind I saw my Idaho family, even smelly old Hoover, and patient Vinegar. How could I begin to tell what they all meant to me? How could I tell about Abby and her harmonica, about Lex, and about Bryan?
How could I ever tell her about the part the Church played in my life, how it bound us all together, how it was the fiber from which our family was woven?
And then there was Paula, my sister's friend, who was coming to see us all that very evening. Bringing someone who wanted to meet me and my St. Paul family.
“I'll start with Grandpa,” I said.
I talked steadily until we heard the other kids stirring. Mrs. R listened, frowning at the mystery of Grandpa's lost Selena Marie, laughing when I described Vinegar, looking sad when I told her of Grandma's death. Most
ly she just listened, her eyes shining as she watched me talk.
When I finally ran down, she said, “It sounds like a lovely life, Micaela.”
I burst into tears. So did she. Our shared family trait again.
She reached out, and I slid closer so that I could put my head on her shoulder as we wept together. I breathed in her scent and had a dim memory of being comforted against that same shoulder after some long-ago childhood hurt.
This was my mother.
My mother.
Could a person be part of two forever families?
• • •
When we heard the other kids coming, my mother stood up and walked to the sink where she emptied the now-cold cup of coffee. She hadn't even taken a sip of it as we sat there.
Then she went to the stove and started making waffles.
“I've got just the thing to go with them,” I said. “Mom sent some homemade chokecherry jelly.”
Too late I realized I'd made another blunder. “I mean, we picked the chokecherries ourselves from the trees that grow along the creek bank. Anybody can have them. They're wild. Keith and I picked them, and then, you know, Mom made the jelly.” I was just making it worse, so I stopped.
My mother didn't say anything for a moment. Looking down at the waffle iron, she finally said, “You know what, Micaela? Let's save that for when your dad is here for breakfast. I think he's going to take the day off tomorrow, and we can have it then.”
“Sure,” I said. “That will be okay.” I felt my cheeks burn red. I hadn't meant to remind her yet again of my other family.
“I'd planned to make maple syrup this morning. That's what I do for special breakfasts.” She turned her head to give me a smile. “And this one is very special, for you.”
It came into my mind to tell her about our special breakfasts at home, with pancakes and gooseberries. But I thought fast enough to stay out of the swamp this time. Instead I said, “How do you make maple syrup? I thought it came out of trees or something.”
She laughed. “I just mix sugar, water, and maple flavoring, but it's something all of the kids like because I can flavor it to their various tastes. You liked it too, when you were tiny.” Opening a cupboard door she took out a sugar canister and a small brown bottle of flavoring. “Pick a pan and you can make it.”
“Great,” I said. “I'd like to learn.” I was going to say, “Then I can surprise everybody at home,” but I stopped before my tongue formed the words. I pulled a pan from the cupboard next to the stove.
“Put in a cup of water and two cups of sugar,” Mother instructed. “Stir it over a medium flame until the sugar dissolves, then add a teaspoon of maple flavoring.”
I was stirring the water and sugar over the gas flame when Kenyon followed his nose into the kitchen. “Wow,” he said. “Is it somebody's birthday or something?”
Mother raised her eyebrows. “Isn't it enough of an occasion to have Micaela here?”
“Yeah.” Kenyon came over to my chair to give me an awkward hug. He eyed the stack of waffles. “Can I start?”
Mother handed him a plate. “Go to it,” she said.
He built a tall tower and sat down to wait until the syrup was ready.
Mother eyed him. “How long have you been wearing that T-shirt?”
He looked down at his shirt, which showed the history of what he'd had to eat for the last week, including ketchup stains and smears of chocolate ice cream. “I don't have any clean ones.”
“So?”
Kenyon sighed. “Yeah, I know where the washing machine is. I'll wash all of them later.”
“I'll do it for you, Kenyon,” I offered.
“Kenyon can do it,” Mother said. “And right now is a good time. Then you won't be arrested for polluting the environment when we go out.” She reached over to ruffle his hair, then glanced at me. “One of the rules of the house: Keep yourself and your space clean. Share the work.”
Grinning, I said, “I read your sign.” I pointed to the poster on the wall opposite the stove, the one that said, “I'm not Superwoman, so adjust! “
Mother expertly flipped another waffle from the grid. “How do you feel about it?”
I wasn't sure. I wondered what Mom would think about the sign. Mom was into trying to be Superwoman. She did most of the work around the house, including the cooking and the laundry, even Tyler's, which he brought home from college in a bulging bag. I couldn't remember him ever touching the washing machine. Well, did I? Only in an emergency. What was Tyler going to do on his mission? He couldn't send a bag of laundry to Mom then.
“I think it's a good idea,” I said, in answer to Mother's question. I had a small feeling of disloyalty to Mom, as if I'd found a flaw in her. But it was certainly no flaw. She did the work because she loved us.
But was that reason enough to just let her do it? Wouldn't we be showing our own love by helping her do it? Maybe I would talk to Tyler about doing his own washing. And I'd tell him how to make homemade maple syrup so he could wow his missionary companion in Romania.
“May I have a glass of milk?” Kenyon asked from his place at the table where he was carefully filling the holes in his waffles with butter.
“So where is the milk?” Mother said.
Kenyon slid off his chair. “In the refrigerator.”
“Back home the milk is in the cow,” I said.
Kenyon took a carton from the refrigerator and filled a glass, then put the carton on the table. “In case anybody else wants some,” he explained. Looking at me, he said, “I saw a cow once. But I couldn't figure out how you get the milk out.”
With my hands I made the outline of a cow, then indicated her bag underneath. I made two vertical fists, then raised and lowered one hand, then the other, making squeezing motions. “The milk comes out a squirt at a time,” I said.
Kenyon looked puzzled. “Into the milk cartons?”
I laughed. “Into a bucket. Actually, it's all done by machines now. The milk goes right into a cooler to wait for the tanker truck to pick it up.”
“I wish I could visit your farm,” Kenyon said. “Could we go to Idaho, Mom?”
“Maybe someday,” Mother said. “Is the syrup ready, Micaela?”
That was as good a way as any to close off the discussion of my other home. “It's ready.” I carried the pan over to drown Kenyon's waffle tower.
Brittany and Chelsea, still a little sleepy-eyed, came into the kitchen, followed by Heather, who was dressed in shorts and a bare midriff top.
“Grab some waffles,” Mother instructed. “As soon as we've eaten—and Kenyon has a clean shirt—we're going to drive over to show Micaela the St. Croix River and maybe take a boat ride.”
“I'll pass,” Heather said. “I'm going to meet Lisa at 10:00.”
Mother put her hands on her hips. “Not again! Heather, come with us today. Get acquainted with your sister. And please, sweetie, couldn't you dress a little more appropriately?”
“I have plans. And there's nothing the matter with what I'm wearing.” Heather flashed a defiant look at me, then grabbed a waffle without butter or syrup and left the room.
Was she really going to meet Lisa, or did her plans involve the Eddie she'd mentioned the night before? He didn't sound like the most wholesome character in the world.
But there was no way I could say anything about him. Not if I ever wanted to be friends with my older sister. I wasn't that much a part of the family yet.
The mail came while we were waiting for Kenyon's clothes to dry. I was surprised when Brittany said there was a postcard for me. “From somebody named… I can't read his handwriting. Maybe it's Gil, like a fish. Oooo, he signs it ‘Love.’ Do you have a boyfriend, Micaela?”
I took the card from her. “You're not supposed to read other people's mail.” I said it as I'd say it to Keith at home, then wondered if I should have let it go. But Brittany accepted it as a justified reprimand from a sister. Maybe I was beginning to fit into the family.
&nbs
p; The postcard was a picture of the main street of Prentice. On the back was written, “Hi, Astrid and Zorina: Having a miserable time without you. Wish you were here.” It was indeed signed “Love, Gil.”
“ Gilbert Gladhill,” I said to Brittany. “Actually, his name is Bryan Embree. He's the hero in the melodrama we're doing, and I play two parts, Astrid and Zorina. One is good and one is bad.”
My eyes lingered on that Love. Was that just addressed to Astrid and Zorina, or did he mean it for me?
I felt my face redden again as I thought of Bryan and the play we were in and the onstage kiss we were going to share. Soon.
To cover it, I held the postcard out for everybody to see. “This is the closest town to where I live,” I told them. “There's only one business street and about three thousand people.” As they peered at the picture, I thought again of Bryan and told myself the “Love, Gil” sign-off didn't mean a thing.
• • •
Mother, Brittany, Chelsea, Kenyon, and I had a good day at the river and the quaint shops in the little towns on its banks. So good that I almost forgot that Paula and somebody else were coming to see us that evening. I didn't really think about it until Mother asked me to set the table for dinner and to put out two extra plates for them.
“Are they eating with us?” I asked.
“They're coming right after work,” Mother said. “We'll ask if they'd like to join us.”
It was the kind of thing Mom would do. My Idaho mom. It was as if they'd both taken the same class, Momming 101. In a lot of ways they were different, but there were also a lot of ways in which they were alike.
Mr. R arrived home while I was dealing out the plates and silverware. Mother told him about our expected visitors. He seemed curious about the other person who was coming.
“You don't know who it is?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Not a clue.”
“Why would one of your friends want to talk to us?” He seemed almost a little wary, and I wondered if he was going to ask about the missionaries, as Mother had done. Had they discussed what they would do if I tried to convert them, as Heather had hinted? Did they think that was all I'd have on my mind? What other misconceptions did they have about me and the culture I'd grown up in?
