I stomped into the living room and threw myself on the bed. My cell phone slid off my pillow like a sign.
Mama answered on the third ring. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
I sniffled. “How do you know something’s wrong?”
“Is it Oma?” Mama’s voice trembled. “Is she hurt?”
I rubbed my hot cheeks. “Oma’s okay, I guess. This guy in class asked me to go to the mall with him on Saturday…”
“Keziah, that’s great. What’s his name?”
“Domenick. So then—”
“I know I don’t have to ask if he’s a nice boy. I trust you, Keziah.”
“That’s the thing. Oma doesn’t! She said I can’t go, and now she’s in the bedroom crying.”
Silence. Mama’s breathing rasped.
“Mommy?”
“Oma doesn’t want you to grow up. I wasn’t allowed to date, either. I had to wait until I was out of college.”
“Then you met Dad?”
Pause. “Yes, then I met your father. When he’d bring me flowers, Oma would throw them out. She wouldn’t let him call, so he’d have to come to the door to talk to me. Oma had a difficult childhood.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t think she was ever given much attention, so this is how she makes up for it. Does that make sense?”
No. “Sure, I guess so. Yeah.” My nose burned with tears. “But what about Domenick? It’s not fair. Why can’t I go out? I’ve never been on a date before.”
“Keziah.” Mama sighed. “I don’t want you lying to me ever, but I know how Oma can be. Tell her you have to go to the library to study. Whatever you do, make sure he doesn’t pick you up at Oma’s. He has a car, right?”
“Um, I don’t know. I can ask him.”
“Whatever you do, make sure Oma doesn’t see you leave with him. Now, you’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I promised.
“I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”
“I love you guys.” I hated lying, but I would lie to Oma about Saturday.
****
Domenick picked me up at the library. Walking around the block to meet him seemed like I was really doing something bad.
As I read the back of a historical novel, a hand tapped my shoulder.
I jumped, glancing up to see Domenick. “Hello!” I set the novel back with a little too much force; a corner of the cover bent.
“So I was thinking we could go back to my house and play video games or watch a movie.”
“I thought we were going to the mall.” The automatic doors slid open as we exited the building.
“We can, but I was just at the mall, and I figured we could get to know each other better at my place.”
He wants to make out. I licked my lips. “Are your parents home?”
“They’re over at my aunt’s. Nobody’s home. If you really want to, we can go to the mall. Whatever you want to do is fine.” The tops of his cheeks seemed to reddened. Adorable. Usually I was the one blushing.
The mall would be loud, so we couldn’t talk, and I didn’t want to poke at clothes. Guys didn’t like clothes shopping.
“Okay, let’s go to your house. That sounds fun.” I tried to smile, except my lips felt tight. He didn’t seem the type to push me into kissing if I said no.
Slush slickened the parking lot. My feet slid when I opened the door to his green jeep, and I hit the side of the car. Mud and salt from the road smeared across my coat.
Great. Was I going to get his car seat dirty? Peering through the window, I saw an empty bag from McDonald’s on the floor. At least he wasn’t spotless.
Keith Urban played through the stereo system. I hated country music. Tiffany had once said country singers only sang about love lost, their trucks, their tractors, and their dogs. This particular song was about a man losing his truck.
I wanted to compliment him on his jeep, but the seats were stained and mud streaked everything. “It’s cool you’ve got a driver’s license.”
“Thanks.” He slid his hands on the steering wheel to turn down a street. “I got it when I was sixteen. You don’t have one, do you? People in the big city don’t usually drive.”
Domenick slid into silence as he concentrated on the road. Was I making him nervous? That thought sent a thrill through my blood, and I smiled.
He turned into a driveway. “Here we are.”
“Is this still New Winchester?”
“The outskirts of it, but yeah.” He parked the car in front of a two-stall garage. “Home sweet home, you know?”
Snow crunched under our feet as I followed Domenick to the front door. Potted plants, dead now, lined the walkway and light-up reindeer stood in the yard.
“Isn’t it a little early for Christmas decorations?” I asked.
“Huh?” He fitted the key into the lock and turned it with a grunt.
I poked at one of the dead, brown plants with my toe. “The deer in the front yard. Isn’t it a little early to have them out?”
The top of the withered plant broke off. I sucked breath through my teeth and jerked my foot away. Domenick had his back turned, so I hoped he hadn’t seen.
“They’re just decorations.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside with a stiff bow. “Welcome to my humble domain, my lady.”
The house smelled like cat pee and vanilla. The vanilla, emitting from a plug-in at the wall, failed to overpower the unpleasantness, only making it more intense. I almost gagged, covering my reaction by wiping my hand across my nose as if it itched. The sleeve of my coat slid over my mouth as I slid off my boots.
Domenick pulled off his ski jacket and threw it over the hallway radiator.
“Isn’t that going to catch on fire?” I pointed at the radiator.
“Nah, it hasn’t yet.” He wandered into the next room: the kitchen. Dishes overflowed the sink. Papers and a laptop covered the table.
“You want something to eat? There’s some pizza in the fridge.”
“No, I’m good.” I peeled off my black coat and set it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Um, do you have a cat?”
“We used to. My grandmother took him.”
I waited for an elaboration, but none came. Had no one cleaned the cat pee? Oma’s house might have dust bunnies and peeling paint, but it didn’t smell.
He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Gatorade. “Want one?”
“I’m not a big fan of Gatorade. I don’t work out enough for all that sodium.”
“He snapped his fingers. “You’re hot and as skinny as a stick. You gotta be kidding. I bet you work out all the time.”
I licked my lips; his eyes riveted on them and he lifted a brow.
I turned my head away. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go watch a movie in the basement.” He unscrewed the lid and chewed on the edge of his plastic bottle.
Was the cellar going to stink, too?
“Come on, my lady.” He motioned with his bottle.
I trailed him into the next room, a dining area. A crystal chandelier hung over the middle of the huge table. This room had a vanilla plug-in too, and scattered painting supplies.
“My brother paints.” Domenick opened a door and switched on a light. “Right this way, mademoiselle.”
Hippie orange carpeting covered the steps. They moaned like banshees as we descended into the depths. The air grew cooler with each step down.
“Welcome to my hide-out.” Stuffing seeped out of the cushions of two couches; cat claw marks streaked the fabric. A large screen TV rested over an assortment of video game devices. The cellar also contained a card table surrounded by chairs, stacks of hardcover books, and colorful dice.
“Dungeons and Dragons. Ever play?” Domenick asked.
“Isn’t that the game that makes people kill themselves?”
“No.” He pulled DVD boxes off a bookshelf. “What movie do you want to watch?”
A movie meant sitting closer together, our
shoulders touching. Spit dried in my mouth. Was I ready for my first make out session?
No, I didn’t even know this guy.
“We could play video games,” I said.
“You like ‘em? Most girls don’t.” He took a long sip of the Gatorade.
“My sister and I are always racing each other at home.”
“I have some racing games.” He set the DVD stack on the floor. “How old is your sister?”
“Seven.” I sat on the edge of the couch. and tugged the heart pompom on the back of my ankle sock for something to do with my hands.
“Is she staying here with your grandmother, too?” He knelt in front of the PlayStation 3 to fiddle with wires.
“No. My grandmother…doesn’t like her all that much.”
“Really?” He looked up. “How come?”
I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t make Oma sound heartless. “My grandmother’s weird.”
“What do you mean?”
I paused. Where to start? I began by talking about the phone call from Uncle Jan saying Oma showed signs of suffering from dementia.
****
I am nine years old when a bookstore opens in New Winchester. Oma and I go for the Grand Opening. They give away free bookmarks, so I take one for Mama.
“Here’s fifty dollars.” Oma hands me the bill. “Get whatever you want.”
We spend two hours in the children’s section looking through books. I finally select a few, and one classic, Around the World by Jules Verne.
“This is for us to read when I spend the night.”
“Excellent choice.”
I take an extra bookmark and keep it in the classic.
Chapter 18
I didn’t want to be home. I’d rather stay with Domenick, who listened, but instead I had to deal with Oma. At least I got to look forward to my parents and sister coming for Thanksgiving.
My stomach muscles felt tight, and the insides ached. I slid my hand beneath the hem of my shirt to press my cold palm against my hot belly. Please don’t throw up, Kez.
“How long am I supposed to wait?” Oma called from the bedroom. “I’ve been sitting here for hours. I want to lie down. This is ridiculous!”
“Mommy called from the bus station. They should be here any minute.” I dropped the sheer curtain at the front door to walk to the bedroom.
“I don’t see why they have to come here for Thanksgiving,” Oma muttered.
“We’re going to Uncle Jan’s for Thanksgiving,” I corrected. “They’re just staying here for a few days.”
“Aren’t you enough? I’m already stuck with you.” Oma snorted.
I hoped deep down, my grandmother liked my presence.
I touched my stomach again. It took a lot to make me nervous, but my parents and Phebe coming to stay did it. What if they didn’t like the way I took care of Oma?
Uncle Jan’s car pulled into the driveway. “They’re here!”
Oma huffed as I ran to the front door. I flipped the lock and yanked it open. Mindless of the slippers I wore, I catapulted off the porch. The thin soles stepped on ice, and I landed on my bottom, snow soaking through my pants.
“Are you okay?” Phebe’s voice carried across the front yard.
I rocked to my knees and stood, brushing off my butt. Phebe raced up the sidewalk and across the front walkway, her face aglow. I caught my sister in my arms, her little legs wrapping around my waist as her little arms wound around my neck. Soft kisses rained over my face.
I staggered against the porch, snow slipping off the roof to fall over our heads and down the collar of my shirt. I laughed with Phebe.
Something caught my attention at the front door, and when I looked, I caught Oma glaring daggers at my little sister. I tightened my arms.
****
“None of you are sleeping in the bedroom upstairs,” Oma said.
Other than that scathing announcement, she spoke next to nothing, but there were glares aplenty, multiple snorts, and huffs. The rest of the time was spent in silence.
My parents slept on my mattress in the living room. Phebe and I shared the couch.
It was amazing to be able to see them, not just hear their voices over the telephone. Oma took up so much of my thoughts that I hadn’t realized how much I missed them. Dad told nonsensical jokes that sent everyone into hysterics—everyone except Oma. She refused to say a single word to him.
Mama rolled up her sleeves and got out the pail. She scrubbed the kitchen from floor to ceiling, and set to work on the bathroom. She scrubbed the entire downstairs, and all the while, Oma flapped her hands.
“You’re just doing this to make me pay you. I won’t pay you. You can’t have my money. Stop pretending my house is dirty.” She shut herself in the bedroom.
I spent my days sitting on the bed next to my grandmother watching television. Despite the snow, Phebe spent most of her time in the backyard.
Whenever Oma noticed Phebe, she spouted a rude remark. “Why does that thing have to run around? It could really use some self-control.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” I promised Phebe, but my sister nodded without speaking.
Oma had said the same things since Phebe was born, way before she’d developed dementia.
Time dragged. I wanted to hang out with Domenick again, but I needed to spend as much time with my family as possible.
When Thanksgiving arrived, Oma refused to go to the restaurant.
“Please,” Mama begged. “It won’t be the same if you don’t come out with us. Jan and everyone are going.”
“Then how much fun is that going to be?” Oma squawked. “No one will talk to me. I’ll be all alone.”
“Everything doesn’t have to revolve around you,” Dad muttered.
“What?” Oma narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you say?” When he didn’t repeat the words, she rounded on me. “What did that man say?”
“He wants you to go with us,” I shouted.
“Please,” Mama added. “You need to go. It’s Thanksgiving. You used to love Thanksgiving.”
Oma huffed, yet she allowed Mama to pick out clothes. My grandmother had stopped eating as much as usual. For lunch, she refused anything other than yogurt. The blue dress that had once fit her now hung off her body.
“You really need to start eating more.” Mama tugged on the straps of the dress, yet the front still sagged, and the white turtleneck underneath bagged under Oma’s arms.
“I eat a lot. I’m fat.”
“Oma isn’t fat.” Phebe tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her velveteen dress. I hushed her in case our grandmother had a cruel comment about that.
Mama tried to get Oma into a pair of skin-tone pantyhose, but she refused. “They bunch. They ride down. I’m not wearing them.”
“We’re late.” Dad tapped his watch over Oma’s head, lifting his eyebrows at Mama.
In the end, Oma wore a pair of black sweatpants beneath the dress.
“She’s old,” Mama whispered. “People will understand. The elderly are always eccentric.”
“Come on,” I reached for Oma’s hand. “Uncle Jan’s going to be waiting for us at the restaurant.”
“Where’s my purse?”
“Here it is.” Mama held it up. “I’ve got it. Come on, let’s go. I’ll lock up.”
“Don’t take my money.” Oma clung to me as we meandered to her car.
Phebe bounced in the backseat.
“I’m going to fall.” As Oma shuffled through the snow, it heaped and fell over the tops of her boots.
“Keziah, why can’t you shovel?” Mama exclaimed. “Is it so hard to shovel? I always shoveled when I was your age.”
I’d shoveled last night. This snow had fallen since then, but I knew Mama’s frustration made her snippy. A squirrel ran over a magnolia branch above our heads, snow shaking free. Cold whiteness plopped onto our heads.
“You’re trying to kill me!” Oma flapped her arms as I helped h
er into the front passenger seat.
“People are going to think we really are,” Mama grumbled as we slid into the backseat.
I sat in the middle.
“You’re elbowing me,” Phebe complained.
“This is my car.” Oma’s face reddened.
No one answered.
“Did you ask if you could drive my car? No, you never ask. You’re a bumpkin.”
“What’s a bumpkin?” Phebe questioned.
“So now you’re going to talk quietly in the backseat so I can’t hear?” Oma ranted. “Nice. Real nice.”
“I was asking you, too,” Phebe shouted.
I squeezed my sister’s hand, shaking my head; no point in arguing with Oma.
“You’re the sweetest family in the world,” Oma said with sarcasm.
Mama fished a notebook and pen out of her purse, and passed them over to me. I flipped open to the first blank page and wrote the definition for bumpkin before handing the notebook to Phebe. We filled up three pages with messages by the time Dad pulled into the parking lot for the restaurant.
“Crowded, isn’t it?” Mama said, but Oma didn’t answer.
Dad dropped her off at the entrance. I waited with her, Oma sitting on a bench next to an Indian woman who tried to converse, except her deep accent prevented Oma from understanding.
“What?” Oma demanded.
The Indian woman looked away with pursed lips.
The restaurant specialized in Greek dishes, but every Thanksgiving they hosted a buffet. Uncle Jan’s wife had insisted on the location.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling of the front foyer, reminding me of Domenick’s urine-soaked house. He would move away if his parents has their way. Michael might move too, and I would still be with Oma, but friendless.
“You make me look like an invalid.” Oma shuffled across the red carpet as I held her arm. “I can walk perfectly fine. Stop clinging to me like that.”
“It’s what the Goat Children would want me to do.”
“Shush. Do you want people to overhear?” Oma yelled.
Dad gave our name to the hostess, and she escorted us through the spacious restaurant to a backroom where Uncle Jan’s group waited.
The Goat Children Page 13
