by Deb Caletti
“Gifts,” my father announces. He’s got a biscuit crumb by his mouth.
“Dad,” I say. “Biscuit mouth.”
He brushes it away distractedly, practically tips his chair hurrying to retrieve his box. When he returns, I notice that his eyes are gleaming.
Uh-oh.
I take it from him; I slowly undo the bow. Under the lid, there is tissue paper that I carefully unfold. I take out the item, made of blue wool. I don’t understand.
“It’s a baklava!” he says excitedly.
“Balaclava,” Jenny says.
“You don’t want to freeze your face off when you and Henry go to Svalbard,” my father says.
“That’s really sweet, Dad. But we want to be realistic here, right?” These big dreamers, they can really be a pain. Big dreamers come with a stubborn streak. They are a dog with a knotted sock. They just don’t let go. “Um, money? Plane tickets.” I count off obstacles on my fingers.
“We covered that,” Henry and my dad say at the same time. My mother’s estate had money, apparently. Quite a lot of it from her own parents, which she’d kept for my education. Dad says there’s more than enough, and Henry says Cancún Pops has a pen in hand ready to pay away his guilt.
“We haven’t exactly been invited.”
Now it’s Henry who pushes his chair back. He’s more careful. His eyes, though, they are gleaming too when he hands me his box.
“It’s not an invitation,” he says as I untie this bow and lift this lid. “Not yet.” It is not an invitation, but what’s in this box leaves me speechless. A large stack of paper. Pages, pages, pages, and more pages of signatures. Signatures in black ink and blue and green, narrow loops and fat ones, tiny ones and large, statement-making ones. There’s a Robert and a Janine and two Elizabeths and a Che; there’s a Yankovitch and a Vazqueze and a Brown and a Navaro. Some of the pages are crinkled, as if they’d been in the rain. Some have coffee cup rings. On one of my photos, someone has drawn a party hat and a mustache. It makes me look both evil and festive as I sleep there with How to Keep Almost Any Plant Alive open on my chest.
“This is only one box. We’ve got at least twenty of them.”
I don’t even know if I heard him correctly. It is . . . astonishing.
“You’ll have to give it back. Sasha wants to mail them all to the consulate with her letter.”
I imagine this now too. A beefy Norwegian with his white hair and thick hands, sitting behind his desk, which is piled with an unusual arrival in the mail. Box after box after box from Parrish Island, Washington, USA. And a letter from the same. He opens it and reads. He smiles.
It is not an invitation, but for the first time, this crazy idea, the idea that was set in motion that first day I walked into the Parrish Island Library, searching for Pix’s identity, seems maybe, possibly, actually, within reach.
“You guys,” I say. Well, there are no words.
“Try on the baklava,” my father says.
I do. “Stick ’em up,” I say.
He takes a picture of me with his phone. I pull off the hat, and my hair rises in a static standing ovation.
Tink, tink, tink. Jenny taps her knife against the globe of her wineglass. “I think it’s time for a speech.”
We wait. She is looking at Pix, that now thin, yellowing stalk with its single berry. We all look. I am thinking she’s got a plan here, some big emotional speech that puts meaning to this unusual, unspeakably sad situation. We wait some more. But apparently this speech was an impulsive, unplanned idea, now suddenly proved impossible, or else the words she carefully chose earlier are somehow in the moment all wrong.
“To . . .” Her voice is cracking. I swallow hard. This good-bye mirrors another good-bye. This thank-you does.
Henry takes my hand under the table, holds it tight.
“To life,” she says.
And then it’s time, and so I stand up. My chest caves in. My heart squeezes. I am crying. I want to do this in some dignified way, but I am crying hard. I set my fingers around that perfect berry, and I pull. It’s a beautiful berry. It’s a singular plant. Now it looks so bare, just its thin, empty stalk. Just a simple collection of cells and flesh, which has completed its life’s work.
Tears roll down my face. I’m a big mess. Jenny’s eyes are wet, and so are Henry’s, and my dad honks a loud nose blow into his napkin.
I hold out the berry in my palm for us all to admire. A million seeds, or even a single one—we continue.
* * *
Henry and I follow the instructions. We take the ripe fruit and crush it in a glass mixing bowl. We add water to the bowl, and the seeds sink, and the skin and pulp float. We separate seed from skin and wash the tiny, tiny seeds in a piece of cheesecloth. We will dry the seeds before putting them inside the Mylar envelope. And I will choose one to plant, just as Grandfather Leopold did. I will place it in Pix’s pot. I will keep that plant with me wherever I go, dorm room to apartment to house, and I will put it on my own kitchen windowsill one day, as my mother had.
Henry is about to leave. My father hears the sounds of a departure and he comes bolting out of the living room, practically accosting Henry. There is more back slapping. He even says “You’re a good boy,” which sounds like he’s talking to the dog. It’s all rather embarrassing. I’m surprised he doesn’t jump up and lick his face. Actually, I’m surprised he doesn’t follow us to Henry’s car when I walk him out.
But no. We’re alone. The moon is full and low and large. I smell the cool deepness of night and the insistent drift of salt water. Henry is leaning against his car, and I am leaning against Henry.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“Did you know that in Longyearbyen, the sun sets each year for the very last time on October twenty-fifth, and that it will not rise above the horizon again for four months?” His eyes look soft in the light of the moon. They look a little sleepy now too. It’s been a big night.
“It officially returns on March eighth, when it is finally high enough above the horizon to shine down on the steps of the old hospital, where the entire town gathers to await its arrival.”
“Tess.” He smiles. “You know, I really love you.”
Oh, beautiful words. Oh, joy and pain, fullness and emptiness, highs and lows, tide in, tide out. Right then, our future together and all its unknowns sit like a fragile puff of a dandelion, waiting for a wish. I close my eyes and blow. “I really love you too, Henry.”
When his car is all the way down the drive, when it has turned at the tilting mailbox, I go in. My father scares the crap out of me. He’s got that ski mask on. Of course he couldn’t resist. He’s probably been wanting to try it out all night.
“Thomas Has Always Harbored a Secret Desire to Wear Baklava on His Head,” I say, when my heart stops beating wildly in fear.
“How late is the bank open?” he says. He chuckles in a sinister manner.
“Take that off and give me a hug good night,” I say.
He does. And then I look at him, and he looks at me.
As I said, there will be no momentous, earth-shattering, father-daughter talk in this story, no big crying scene and sobbing reunion. Right then, we do not have some revealing, climactic conversation about that night we left her alone in the hospital to die.
Instead, tonight, we have simply shared a meaningful event. And next we share this: a look between us that says we’ve gone from here to there, from shame to a shaky, mutual forgiveness; from a time when our lives felt like a to-scale model, three feet equaling one and a quarter inches, to now, where the whole wide world is ours.
chapter twenty-one
Datura: angel’s-trumpet/devil’s-trumpet. Though nobody can seem to agree what to call it, there is no argument about the danger of ingesting any part of this plant, most especially its seeds. The seedpod is a menacing ball covered in sharp spines, and the flower, which possesses a strange, seductive beauty, blooms only at dusk. Datura was wel
l known as an essential ingredient of love potions and witches’ brews, causing delirious states and death. Some believe that eating the seeds of Datura was what caused the erratic behavior of the young “witches” in Salem. And, in 1676, British soldiers ingested Datura stramonium in a boiled salad and remained in a stupor for eleven days. If this is a love potion, no thank you.
I need to choose a gift for Henry. I want it to be just right, something that speaks to our mission, how we tried to save Pix, how we sort of failed but sort of triumphed, too. I think along the lines of plants and seeds; I even consider using one of Pix’s seeds to grow Henry his own pixiebell. But it’s too much my mother and me and not Henry and me, and so I go to Old Sh**—that’s what it’s called, with the asterisks and everything. It’s an antiques shop in town. Out front, there’s a mannequin dressed in an ancient diving suit, with a beautiful brass helmet on its head, and in the window there’s a creepy stuffed cougar, a Civil War flag, a line of tin flasks, and rusty lunch boxes with the Lone Ranger on them.
The big-bearded man behind the counter doesn’t waste any time. “Hey, aren’t you—”
I close my eyes as if I’m sleeping and rest my chin on my palm. “Her?”
He chuckles. “It was right here.” He taps the counter with his knuckles. “Mine was the first name on it.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. He goes back to breaking open rolls of coins into the register while I look around. I make several slow loops around the entire store before I spot it. It’s on a table with the sort of glass dishes you see at carnivals and a magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes’s: a compass. A brass compass, the brass so worn that it’s almost black. It has a lid that opens and closes, and inside, the compass rose is an intricate black-and-white. This is not about our quest to find Pix’s identity—this is about what happens next.
The bearded man wraps the compass in tissue paper. “For your trip?” he asks.
“If it happens. I hope so.”
“True north,” he says.
* * *
A few days ago, Henry told me he’d be busy Saturday night, that Elijah wanted help with some project. I have not spilled the secret yet, which has taken some doing, especially since I’m confused and mad that Henry still has not mentioned his birthday. But I love Henry, and I trust him, and so I keep telling myself there will be an explanation.
And, oh yes, there will be one, all right.
I’m nervous. This will be the first time I’m with Henry and all his friends, people who’ve known each other forever, and me, the interloper, the tourist, the maybe transplant. So of course I change my clothes a bunch of times and screw up my hair and have to wet it again, which makes it look worse. I do everything I can to make the situation a crisis, accidentally poking myself in the eye with my mascara wand, touching the hot part of the hair blower against my neck, spilling some I’d-better-eat-something yogurt on the shirt I finally decide on. Between bad hair and mean people and junior high, your poor old self-confidence gets so many bullets shot at it, you’re lucky if it stays alive.
I shout out a good-bye as I leave, because I’m too anxious to have any kind of annoying Have a great night! chats with either Jenny or Dad. I’ve written down instructions to Elijah and Millicent’s house, even though I know exactly where it is. This knowledge is sure to evaporate as soon as I’m down the driveway (see Mascara Wand in Eye, above). And so I smooth out the piece of paper on my leg and turn the key again after the car is already on, which causes the engine to scream as if I’ve just accosted it on a dark night.
So far so good.
Past Asher House (.33 miles), there is the massive oak, looming minion of Middle Earth, arms stretched in a warning I don’t heed. I turn. After that (.14 miles) is the street, Parrish Point. Perish, I think, because there it is, that Victorian, the kind of house that looks so gingerbread friendly in the day and so haunted house at night. This night, though, all the lights are blazing in its ornate windows, and I can feel the bass beat of loud music in my own body before I even find a place to park. My mind goes parental, the way it tends to do when things feel out of control. I wonder where Elijah and Millicent’s parents are. I wonder what the neighbors will think.
I have a sudden longing for Meg and my own friends, who I’ve so carelessly tossed aside. You can ignore a person’s calls only so long before they give up on you. I haven’t heard from Meg in weeks. I feel all wrong here. Meg and Caitlin and Hannah and me, we’re not really party people. We’re friends-in-small-groups people. I don’t even have much party experience, except for some band get-togethers of Meg’s that I went along to. A track team party with Dillon at Matthew Harris’s house. My skirt feels prissy, and so does my little present in the same box and with the same reused bow from Dad’s gift. All I need is a pair of patent-leather shoes, and I’d be the same me I was in the third grade, when I went to Ivy McLellan’s birthday party, but only because her mother insisted she invite every girl in the class.
The lawn is huge. It’s beyond huge; it’s parklike. Nearly an estate. I hike across it, not seeing the paved walkway a few yards away. The front door is open. People are spilling out onto the porch. A lot of people. I’m surprised. I didn’t think there were that many people our age here, unless Elijah also invited everyone in the class. There are the glowing orange tips of cigarettes, beer in cups. Alcohol and minors! my parental mind screams. And, now, too, all the power talk I’d given myself while getting ready—You can do it! You look great!—is hightailing it out of here. It’s running for its life. Straitlaced vibes are shooting out in every direction from my body, and I don’t know how to hide them.
I walk up the steps. I smile at the two guys and two girls on the porch. I attempt to hold my little present casually. I attempt to walk into the house in my little heels casually too. They are people-pleaser heels. Newly grass-stained people-pleaser heels. My skirt is shouting Like me! to the various tossed-on jeans and shorts. This is not one of those surprise parties where people jump out from furniture. Everyone is here already.
I look around for Henry. I am desperate to see his familiar face among these other ones. I see Millicent on a couch with her arms slung around two guys. This seems insensitive at Henry’s birthday party, if you ask me. She’s laughing it up, and the guys have swoopy hair like Elijah, and one is wearing an argyle vest (or gargoyle vest as Dad calls them) that no one would be caught dead wearing in San Bernardino. He has his hand on her leg.
The music is so loud that my eardrums are thrumming. People are actually standing right next to the speakers! Do they want to be deaf in their later years? And do I smell the familiar grassy scent of pot? I try to loosen up. I even give my shoulders a shake, which causes my purse to fall on the floor. I am scrambling down there to get it, and some girl bumps me with her rear end. I’ve been worrying that everyone will stare at me, but the opposite is true. No one seems to even notice I’m here.
I wind my way around bodies and large, dark pieces of furniture. It’s a serious house. There are Oriental rugs. There are chandeliers. I try to find the kitchen. I assume it will be the friendliest place, as kitchens often are, and so maybe that’s where I’ll find Henry.
Okay. I see Elijah. He’s over by the fancy stainless refrigerator, leaning a shoulder on it. He’s talking to an older man, who is wearing a bow tie and black-framed retro scientist glasses. Nerd-hip, gotcha. Elijah is laughing, and then he reaches up to straighten the man’s tie. The gesture surprises me. It’s almost flirtatious.
And then, thank God! There is Henry! He is by a long table, dunking a chip into a bowl of dip, eyeing Elijah. He doesn’t see me. His face—I don’t know. He looks pissed. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Henry angry before. His cheeks are flushed red. His eyes are narrowed almost meanly.
I edge my way toward him, scooting around the edge of the room so that I can take him by surprise. I grab a pinch of his white sleeve and tug.
“Hey,” I say. “Happy birthday.”
He spins around. He
looks shocked to see me. “Tess!” he says. “I guess this was Elijah’s big mystery project. I didn’t know he invited you.”
“And I didn’t know it was your birthday,” I say.
“Oh!” He laughs a little. His face goes from flushed to pale. “No. It’s not. My birthday is in February. This is”—he gestures up to the black balloons that say HAPPY 50TH—“an attempt at irony. A surprise on me, ha-ha. Elijah’s idea of a . . .”
Self-centered bid for attention, if you ask me.
“Joke,” Henry says. “You brought a present.”
He seems sad about that. The present itself seems sad. I feel suddenly sad, sad and a little humiliated at my earnest gift, as if maybe Henry and I have a relationship that’s not meant for his real life. “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s the wrong response, but the one I most feel.
“Oh, don’t be sorry! He should have told you.” I don’t know what to do with the gift now. It’s wrong here. It’s too sincere.
I hand it to him anyway. I try to remember that Henry loves me. “You can open it later. Maybe at home or something.”
He takes it, and we’re awkward together again. I try to smooth over the moment. I try not to be as sad and disappointed and out of place as I feel. I shout, and he leans in. I make my voice jovial. “You know all these people?”
“Not all,” he shouts back. “Some are Elijah’s friends. Him.” He nods toward the man.
“Bow tie man.”
“Right.”
Someone jostles Henry. “Empty cup, birthday boy!” a tall, lean guy says, and snatches Henry’s cup off a nearby table.
“This is some place,” I shout again. This is the degree to which Henry and I are not being Henry and I. I am saying things like This is some place.
“The parents are both . . .”
“Psychiatrists. You told me.”
The lean guy comes back with two cups—one for me and one for Henry. They are filled with ice and some kind of brown—
“Home brew,” the guy says. “Hey, I’m Jackie Jack.” He holds out his hand. I don’t know if this is his actual first and last name, or an adorable nickname he calls himself. Still, he’s the only halfway friendly person here, so I’ll take it. I take the cup, too, have a swallow. It’s a blazing fire rocketing through my body. My lips turn instantly to rubber and my knees weak.
