One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

by Sonya Sones

Then she asks me,

  “How’s your father doing?”

  And this is especially strange,

  because she sounds like she actually cares.

  But before I have a chance to answer her,

  she starts shouting,

  “Get out of the house, Ruby!

  Get out of the house!”

  —and that’s when I wake up.

  I Am Definitely Awake

  But it’s feels more like I’m half awake,

  or like I’m sleepwalking or something.

  Without even thinking about it,

  I slip silently into my clothes

  and float right out the front door,

  as if I’m in a sort of trance.

  It’s weird

  because I’m not even sure where I’m going.

  I’m only sure

  that I have to get there.

  So I just keep on putting

  one foot in front of the other,

  for ten,

  or maybe twenty minutes,

  and the next thing I know,

  here I am—

  standing in front of the Tree of Death.

  My Eyes Drift Across

  The chips of glass from the shattered windshield,

  the bouquets of wilted flowers,

  the sad rivers of melted candle wax,

  the dark stains spattering the sidewalk …

  They pause to read the note

  that’s been tacked to the trunk of the tree,

  just above the torn-up spot

  where the Jeep must have hit.

  “I can still hear you laughing,” it says …

  They wander past the stuffed frog playing a guitar,

  the box from a Scooby-Doo video,

  the Jimi Hendrix CD,

  the sweatshirt covered with leaves and dirt—

  “Devon McKracken” sewn into the collar …

  And a photo of a little blond boy,

  with a smile like a birthday,

  dressed up as a fireman.

  Grinning so wide because he had no way of knowing

  that this was what was going to happen to him someday …

  My eyes roam over this shrine for Devon,

  this shrine to the lost boy

  I’ll never have a chance to know,

  slowly taking it all in,

  and finally come to rest on a charred copy

  of Great Expectations.

  And Right Away I’m Thinking About Mom

  I’m thinking about

  how she helped me write an essay

  on Great Expectations just last year.

  Right before we found out she was sick …

  That’s when I hear a car door closing.

  I look up and see someone heading toward me.

  It’s Whip!

  He must have followed me here.

  He walks up to me

  with the softest look in his eyes,

  and without saying a word,

  he wraps his arms around me and holds me.

  And, I don’t know why,

  but for once,

  I don’t feel like pushing him away.

  I just rest my cheek against his chest.

  Then the tears rush into my eyes,

  and for the first time in centuries,

  they come gushing out of me,

  like Coke from a can that’s been shaken.

  I’m crying for the little boy in that photo.

  I’m crying for myself.

  And for everything that’s happened

  with Lizzie and Ray.

  But most of all, I’m crying for Mom.

  Because she’s dead.

  And she’s never coming back.

  Not ever.

  Then,

  I feel a sort of tremor

  pass through Whip,

  and I realize that he’s crying, too.

  Suddenly There’s Another Tremor

  Only this one’s coming from underneath us.

  The ground’s shaking!

  It’s shaking and shifting

  like the floor in a funhouse.

  Just like it’s a— Whoa! It’s an earthquake!

  The sidewalk feels like a bronco

  trying to buck us off its back.

  We grab on to the Tree of Death to steady ourselves.

  A palm frond crashes to the ground,

  and Whip rushes to wrap around me from behind,

  as if he’s trying to be a human shield.

  He covers my hands with his, and whispers

  into my ear, “I’ll keep you safe.”

  And we hang on to that quivering palm

  forever,

  till the quaking finally stops.

  As suddenly as it began.

  And that’s when I notice

  that Whip’s hands

  feel nice and warm and dry.

  Just like the man in my dream.

  Is It Really Over?

  Whip gently pries my fingers off the tree

  and leads me to his car.

  My legs feel as if they’re made of marmalade.

  He pours me into the passenger seat,

  then climbs in himself.

  My heart’s still bouncing off the walls of my chest

  like an out-of-control jackhammer.

  That was definitely the most terrifying five minutes

  of my whole entire life.

  Whip switches on the radio.

  The announcer’s voice has this

  sort of high-pitched edge to it,

  like maybe the adrenaline hasn’t stopped

  rushing through his veins yet.

  “That was quite a little temblor,” he says.

  And he proceeds to tell us that the whole

  thing lasted a grand total of seven seconds!

  Does he actually expect me to believe that?

  Then he claims that as far as earthquakes go,

  this one wasn’t even very big.

  Only like a 4.9 on the Richter scale.

  “Yeah, well, it was way bigger than that

  on the Ruby scale,” I say.

  And then Whip and I start laughing.

  Almost as hard as we were crying,

  only a few minutes before.

  When We Pull Up to the House

  Max is standing out front,

  wearing these goofy pajama bottoms

  with cowboys all over them.

  He’s got a real wild look in his eyes.

  But when he catches sight of us,

  the wild look vanishes.

  He runs over to us

  and throws his arms around us.

  Then he starts crying.

  So,

  naturally,

  we do, too.

  It Turns Out There Was Hardly Any Damage

  Except for my bed.

  It was demolished by the huge oak bookcase

  that fell over on top of it.

  When we walk into the room and see it,

  Whip staggers back and then he grabs me

  and hangs on like he’s never going to let me go.

  This is not

  an altogether

  unpleasant sensation.

  I’m standing here wrapped in his arms,

  staring at the pile of twisted boards

  that used to be my bed,

  and suddenly—I remember the dream I had.

  I remember my mother shouting,

  “Get out of the house, Ruby! Get out of the house!”

  And I just about faint.

  And This Isn’t the Only Thing That Almost Makes Me Keel

  My father leads me outside to the gazebo

  (in case there’s any aftershocks).

  And then he tells me a few things.

  He tells me that unbeknownst to my mother,

  when I was a baby, my aunt Dufty arranged

  a series of secret rendezvous for him and me.

  And it turns out that one of those rendezvou
s

  took place when I was two years old.

  In front of the monkey cage at Franklin Park Zoo!

  Aunt Duffy figured it wouldn’t do me any harm,

  because I’d be too young to be able

  to remember that I’d ever even met my father.

  And besides, Whip had pleaded with her.

  hat’s right. You heard me.

  Whip wanted to see me.

  It turns out that Whip’s

  been wanting to be with me

  ever since the day I was born.

  It turns out

  he only stayed away

  because my mother asked him to.

  And she only asked him to

  because she loved him and she thought it

  would hurt too much to be around him.

  And since he loved her, too,

  and he didn’t want to cause her any more pain,

  he did what she wanted.

  That’s right.

  You heard me.

  My father loved my mother.

  But

  The only problem was,

  he’s sorry to say,

  that he loved her like a sister.

  Not like a wife.

  See,

  it turns out that Whip’s sorry

  for a whole lot more

  than I thought he was.

  He’s sorry

  that he and my mom had to get divorced.

  Sorry that he couldn’t convince her

  to accept any child support or alimony.

  He’s sorry that he got married so young.

  And sorry that he didn’t

  figure out that he was gay

  until it was too late.

  Gay …!

  Did he say … gay?

  Whoa …

  I have a gay father.

  I am the daughter of a gay person.

  Mega-whoa …

  How could my gaydar

  have malfunctioned so hideously?!

  It Turns Out

  That Whip’s especially sorry

  that he wasn’t able to figure out

  how to be a part of my life,

  even though Mom asked him to stay away.

  And that a little bit of him even felt happy

  when he found out she was dead,

  because he knew it meant that he’d finally

  be able to be a father to me.

  He’s way sorry about that feeling happy part.

  And he’s sorry for all the pain he caused Mom.

  Sorry for all the pain he caused me.

  Sorry that being sorry is all he has to offer.

  It turns out

  he’s even sorry

  that he’s such a pitiful excuse

  for a father.

  “Don’t be,” I say between sobs.

  “Don’t be sorry.

  For anything.

  I’mthe one who should be sorry

  …”

  And my tears keep coming.

  Hard and fast.

  If it was below freezing right now,

  there’d be a blizzard falling from my eyes.

  But This Is the West Toast

  So, of course, it’s not below freezing.

  In fact, even though it’s December 1st,

  it’s a sultry ninety degrees.

  When I point this out,

  Whip laughs and calls it

  “real shake and bake weather.”

  And I find myself telling him

  about how much I’ve been missing weather.

  Especially the snow.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” he asks.

  “We’ll drive up to Big Bear this weekend.

  There’s a foot of fresh powder up there.”

  He says we can go snowboarding.

  And that it’s only two hours away.

  And that he’s got a little cabin by the lake.

  That’s when Max walks up to us,

  with this big smile on his face,

  and hands me a thick scrapbook.

  “I think it’s time to show her this,” he says,

  brushing a wisp of hair off my cheek.

  Then he winks at me and walks away.

  This thing looks so familiar …

  Where have I seen it before … ?

  Now I remember!

  It’s the same one Whip was looking through

  on that afternoon when he was

  sitting out here crying in this very gazebo.

  About twelve millenniums ago.

  We Open the Scrapbook

  And a little gasp escapes me:

  The first thing I see

  is an old photograph of Whip

  holding a tiny baby in his arms,

  grinning like a classic proud father.

  And the baby he’s holding is me!

  I’d recognize that

  shock of red hair anywhere.

  I always thought it made me look

  sort of like a peanut on fire.

  “I don’t know how your aunt Duffy

  managed to sneak me into the hospital

  to snap that picture,” he says,

  running his fingers over the image as if

  he wants to reach back and touch that moment.

  “You were such a cute newborn,”

  Whip says, smiling at the photo.

  “But so teensy.

  And that tuft of red hair you had made you look like a flaming peanut.”

  There he goes again—doing that thing.

  But this time, it doesn’t make my blood boil.

  This time it just makes me feel

  like reaching over and taking hold

  of my father’s nice, warm, dry hand.

  We Flip to the Next Page

  And there’s another photo.

  Whip’s holding me on his hip,

  standing in front of the monkey cage.

  Man.

  This is heavy.

  It’s like someone somehow managed

  to take a snapshot of my dream.

  We leaf through the rest of the book together,

  and I pretty much can not believe what I’m seeing.

  There’s lots more pictures of Whip

  holding me when I was a baby.

  Plus copies of all my school photos.

  Even my Student of the Year award.

  There’s a fuzzy little lock of my baby hair,

  (I wonder how Aunt Duffy swung that …)

  and Xeroxes of every single one of my report cards.

  There’s even a copy ofthat essay I wrote.

  The one about my dream room

  for the contest that won me first prize.

  (So that’s how he got my bedroom just right!)

  As Whip and I sit here next to each other,

  turning each of the pages,

  it slowly starts to sink in—all of it.

  And my heart can hardly hold it.

  Just as the Last Star Fades

  And the sun starts dusting the sky with rose,

  Max reappears with some muffins and juice,

  and sits down next to me on my other side.

  Together, the three of us turn to the last page of the book.

  It’s yet another photo of Whip and me.

  I’m sitting on his shoulders,

  wearing this little pink polka dotted dress.

  He must have been tickling me or something,

  because I’m giggling like crazy.

  “Oh, I love this one,” Max sighs.

  “It was taken on the day you named your dad.”

  “On the day I did what?” I ask, turning to my father.

  So he explains.

  He tells me that he’d been

  struggling for weeks to come up with

  the perfect stage name for himself.

  And on the morning that this photo was taken,

  he’d finally decided on Rip Logan.

  But apparently, when I t
ried to say Rip,

  it came out sounding more like “Wip.”

  And that’s when he decided

  to call himself Whip Logan instead.

  Oh. My. God.

  It was me who came up with that lame name!

  “You mean it’s all my fault?” I cry.

  My father looks wounded.

  “Don’t you like the name ‘Whip’?”

  But I don’t answer his question.

  Because suddenly

  I’m burning to ask another one of my own.

  “If Whip’s your stage name,

  then what’s your real name, Dad?”

  At which point, Max clears his throat and says,

  “Ruby Milliken, I’d like you to meet Ripley Loogy.

  Ripley Loogy, meet Ruby Milliken.”

  Dad is Ripley? Dad …?!

  “The Ripley who you’re in love with?!” I gasp.

  Max hesitates for just a split second,

  then nods his head.

  My father looks like he’s afraid to breathe.

  I look from Dad to Max, and back again to Dad.

  Suddenly my heart dances up into my throat.

  “Wow …” I say. “… WOW!”

  And I fling my arms around both of them.

  “Yep,” Max says, with a mile-wide smile

  spreading across his face.

  “This is Ripley. Believe it or not.”

  And the three of us crack up.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been

  waiting to make that joke?” Max asks.

  “Too long,” I say, holding them close.

  “Way too long.”

  Dad Lets Me Skip School the Next Day

  To catch up on my sleep.

  But the morning after that,

  I’m back in dream class.

  Sitting in the circle.

  Right next to Wyatt.

  When Feather asks us all to hold hands

  and Wyatt reaches for mine,

  this jolt of electricity

  floods out of his fingers

  and ricochets through my whole body,

  like I’m this human pinball machine

  and Wyatt’s the ball.

  Making all my bells ring,

  all my lights flash.

  Scoring. Big time.

  After class,

  Wyatt asks me if I want

  to go over to Barnum Hall

  to see if either of us

  got a part in Pygmalion.

  The auditions!

  I’d almost forgotten about them.

  It seems like they happened a lifetime ago,

  to an entirely different person,

  to someone I only vaguely knew …

  We head up the stairs together,

  bumping into each other every other second.

  Elbows. Shoulders. Hips. Bump. Thump. Bump.

  As if our bodies are these two huge magnets,