The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  The pickings are pretty slim the day after Christmas. I turn through a soap opera and Jeopardy! before finally settling on a Bewitched rerun. I suck at applying polish. It spills over my cuticles, then I rough up my right middle finger nail when I change the channel before my polish has completely dried. I redo the nail and spread my fingers to dry as I watch Treasure Isle. Then come two reruns of The Fugitive.

  I tighten the cap of the polish bottle and put it back in its box. My nails look like a monkey did them, but at least I didn’t make a mess anywhere else.

  When it’s time for The Newlywed Game and Mom still hasn’t emerged, I start to worry that something awful has happened. What if she’s taken an overdose of sleeping pills, like Marilyn Monroe? I don’t even know if Mom uses sleeping pills. But she wouldn’t do that, would she? Now I’m scared to go up to her room.

  If our roles were reversed and I was the one who wouldn’t come out, Mom would probably try to entice me with something to eat. She’s not as interested in food as I am, but she might appreciate it if I fixed her a lunch. She missed yesterday’s feast, so who knows when she ate last.

  I go into the kitchen and get out the bread and the fixings for a turkey sandwich. We don’t have any lettuce or tomatoes, so I just make it with extra slices of meat, figuring she could use the protein. The coffee pot sits idle on the back burner. She probably wants a cup of coffee most of all, but I don’t know how to make it, so I just pour a glass of milk and get three Oreos for desert, taking one for myself. I cut the sandwich into four triangles and arrange them around the bottom of a plate like teeth. The three Oreos make two eyes and a nose. I giggle at what looks like a bulldog. I set the plate and the glass of milk on a TV tray and consider cutting a flower from outside and putting it in a bud vase, like they do in the movies, but nothing is blooming this time of year.

  I somehow manage to get the tray up the stairs without slopping the milk, but now I have a choice. Do I take it in her room? Or leave it outside? Stop being such a baby, Ida. Take it in. So I do, knocking twice first.

  She’s in bed, as I suspected. And though she’s obviously alive, her eyes are ringed with puffy red bags and her hair is messy and stuck to her head on one side, showing white scalp. She smiles weakly at me and props herself higher on her pillows.

  “I made you some lunch,” I say, setting the tray down over her lap.

  “Thank you.”

  Okay, she’s not mad, but I don’t know if I should stay in the room or leave. She probably doesn’t want me to watch her eat. I turn to leave.

  “Wait,” she says. “I need to talk to you.”

  I turn around. She pats her bed. When I sit down, she asks me how I got home last night.

  “Uncle Pat drove me.”

  She nods then looks down at her plate. “It’s a face. Is it supposed to be the Abominable Snowman?”

  “Yep, you got it.”

  Mom picks up a wedge of sandwich only to set it down on the plate again. “Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday. I guess I overreacted. It was silly.”

  Silly sounds like an understatement, but I don’t tell her that. “Yeah, you were pretty mad.”

  “Well, I hope you can forgive me at least.” She waits. I don’t dare look up. I don’t want to see the need in her eyes.

  “Grandma gets to me, too,” I say finally. “I mean, she didn’t get the nickname Graceless for nothing.”

  Mom laughs, a bit too loudly. “Moliere said that the best reply to unseemly behavior is patience and moderation. I showed neither, and now I hope for the same.”

  I’m not sure what she means. She seems to be talking in riddles. Then I remember something from yesterday, something Mom said in anger. “Were Grandma and Grandpa really against Dad marrying you?”

  She purses her lips together and looks up at the ceiling. “Well, let’s put it this way. I think they would have preferred your father marry a nice, Slavic girl who was prepared to be the wife of a fisherman.”

  “And that wasn’t you.”

  She snorts. “That wasn’t me.”

  “But Dad didn’t feel that way, did he? I mean, he must have loved you a lot to go against his parents.”

  Mom turns serious. She lowers her head as if to work out a kink in her neck, but it isn’t a kink, because when she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears. She shakes her head, sniffs, and wipes her tears with her fingers. I reach for the napkin on her tray and hand it to her.

  “Thank you. You did your nails.”

  “Yeah, not very well.”

  She smiles as she blots her eyes and wipes her hands. Then she gamely picks up a piece of sandwich and takes a bite. “Here help me eat this,” she says. “Take a cookie.”

  I end up eating more of Mom’s lunch than she does, but it seems to do something. She gets out of bed, takes a long bath and comes out in her robe. She makes us a late dinner of hamburger and beans over rice, then we sit down together to watch the CBS Thursday night movie. It’s called The Pleasure of His Company and stars Fred Astaire and Debbie Reynolds, so I’m expecting a romantic comedy, with maybe some singing and dancing. I’m not expecting a story that’s eerily familiar. Fred Astaire plays this globetrotting guy who comes back for his daughter’s wedding after being gone for most of her life. He’s really kind of a jerk, the way he worms his way back into the family and interferes with their plans.

  “Everyone loves a charmer,” Mom says, getting up and tightening the belt to her robe. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You’re not going to watch the end?”

  “No, I’ve seen enough.”

  She goes upstairs. When I hear the door to her room shut, I hope it’s just for the night. I watch the rest of the movie because I want to see how it ends. Fred Astaire doesn’t stop the wedding or break up his former wife’s marriage, but he does take off with the family cook. Everyone’s happy. If only real life were like that. I turn off the TV, thinking the only similarity between Fred Astaire and my dad is a tendency towards big gifts. I finger the locket of the necklace he gave me. Was his generosity just “guilt talking,” like Mom says? I’d like to think he didn’t fake anything, including his disappearance, but does that mean I’m wishing him dead? My mind goes through those same old loops. They hurt, those loops.

  I wake up to another quiet house, but this time Mom really is gone. The car is missing, and in the kitchen, next to the box of Cheerios on the counter, is a hastily scribbled note:

  I’ve gone into town to play grown-up. Love, Mom.

  I’m not sure what “playing grown-up” means, but it sounds positive. Still, I decide it’s best to lie low and not go over to see Dena, which is what I normally do during Christmas break. In Mom’s state, she shouldn’t come home to an empty house. I’m sure of that.

  Since I overdosed on TV yesterday, I go to my box of books from Nana and pick out a new one. Jane Eyre, Mom’s favorite. I’m afraid it’s going to be boring, with endlessly long descriptions, like some old books, but after a few pages, I’m hooked. The bully cousin, the mean aunt, the “red room,” the school where Jane is starved and punished and sees her best friend die of typhoid … Jeez, when is she going to get a break?

  I’m so absorbed in her troubles, I don’t even notice Mom is home until the front door opens, blasting me with cold air.

  “Brrr. It almost feels like snow out there.” She’s wearing a dress under her coat. No wonder she’s cold. She hangs her coat in the closet and glances at my book. “Oh, Jane Eyre. I couldn’t put that one down.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” I want to keep reading, but I mark my place and set the book down on the coffee table, covering half of Vancouver Island. Mom kicks off her boots and sits down next to me on the sofa, curling her legs under her.

  “I’ve been pounding the pavement,” she says. I picture a road worker with one of those loud drills that breaks up concrete, but she’s obviously not dressed for that.

  “I’m trying to find work. I went to three different places today. None of them
are hiring right now, with Christmas being over, but at least they’ll have my information on file if something opens up.”

  “Wow, that’s great, Mom.” My voice comes out sounding flat, almost sarcastic, despite my shock. This isn’t the woman who just recently spent a day and a half in bed.

  She smoothes her skirt over her knees. “I just decided I had to do something to feel better about myself.”

  “That’s great. Good luck.”

  She gives me a smirk and I quickly add, “With finding a job, I mean.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Aweigh

  Position of an anchor just clear of the bottom

  I never thought I’d be so happy for Christmas break to end and school to begin. After two weeks that seemed like a month locked in a cave, it’s a relief to be back among my friends, following the same schedule they are, doing the same things they’re doing. It’s much better thinking about things that don’t involve my mother, like the events that led to World War I.

  When I see Dena at lunch, she asks me if I’m doing okay and if my mom’s still mad.

  “No, more like embarrassed,” I tell her.

  She must sense that I don’t want to talk about it, because she changes the subject. She’s over Andrew, her first crush of the year, and has moved on to Paul, this boy in her algebra class who’s helping her with the trickier equations.

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  She takes a bite of her apple and gives me a wink. “What about you?” she asks with her mouth full. “Still stuck on David Mackey?”

  “Not after he stood me up.”

  She swallows. “Stood you up? You mean you made a date?”

  “Not the kind you’re thinking of.” I tell her about meeting David in the library to talk about my dad and our plans to meet again the next day. I tell her how I’d lost sleep the night before and agonized over what to wear, all for nothing. “He never showed, and I know he was in school.”

  “How rude,” she says, taking another bite of her apple.

  “He probably just forgot, but still.”

  “You haven’t talked to him since?”

  “No, but I’ve seen him around, and I’m pretty sure he’s seen me.”

  “Forget about him,” Dena says. “What about that Filipino guy in your English class? He’s kinda cute.”

  “Sam?

  She nods.

  “He’s nice, but he’s just a friend.”

  Dena raises one perfectly penciled eyebrow.

  “Honestly, Dena. There’s nothing there.” I don’t say what I’m really thinking, that Sam and I simply don’t match—a wiry Filipino boy with a tall, kinda chubby white girl? It’s one thing meeting him in the library, quite another to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Besides, Mom would probably have a cow, given her view of canneries and the seasonal Filipino workers who fill them.

  I wonder if her opinion has softened now that she’s looking for a job. If she has trouble landing one, maybe she’ll be more understanding of the people forced to work the slime line.

  I never get the chance to find out. On Thursday afternoon, a woman calls our home asking for Mrs. Petrovich. I think it’s probably a solicitor, but I tell her to hold on and get Mom to come to the phone. When the brief call is over, Mom screams and jumps up and down like a kid.

  “What?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea.

  “That was the manager of Fine Lines Women’s Boutique. One of their saleswomen has decided to take an indefinite bereavement leave. She asked if I could start next Monday.” She squeals again.

  “I guess you said yes.”

  “Honestly I would have said yes if she’d asked me to come down to the shop this minute. God, I hope I didn’t sound too excited. The woman I’m filling in for just found out that her son is missing in action, poor thing. I know how she feels.”

  The job, even if it is only temporary, has Mom flitting around the house like a hummingbird. One minute she’s replacing mothballs in the coat closet and the next she’s laying out possible outfits for her first day. I’m asked to pick which one would make the best impression on her clientele, which brings to mind old ladies shopping for girdles and sensible shoes. I point to a chocolate brown pantsuit paired with a paisley scarf because it looks comfortable.

  “No,” Mom says, pinching her chin. “Think I’ll go with the red sweater and gray skirt.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. That pantsuit’s way too modern for Fine Lines.”

  “What do you mean? They sell classics that never go out of style.”

  “If you say so.”

  She sighs, but it’s the light-hearted sigh of a woman with plans. “We need new drapes for the living room. The carpets need cleaning. And wouldn’t it be nice to have a complete set of matching dishes?”

  “I guess,” I say, but she’s not really listening. She knows the things she wants to replace never bothered me.

  As keyed up as she is, this sure beats a mother who won’t get out of bed. Monday morning, she’s out the door before me, even though her day starts an hour later than mine. When she gets home at five thirty, her back is sore from standing and her feet are killing her, but she’s alive with stories about her day—the husband shopping for a gift for his wife, the big-hipped lady she managed to steer away from bold prints, the woman who needed a blouse to go with an awful green tweed skirt.

  “I found her three blouses and another, more suitable skirt. She took them all.” Mom beams. She asks me how school was, if I’ve done my homework, and what I’ve eaten. The last question lets her gauge how quickly she has to get dinner on. Today it’s Chef Boyardee, which is fine by me. I could eat Beefaroni every night.

  We establish a new routine. She’s out the door when I am, dressed to the nines in skirts and dresses accessorized with scarves, belts, bead necklaces, and big plastic bracelets that make an attractive clinking sound when she walks. She doesn’t get home until five thirty or sometimes six, which means I’m home alone for at least two hours every afternoon. I let myself in with the hidden key, fix myself a snack, and watch TV. I’ve seen every episode of Gilligan’s Island at least twice. If I can’t stomach watching another repeat, I’ll do homework or read. I raced through Jane Eyre, and now I’m reading The Secret Garden. Both books are about houses that hide secrets. Another sign?

  Maybe this house holds a clue to that thing I don’t know about Dad. Maybe he left something behind that will explain the part of him I never knew, the part that loved risky fishing, Native folktales, and Alaskan prostitutes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Scuttlebutt

  A water-filled barrel sailors used to drink from

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, but Dad’s workshop seems like a good place to start. So after I do my homework, I count to three and run down the basement stairs, as if diving into a cold lake or ripping off a Band-Aid. If I’m fast and fearless, no ghost or fear of ghosts can get the better of me.

  I’m hit with the familiar smell of glues and resins as I open the door and head to Dad’s filing cabinet. With its eighty drawers full of knickknacks, this was my favorite thing in the world when I was younger. The few times I was allowed to be in his workshop with him, I begged to explore the things he called fillers: buttons, shells, ceramic shards, sea glass, map fragments, rope, and other things he used to add spots of color and context to his table tops, trays and coasters. If he was feeling generous, he would play a game of Concentration with me, making me guess what was inside a drawer before opening it. If I guessed right, I’d get to open three more. The big, flat drawers were easy to remember. They held things like maps and old game boards. But the little drawers were easily confused. I’d get buttons mixed up with coins mixed up with bottle caps until I got to know the contents of his cabinet as well as he did.

  I reach for a random middle drawer. This will be … marbles. I pull the handle, and immediately realize my error. The drawer is too light. It holds puzzle pieces, grouped in plastic bags according to size, f
rom big wooden kid puzzles to those maddeningly hard five-thousand-piece jigsaws in blending shades of blue, green, and brown. I close the drawer, releasing a puff of dust. When Dad spread his epoxy, he did everything in his power to prevent dust from marring the sticky, glass-like surface. Now that he’s not around to clean, the dust has returned to settle over everything.

  My favorite drawer is three rows down, right middle column. I open it to find it still filled with the little toys you’d find at the five-and-dime, or at the dentist’s office as a reward for your pain—rhinestone rings, spinning tops, whistles, jacks. It took all my willpower not to rifle through that stuff when I was younger, and I don’t do it now.

  The last drawer I try is a wide, flat one at the bottom of the cabinet. It appears to be empty, but when I try to push it closed, it gets stuck on something. I reach my hand in and touch the corner of what feels like an envelope. It takes some tugging. When I finally pry it loose, it’s an envelope all right, but empty. I shut the drawer and leave the envelope on the worktable. It was mailed to us marked “DO NOT BEND!” in red, probably because it held someone’s precious mementoes, maybe old letters or photographs, maybe keepsakes from a wedding or a birth.

  For all the sentimental projects he did for others, Dad wasn’t one to save things for himself. A quick glance around his workshop reveals nothing of his, like a photo of me or Mom or a paperweight with my first baby shoe. The only thing he ever made for us was the map coffee table, and that was just so we’d have a handy reference when we wanted to know where he was.

  The absence of personal things makes me wonder if he wanted it that way. In the event of his death, maybe he thought it would be easier for us if he left no meaningful objects behind. I’m glad I have the one picture of him, but where did all those departure and arrival pictures go? I do the multiplying in my head: nineteen years times two equals thirty-eight, and that’s assuming we only took one photo each time. Surely Mom didn’t throw them away during her cleaning binge.