And then I do something I never thought was possible. I feel bad for him. I feel so bad for Alex Carter. I imagine him sitting with his sick dad all alone. Cancer is a scary word that I never had to think about for too long before, but Alex is sobbing so hard and no one can get him to stop. He probably thinks about it every minute.
“They say three months.” Alex trembles.
That’s probably why there were so many pills in his mom’s car. They were for his dad.
“Thank you for sharing with us,” Ms. Gloria says. “That was brave.” Then she reaches over and touches his shoulder, and Candace is still rubbing his back. Oscar reaches over too and touches his other shoulder. And before I know it, I’m reaching out over the table and pressing my hand firm but nice on Alex’s shoulder too. And we all just stay there quiet like that until Alex’s shoulders aren’t bouncing so hard up and down from crying anymore.
chapter 19
The whole walk to the garage after school I’m thinking about Alex and wondering if he’s going home to sit with his dad and what they talk about and why some people get cancer and others don’t and why some people can’t remember and others can.
“Robbie!” Harold’s walking out of the garage and wiping his hands on a towel, waving at me. “How was school? You staying away from trouble?”
I nod yes, and it’s true. I haven’t gotten in trouble since I slammed Alex to the lunchroom floor. And even thinking about that now makes me feel kind of bad after seeing him cry so hard and thinking about his dad who has to have a bed downstairs in the living room because he’s too weak to walk upstairs anymore.
Harold gives me a fist bump and puts his arm around my shoulder. “How’s May?” I ask. “I didn’t think you’d be back for a while.”
“She’s great,” he says. “Sleeping and pooping like a champ, so I figured I could come in and help out here while Paul holds down the poop fort at home today.”
“Ew, Harold.”
Harold was supposed to take a whole month off to take care of May, and it hasn’t even been a week since she was born. It makes me nervous that he’s here. I’m Grandpa’s right hand, so he should know that I’ve got everything under control.
“There’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee whose engine won’t turn over. I could use some help,” he says.
I nod OK.
The Jeep is parked in the first bay, and Grandpa is vacuuming out the backseat of a Toyota Avalon in the bay next to that.
“There she is,” Grandpa says when he sees me, and turns off the vacuum.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
“How was school?”
I want to tell him that it would be better if I knew more about my mom and could finish this family tree project already, but I just say, “Fine.”
“She’s going to help me with this Jeep,” Harold tells him.
Grandpa smiles and nods and starts the vacuum again.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Jeep Grand Cherokee’s connecting cables are corroded. I hold out my hand to Harold and say, “Scalpel.” That’s another one of our things, like the fist bumps. He puts a wire brush in my palm and helps me disconnect the cables from the battery. I have to lean in far to reach the battery, but I remember when I used to have to kneel on the bumper to reach. I’m big enough now that I don’t have to do that anymore. While I’m cleaning the end of the cable with the brush, Harold leans in with me and whispers. I can hardly hear him over Grandpa’s vacuum.
“Hey, how’s your grandpa been feeling?”
“Fine,” I say, and keep on scrubbing with the wire brush so when we connect it back to the battery the engine will turn over good as new.
“How’d that happen to his hands?”
“It was an accident.”
Harold takes hold of the cables and helps me connect them back to the battery. Then he starts to loosen the other side from the starter just to make sure they aren’t corroded there too.
I lean in farther and he leans in with me and right there under the hood he says, “Robbie, I know he’s having a hard time.” He pats my work glove with his work glove, and I grip the wire brush tight. I don’t know if it’s because it feels kind of safe under the hood of a 2011 Jeep Grand Cherokee or the hum of Grandpa’s vacuum makes him feel farther away, or if it’s because Harold’s voice is calm and real like Ms. Gloria’s is, but before I know it I’m telling him everything.
I’m telling him about Grandpa’s flannel shirt folded up with the pots, and about him wandering past our sugar maples. I’m telling him about his suitcase packed up like he might follow an old idea drifting around his head right out the door at any minute, and about the aloe plant I carried home from Dean and Walt’s country store to squeeze and rub into his palms at night.
Harold pats my work glove with his again and I’m trying to connect the cables back to the starter, but there are tears blurring up my eyes and I can’t. “Here,” he says, and takes the cables. “I got it. Let me help.” He connects them.
I want to tell him that I don’t need help. That I can connect cables back to a starter easy and that Grandpa and I are just fine on our own.
Even though the cables are connected and it’s time to try the engine, Harold doesn’t close the hood of the Jeep. We stay there bent over the engine and battery, the oil, and all the tubes and sparks that make everything work right, and Harold tells me that Derek’s mom called him and sounded worried after our failed boiling day.
At first I’m mad that she went sticking her nose in our business, but after telling everything to Harold I feel a little lighter somehow.
Grandpa turns off the vacuum and calls, “How’s that engine running now?” We stand up fast and Harold slams down the hood of the car.
“About to check it, Charlie,” he says and hands me the keys.
When I try the key, the engine turns over quick and easy. Good as new. And I wish there were some wire brush to clean out Grandpa’s corroded cables and reconnect them to his starter so he could ride out good as new too.
“A-plus, Robbie,” Grandpa says and pats my shoulder with his bandaged hand.
Before we leave, Harold slips a piece of paper into the fold of my baseball glove. “If you need anything, Robbie,” he says. “Anything.” His hair is wild and sticking up, and I think I can even see a few gray ones poking out in the front. “I’m here. Looking out for you.”
His brown eyes are glassy and tired, and I wonder if May ever lets him sleep and I know already I won’t call him. Harold’s got his family to take care of. And I have mine.
On the walk home I’m wishing my hair wasn’t so loose and touching my neck, and thinking that no more adults than Harold can find out about Grandpa’s memory.
I take the keys from Grandpa’s hand and slide the house key in the front door.
“Hang your flannel here, Grandpa,” I tell him when we get inside and point to the black hook by the door.
“I know that,” he gruffs. He unbuttons his flannel slowly, then takes off his boots.
“Tuna melts?” he asks. I nod yes and even though I’m pretending to get out my homework, I’m really watching him. Watching him walk to the kitchen and plug in the toaster oven, take out two English muffins and mayonnaise. Watching him get a fork from the drawer and a bowl to mix the tuna in.
Then I’m watching him look at the can of tuna fish. He picks at the can’s edge with his thumbnail. Then he tries to pry it off with the fork. Then he slams it hard against the counter. “Dammit!” he yells.
“Grandpa!” I rush to take the can from him.
“Goddammit!” he yells again. “I don’t need any help.”
My heart’s beating fast because it’s scary when Grandpa’s mad and he does need help but I don’t want to make him feel like crap by showing him how to open the tuna. He was the one who taught me how to crank the can opener around a can of tuna fish when I was little. It would feel weird and wrong to teach him how to use it now.
I open the drawer and
take out the can opener. “It’s OK, Grandpa,” I say and hold out my other hand. “I’ll do it. I remember how you taught me. Just watch and make sure I do all the steps right.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s still mad because he’s huffing big breaths through his nose. I click the opener onto the edge and twist it around the can until the top peels off.
“Good,” he says. Then I empty the tuna fish into the bowl with a spoonful of mayonnaise.
Grandpa stirs it up while I toast the English muffins.
Before bed Grandpa unwraps the bandages from his hands and I snap another piece from the aloe plant and squeeze it on his palms.
And later that night when he’s sleeping I sneak in again to make sure he hasn’t packed up his suitcase to wander off, and to check on his hands. I pull back his wool blanket and as quiet and soft as I can I roll his big hand to face me. I rest my pinky finger soft in his big palm and there aren’t any blisters bigger than my nail.
He smells like wood and wool and aloe and his hands look better than they did yesterday. I pull the blanket back up and tiptoe back to my bed, then listen to his deep breaths as I fall asleep.
chapter 20
The next day in Ms. Meg’s class Derek takes out his board game family tree. It looks really good already, and it’s not even due for two more days. His mom helped him paint a square piece of cardboard purple, and all the spaces around the edge where the game pieces go they painted in white. He’s bent over our table writing on the game cards.
“When you land on a square that says Take Card, you pick a card and read about a family member. Then you get to add one of these plastic people to your side.” He hands me a tiny plastic figurine. “The person who has the most family members by the end wins.”
I guess I’m a huge loser, then.
“That’s so cool!” Candace gushes.
Candace’s project is full of pictures and is almost done too. She has two brown markers out to color the trunk of her tree.
I look down at the drawing I have in my notebook.
I grab one of Candace’s brown markers, clutch it tight in my fist, and press a fat X over my whole stupid family tree. I roll the marker back to Candace, and she and Derek are staring at me with huge eyes.
“What?” I say.
“Do you want me to help you start over?” Derek asks.
I lean back in my chair and bury my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt. “That’s impossible,” I say. “I don’t even know these people. I don’t have anyone to put on a family tree. Besides Grandpa.”
Derek moves his foot over next to mine under the table and nudges my Nike Air Griffeys with the toe of his Converse.
“You know me,” he says. “You could put me on there.”
Then the door creaks open and Ms. Gloria’s poking her head in. “I’m here for my crew.” She smiles at Ms. Meg and waves us out.
The weird thing is, I’m almost excited to talk to Alex. Maybe it’s because his life sucks too and maybe we could say no way to this stupid project together and it wouldn’t feel so bad. Or maybe it’s because it was a little scary when he sobbed yesterday and I’ve been hoping that his dad doesn’t die.
When we get to Ms. Gloria’s room we all sit down around the little table and Alex isn’t crying or anything but he looks like he could at any second.
“How’s your dad?” I ask.
“The same,” he answers. “He’s not going to get better, so the same isn’t the worst, I guess.”
I don’t know what to say so I just say, “Sorry,” and I do that thing that Derek does when I feel like crap. I slide my Nike Air Griffey toward his foot under the table and just leave it there, the sides of our shoes barely touching. Alex doesn’t kick me in the shin or anything, so I figure it makes him feel pretty OK too.
“There’s this counselor that comes to our house to talk to my mom and my brothers and me. He’s OK,” Alex says. “He told us it might be a good idea to write down the things we want to say to my dad and questions we want to ask him before—” His voice catches and his eyes fill up. “Before it’s too late, I guess.” He looks down.
“That sounds really hard,” Candace says.
Oscar leans forward and says in his whisper kind of voice, “Sorry.”
I realize that the talking wand is just lying in the middle of the table, and I think it really might be full of magic like Ms. Gloria said it was, because we’re all just talking now and everything is going fine. Alex isn’t being mean and no one is yelling or flicking bits of paper in anyone else’s hair.
And I usually don’t believe in magic, but if it does exist I wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. Gloria caught some and sprinkled it in with the purple glitter in the wand because instead of wanting to shove or slug Alex Carter I can actually kind of understand how he feels, even if just a little bit, because I want to ask my Grandpa some things before he forgets the answers. But it’s too late already. Every time I get to the topic he closes up tight.
“I’m proud of you all for opening up, and for your kindness to each other,” Ms. Gloria says. “Kindness is the only thing that can make some of our hurt go away.”
Then Alex turns to Candace. “Sorry I said you were fat before. You’re not. I was just mad, I guess.”
Then he’s looking at me. “I won’t call you Robin anymore.”
I want to ask him, and how about what you did to Derek? but I just stay shut because I don’t want to wreck his nice streak. It’s quiet for a while, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels pretty OK, actually.
Then Ms. Gloria ruins it. “Projects are due Thursday,” she says. “That’s two days! I can’t wait for your presentations. So let’s get to work.”
Candace and Oscar take out their projects quickly and get right to work on the finishing touches. Alex and I just sit there with our arms crossed and our hats pulled around in front of our faces and at the exact same time say, “I’m not doing it.”
It makes us giggle a little. Then we start cracking up and I try to stop, but I can’t. Alex laughs so hard he falls out of his chair and even Oscar starts cracking up too, and he laughs ten times louder than he talks, which makes me laugh even harder, and before I know it we’re all on the floor laughing so hard that we’re crying too.
At first Ms. Gloria has her no-nonsense voice on, trying to get us off the floor and back to work, but even she breaks and starts laughing and her laughs are these low, deep hoots that rise up from her belly and take over her whole body. She laughs and laughs with us until tears stream from her windshield-washer-blue eyes down her cheeks. We laugh and laugh until we can’t laugh anymore.
“Maybe laughter can help us through the hurt too,” Ms. Gloria wheezes. “Kindness and laughter.” She’s wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
We’re all nodding our heads and clutching our middles. My stomach burns and even my cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.
“And I don’t mean laughing at other people,” Ms. Gloria says, and she directs it right to Alex. “But laughing with others.”
Alex nods like he gets it, and I think he does. And I think I do too. Sometimes people feel so bad they want to make others feel worse. And sometimes people can be so angry at something inside that it spurts out everywhere, like a high-pressure radiator leak.
“Ms. Gloria, are you going to show us your family tree?” Candace asks.
She looks over toward her desk. “I can if you want,” she says, and reaches over for it. “I’m not quite done yet either.”
It’s turning out pretty cool. She glued all the birds on the poster board into a flying V across the sky and wrote names on the wings in black Sharpie marker. Gloria leads the flock. There’s still that one smaller bird who’s flying away from the V, off into the white of the poster board.
“Who’s that?” Oscar asks and points to the little bird flying off.
Ms. Gloria runs her finger over the outline of the little bird. “That’s my son, Devon.”
Ms. Gloria explains to
us how she was the oldest of her siblings and always felt like she was helping to take care of them and lead them on a good path. “That’s why I made my family tree as a flying V. That’s me out front,” she says and points. “Leading the way.” She shows each of her siblings, the birds following behind her, and her other two children.
“Devon passed away when he was eight.” Her chin trembles when she tells us. “But I like to think of him flying high and making his own way.”
“I believe he is too,” Candace says. Ms. Gloria pats Candace on the back and smiles.
“In my next life, I’m coming back as a bird,” Ms. Gloria tells us. “That way I can sing to all the people who were great and kind, and poop on all the ones who weren’t.”
And maybe it’s because everything was feeling too sad and heavy or maybe it’s because our teacher said poop. But before we know it we’re all doubled over and bursting out laughing again.
“You better watch out!” Oscar blurts and points at Alex. “Someday when you’re an old man hobbling down the street, Ms. Gloria might poop on you if you don’t start being nice to everyone!”
And that gets us laughing even harder because Oscar is supposed to be the quiet one who whispers his responses and never says anything if he doesn’t have to, and now we’re picturing Ms. Gloria flying over Alex’s head and white poop splattering on his perfect blond flowy hair.
Ms. Gloria lets out big wheezes to catch her breath and says, “OK, OK, you crazy crew. Ms. Meg will kill me if you don’t have your projects ready for Thursday.” She points to Candace’s and Oscar’s projects. “Let’s get to work now.”
Candace and Oscar start right in, but they’re still giggling under their breath.
“I don’t have anything,” Alex says.
“Me neither.”
I show him the Xed out family tree sketched in my notebook. “I don’t even know these people, except for my grandpa.”
Alex leans in to look, and I can tell he wants to ask me a million things. Like why my grandpa’s black and I don’t look it. And how my mom died and if I have a dad. But he doesn’t ask, which is good because I don’t know most of the answers anyway and having these people on my project makes my whole family tree feel like a lie.
Just Like Jackie Page 11
