by Deb Caletti
* * *
Taking a stand for any length of time is not easy. I have to pee. I’m starving. But I will not leave this room, at least not until the ferry and/or my father has left. I find one of the old caramels I bought a few weeks ago in my purse. I sit on the bed and chew. I find a linty Altoid and eat that too. That’ll earn me a few more hours of survival.
A gentle tap. “Tess?” It’s Jenny. A paper towel comes inching under the door. Some paper-thin wheat crackers are laid out in a checkerboard on it, sporting slender pieces of cheese. “No liquids will fit under there, Sweetie.”
“I’ve got three to five days without water if the temperature stays below seventy degrees Fahrenheit.”
She’s quiet, but I know she’s still standing there. Finally, she says, “Would you like me to be the mediator? Between the two of you?”
“Are you a good mediator?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.” I open the door. “But only because you were so convincing.”
Jenny sighs. I look at her old face. Her wrinkles are hills and valleys. Her eyes are bright. They’ve seen a lot of winters and disappointments and new mornings. My mind plays the evil pinball machine game—bam, Jenny’s eyes, bam, my mother’s eyes, bam, her actual body in that urn right this minute, bam, forever gone. The realization socks me in the stomach anew. This is how it always goes.
“I don’t want to go home.”
I realize it’s true. At home I can’t get away from me, all that’s gone wrong and all that I didn’t do that I should have done and now can never, ever do. But here I am separated from that girl and that father and that gone-forever mother and every sad thing that happened in that house and that town. Even from that body in that urn in that wall of Sunset Hills Cemetery, 13.5 miles, nineteen minutes, outside of San Bernardino.
“You don’t have to go,” Jenny says. “My home is yours for as long as you want it to be. But are you running, Tess?”
“Running away can also be running to.”
“Valid point.”
* * *
It is a short while later. We sit on the couch together, double-teaming Dad, who is in the big cushy chair across from us.
“First things first,” I say. “The sixties are over. You should ditch that shirt. No more tie-dye.”
“Ouch,” he says. “Now that we’ve got my fashion sense sorted out.”
“And no more weed. Not in my house, and not around my granddaughter.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Is that right?” he says.
Jenny folds her arms, and I fold mine.
He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit,” he says. “I should’ve known better than to put you two together. You’re both the same.”
“If you mean intelligent, beautiful, and stubborn, I thank you,” Jenny says.
My heart, it just rises.
“I’ve got some amends to make, I know,” my father says.
“I’ll be clear with you for the first time in your life and mine. You fucked up big-time,” Jenny says.
He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. I feel a little bad for him, but not bad enough. He starts to talk. His voice cracks again. He is pouring his heart out about his loss and confusion and sadness. But as I said, a Big Moment is not in the cards. We don’t clutch each other and weep in mutual grief and newfound understanding. Instead I keep seeing him go off to work when she has her radiation appointments. I see him eating a double cheeseburger when she can barely swallow.
I see him—the captain of our ship—that night in the car. That early morning, actually. That second night, when the hospital called after the unfortunate series of events related to viral pneumonia and depressed immune system and fluid in lungs and aspiration. I watched his profile as the streetlights flashed light on his face. Nothing was real. He drove like a maniac for no good reason. Just eight hours before, we’d gone home because we were tired. Because we were going to get some rest. Because we were selfish, terrible people who couldn’t even give up our own comfort to be there for someone who’d do anything for us. I was relieved to go home. To be away. And now I can barely look at my father and face this, the way we’d left her to die, even if we had no idea it was going to happen. She was alone. Horror, horridus, horreur—it was inescapable that night. It will always be inescapable.
Dad is crying and making a bunch of snuffling noises and wiping his eyes on his arm, and I watch him like I’m watching a film. Not a great film either. The kind you start talking back to because the logic stops making sense.
Oh, look, he’s done. The credits roll. I stare at the floor. There’s a small tumbleweed of dog hair down there. I lift it with the tip of my toes. “Check it out. Vito made a hamster,” I say.
They are both silent. They meet eyes. I get up and leave them there. I’m not even hungry anymore.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear it. “Looks like you’re going to have to start being a real father now,” Jenny says.
* * *
I am sure he’s going to leave. But the next morning, he is sleeping on an old couch on Jenny’s sunporch. He is too tall for the couch; his feet are hanging over the arm. He’s got a crocheted blanket draped across him that someone’s grandma must have made. Not mine. My grandma is not the type to sit in a rocking chair with knitting needles.
He is there the next day too. He is weeding Jenny’s vegetable garden. He’s got a stupid sunhat on, and he’s sweating. He’s working that hoe like there’s no tomorrow.
And he’s there on Friday, in the early, early morning as I am stuffing my pack and as Jenny is pouring me a travel mug of coffee. Vito hasn’t gotten out of his dog bed yet, the lazy squirrel. His alarm clock hasn’t gone off yet. He watches the goings-on with his chin on his paws. Pix is back in my mother’s shoe, which is cinched up tight for the long trip. When I see Sasha’s headlights turn into the drive, I sling my pack over my arm and hold Pix most carefully in front of me.
He hands me some money, my father does. He kisses my cheek. “Call me when you get there,” he says. “I want to know that you arrived safe.”
I don’t let him see it. But when he says this, I smile.
* * *
“I feel like the damn chauffeur,” Sasha says. The sky is only now turning morning pink. I have that leaving-early-on-a trip feeling, where you’re tired but excited and you get to see what’s going on in the hours when you’re usually still asleep. The Jones Farms milk truck heads up our road. A raccoon lumbers across the street like he’s had a rough night.
“Home, James,” Henry says. He’s in the backseat with me. He takes my hand. Pix is on my other side. The shoe is tucked in tight, and I’ve secured it with books I found on the floor of Sasha’s old Volvo.
“Maybe we should’ve taken two cars. We probably should have taken two cars,” Sasha says.
“You made us promise that if you wanted to stay over we’d weigh down your arms and legs with The International Index to Periodicals and a couple of Webster’s Unabridged.”
The darkness is lifting, and the sun is showing itself. It’s a miracle, when you think about it, that this happens every single day. There are only a few straggly cars in the ferry line.
“Getting up this early should be against the law,” Sasha says. But she’s hyped up and excited. She’s bopping around on the radio, trying out different channels before giving up and shutting it off.
The ferry arrives. A few cars trickle down the ramp. By the afternoon, the arriving ferries will be packed, dumping tourists by the masses. You start understanding how the people who live there feel. It’s a weekend invasion of cars and ice cream eaters and photo takers, and by Monday, it’s normal life again. Joe Nevins waves us in. I roll down my window.
“Hey, Joe,” I say.
“Morning, Tess. Have a nice ride,” he says. My insides squeeze with happiness. I love belonging.
“You’re getting to be a regular regular,” Henry says.
Sasha sets the brake and tu
rns off the engine. We’re way at the tip of the boat, where the chain runs across the front and where you can’t help but have a flash image of cars rolling forward and tumbling in. “You kids go ahead,” Sasha says. “I’m going to have a little snooze.”
I want to race up the stairs to the upper deck, I’m so excited. The ferry is practically empty, so it feels like it’s all ours. Henry follows along, putting up with me. This ferry stuff is old news to him, but it’s only my second time. The huge windows and the outdoor decks that nearly hang over the water are thrilling to me. The ferry engine rumbles, complains, and then lumbers forward anyway. I stand at the very farthest point on the front deck. The wind kicks up. My hair’s going to look fabulous, but oh well. Out there, the sound is all mine, and Parrish gets smaller and smaller behind us.
“Damn it, Henry, put your arms around me.”
“Are you cold?” he asks. My sweatshirt sleeves are flapping in the wind.
“Yes, I’m freezing. But you’re putting your arms around me because it’s romantic, you idiot.” I am learning this about Henry. Sometimes his mind is on ideas and concepts and beliefs, and he forgets about the sentimental stuff. Like Meg used to say about her last boyfriend, Kyle, some boys just need reminding.
Henry puts his arms around me from behind, and I lean my head back against him. Even with his thin frame, I feel him there for me.
“Have you ever had your heart broken, Henry?” It’s time I asked this. I am feeling fearless with all that wide water in front of me.
“I suppose most people have at least once by now,” he says into my hair.
“My mother broke my heart. My father did. But not a boy.”
“Hmm,” he says, but that’s all. I turn around and give him a good look, but his face reveals nothing. There are just those sweet eyes looking at mine.
“Your face is becoming familiar to me,” I say.
“I know what you mean.” He pulls my hair into a ponytail, lets it drop. “You are really very beautiful.”
I know you’re supposed to just say thank you when you get a compliment, but I haven’t perfected that technique yet. “Ha,” I say.
“You are. I don’t understand why you don’t see your value.”
“ ‘Value’ sounds like buying tires. And who really sees their value, anyway? Does anyone?”
“Yeah! Absolutely. Some see it too much. What about Elijah? I’ve known him and Mill forever, but sometimes the whole superiority thing just really gets under my skin.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. Hey, I’m no dummy. It’s fine for him to say that about his friend, but I’m not supposed to agree. “So, have all three of you been in the same class since preschool? Is that how it works?”
“Basically. Look.” Henry points. My attempt to get more information falls flat. He obviously has no interest in discussing Millicent or Elijah, and I can’t say I mind. “I want to live there. Posey Island, one acre.”
“Cutest island ever.” It is. I picture Henry and me washing ashore there after the shipwreck. We’re in amazingly stylish island clothes for all the rough seas we’ve just swum through. My hair looks great too. Henry is hacking tree branches into a fabulous home. Not sure how that grocery store got there, but I like it.
Henry breathes in deeply. “Take it all in,” he says, which just becomes another thing to love him for.
* * *
When the ferry lands, we drive through a small seaside town and then through miles of farmland. Finally, we’re on the freeway. It all looks so different from San Bernardino. There are high, forested hills, and even the farms look lush from rain, surrounded by clumps of green trees everywhere.
“TacoTime, next exit.” For the last twenty minutes, Henry has been pointing out all of the fast-food possibilities. This is pissing off Sasha, which gives him more incentive to do it. “Arby’s, next exit.”
“Henry, put a sock in it,” she snaps.
“I’m huuungry, Mom,” he whines.
“We just ate!”
It’s true. The backseat is littered with garbage-filled bags marked with the glorious red M. The car is filled with the sad smell of empty hash brown wrappers and flattened syrup packets. Henry is turning out to have a pretty good appetite, which I’m thinking is a sign of character. Anyway, I’ve lost count of his fine qualities. For once in my life, numbers are eluding me.
I hunt around in my purse. There are no more caramels or fuzzy Altoids, but I find what might be a cough drop. I hold it out to Henry, and he gives me a scared look, like I’ve just pulled out a knife.
“Read the damn map, people, if you’re bored back there.”
Good idea. I want to know how much longer we have to go. I can’t keep my eyes off of Henry, and so I keep missing the freeway signs. He must want to know too, because he’s fishing around down by my feet, where the map has dropped. He holds it up like it’s the winning lottery ticket, but then he does a double take. His floor scrounging put him eye level with Pix.
“What is that?” he asks.
“What is what?” Sasha is looking back and trying to drive at the same time. “Don’t tell me there’s a cop.”
Henry ignores her. “Did you see that?” he asks me.
“I noticed it a few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
There are a million reasons, but no real good one.
“Say what about what?” Sasha asks. She’s still trying to see what’s going on, causing the car to swerve alarmingly.
“It’s a bud,” Henry says. “On the plant.”
“A bud? I thought the plant was dying.” Sasha catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
“It’s not a bud,” I say.
“Let me see.” Henry holds out his hands and wiggles his fingers, directing me to pass him my mother’s shoe.
I shake my head. “Too much bumping around.”
“Fine.” He leans across my lap, jams his elbows right on my legs, and studies Pix where it sits. “It’s a bud, Tess.”
Sasha looks over the seat, squinching her eyes, and I have a near-death experience when that semi next to us honks loud and long. “It’s a bud,” she says.
But they’re wrong. I know it.
“Tumor,” I whisper. All morning, I’ve been so happy, but now I think I might cry. I’m feeling all choked up. I try to concentrate on Henry’s shoulder blades and his swath of black hair as he leans on my lap, but even Henry Magic isn’t working.
“Tess, it’s not a tumor. It’s a bud. I’m telling you.”
“Pix has never flowered in its life. Never.”
“Well, it’s about to flower now.”
“Ow,” I say, as Henry raises himself up with the help of my cushy legs. I don’t want to do it, but I give Pix another look. I don’t see a bud, honestly. I have a feeling that Henry just sees beauty where beauty really isn’t.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
We are quiet. No one says anything. Sasha concentrates on the road, and Henry watches as all the small towns whip past, and I watch Henry watching. I’ve ruined the mood, but then we move from awkward silence to just plain silence. We pass outlet malls and big casinos advertising concerts by old guys from the seventies. Sasha can’t help but pipe in then.
“Alice Cooper!” She chuckles. “Did you see that? I’ve gotta call Will!” When her brother, Will, was seven, she tells us, he saw Alice Cooper on a record album of their dad’s. Will thought Alice Cooper was a bad clown, and he used their mother’s makeup to dress like him. Then he scared her by jumping out of the coat closet. “You’d have thought that kid would have ended up in prison, but he’s in library science too.”
I smile. Not just at bad clowns, but at “library science.” I like that name. It makes a library sound as vast and mysterious as the universe or the ocean, requiring specific study to be understood.
As we get closer to the city, the traffic slows, and the red brake lights of cars stack against each other. Sasha is jazzed. She pounds
the steering wheel with her fist and says, “Hurry up, Car.” She gives helpful instructions to the drivers we pass, including, “Use your signal, asshole,” and, “If you want to change lanes, have some bleeping balls, Datsun!”
Henry pops his head over the seat. “Why did you and Abby break up again?”
“Too bossy,” she says.
“Who was too bossy?” he prompts.
“Me.”
“And you’re crazy about Abby and want to make this work, correct?”
“I will be so, so not bossy.”
“Perhaps now is a good time to practice,” Henry says. “We’re almost there.”
“If I might make a suggestion, Honda, MOVE THE FUCK UP!” she snarls.
“Poor Abby,” I say to Henry.
“What are you going to do,” Henry says.
“Love has the power to transform,” Sasha says.
Henry snorts. “Transformation has the power to transform.”
chapter fifteen
Quercus: oak tree. The oak takes an extraordinarily long time to produce seeds. While some plants and trees do so within days or weeks, the oak can take up to fifty years to mature enough before it’s ready for offspring. The same can be said for certain people who shall remain nameless.
“It’s a bud,” Dr. Harv Johansson, head of the University of Washington Department of Botany and Plant Pathology and director of the Shaw Mountain Field Station (he gave me his card), says. He is bent over Pix, studying it through his reading glasses.
“Really?” I say. I know he’s the expert, but I still have a hard time believing him. You can be so sure you know something, and you can be so wrong. People always tell you to listen to yourself. But how can you, or, rather, why should you, when You are speaking to You from your own place of bad experience and misinformation?
“What did you think it was?”
Dr. Harv Johansson has short gray hair, a gray beard, and a nose as round as a tulip bulb. His eyes are kind. He smells good, like earth and oak, or a cellar of wine barrels. He’s wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, and his reading glasses are smudged, and this gives me some sort of hope that he has no time to clean them because he is too busy saving the lives of plants. Those kind eyes twinkle at me a little as he asks the question.
