Jackson says he’s the man of the house now. I feel like the only one without a new role. Maybe that’s because I haven’t quite let go. Sometimes a thought forms of something I want to tell you, or I look toward your chair with a split second expectation that you will be there. That hurts, but the thing that bothers me the most is that we don’t feel like a real family anymore.
Jackson’s Microwave Emergency
A tap at my door.
Jackson’s pale face.
“I broke the microwave.”
His voice trembles although
I can see him fighting it.
“I forgot to take off the
tinfoil. Then there was
a flash and sparks and it
caught on fire.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him but
it takes more than words to
convince him that he has not
added one more thing for
Mom to carry. When I have
proven to him that all is well
his relief almost makes me
cry.
Truth and Lies
I have made my way at last to the truth
about that girl. Samantha (as if her name matters).
It has been inside me the whole time,
chewing its way to the surface.
Now that looking forward and
looking back have collided,
I know, I know, I know,
what I did.
What I really did.
I knew it then.
Meeting his eyes with whispers
in mine. So much was said that never
saw words.
Was there a millisecond when I
truly believed it was just a
game? Harmless flirting,
a delicious thrill
that meant nothing.
I have been carrying the proof all this time,
and now it is my own voice that
mocks and condemns.
I must act before I weaken,
before I tell myself more lies and try
to pretend that I believe them.
I will betray myself
if given the slightest chance.
I do my best to explain to him
that it’s been doomed from the start,
that you can’t build something good on a
foundation of betrayal and deceit.
Our beginning makes it impossible for me to
ever feel safe.
And my heart is breaking.
He says, “Okay, if that’s
what you gotta do,” and
I close my phone, slowly, like I am
making a statement, but
Scott has already hung up.
How casually he has let me go.
Which is good because a part
of me knows how easily
I could have been persuaded.
They are Here
They are here—
Christine and Dee.
They have come
because I need them.
They are here—
armed and ready.
They have come
to fight my pain.
They are here—
with ice cream and words.
They have come
with a message.
They are here—
to say it will be all right.
They have come
and they are here.
1
Letter to Dad.docx (continued)
Something happened today that brought back a powerful memory. It started when I found Jackson at the table, staring glumly at stacks of magazines. Of course, I asked him what they were for.
“An art project,” he said.
“The project you were all excited about a couple of weeks ago?” I asked. “The one you said was going to be amazing?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. Then his eyes lifted and he gave me a mournful look. “It’s due tomorrow.”
Naturally. “What were you planning to do?” I asked.
“The Scream.”
“That doesn’t exactly clear it up for me.”
“Have you seen that painting called The Scream—by Edvard Munch?” When I nodded, he went on. “I was going to make that out of cut up magazine pictures. Like a collage.”
Can you believe it! A collage of The Scream! I knew it was hopeless even if I worked on it with him until midnight. Then I remembered—when you have friends, you can call on them.
And I have friends.
Christine and Dee both said they’d help and in no time, they were here, brandishing scissors and craft glue and smiles. They told Jackson it would be fantastic and gave him buckets of attention that he soaked up like a sponge.
Dee had printed out a copy of The Scream and she did a pencil sketch of it—complete with colour coding instructions—on Jackson’s Bristol board. Then we all flipped through magazines, tearing out pictures and cutting up sections of colour.
As he was sticking the colours into place, the smell of the glue reached me across the table. In an instant, I was transported across years, into my grade two classroom. The image that came to mind was crystal clear—a folded piece of purple construction paper that I was painstakingly cutting into the shape of the bottom of a shoe. I was working with greater care than usual because the task at hand was a card I was making. For Father’s Day. A sole-shaped card with my goofy school picture inside and the caption. “Upon my sole, I love you DAD!”
I remember the way you scooped me up in a bear hug and told me it was wonderful—the best card you’d ever received. That made me giggle.
For a second, I think, “That was a great acting job, Dad!”
But right away, I know I’m wrong. As impossible as it seems, I realize that you really and truly found that lame card wonderful.
BTW. You’ll be glad to know that Jackson’s project turned out fantastic. He could hardly wait to show it to Mom when she got home, and a thrill ran through me when I saw how the sight of it picked her up.
It was a good day.
Truth and Consequences
You think something is over, a closed book, and
then something will pop into your head.
Today, it was a curious question.
Did Samantha know about me? Not
that it much mattered from
this side of the vacation.
Either way, what I did was so much worse.
It feels so strange knowing that I was guilty of
something so despicable.
And for what? For
someone who showed me on
Day One that he was a cheat.
And so was I.
Does that mean I
can never be trusted?
I can’t stand to think I have
that kind of character flaw.
I will accept only that
there was a terrible
crack in judgement.
Today
and every
tomorrow
I will be
my own sentry.
I will not be
my father’s daughter.
Mother the Invisible
I don’t know exactly what grabbed my attention, my
heart. Mom is on the couch, laundry basket at her side, a
growing pile of folded clothes on the coffee table.
Justin Hines is playing in the background and she is
singing along to ‘April on the Ground.’ Her face is not quite
sad, but solemn, and somehow vacant.
As though there is nothing there. As if
she has taken up residence in a trance.
I realize that this is how she has looked for some time. She is
here, doing what needs to be done
going to work
coming home
taking care of things
but there is a flatness behind it all.
She has alwa
ys been serious, but there was
laughter there too. There was ...
interest. There was light.
I wonder about the way she threw herself into
redecorating the house, remaking herself. There was
something frantic about it, as though it was merely a way
for her to propel herself through the days. And now,
she lives in a state of autopilot.
I cross the room to her side, reach into the
laundry basket for something to fold. She gives me
a thin smile. I tell myself I should put an arm around her, but
I can’t reach across the space.
She glances at me with a vacant smile.
Her hands go on folding clothes. I am
startled when she begins to speak.
“I’ve been thinking lately about the summer we
went camping.
You were five and Jackson was a baby. I didn’t
work so money was tight. We borrowed
a tent and sleeping bags—your dad loved camping,
though I can’t say the same about me.
“One night we were sitting
outside the tent, enjoying the cooling breeze
after a hot day—
watching the moon’s reflection on the water. It was beautiful and peaceful
at first until the mosquitoes drove us back inside.
I made a remark that it would have been perfect
if it wasn’t for the mosquitoes. And your father said,
‘Nothing is ever perfect,
but that shouldn’t stop us from taking hold of
all the good there is.’”
The space between us closes.
Moving Past Scott
Of course I’ve seen him with her—
his new girlfriend, Meredith. She’s
a clinger, the sort who hangs off her
boyfriend’s arm like she’s attached with Velcro.
There’s a sad twinge, now and then, I won’t
deny that’s there. But I’ve seen more than
the two of them together. I’ve seen his
smile cross the space to her friend.
It is possible I am reading more into that
than I should. But I doubt it.
Forgiveness on Demand
I have been told that Nina is ready to forgive but
I know she was dragged to this place.
I know that the others chipped away,
chipped away at her anger and
determination, that they muffled her
objections with persuasions.
And with promises that were
not theirs to make. That is because they
believe it can be repaired, this broken
circle of friends.
I know it cannot. Not the way they
imagine. Good as new. Not after a wound
so deep, so carelessly inflicted. And
the casting off was too complete.
Yes, I could go to Nina today.
I could say my part and she
could say hers, but the truth
would leave our words
exposed and naked.
It would be nothing more than
an act in two play-ers.
ACT I, SCENE ONE
LAREN
(imploringly, crossing hands over chest)
Oh, Nina, I’m so sorry.
NINA
(slowly lifting tear-stained face)
I forgive you, Laren.
(Hallelujah chorus plays in background.)
(fade to reality)
The truth is, I am sorry.
I am disgusted by what I
did. But even with that, there is a
a looking-out-for-me side too.
I know I have made a start.
I have walked toward sorry
but she has steps to take as well
and healing cannot begin until
she walks toward forgiveness.
I hope for a measure of reconciliation
somewhere on the path ahead but we have
not reached that place.
Some things are heavy to carry
and yet
you cannot set them down just anywhere.
Bridget Jones’s Men
I step from the shower to the sound of
voices down the hall. Mom and Aunt Rita
talking about the men in Bridget Jones’s life.
Specifically, their personal preferences.
I stand there, dripping and amused, until
I hear Mom declare that, “Firth is hotter.”
That is the point when I step into my room
laughing out loud, struck by how much
they sound like teenage girls.
It is funny until later when I am texting
Christine about it and she texts back:
“I guess your mom will start
dating one of these days.”
New Year
What do they really mean,
these dark, winter, midnight bells?
An ending? A beginning?
Reflections and resolutions—all at the
passing of a single day.
Time.
It moves around,
my sense of time.
It is yesterday.
It is forever,
and each new occasion is a fatherless first.
My thoughts turn to him and to
the unfinished letter.
I open it and read what has come before,
leaving it all just as it was written. Even those
things that I would not write today
had their time and place, and will remain.
My fingers pause, poised over the keyboard
and then new words come.
Letter to Dad.docx (conclusion)
A lot has happened since the moment when Mom stood in my bedroom doorway and said the words that changed everything.
I’ve been angry with you. But lately, I’ve been angry with myself, too. I’ve been learning that forgiving my own mistakes isn’t that simple, even though I’m truly sorry for what I did. I think you probably know all about that. You might have had some advice for me if you were still around. Or, you might not.
Of course, anger has only been a small part of it. These have been the most emotional months of my life. So much of it left me worn out, lost and empty.
Then, as I thought about the past year and all that’s changed, I found myself sorting through some specific moments and memories. Nine in all. And something still settled in me as I realized that each of these had one thing in common. You know what that was? Your hugs. I saw that, through all of the bad and sad and glad moments, my father’s arms were there to protect or comfort or celebrate with me.
Tears come when I remember the hug you gave me on the night you died. It was “goodbye” although we did not know it. But like every hug you’ve ever given me, it was also, “I love you. I’ll always love you.”
And now, looking back and seeing past the moments to the whole, I know I can forgive you. That I will forgive you. It may take a while longer, but I’ve already begun.
I’m just now beginning to feel ... ready.
For what lies ahead.
With love from your daughter,
Laren
Text copyright © 2013 Valerie Sherrard
Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8
Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.
www.fitzhenry.ca [email protected]
&nbs
p; Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Sherrard, Valerie
Counting back from nine / Valerie Sherrard.
ISBN 978-1-55455-245-0 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-852-0 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8587.H3867C68 2012 jC813’.6 C2012-904073-8
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)
Sherrard, Valerie.
Counting back from nine / Valerie Sherrard.
[ 200 ] p. : cm.
Summary: A high-schooler comes to terms with the loss of her friends and the revelation of family secrets that cause her to question everything she thought was true about her life in this free verse novel.
ISBN: 978-1-55455-245-0 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-852-0 (epub)
1. Coming of age—Juvenile fiction. 2. Friendship in adolescence—Juvenile fiction. 2. Teenage girls—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
[Fic] dc23 PZ7.S54773Co 2012
Cover and interior design by Daniel Choi
Cover art by Francesco Paonessa
Cover images courtesy of Jaime Reid and Michelle Bagley, and Shutterstock
The author gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
L'auteur remercie le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L'an dernier, le Conseil a investi 24,3 millions de dollars dans les lettres et l'édition à travers le Canada.
Counting Back from Nine Page 8
