“Oh, Miles.” His mom gently knocked her hip into his. “Loosen up. That’s the best part of a surprise party.”
Miles nodded, but he knew he’d worry about it before he fell asleep at night. He didn’t understand why his mom wasn’t more worried.
She let out a big breath. “Your grandpop will love having all his friends and family together.”
Miles glanced at his grandfather, bent over a drink, on his special seat at the snack counter. “He will. It’s just that—”
“Miles!” His mom put a hand on his shoulder. “Everything will be fine, and this surprise party should cheer him up.”
“If it doesn’t kill him.”
“Miles!”
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Sorry.”
“He’ll be fine,” she whispered sharply.
“I know.” But will he? “I was only kidding.”
“Come here.”
Miles took a step closer to his mom.
Lane Spagoski enveloped him in a tight hug and swayed back and forth.
As she was smothering him with love, a bunch of his grandpop’s buddies wheeled in.
His mom turned toward them. “Hey, everyone! You’re all set up for lanes 47 and 48. Have a ball. Ha ha!”
Miles groaned at his mom’s tired joke.
As the gang wheeled their chairs past, bowling bags in their laps, they waved. “Hey, Lane! Hi there, Miles!”
Miles waved.
He knew how happy this American Wheelchair Bowling Association league made his grandpop—he and Bubbie Louise had started it at Buckington Bowl a long time ago.
Miles didn’t want to go home by himself tonight—he knew he’d just worry about the “Surprise!” part of his grandfather’s party—so he kept busy straightening racks of bowling balls, pushing in chairs and helping his dad clean the grill until they said good night to Tyler, turned off all the video games and lights, helped his grandfather get situated in his wheelchair and left together.
But being in the house with his family didn’t help.
Miles’s panicked thoughts still took over when he tried to fall asleep. What if his mom was wrong? What if his grandfather did suffer a heart attack from the shock of all those people yelling at him? What if Miles never got a chance to give his grandpop the gift he’d been saving for? What if…?
Miles wondered if there was one other person in all of Buckington who worried about things as much as he did. He got out of bed and scoured the Internet for weird ways people have died.
A man from New Zealand died when he slipped on some ice in his house and drowned in his cat’s water bowl.
In 1854, a thirteen-year-old boy died when a circus clown swung him around by his heels.
In 1131, Crown Prince Philip of France died while riding through Paris, when his horse tripped over a black pig that was running out of a dung heap.
Somehow, the odd stories relaxed Miles enough that he was finally able to fall asleep.
The minute Amy heard her dad’s car pull into the driveway, she rushed down the steps of Eternal Peace Funeral Home, removed the velvet rope that hung across the stairs and charged toward the front door.
Wrapped in a thick parka, Amy’s dad enveloped her in his bearlike arms and held her close.
Amy had forgotten her dad’s brisk, clean smell. She’d forgotten the feel of his not-quite-soft beard on her face. She’d forgotten his tired, kind eyes, which looked especially tired tonight. She’d forgotten the tinge of sadness that had been in those eyes ever since her mom died.
Amy soaked it all in. “I’m so glad you’re back, Dad. I missed you.”
He squeezed Amy even tighter. “It’s so good to be back, baby girl. I missed you something fierce.”
She let his words fill her.
Uncle Matt shuffled over in his bathrobe and slippers. His presence interrupted their special moment, but Amy was so happy to have her dad back for the weekend she didn’t mind. She stepped away so Uncle Matt could say hello, too.
“Hey there,” he said, extending a hand to his brother.
Amy’s dad grabbed Uncle Matt’s hand and pulled him into a hug. The two men pounded each other on the back. When they broke apart, Uncle Matt asked, “So, how’s the training going?”
Amy’s dad whipped off his knit cap and ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. “It’s an intense program, but I’m learning a lot. I’ll be ready to get to work here with you in a couple more weeks.”
“Terrific,” Uncle Matt said. “I could sure use you around here. It’s been hard since two part-time employees quit on me at the same time. Sheesh. The death care business isn’t what it used to be.”
“We’ve got this, bro.” Amy’s dad grabbed Uncle Matt into another hug.
“It’s good to have you home.” Uncle Matt held his brother at arm’s length, looked into his eyes and nodded. “Well, I’m going up to bed. I’m pooped. See you two in the morning.”
“Good night, Uncle Matt.” Amy was glad to be left alone with her dad. Even though she could tell that he was impossibly tired, he agreed to watch a movie with her in the den.
Nestled in the warmth of her dad’s arms, Amy didn’t care about what was on the screen. She fell asleep twice and could barely drag herself up to the bed-that-smelled-like-mold when the movie ended. She sighed into her flat pillow, knowing tomorrow would be a special day with her dad.
She’d waited all week, and he was finally here.
As Amy drifted off to sleep, her happy feelings were mixed with sadness. She knew her dad would have to leave again in two days to go back to the mortuary school for his training. Only two days together, then five days apart.
She decided to make the most of their two days together.
* * *
•••
Amy’s dad slept so late Saturday morning, she had a chance to finish all her homework and play around with a poem she’d been working on. She wasn’t going back to her story just yet. She was letting her subconscious work out what would happen next. When a good idea presented itself, she’d return to it.
In the meantime, Amy was happy to tinker with the poem. It was about her mom—how her superpower was making other people feel good about themselves.
When that poem felt finished, Amy wrote a new one, about learning to knit. It had an entirely different mood from the one about her mom. This one was lighter and had the rhythm of knitting needles clacking together.
LEARNING TO KNIT
Fingers fumble.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Soft things connect.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
A stitch is missed.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Redo. Rework.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Rows of stitches.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Perfect stitches.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Pot holder born!
Amy loved how things from her life filtered into her writing in the most unexpected ways.
Finally, her dad poked his head into her bedroom. “I’m starving, Pumpkin. You ready for breakfast?”
Amy pointed at the time on her clock.
“Lunch, then? You ready for lunch?”
“I’m ready for blunch,” Amy said.
“Blunch it is!”
“Dad?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“My friend Tate is in a weight-lifting competition this afternoon. She asked if we’d like to go watch her.”
“A friend?” One bushy eyebrow arched. “Weight-lifting competition?”
“Yes and yes,” Amy said. “Do you want to go?”
“Do you?”
The truth was, Amy wanted to stay home and have her dad all
to herself. But she also wanted to be a good friend and support Tate. “Yes!”
“Then it’s a date. Do we have time for me to make us blunch?”
Amy nodded. “Definitely.”
Blunch was blueberry waffles—lots of blueberry waffles—with sliced bananas and strawberries on top, all smothered in warm maple syrup. Just the smell of it made Amy happy.
Dad is home.
After blunch, they went to Tate’s weight-lifting competition, and Amy’s dad met Tate and her parents.
Amy loved seeing Tate lift weights right along with the male competitors. Tate’s focus was intense. She looked different, Amy thought, when she wasn’t wearing her penguin hat. When Tate won a medal for her age group, Amy cheered. She reminded herself to make sure her character Fiona, in the story she was writing, was as strong as Tate.
Amy’s dad high-fived her. “Wow. She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she is.” Amy pulled her shoulders back, feeling proud of her new friend. She remembered Tate’s words: And who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?
Beaming, Tate waved her medal at Amy.
Amy gave her a double thumbs-up, feeling happier than she’d thought possible.
After the competition ended, Tate handed her instant camera to her mom and had her take two photos of her with Amy, who was holding up the medal Tate had just won.
Each girl took a photo home as a souvenir.
The day was even more wonderful than Amy had hoped.
As great as Amy felt when her dad came home Friday evening, that was how awful she felt when he had to leave again Sunday. He needed several hours to drive back that night so he could get up early Monday morning to attend his first class.
The only thing that made school on Monday bearable for Amy was lunchtime in the library. Tate. Jelly Krimpets. Mr. Schu. Books.
It was hard on Amy to head back to Eternal Peace after school, knowing she wouldn’t see her big bear of a dad again until Friday night, wouldn’t be able to lose herself in his strong arms, would have to settle for a couple of texts and some quick, tired conversations at night.
It wasn’t fair.
All the Jelly Krimpets in the world couldn’t make up for how unfair it was.
When Amy was close enough to see the line of cars in the parking lot at Eternal Peace, she gasped. This was worse than unfair.
Since there was obviously a wake taking place, Amy slipped in through the back door, walked through the kitchen, avoided looking at the room where people were gathering and tiptoed upstairs. She understood she had to be quiet. Silent. Both her uncle and her dad had made that clear the first day. Nothing could ever disrupt a funeral.
Amy wouldn’t want to do anything to disturb a funeral. A funeral was hard enough without someone making it worse.
So she pulled out her notebook and purple pen, climbed onto her bed-that-smelled-like-mold and got to work. She knew writing was the only thing that could distract her from what was happening one floor below.
Gratefully, Amy returned to the town of Bumbershoot, along with feisty Fiona and her three-legged dog, Lucky.
With all the big, smelly men grouped in front of the trembling duo near the drawbridge, the first man shouted, “She has Prince Harry’s shoe!”
Fiona thought he’d said “Prince Hairy,” and she almost giggled from the mistake and from her fear, but the man’s next two words silenced her.
“Seize them!”
Before Fiona could think of fleeing, she and Lucky were scooped up roughly and carried, screaming and yelping, across the massive drawbridge and into the musty gray castle. The two were hauled up, up, up the dark, dank stone stairway that led to a foreboding door. One guard pushed the door open and another tossed Fiona and her dog into a tiny tower cell.
Before she and Lucky could determine the damage to themselves from such rough handling, a smelly brute snatched the shoe from Fiona’s fingers, exited the room and shut the great door behind him, locking it with a loud clang.
Fiona cradled her whimpering dog in the crook of her arm and crawled to the narrow window. She looked out at the quarter moon, which cast barely a ray of hope into the inky night sky. And she thought of her poor father, alone and worried and probably hungry, like she and Lucky were now. She imagined her father had eaten boiled cabbage for dinner, like they did most nights. She’d love to have even a small bowl of that right now. Fiona also felt impossibly thirsty. And she knew Lucky felt that way, too, because he was panting and his tiny tongue was dangling from the side of his mouth.
Fiona settled onto the damp, cold floor with her furry friend curled in her lap. She absolutely, resolutely refused to cry. She wouldn’t give her captors the satisfaction and she didn’t want to waste even a drop of precious moisture on tears.
Then Fiona heard a deep, troubling wail from the floor below.
Wait a minute.
That last part didn’t happen in the story.
So where had the disturbing wail come from?
From the floor below, Amy heard another deep, keening wail that seemed to shred her heart. It was the saddest sound in the universe.
She was familiar with that awful sound from her own experience at her mom’s funeral. And Amy couldn’t just sit there and listen to the howl of someone’s deepest pain. She couldn’t bear being reminded of her mom’s funeral. Her tender heart, she knew, wouldn’t survive it.
There it was again—that wounded wailing.
No. No. Nooooo!
Amy leapt off the bed. She donned her sneakers. She grabbed her coat and shrugged it on. Then she silently descended the richly carpeted stairs, willing herself not to hear or see what was happening in the room at the bottom.
She zipped through the hallway, the kitchen, and the laundry room and out the back door.
Then, finally, she breathed. Deeply. The cold air woke her fully. She was in the parking lot, near the hearse that would soon hold the coffin that held the body.
She had to keep going.
Shivering, blinking, sniffing, Amy walked.
Before she knew it, she was standing in front of a Buckington icon. Not the Buckington Bed & Breakfast, because she’d remembered Tate would be visiting her aunt after school. No. She stood in front of Buckington Bowl, wondering how she’d even gotten there.
But if Amy were to be honest, she’d admit that the warmth and fun sounds of the bowling center attracted her as much as the coldness and horrible sounds of the funeral home repelled her. Plus—to be really, really honest—Amy was curious about Miles. She wanted to see him again.
Amy focused on a sign that said No Gum Allowed, then walked through the automatic doors, which parted for her, welcoming her like open arms.
The moment she stepped inside, the oldies music, the bright lights and the worn carpet with its colorful shapes all felt familiar. She smiled at the woman she now knew was Miles’s mom. She walked to the snack counter, deciding she’d order one hot chocolate in honor of her own mom, take her time drinking it, then head back. The woman at the funeral home would surely be done wailing by then. Maybe the whole funeral would be over. Amy hoped so.
“What can I get for you?” the man with the towel draped over his shoulder—Miles’s dad—asked in a kind, cheerful way.
“Hot chocolate, please,” Amy said.
He knocked twice on the countertop. “With marshmallows. You got it.”
Amy smiled as he went back into the kitchen. It felt like her mom was there, somehow, making sure she was taken care of. While Amy waited for her hot chocolate with marshmallows, she nodded at Miles’s grandfather. Then she walked over to the big board of photos, under the banner that read “The Greatest Stories Ever Bowled.”
There were so many photos. So many people in those photos. Some smiling, some not. And right in the center was an older-looking photo of a
woman sitting on the lap of a man in a wheelchair.
“That’s my wife,” Miles’s grandfather said, holding up his mug, as if to say Cheers! to her memory.
“She’s beautiful,” Amy said, touching the edge of the black-and-white photo with her fingertip.
“Yes, she was.” Miles’s grandfather nodded. “Inside and out.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said a man shooting pool from his wheelchair, even though the man didn’t have a drink in his hand, only a pool cue.
“Me too,” said Miles’s grandfather, and he slurped from his mug.
“Drink to what?” someone asked.
Amy turned from the photos, from the stories she was eager to know more about, and saw Miles—his curly brown hair a little like her dad’s, his thin lips, his slightly worried expression.
“Oh, um, hi,” he said.
“Planning on spilling another soda on the poor girl?” Miles’s grandfather asked, laughing.
Amy suppressed a giggle and returned to her stool at the counter.
Miles didn’t laugh. “I just thought I’d stop over to say hi. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, come on,” his grandfather said. “I was kidding. Don’t be so sensitive.”
Miles shrugged and sat next to Amy at the counter.
“Here’s your hot chocolate.” Miles’s dad placed a steaming mug on the counter in front of Amy. “Plenty of marshmallows.”
She pulled a few singles from her pocket and laid them on the counter. “Thanks.”
Miles’s dad scooped them up and wrapped on the counter with two knuckles again. He pointed at Miles. “Root beer for you, kiddo?”
Miles glanced at Amy. “Um, no thanks. I’m good.”
“Smart choice, kid.” Grandpop Billy chuckled and held up his mug. “Hey, how ’bout a refill for an old man?”
Miles’s dad grabbed the towel off his shoulder and swiped at the counter. “How about I’ll bring you a fresh cup of coffee if you agree to some improvements around here.”
In Your Shoes Page 10
