Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

I sank beside her. “What’s wrong with you?” But this time, I spoke softly, drained of energy.

  “You, that’s what’s wrong. You had a great dad and now you have a mom, and she’s great, too. And you’re letting her get rid of you without even fighting.”

  I groaned. Didn’t want to listen to her harsh washing-machine voice. It sounded the worst when she was mad like this. “If Marj doesn’t want me, what can I do?”

  “She’s sad, too. She’s scared. You could let her know how important this is to you. You have a chance. For a real family.” Her voice choked, and she suddenly stood and went to lean on the windowsill to look out at the street. Now her voice turned really harsh. “I’m a foster kid. But you’re practically a Son.”

  I heard the capital letter she gave to Son.

  With hand on hips, she turned and glared. “You have to fight for your family.”

  And I fought back. “Yeah. Like you fought for yours. Did you ever try to find your dad yourself?”

  Alli’s mouth hung open. “What?”

  “Did. You. Ever. Try. To. Find. Your. Dad?” I took a certain satisfaction in her shock at the question.

  “They tried to find him. He’s dead. Just like your dad.”

  I winced at that one. But I’d been thinking about this too long to shut up now. “Maybe, maybe not. I looked on the Internet. They publish names of soldiers killed in action.”

  “What?”

  “His name isn’t there. If I were you, I’d fight for my family, too. I’d look all over the Internet and try to find my dad. Lots of places to find people. Especially old Army guys.”

  Alli waved her hand, chasing dust caught in the sunbeams. “Look for him myself?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never even thought of it.”

  “I can help you do that,” I said. Didn’t tell her that I’d already been poking around for more than soldiers killed in action, finding places with information on living ones. “I’ve learned a lot, working on the website about Griff.”

  Alli shook her head. “You want me to find my dad, but you won’t work hard to save your family?”

  We stood there, staring at each other. Staring at golden dust floating down. Staring at dreams that wouldn’t die.

  Finally, I said, “I don’t know what to say to Marj. But I can help you look for your dad.”

  “And I don’t know how to look for my dad. But I can help you with Marj. Maybe we can help each other? Do you want to try?”

  I looked around my room. I wanted this bedroom to be mine forever. I didn’t want it filled with deer heads or fish mounted on boards. Dead things. “Yes,” I whispered. “I want to try.”

  

  Alli and I talked for a while but didn’t make any solid plans. When she left, I lay on my bed and thought. Dreamed. Hoped. Despaired.

  Then, practical—as every kid who’s ever been a foster child must be practical—I got up and searched in my closet to find my duffle bag. I found a small box and filled it with pictures of Griff. Monday, after school when Marj was gone, I’d go around and get pictures of Griff and use Marj’s scanner to make copies of everything. Then I’d burn a disk of pictures and put it in my duffle bag. Or maybe, I’d put them on the memorial website I was doing for Griff, where no one could take them away from me. Yeah, that would be better.

  Either way, I’d start packing this bag with important things. Ready for the day after Thanksgiving. Just in case.

  And I’d try to save $100 by then, too. Didn’t want to be like Alli, a foster kid with no money. Yeah. I’d let Alli try to help me with Marj. But just in case, I’d be ready to take care of myself.

  

  “Is it true?” Toby leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand, like he was tired. “You gave Miss Garrett some poop?”

  The noise swirled around us, with kids coming and going, chatting and calling. It was the usual garbage-in, garbage-out school cafeteria with concrete block walls and easy to mop floors.

  “Yep.” I grinned, and put my tray beside Toby’s and pulled a chair beside him. I had enjoyed the poop joke all morning.

  “You gave her POOP? Are you crazy?”

  “It was owl pellets. Technically, poop. They’re all furry, like the owl ate one mouse per pellet.” It was Thursday, our day for science labs, so I had waited till today to take in the owl pellets. Miss Garrett had planned some smelly chemistry project, but she was glad to put it off until next week and do the pellets today. “I expect we’ll find at least one entire mouse skeleton. Owls can swallow a mouse whole.” Would he understand that I wanted to bet?

  Toby took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Don’t feel good.”

  His tanned face was paler than usual. And he looked sweaty. But nothing else.

  “Are you going to eat that burger?” Alli sat down opposite Toby.

  Without looking, Toby pushed his orange tray toward her. “Go ahead.”

  Alli took a huge bite, and with her mouth full, asked me, “You gave Miss Garrett some poop?”

  This joke was just too good.

  Toby said, “Owl pellets. He wants to bet we’ll find at least one entire mouse skeleton.” He shook his head. “But I’m tired of bets.”

  She said, “You beat me all the time. Besides, it’s just friendly bets.”

  I exchanged looks with Alli. She wasn’t playing cards any more, but sometimes she took on other bets. Quietly.

  “Well, I don’t bet on poop.” Toby yawned.

  “You’ll be betting on mouse skeletons,” I said, “not poop.” In the next few weeks, I needed to save $100 so I’d have money at the new foster family. It wasn’t a good time for Toby to get tired of betting. “But we don’t have to bet. If you want to stop gambling your hard-earned allowance, it’s nothing to me.”

  “Yeah.” Alli raised her eyebrows at me, as if to question the wisdom of this statement. “We don’t want to bet.”

  Toby shoved his chair out a foot, leaned back, stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and let his legs stretch out under the table. “Well, I like to bet, you know that. I don’t mind losing either. But sometimes, I just want to win. Just now and then. Just one bet.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Suggest something.”

  “I bet I get sick before the end of the day.”

  “Aw, that’s not a fair bet. You’ll make yourself puke.” There had been lots of kids out this week with some sort of stomach virus. But not many in sixth grade, mostly little kids.

  “No, really,” he said. “And it’s one bet I hope I don’t win.”

  An itch ran down my spine. I scooted my chair to the end of the table, away from Toby. Under the table, I found my napkin. Wiped my hands off.

  “That’s right,” Toby said. “Keep away from me, or you’ll catch it.”

  I shuddered. I might catch it.

  But Alli said, “If you’re sick and not eating. . .”

  Toby just shrugged and waved his entire tray toward Alli. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and within a couple minutes, he was asleep. Right there. In the middle of the cafeteria noise. Sleeping.

  Alli and I ate without talking. Just watching Toby and worrying.

  Ring! Ring! Ring!

  The bell was loud, but Toby didn’t move.

  I stood, and Alli motioned at Toby. I shook my head. No way was I going to touch him.

  She walked around the table and shook his shoulder. “Bell. Time for science.”

  Toby drew in a ragged breath and yawned. “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

  I backed off to let him pass me and watched him go to the boy’s bathroom. This was one bet I didn’t want to win, either.

  

  I strolled to class, not wanting to get there early. Miss Garrett had talked to me every day about our house. I didn’t want to hear how Shane Baxter loved Griff’s garage, or how much Miss Garrett loved Griff’s kitchen.

  Timed it perfect. S
lipped into the chair behind Alli just as the bell rang.

  At the lab tables in the back, Miss Garrett had the owl pellets set up. She divided the class into eight groups, each with its own fuzzy pellet.

  My group—with three girls—insisted I dissect. I snapped on the plastic gloves. Then, I tried to pick up and use the needle-sharp tool and tweezers. I was clumsy. The girls giggled, but I ignored them. Finally, Marissa Blue, who had just become the starting catcher for the girls’ softball team, reached over and put the tools in my hands.

  I nodded at her, and then bent over the pellet. Eased it apart, working slow and careful, pulling out tiny, pale bones.

  Marissa got interested and found another pair of tweezers and tried to line up the bones in a skeleton shape. This was fun. Rib bone, leg bone, back bone—it might really be a full skeleton. But where was the skull?

  Then, Toby called out, his voice all weird: “Miss Garrett, I’m–”

  And Toby puked right there on the science room floor.

  Miss Garrett pushed the office call button, “Please send a janitor. . .” Then, she said, “Eliot, help Toby to the nurse’s office.”

  I tried to hold my breath. Ironic: dry owl pellets didn’t bother me, but puke made me gag. I should have taken off the plastic gloves, but they were comforting. No germs on my hands this way.

  “Can you walk?”

  Toby nodded, his face a picture of misery. I inched around the mess on the floor and held open the door for Toby.

  “Told you I’d win this bet,” he mumbled, while staggering down the hall.

  “You’re crazy. I didn’t think you’d go this far just to win a bet.”

  

  The nurse’s office was already crowded–six other students sitting in chairs or lying on one of the three beds.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, uneasy.

  Miss Clay stuck a digital thermometer in Toby’s ear. Beep. “101.5. You’ve got a temperature, Toby. We’ll call your mom to come get you.” Then she looked at me. “It’s a stomach bug. Too early for the flu. But it’s a bad bug; we’ve already sent home twenty-seven kids today.”

  A stomach virus or germ or whatever. And I was standing in the middle of the sick room. In the middle of millions, billions, trillions of germs. I didn’t need protective gloves; I needed a complete protective body suit.

  My throat burned, words barely came out. But I tried to make light of it. “My dad used to say that if he could sell puke on e-Bay for a quarter a bag, he’d be a millionaire.”

  “Um, bad joke,” Miss Clay said, grimacing. “But I’ve certainly got enough germs flying around this room to last for a long time.”

  Nothing in the room changed–I understood that. But a sudden terror of flying germs and viruses made my knees weak. I grabbed the back of a chair. But a kid sat there holding his head. I jumped back, my heart pounding in my ears, and I pulled at the plastic gloves, trying to stretch them to cover my arms, too. My feet, I couldn’t feel my feet. I stamped hard and finally felt pins and needles and that was better, way better than numb feet.

  As if coming from a distance, Miss Clay approached, her mouth moving. But I heard silence.

  And then, I started trembling. I shook, shivered like I was cold, from head to foot, and I couldn’t make it stop.

  Miss Clay was waving kids back and pulled me into a chair; but I sprang up—because the chair was full of germs from kids who had been puking in this room all day long.

  I knew I was going crazy; I understood that.

  But I couldn’t make it stop. I pulled at the glove on my right hand again, pulling so hard that it ripped, and I stared at the hole in the glove and thought of all the germs pouring in to infect my hands. I ripped off the gloves and turned frantically – still shaking so hard it almost hurt – turned in circles, trying to find a sink to wash my hands.

  No sink. No water. Just germs, billions and trillions of germs.

  I sank into a corner and hid my face in the crook of my elbow.

  Soothing hands smoothed back my hair, and slowly I realized that someone was murmuring things: Try to relax. This will pass.

  Murmuring: You’re fine. Just a little anxiety attack. It’ll go away.

  Just a little panic and that’s OK. It will pass.

  Yes, I was crazy; I understood that. Finally, my breathing slowed, and I could peek out. Miss Clay was seated beside me. She smiled, her lips thin. “Feeling better?”

  I tried to answer; instead, I started shivering again. But this time, it passed quickly. “Better,” I finally breathed.

  “We’ll call your mom in a little while. Will that be good?”

  Then Toby called, “Miss Clay, I’m—”

  And then Toby puked again, right there on the floor of the sick room.

  And then, the fire alarm went off.

  Mr. Benton’s voice came over the loud speaker: “This is NOT a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Teachers, please follow the fire drill procedures and take your students outside quietly and quickly. This is not a drill.”

  And I thought: “This is when Miss Clay needs to panic.”

  But she didn’t.

  Miss Clay lined up the sick kids and led them to the door. “Each of you buddy up with someone. Eliot, help Toby. He’s too weak to walk very well.”

  Help Toby? But Toby was filthy dirty with germs, and I would catch the flu, for sure.

  Toby sat on the bed with his head in his hands, moaning. The room stank of puke, and I stank of fear and sweat, and the fire alarm wailed and wailed and wailed.

  But Toby, my best friend, needed me.

  I pushed up, suddenly glad to be off the cold floor, and stood in front of Toby. “Let’s go.”

  No response, except more moans.

  I gritted my teeth and reached under Toby’s arm and heaved. He staggered up and flung an arm across my shoulders. I turned my face away and held my breath, trying not to breathe in germs, and took a step toward the door Miss Clay was holding open. Toby followed my lead and we stumbled toward the door.

  “Hurry,” Miss Clay urged. “This isn’t a drill.”

  At some point in the next hour, I realized I was totally zoned out. I had no idea what was happening around me. I knew we were outside for a long time, with Toby’s feverish body beside me. Slowly, I noticed a few things. Mrs. Zane came and Toby went. Then the firemen called the all clear, and the ladder trucks drove quietly away: some kid in third grade had tried to smoke cigarettes in the boy’s bathroom, or at least that’s what everyone around me was saying.

  Other sick kids left with parents who had come in answer to Miss Clay’s phone calls–she paced in front of the sick kids with her cell phone in her hand.

  But when it was time to go back inside, I was still there.

  I sat beside Miss Clay in the office while she looked up Marj’s cell phone number, which I couldn’t remember just then. She explained about my anxiety attack. Turning, Miss Clay said, “Her cell phone battery is low, but she’s on her way. She’ll be here soon. Why don’t you just stay here in the office, away from all the, um, other kids?”

  I nodded in relief. And found myself sitting in Mr. Benton’s office, alone.

  I studied the grandfather clock in the corner. 1:30 p.m.

  Marj would be here soon, I told myself. I curled up on the couch and listened to the ticking and watched the pendulum swing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  

  At 2 p.m., I stood, unsteady, and went out to the secretary to ask her to call Marj again.

  “No one answers at her office, and Miss Clay said her cell phone is dead,” the secretary said. “I’m sure she’s coming as fast as she can.”

  “Please. Just call again. Please.”

  Shaking her head in sympathy—she must have been told about the panic attack—the secretary dialed again. Finally, she hung up. “She’s got to be on her way.”

  I went back to the ticking and the pendulum until 2:32 p.m., then asked her to cal
l again. Nothing.

  The third time, at 3:13 p.m., I whispered, “Maybe she was in a wreck or something. Maybe she’s hurt.” I drew a shaky breath. “Maybe she fainted.”

  “No, no. Sometimes parents just get hung up.”

  “Could you call the hospital? Call the emergency room, the ER?”

  “It’s OK, Eliot, she’s on her way. Why don’t you see if you can lie down again?”

  Instead, I sat, head in hands, watching the clock inch forward.

  Ring! Ring! Ring! 3:30 p.m. School was out.

  I stood in the doorway of the principal’s office and watched the school empty out. No one came in, everyone went out.

  Until, finally, just after the grandfather clock bonged four times, Mr. Benton came back in the building and strolled into the office.

  “Oh, Eliot. Hi. Still here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I talked to your mom about an hour ago,” he said. “She said she had an emergency, but she’d be here before I left at 5 p.m.”

  “You talked to her? She’s okay? She’s not in the ER?”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine.” Mr. Benton slapped my back in encouragement. “Just some car trouble or something. She was calling from a pay phone because her cell phone was dead.”

  So I sat, waiting, because Miss Clay said I couldn’t go home alone. Listened to the grandfather clock chime. Every fifteen minutes. While I waited and waited and waited, I thought about how angry I was right now and how she should have been here three hours ago. Mrs. Zane came right away for Toby. Other parents had checked out kids all day long. But not Marj. No, not Marj. Not, Marjorie Turner Griffith.

  Finally at five minutes until five, Marj walked in.

  

  When Marj walked in, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Eliot, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Yeah.”

  But Marj didn’t pay any attention to me. She was explaining to Mr. Benton what had happened. She had a double flat in a construction zone where the new road was three or four inches above the old road. A car swerved in the other lane, and Marj overcorrected her steering. Her car fell off the lane into the old roadbed, and both tires on that side went flat. Of course, she said, it took an hour to get a tow truck, then a couple more hours to buy new tires and have them put on. And her cell phone was dead, as in not even the car charger would make it work. What a day, she said.