Meeting Miss 405

by Lois Peterson

  “Because he thinks he could die.”

  A huge tide of tears keeps coming. I swallow hard to keep them away. But it doesn’t work. I am such a baby.

  Miss Stella gets up and puts her arms around me. I feel little rocking movements and smell her cucumber soap and feel her scratchy hair against my cheek.

  Poor Devin, I think.

  I cry and cry.

  Parveen rips the silver paper off one little cheese triangle, then another, while Miss Stella rocks me and rocks me.

  I use a whole bunch of tissues. They sit in a wet clump on the table. Parveen is trying out an easy calligraphy pen and is pretty good at it. I can read her name upside down across the table. I watch her write it again and again.

  In a little while, when I’m still trying to catch my gulpy breath, Miss Stella goes outside to deadhead her flowers. That means she takes off all the dead flowers and crumbles them up and puts them back in her pots, where she says Mother Nature takes care of them.

  When I think about how my mother is not around to take care of me, I cry some more. Poor me.

  Miss Stella rubs my back as she passes me on her way into the kitchen.

  At last, when I stop crying and can breathe again, I sniff rather loudly. “Tomorrow I will take a pea butter sandwich to Devin,” I say. “It will be a peace offering.”

  Parveen turns her paper over. I should tell her to wait until the other side is dry.

  But instead I take a piece of good paper from Miss Stella’s special drawer. I pick up my favorite pen, which we keep in a red satin box. “I have a plan,” I say. And I dip my pen in the ink and very carefully start a new list using my best calligraphy.

  CHAPTER 15

  Taking the Bull by the Horns

  “You make me very proud,” Dad says after I tell him about my list. It took me a long time, and I concentrated so hard that I hardly noticed when he came to pick me up.

  We are eating fish and chips out of paper. If Mom were here she would heat plates while Dad goes to the fish-and-chip shop. She would set out cutlery and placemats and napkins.

  Dad puts the open package in the middle of the table. We eat with our fingers; we will wash our hands later.

  I have put the list on the bookshelf, out of the way of greasy fingers, while Dad and I have our supper. I know what it says by heart. It took me almost an hour to write. Miss Stella walked Parveen home while I finished it. So even she does not know what it says.

  While we eat, I tell Dad what I have decided to do. Which means I hardly concentrate at all as I peel off the batter and eat it separately and take one bite of fish, then one of chips. It’s the way I always eat it.

  My list says:

  1 Give Devin the pea butter sandwich and tell him that I am sorry he is allergic.

  2 Tell Mr. Howarth about the bullying so he can take care of it. He is the grown-up.

  3 Tell Mr. H that I really appreciate the advice about having a Trusted Other, but I have Dad and Miss Stella and Parveen, so I won’t need to see Ms. Carlton, the school counselor.

  4 Offer to show and tell the class about my calligraphy and tell them all about famous Miss Stella.

  5 Write a letter to Mom in my best calligraphy so she knows how much I miss her.

  “I must be full, because I feel sick,” says Dad when there’s still a bunch of cold chips left. This is an old joke, and we laugh each time we say it. I said it once when I was little, and no one will let me forget it.

  “You came up with this yourself?” Dad asks when I have finished telling him what I plan to do. He rolls the paper around the chips and takes them into the kitchen. I hear the garbage can open and then close. I should tell him that Mom would put it all in a plastic bag first. The kitchen will smell now, even after he takes out the garbage. But Dad has to figure this stuff out for himself. Just like I have to.

  “It was all my idea. But it will be hard to do,” I say. Already I am nervous.

  “How badly do you want Devin to feel better about his allergies. Even just a little?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “And how much do you want your teacher to take care of you while you’re in school?”

  “A lot.”

  “I think writing a letter to Mom is a fine idea. It will help you get things off your chest.” He brings me a big glass of oj and sets it on the table. “Drink up. You need your vitamins,” he says. “Sometimes the only thing to do is take the bull by the horns.”

  I drink my juice in three gulps. “Bulls have very sharp horns.”

  “Aren’t you the joker!” Dad says. “I am very proud of you, Tansy.” His voice is all choky. “Your mother would be too. And this weekend might be a very good time to give her your letter. So you had better get on it.”

  My glass tips over as I jump up. I throw myself at Dad so hard he nearly falls over too. “Are we going to see Mom? This weekend? Does that mean she is better now? Has she graduated from the clinic?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes.” Dad picks me up in a bear hug and swings me around. I bend my knees because last time I knocked over Mom’s favorite lamp. I bet I’ve grown since I saw her. How long ago was that? So many weeks I have lost count.

  Dad puts me down and nuzzles my neck. “We will see how things go. She is not sure she is quite ready to come home. Let’s get to Grandpa’s and see how it goes. Okay?”

  I feel so happy and light, I think I could fly. I am so excited about Mom being better. But one thing at a time, as Miss Stella says. “I want this to be the best letter ever,” I tell Dad. “And in my best calligraphy.” I pick up my list again. I read it slowly, to make sure that everything I need to do is there.

  “Chores first. Calligraphy later,” says Dad.

  “There are no dishes, Dad. We ate supper on paper and you threw it all away.”

  We have to start changing our ways soon. Things will be different when Mom comes home.

  CHAPTER 16

  In Her Own Words

  On Sunday morning we are just packing our stuff into Dad’s backpack for our trip to see Mom when Miss Stella drops by.

  “I have a little something for you.” She is holding a square package with a bump on it. It is wrapped in one of the old maps she found at the thrift store. Miss Stella recycles and does not use regular wrapping paper.

  “Can I open it? Stay while I open it.”

  “Not too long, though. I have a date for a walk around Stanley Park with a friend.”

  Sometimes I forget Miss Stella might have other friends. When I go to her house she never makes calls or has people over. We just spend our time with each other. I bet her other friends think they are the only ones she has too.

  Dad cuts the string with his Swiss Army knife. Then I unwrap the paper very carefully so I can look at the map later.

  Inside is the most beautiful book I have ever seen. I hardly dare touch it. The cover is all smudgy greens and red. “I have been working on this for a while,” says Miss Stella. “But this seems like the right day to give it to you. That paper is handmade,” she adds. “And that special binding on the spine is called Coptic.” All down the spine are little rows of string and knots. “It was bound by my friend Linda in Nelson.”

  I stroke the book and turn it over and over. “Thank you. It is lovely.”

  “But there is more,” says Miss Stella. “Look inside.”

  The first page is blank, so I know it is a notebook. I turn the next page.

  Tansy’s Book

  In Her Own Words

  For her eyes only

  “My own calligraphy notebook! I love it.” I give her a big hug, breathing in the smell of her cucumber soap.

  “Not everyone gets their own handmade book with calligraphy by the famous Stella Vickers,” Dad says.

  “Oh, hush, Lew,” says Miss Stella. “You missed something, Tansy.”

  When she rattles the paper, a long thin box slips out. Inside is a pen. “That’s a special felt pen for calligraphy,” she says. “No ink required, so yo
u can take your notebook and your pen and write anywhere.”

  We are only going to the Sunshine Coast for the day. But as we get in the car, Miss Stella calls good-bye from her balcony as if we plan to be away for ages. “Have a wonderful visit. And enjoy the ferry trip.” She has been watering her balcony, and it drip-drip-drips down the wall, like a clock ticking.

  “Thank you for my book,” I call back. From below, I can only see one of her arms flapping and a strand of her hair that has escaped from her messy bun. “Don’t be late for your friend.”

  As we drive away, I open the notebook again and run my fingers over the title page. “Isn’t this beautiful, Dad? But I am afraid to write in it. What if I mess it up?”

  “It’s your book. No one will see whether you mess up or not.”

  I flip through the book and find something I did not see before. On every single page, Miss Stella has made a little ink drawing of a tansy flower.

  I think of all the time and concentration it has taken Miss Stella to make such a perfect gift.

  And while I am thinking about this, I forget to worry about what will happen when we get to the Sunshine Coast and see Mom for the first time in weeks.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Best Girls in the World

  When we drive up the gravel road to Grandpa’s house, he is standing on the porch shaking a rug over the railing.

  “There you are, then.” He bends down at the top of the stairs and hauls me into a big hug. I can feel the tight muscles in his arms from all the woodcutting. His cheek is bristly and his mustache smells smoky.

  “Where is Mom?”

  “Down by the water. I suggest you go down to see her one at a time. She’s a bit shaky.”

  “You go, Dad.” I feel shy. Will Mom still be crying? Will she recognize me?

  “We could go together. We can take it slowly,” Dad says.

  But Grandpa puts one hand on his arm. “You go ahead, Lew. Tansy and I will go inside and catch up on all our news.”

  “I need our bag.”

  When I get back from the car, I see Dad walking down the slope to the chairs where we always sit to count stars. “Come on, Tan. Let’s put some coffee on,” says Grandpa. He makes horrible coffee, Dad says. I can smell that he must have made some already today.

  His house always looks like a campsite. He leaves blankets all over the place, stacks of books and greasy tools on tables, and clothes piled on any old chair. But today everything has been put away and cleaned up.

  “You hungry? I have muffins and fruit. Homemade.”

  “Muffins?” Mom is a great baker.

  “Fresh from the oven this morning. I’ll take the bottoms if you want the tops.” Grandpa and I always share them that way.

  “Did Mom make these?”

  He sets a stack of plates and cutlery at the table. “‘Fraid not, lovey. Louella Harris. Remember her? She’s taken it upon herself to help fatten up your mother. Fresh muffins to take every time I visit her at the clinic. A double batch when she heard you were on your way.”

  He stirs three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Then one more. “Your mom is doing very well. This house is shipshape, thanks to her. Now, juice or milk?”

  Dad takes forever. When I peek out of the window there is nothing to see. Just two chickadees dancing around the bird feeder. And down on the lake someone sitting in a boat.

  Grandpa chatters on. He gets up and down from the table, and then he goes back and forth to the counter. He peeks out the window when he thinks I am not looking.

  If she was here, Mom would tell him to Sit still for heaven’s sake.

  I show him my special book. I tell him how Dad and I will decorate my bike for sports day next week. Then I tell him about the calligraphy and the letter I have written Mom.

  When Grandpa asks if he can see the letter, I tell him it is private. That I wrote it for Mom in my own words and for her eyes only.

  “You are one brave girl. Naming you after such a sturdy and persistent wildflower was the perfect thing to do,” says Grandpa. “I have the best girls in the world!” His face gets all pink when he is excited.

  At last I hear Dad walking up the stairs. When he comes in the house, he goes straight to the coffeepot and pours a cup.

  “Can I go now?” I ask.

  Dad’s face is blotchy and his eyelashes are wet. But he is smiling. “Sure. Mom is eager to see you.”

  I walk down the hill, trying not to run. Little waves glint on the lake. Leaves shiver in the trees. My stomach feels flickery, and my hands are sweaty. But I let the flickering and the sweatiness be. When I get to the bottom of the hill, I stand for a minute, looking at Mom’s back as she stares at the water. “Mom?”

  She turns around. Then she puts out her arms, and I walk right into them.

  Mom is just the same. But different.

  She reminds me of kids on the first day of school. Everyone has new clothes and fresh haircuts. Everyone is on their best behavior.

  I have not seen Mom’s dress before, or her shoes. Her hair looks like she had it cut. I wonder how long it will take her to go back to being her usual self, like kids on the second day of school.

  Mom and I talk a bit. But not much. There are lots of silences between us.

  She tells me about the birds she has been watching, sitting here by the water. About some of the other people at the clinic. One lady cleaner is always happy to sit and talk to Mom or anyone else who needs company. Maybe for now she’s Mom’s Trusted Other.

  She says, “I will be home soon. Will you be pleased?” But she is looking out over the water. Not at me.

  We sit side by side in the chairs. I look at the sun dancing on the glinty water.

  I try to let the tight place in my chest be. I try to stop worrying about what I should say. For a while I don’t even think about the letter I wrote that is still in the pocket of Dad’s bag in Grandpa’s house. I don’t think about when will be the best time to give it to her or if she will smile when she reads it. Or if it will make her cry.

  I try not to worry about what will happen next and just practice being here.

  I see a fish make a little splash. I hear the breeze rustle the leaves and a loon far down the lake call to its mate and the clatter of a bucket along the shore.

  When Mom moves her hand from her chair to mine, I put my fingers on hers and stroke and stroke and stroke.

  CHAPTER 18

  Show and Tell

  Mr. Howarth said I could show and tell about calligraphy in the last art class of the term. So I work on my presentation after school every day. I make sure each word is perfect. Like all those books that made Miss Stella famous. She showed me pictures of some of them. One of them took almost two years!

  Mom came home last weekend for a visit. Dad said he needed to spend some time alone with her, so I had lots of time at Miss Stella’s to write in my new book and learn some new flourishes and practice my report.

  While Mom was here, it was not quite like normal. But it feels like it might be soon.

  Maybe I knew this stuff already, but this is what I wrote in my new notebook about some of the things I noticed this weekend:

  Dad puts his hand on the back of Mom’s neck when they talk in the kitchen before dinner.

  Mom flicks her fingers against her leg when it gets quiet for a minute.

  When Dad talks about something that might happen soon, Mom just smiles and then looks somewhere else. Or changes the subject.

  Although Mom was home, everything felt the same as when she was gone. I still miss her, even when she is at home.

  There are dust bunnies under the couch that I see when I lie on the floor reading.

  The lamp I broke when Dad swung me around still works, but the crack shows.

  Mom did not notice either of these things.

  I was happy to be at Miss Stella’s.

  Her wrinkles are beautiful.

  The morning I am to give my report, I read it to Dad first.


  “You were word perfect. You will be a hit,” he says afterwards. Then he makes my breakfast. I have told him all about what Super-Concentrated Miss Stella told me about mindfulness. I think he understands now that doing two things at once is not always necessary.

  My egg is perfect today. The toast is still in rectangles, but it does not really matter.

  I am nervous when I pick up Parveen. “I will be rooting for you,” she says.

  Of course she will. She is a Trusted Other.

  Art is first class of the day, and Mr. Howarth says that we will start with my report about calligraphy before we work on our collages. When everyone is settled, he steps aside so I can stand next to his desk.

  Then I take a deep breath and begin.

  All about my famous sitter and calligraphy

  By Tansy Hill

  While my mom is away at a clinic being treated for depression, I got a new sitter.

  I stare very hard at my paper so I can’t look at Devin and Ryan.

  Her name is Miss Stella Vickers. And she is famous. She is a famous calligrapher. Even the Queen has one of her books.

  I hear Erin Warren at the front whisper, “The Queen!” But I keep reading.

  Calligraphy is like handwriting. But it is more special and lots harder to do.

  Miss Stella said it was started hundreds of years ago in Turkey. And China.

  Miss Stella is teaching me to do it too. You don’t use a computer. You need to use a special pen like this.

  I hand one to Mr. Howarth to pass around.

  I have to be super-concentrated when I do it so it turns out just right.

  Like this.

  I take the white envelope from behind my report and hold it up high so everyone can see. It says in big letters A letter to Mom—for her eyes only. From Tansy.

  Each word is perfect. Underneath are two different flourishes Miss Stella taught me.

  This is a special letter for my mother who has been away for weeks and weeks.

  I still have not given the letter to Mom yet. Dad says I will know when the time is right.