One of the items I saw she had bought me was a pair of training bras in a package, and she indicated that my breasts needed more covering.
We were never to mention my pubic hair, which had begun to grow in.
I had been informed that not only was it dangerous to touch yourself in what she called “sensitive places,” but it was also sinful.
She had put it in a puzzling way: “It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present in October. You wait.”
Wait for what?
And yet here she was, genuinely excited about my becoming a little lady.
I hadn’t even washed my face or had any breakfast. She was very excited, even more excited than I was, which made me think about that picture in the frame that was above my bed. She surely always had dreamed of having a granddaughter, or a daughter for that matter, and taking joy in watching her grow up. I was almost amused at just how much she wanted it all to be right, be wonderful and perfect. She looked sincerely worried about how things fit me and if I liked the color and the style.
But why? I wondered. Who would see me? And what if they did and wanted to know me, especially a boy? I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to insert a second of doubt or darkness.
“They told me these clothes are all in style for girls your age.”
“Why didn’t you just take me along to buy it all? Then you wouldn’t be worrying about something not fitting and having to bring it back.”
“You’re the one who gave me the idea the other night.”
“I did?”
“Just like you, I wanted it all to be a birthday surprise. What kind of a surprise would it be if you knew what you were getting? Wasn’t that what you said? Isn’t most of the fun opening the boxes and not knowing what is in them?”
She laughed at the expression of shock on my face. She was listening to me, to my advice?
But that’s not her real reason, I thought. She was never comfortable when someone who saw us together asked questions about me. They almost had to twist her arm to get her to say I was her granddaughter. I saw she was always concerned about how I would react. Would I do something to embarrass her, contradict her? And would the lie lead to big trouble for us both? What if I simply started to cry because it stirred up my memories of Mama? All this was surely her main reason for buying everything without me.
Amazingly, however, nothing she had bought me was too small or too large, and everything was pretty. I recognized some of the clothes from what the girls on the street wore, and there was a pretty little watch with a gold band. After I had tried on everything, she said she had one more important thing to give me at my birthday dinner. It sounded mysterious and exciting, but I didn’t want to pester her for details right away. I thought it would make me sound greedy, and I didn’t want to risk disrupting the good mood she was in. Because it was my birthday, she told me I didn’t have to do any schoolwork all day, and I could watch as much television as I wanted. I could go out in the backyard whenever I wanted. I didn’t even have to do a single household chore.
But of course, I couldn’t help but wonder all day what this last thing was. She had given me a watch and practically a whole new wardrobe. There wasn’t much else I needed. Was her surprise that I would finally be going to a real school? Or could it possibly be something about Daddy?
After dinner, she brought out my birthday cake, though it didn’t have any candles on it. She said I was too old now to blow out candles. She placed it on the table and sat back. I was holding my breath, my imagination running wild with the wonderful possibilities about what was to come.
“Sometimes,” she began, “it’s good to keep something that might be very sad or disturbing secret until there is a happy time. The happy time makes the sadness of the other thing less important or painful. Happiness is stronger than sadness. Real happiness can wash sadness away. Remember that. It’s one of my wisdom quotes.”
This didn’t sound like it was leading up to a wonderful surprise, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My heart was still thumping in anticipation. Perhaps it wasn’t marvelous to her but would be to me. Despite how much time had passed and how many hopeful expectations had come and gone, I held on to my dream: living again with Daddy in a new home and starting in a real school where I could make friends. Wasn’t that what I really wanted, my ultimate dream?
“I know you keep waiting and expecting to hear from your father, especially today,” she began, and then she paused.
I was right, I thought. He had called and said he finally was coming for me. That would make her sad, so I quickly warned myself to avoid exploding in happiness. It might make her feel bad or think I had hated every moment with her.
“Daddy called?” I asked as calmly as I could manage.
After all this time, he had finally called.
Her pause made flies circle in my stomach. I couldn’t stand the waiting. She stared at me without saying a word. Why was she taking so long? Why didn’t she simply blurt it out? Was she that upset over losing me? I’d promise to visit her, promise almost anything.
“He did,” she said. When she paused again, it felt like the whole world had paused. It wasn’t spinning. No cars were being driven; no people were walking. All ears were focused on what she was about to tell me.
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t to wish you a happy birthday. In fact, I had to remind him what day it was. His life right now is a little overwhelming, I guess. He doesn’t know up from down. Of course, that’s no justification for it.”
It felt like my heart was slipping down into my stomach.
“He didn’t know it was my birthday?”
I shook my head. Surely she had gotten that wrong. Daddy never forgot my birthday. In fact, once, toward our final days, he had reminded my mother.
“Don’t be upset. The world is topsy-turvy for him. Men are more like that than women. My father never remembered my birthday. Eventually, he even forgot his own.”
All my excitement quickly retreated, pulled back into the shell inside me like a turtle pulling back its head. In fact, I was on the verge of crying, but I sucked back my tears. She was expecting me to be a little lady now and no longer a child. If she still thought I was, she would never let me go to school and meet others my age.
“So, then, why did he call?” I asked, my voice so breathy and full of fear that I wasn’t sure I had spoken.
But she was taking too long to answer. I hated her long pauses, watching her think and think. Ordinarily, it meant she was searching for words that wouldn’t make me frightened or hysterical.
She took a deep breath and then folded her hands in front of her on the table.
Now I was really worrying. Why was it so difficult to tell me what he had said? Fear ran up my spine like an icy-cold snake. What terrible thing had he said? Or maybe something had happened to him and he had called her from a hospital.
“He called to tell us that his girlfriend is having a baby, and because she is so delicate, apparently once having lost a baby, he’s decided he can’t tell her about you until after the new baby is born,” Mazy said in one breath, rushing the words out and then looking happy that she didn’t have to hold them in any longer.
“How did she lose a baby?”
Her familiar smirk appeared. “She didn’t lose it like you lose a pen or something, Saffron. It fell out of her too soon and died. Your father is afraid that if he tells her about you, she might get so nervous that this baby might fall out too soon and die, too. She’d blame you. And that would be that… forever. They might not get married, either.”
“Married? Isn’t she his new wife by now?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Young people today don’t put the value on a marriage the way people used to. It’s almost nothing more than a steady date. Anyway, you see he has a lot to think about.”
“He should be thinking more about me,” I said. I looked away. I didn’t want her to see what was really in my eyes. It was far more than disappointment. Now anger rose like
a snake that had been sleeping in the shadows, only for me in the shadows of every hope, every dream.
“Well, that’s probably why he wants everything to be perfect this time. He is thinking about your happiness. But you don’t have to worry. You can wait. You have a good life here in the meantime, don’t you?”
It was like swallowing disgusting medicine to agree with her. Yes, I had enough to eat. Yes, I had nice clothes, especially after today. And I was surely learning faster than other kids my age were learning in the public school. But I still felt like half a person. For me, the real world and the world I watched on television weren’t that much different. The hesitation in my face was annoying her.
“You don’t lack anything and never will while I’m alive,” she pledged angrily.
Except friends, I wanted to say, but I kept the words under my tongue. There were questions that hovered like angry bees, however. I was afraid to ask most, but now, feeling more confident about myself and even angrier at Daddy, I decided to risk one.
“Did Daddy say the lost baby was his?”
“He didn’t say. It could have happened before he met this woman.”
She waited, watching the thoughts in my mind rush in from all directions. She looked patient, willing to take as much time as it might to get it all over with, forever.
“How does my father know everything is all right with me? How does he know you are getting me everything I need?”
She sat back, not smiling but not looking angry, either.
“Now, that’s an adult question. What did your father do for a living? You mentioned it to me once, so I know you knew.”
“He sold people insurance.”
“Exactly, and to do that, he had to know about those people, personal things about them. He had to have ways to find out these things, information other people couldn’t know or didn’t care to know. People lie about themselves, and insurance agents have to be sure they know the truth. Imagine insuring someone’s life and not knowing they were going to die in a few weeks.”
She shrugged. “He simply must have done a routine check on me. Sometimes insurance companies go so far as to hire private detectives. He found out what he needed to know, and he is still quite satisfied and confident you’re in good hands. That’s not surprising. Don’t forget that I was an excellent teacher, and I’ve never even gotten a jaywalking ticket. I’m a perfect guardian for a girl like you, and there’s certainly enough room for you in this house.”
“But shouldn’t he call at least once to see how I sound?” I pursued. I didn’t want to come out and say it, but he’d only have to hear me say a few words to detect the sadness that coated my heart.
She looked away for a moment and then nodded, as if someone had whispered something in her ear. “He and I talked about that,” she said. “We decided that it would make you so depressed that you’d get sick over it, and it would keep you from growing up well. He was very unhappy that he had to not do that, but he was very intent on your well-being and wanted to do what had to be done to make sure you’d be all right.”
I stared at her. There were tones in her voice when she told me things that gave me pause. When the person you’re with is practically the only person you see or hear, you can tell things about her that other people cannot. She’d been the first and the last voice I heard all day for years now. Her tongue had become a tattletale, betraying what she really thought.
Lies as tools. That was why he didn’t ask her any more questions about me, and why I wouldn’t ask any more questions about him.
But later, thinking about what she had said, I felt like putting dozens of pennies in her jar. She appeared to realize that, and that evening she left it out on the counter. I felt a little weird, even frightened, that I wanted to do it myself, but I did it. And whether it was my imagination or not, I went to sleep that night without crying, inside or out. Did her magic jar work, or was it simply that I had no tears left, especially for Daddy?
Instead of dwelling on it, like changing the channel on the television set, I thought about the sick girl in the house on our street and fantasized ways to get to be with her. Suddenly, even though I was well and she was very sick, we were both suffering the same pains, and we were both equally lonely. Every afternoon when I had free time, I ventured a little farther in the woods in the direction of her house, always keenly aware that Mazy might see me. Sometimes I felt like someone rushing at the inside of a giant balloon, trying to break out but being bounced back instead. I’d get so nervous and frightened at how far I had gone that I’d turn and run home, nearly falling over dead wood and rocks—especially if I heard some sound coming from Mazy’s house.
Months passed. As if she knew I valued my free time outside more and more, Mazy increased my work in the classroom. She made me do many things over, even though my results were nearly perfect. I barely could get outside before it began to turn dark, and she insisted I be back inside when it was dark.
“I want perfect out of you,” she would tell me if I complained. “Not nearly perfect. Nearly perfect is not good enough.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because someday you will be competing with girls your age who come from wealthier parents or, in the eyes of those judging you, ‘more normal’ situations. I know how it is. Since you’re being homeschooled, they’ll expect you to do worse, and you’ll always have to prove yourself, Saffron. Remember, I told you I can see the future for my students, and I know you’re going to have a harder time. Unfairly but nevertheless harder. I want you to be prepared for it.”
She didn’t have to convince me I was different. I knew most girls my age had mothers and fathers and, most of all, friends their age. Reluctantly, I accepted that she was right, and I did work harder. From time to time, from my window, I’d see the sick girl on the porch, especially as the weather improved. Seeing her looking so lost and alone drove me to go farther and farther into the woods until I was right behind her house. All I would have to do was slip around the side and maybe whisper to her.
The day I decided to do it was a day Mazy wasn’t feeling well. She had been complaining about aches and pains and telling me to keep my distance from her because she was convinced she had a flu. All she wanted to eat was toast and jelly with a cup of tea. She let me bring it to her, but I had to leave as soon as I put it on her bedside table. She didn’t even remind me to do all my schoolwork and read the new book she had given me. Realizing she was confining herself to her room gave me the courage. Quietly but quickly, I left the house and headed into the woods. It was early in the afternoon. Other kids would still be in school.
Other than knowing when the children on the street were in school, I rarely kept track of the days of the week. They all seemed the same to me. Mazy and I didn’t save weekends for something special. I had heard Mazy mention that today was a Friday, however. I thought of months and the seasons the same vague way, but today was one of those brighter days, with barely a breeze. The few clouds I saw were sliding along slowly, all looking puffy, proud, and content. The rich scent of new leaves filled me with energy and excitement. It was one of those days when I felt like running in any direction and just falling to the ground to embrace the aroma of grass and fresh dirt, one of those days when I felt hopeful but could not explain why.
I practically tiptoed up to the front porch and brought my face to the white spindles, hoping the sick girl wasn’t in a deep sleep. She had her eyes closed, but the moment I touched the railing, they opened, and she turned toward me in an ever-so-slow motion. I held my breath. Did the nurse and her mother convince her I was evil? Would she scream for them?
She smiled. She looked groggy and thinner than when I had seen her last, but she had eyes so blue that they wouldn’t fade under her fatigue. She wore a sort of sock hat. Her dark-blue wool blanket, which I thought was over the top for today, was tucked around her so tightly I imagined she couldn’t get her arms out. It looked more like a cocoon.
“I’m Saff
ron,” I said quickly. “And I didn’t come from a tree.”
Her smile widened. “I know,” she said. “I’m Lucy. Sorry they chased you away. My mother and my nurse, Mrs. Randolph, are so protective. I’m lucky they let me outside. Sometimes I can see you looking out of your window.” Her voice was thin, like the voice a bird would have if it could speak.
“You can see me?”
She nodded. “If you can see me, I can see you,” she said. “How long have you been here living with Mrs. Dutton?” Her blue eyes grew brighter with curiosity.
“I don’t remember exactly. A long time,” I said. “I try not to think about it.”
“You don’t want to remember when you started living with her?”
“No. Years,” I offered without being more specific. Sometimes I couldn’t remember exactly how long myself.
She nodded, not surprised. “That’s like me when people wonder how long I’ve been sick, and I say I don’t remember. Is Mrs. Dutton your grandmother? My mother says no one knew she had a granddaughter. That’s why some of the kids think you came from a tree. No one saw you move in. No one saw any of her family visiting her. She keeps to herself a lot. Where do her children live? Does she have any brothers or sisters?”
For some reason, I couldn’t lie to her. Maybe it was because she looked so fragile, more like very thin glass. I could see the blue veins in her temples. I didn’t need a tool with her. I couldn’t even imagine being untruthful to her. I’d be afraid to touch her with dishonesty. When she found out I had lied, I was sure her disappointment would shatter her face.
“Does it hurt to be as sick as you are?” I asked, instead of answering.
“Not like a burn or a cut,” she said. “It makes me tired. I sleep a lot.”
The Umbrella Lady Page 16
