Finding Grace

by Becky Citra

  This is the best story of all and I’m dying to see Fred, but he stays hidden in the kitchen, banging pots and pans and sometimes hollering at Daphne.

  When it’s busy, Mom gets up and helps with the coffee or clears dirty dishes from the tables.

  Daphne says she hates charging us, what with Mom being such a help, but Mom says we won’t eat for free, so we get complimentary desserts: chocolate sundaes, apple pie à la mode (which is French and means with ice cream), and pineapple upside-down cake.

  In between meals at the Top Notch, Mom shuts the curtains and lies down on the big bed in our room or sits on a bench across from the hotel, gazing at the lake. I borrow one of the bicycles from the hotel and ride around and around the village, hunting for Grace.

  By the third day, I’ve about given up.

  The bike is a pain in the you-know-where. One of the tires keeps going flat and I have to go to the gas station every few hours to get it pumped up. And the chain falls off unless I pedal really fast.

  And there is no sign of Grace.

  I make a loop, up along the main road beside the lake as far as the beach and then back on some of the little side roads, which are quiet and away from the lake and the tourists. I do this twenty times in a row.

  The whole time, I’m thinking I might have made a big mistake about Grace. Maybe she and her great-aunt don’t live in Harrison Hot Springs at all. Maybe they just come here every year on her birthday and have her picture taken.

  There’s one way we could find out. We could ask Daphne. You can bet she knows everyone in this village.

  I suggest this over cheeseburgers at the Top Notch. Daphne is in the back talking to Fred and can’t hear me, but I whisper anyway.

  Mom says no. She doesn’t want Grace to find out that people have been asking about her. She says it might scare her. She says there’s a good chance Grace doesn’t even know she’s adopted.

  That brings us to the big question. “If we find her, are we going to tell her who we are?” I ask Mom.

  Mom doesn’t answer me for a long time. “I don’t know,” she says finally.

  • • • • •

  When I’m not riding around on the bike looking for Grace, I swim in the outdoor pool or read my Nancy Drew books in the lounge. We came on Sunday, and by Thursday I’ve read both my books over again and I’m desperate for something new.

  That’s why I screech the bike to a halt, spraying gravel, when I spot a sign in the window of a brown building on one of the back roads. I’ve been pedaling pretty fast so the chain won’t fall off, which is probably why I didn’t notice it before. It says Fraser Valley Regional Library.

  A bigger sign on the front of the building says Harrison Hot Springs Municipal Hall, which I think means that this is where the people who look after all the village’s business work.

  I lean my bike against a fence and go inside. There’s a room with some tables and chairs, and a rack full of different colored pamphlets. A typewriter is clacking away through an open doorway. There’s another door, closed, with a card tacked to it that says:

  LIBRARY

  Hrs. Mon-Thurs. 11:00 to 3:00

  It’s two o’clock on Thursday. I almost decided not to make that last loop on my bike because it’s hot today, a gazillion degrees, and I don’t want to miss the complimentary tea at the hotel. For once, luck is with me. If I hadn’t gone around one more time and found the library today, I would have had to wait until next week.

  I’ve never been to this kind of library before and I’m not sure if you’re supposed to knock, but in the end I just walk in.

  The library is all in one room. There are some metal shelves crammed with books and a table with magazines and newspapers on it. A man is sitting at a desk. He smiles at me and says his name is Mr. Trout and is there anything he can help me with.

  Of course I know that you’re supposed to have a card to borrow books and that librarians are strict about that and can be very mean if you forget your card. But Mr. Trout looks nice and not mean at all.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m staying at the hotel and I was wondering if I’d be allowed to borrow a book, just one, because I’m desperate and I promise to bring it back on Monday because I am a very, very fast reader.”

  Mr. Trout’s eyes twinkle and I’m right, he is nice. He says, “You look like an honest person. I don’t see why not. A weekend can be an eternity without anything to read. How about two books?”

  He shows me where all the kids’ books are at the back of the room. I always like to read the first three pages of a book before I decide to take it. Since I’m only picking two, I don’t want to make a mistake, so it takes me awhile. A few people come in and out, but mostly it’s just Mr. Trout and me.

  I’ve narrowed it down to a mystery about a lost gold mine and Old Yeller, which I’ve read but want to read again. Mr. Trout is doing end-of-the-day kinds of stuff like tidying up the newspapers and magazines and rinsing his coffee mug at a sink beside the window. “I’m going to pop out to the post office,” he says. “I’ll just be a jiffy. You can hold the fort. We’ll write down the titles of your books when I get back.”

  All librarians should be exactly like Mr. Trout. You can tell he really likes and trusts kids. I’ve never been in charge of a library before! Even if it’s only for a few minutes.

  I spot a chart on the wall covered with glittery gold stars and I walk over to have a closer look. At the top, it says Harrison Summer Reading Club. Blast off to Reading! There’s a rocket on one side and a list of names. Beside each name are stars. A boy called David has the most, his row marches almost right across the chart.

  I count his stars. Fifteen. I figure you get a star for every book you read. I could beat David hands down. I look over the other names. Cynthia’s second. She has twelve stars. Most of the kids have five or six or seven stars.

  There’s only one kid with no stars. My heart stops Bam! when I read the name. Grace.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I haven’t exactly found Grace. But I’ve found her name, which is close.

  I stare at the chart for a long time. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. Then I start to wonder what’s happened to Mr. Trout. I take my books up to the desk and look for a piece of paper and a pen so I can write down the titles of my books.

  His desk is cluttered with books, paper, cards, and tape. I rummage around for a pen and, under a stack of paper, I find a school exercise book with Summer Reading Club written on the front in black felt pen. I open it. On the first page is a handwritten list of names with addresses and phone numbers.

  My heart pounds as I scan the list. There she is, a third of the way down. Grace Donnely. It’s her, all right. Underneath her name, it says c/o Eve Williams. That must be her great-aunt.

  By the time Mr. Trout calls out a cheery, “I’m back!” I’ve memorized the address: 56 Raven Road.

  • • • • •

  Raven Road is full of potholes and shaded by trees. I pedal past number 56 three times, faster than a speeding bullet so that I’ll be a blur to anyone who might be looking out one of the windows. My library books bump up and down in the rickety wicker basket on the front of the bike.

  Each time I whiz past, I gather a few more details.

  I can only see part of the house because it’s behind a tall overgrown hedge. It looks old. It’s covered in gray-blue shingles. A cement walk with bushes smothered in pink roses on each side leads up to a front porch.

  Whoosh! I blast by again.

  There’s a couch on the porch.

  A tire hanging from a tree.

  A lace curtain blowing out an upstairs window.

  Fifth time. My legs are pumping. Sweat is trickling down my forehead because it’s still so hot.

  This time I slow down, but just a bit.

 
“Why do you keep going past my house?” a voice calls out from somewhere behind the hedge.

  That distracts me.

  BIG TIME.

  So I don’t see the cat until it streaks across the road, right in front of me. It’s black and gold and longhaired. Holy Toledo! It’s Jingle, come back to life!

  I swerve to miss it. My front tire hits a pile of loose gravel. The bike sweeps out from under me and I crash to the ground.

  My hands sting, there’s dirt in my mouth, my right knee is on fire, and something warm is gushing down my leg. My instinct is to curl up in a ball and die. I moan and close my eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  A girl with curly brown hair and blue eyes is standing beside me. She’s wearing a red bathing suit. It’s the girl in the photograph. It’s Grace.

  Cripes. This is not how I imagined I would meet my twin. Lying on the ground, dirty, sweaty, and bleeding to death.

  “Are you all right?” she says again.

  I can’t get a single sound to come out of my mouth. Not even a squeak. I know that I’m gaping like a fish. I stand up slowly and clap my hand over my knee to try to stop the bleeding.

  Grace picks up my bike. The chain is dragging on the ground. The library books have slid into the ditch, and she gets them and puts them back in the basket.

  We both stare at my leg. There’s a river of blood gushing through my fingers, all the way to my running shoe, which is turning red.

  “You better come in and get some Band-Aids,” Grace says.

  She’s going to think I have a serious talking problem if I don’t say something.

  I swallow. “Okay,” I manage to mumble.

  Grace wheels my bike to the side of the road and leans it against the hedge. I stumble after her, along the cement walk between the pink roses and up the steps onto the porch.

  “On second thought, wait here,” Grace says, looking at my dripping leg. “I’ll be right back.”

  I glance around while she is gone. I can see the inside of the yard now, the part behind the hedge. It’s a big square of grass that looks like it needs to be mowed. Half is shaded and half is in the sun. On the sunny side, there’s a blue blanket with an open book lying on it.

  Grace comes back with a wet cloth and a box of Band-Aids. I ease my hand off my knee and inspect the damage. It’s stopped bleeding, but there’s an awful lot of gravel mushed into my skin. I dab at it, but that kills, so instead I scrub off the blood that’s drying on my shin.

  I stick four Band-Aids across my knee, crisscross. And a couple on the palms of my hands, which are scraped but not bleeding.

  “By the way, I’m Grace Donnely,” Grace says.

  “Er, I’m Hope King.”

  Grace’s face doesn’t change at all. She’s never heard of me.

  “I’m staying at the hotel,” I volunteer.

  “Did you know you’re shaking?” Grace says. “And you look awfully white. It could be shock. Maybe I should get you some water.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother,” I say.

  “No problem,” Grace says. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.” She sighs. “That just goes to show you how boring my summer is.”

  When Grace comes back with the water, she waits while I take a sip. Then she gives me what you could only call a penetrating look. “So why were you staring at my house?”

  I get very busy with my glass of water. I can feel my cheeks turning hot.

  “There’s a hole in the hedge,” she says. “I saw you go by. Five times.”

  “I was looking at all the houses,” I say. “Not just yours. I like looking at houses.”

  I change the subject quickly. “What are you reading?”

  “I wasn’t reading,” Grace says. “I was pretending to read. Actually, I was just working on my tan.”

  She pulls back a bathing suit strap to show me. I admire her tan line. She’s much browner than me.

  There’s a tiny embarrassing silence.

  If I can’t think of something to say, I’ll have to go and after all this trouble to find her, I can’t go yet.

  “Why were you pretending to read?” I say desperately.

  Grace shrugs. “It’s a deal I made with my aunt. If I get a star on this stupid chart at the library, then she’ll take me to the Aga.”

  “What’s the Aga?”

  “The Aga Theater in Agassiz. My Friend Flicka is showing next week. I have to see it!”

  Grace sighs. “She doesn’t trust me so I have to write a book report. I’m doing this book called Jane of Lantern Hill. I’ve read the first chapter and the last chapter. But I need to know something that happens in the middle before I can write the stupid report.”

  “Jane of Lantern Hill?” I gasp. “That is my all-time favorite book!”

  “Really?” Grace sounds like I’ve just admitted to liking eating ants. “Nothing happens in it. At least in those two chapters.”

  “Nothing happens in it?” I’m practically screeching. “Jane goes to live with her father who she hasn’t seen since she was a baby and they have this adorable house at Lantern Hill and she meets the Jimmy Johns and she captures an escaped lion and Jane just hates her Dad’s sister Aunt Irene and I hate her too and…”

  I stop for a breath. Yikes! I’m turning into Daphne.

  Grace’s mouth is hanging open, “Wow,” she says. “You should write the book report for me.”

  We stare at each other.

  Grace glances at her watch. “Darn, I have to get ready to go babysitting.”

  There’s a glint in her blue eyes. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Grace has Bible Camp in the morning. We arrange to meet at her house after lunch to work on the book report. I can’t face wrestling with a greasy chain, so I wheel the bike back to the hotel.

  All the way, this voice is screaming in my head. You’ve found her! You’ve found Grace!

  To be honest, I’m a little shocked that she doesn’t like to read. But who cares? There are a billion other things we’re going to have in common.

  I’m bursting to tell Mom about Grace, but she’s out somewhere, probably having coffee with Daphne. I peel off the Band-Aids and soak in the bathtub until all the gravel has washed out of my knee. Then I fill the sink with water and scrub my bloody running shoe with a bar of soap.

  The gift shop sells Band-Aids, so I buy a box from the lady with the pink glasses, who clucks over me like a mother hen. I sink into an armchair in the lounge and apply them like crazy. Then I hobble over to the tea table and load up a plate with chocolate chip cookies.

  My wet running shoe makes a squelchy sound and feels yucky, my knee is stinging, and my shoulders are sunburnt. But I can’t stop grinning.

  Mom comes in just as I’ve finished eating.

  I leap up without thinking, wince, and then limp over to meet her.

  “I’ve been out walking,” she says, smiling. “A cup of tea – ”

  “I’ve found her! I’ve found Grace! Mom, I talked to her!”

  Mom’s eyes grow as round as saucers. Then they turn glassy. Then she crumples to the floor in a dead faint.

  The lady with the pink glasses rushes over from the gift shop. The doorman stops manning the door and sprints to Mom’s side. Some guests gather around.

  Everyone has suggestions. Get some water. Call a doctor. Give her room to breathe. I fly into a total panic. What if I’ve given Mom a stroke, like what happened to Granny?

  In the middle of all this, Mom opens her eyes. She blinks a few times and everyone sighs with relief.

  I would be mortified to be lying on the floor with a bunch of people staring at me, but Mom is very dignified about the whole thing. The doorm
an helps her stand up and Mom thanks him and tells everyone that she is fine.

  I hear a guest mutter, “Too much sun,” and then the excitement is over and people go back to what they were doing.

  Mom is swaying and she hangs onto my arm. I help her over to the couch by the fireplace and get her a cup of tea. Mom takes a long sip. She says, “Tell me everything.”

  I tell her almost everything. I don’t tell her the part about me writing Grace’s book report. It makes Grace sound, well, dishonest.

  When I’ve finished, Mom frowns. “She was home by herself? Wasn’t her aunt there?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I never saw any aunt.”

  Mom’s voice gets a little higher. “I don’t like Grace being there by herself.”

  “Mom! She’s eleven years old! I stay home by myself all the time.”

  “That’s different,” Mom says. “That’s the city where’s there’s lots of people around. And you said she’s going baby-sitting? She’s too young to babysit.”

  “I would babysit too,” I point out, “If I knew any babies.”

  This isn’t going great. Finding Grace is supposed to make Mom feel better.

  “Did she look too thin?” Mom says.

  “No.”

  “Did she look happy?”

  I think about how Grace’s aunt is making her write a book report, which is way too much like school, and how Grace said her summer was so boring. I cross my fingers. “Yes.”

  “The polio…” Mom whispers.

  “I couldn’t really tell anything.”

  Mom finally relaxes.

  “We’ll go to The Copper Room for dinner tonight,” she says. “We’ll celebrate!”

  • • • • •

  Mom and I dress up. I wear my green dress. Mom says it makes me look older, like a teenager, but in a good way. Mom wears her blue dress, which is the exact color of her eyes.