The Year of My Miraculous Reappearance

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  Then Phyllis went on sharing about her own stuff, and Pat reached over and squeezed my arm a little. People I knew in the meeting looked at me and smiled. I was right on the edge of crying. I guess it showed.

  After the meeting my mom went home by herself. Pat and I stayed after. We were on the clean-up committee. We were in the big utility kitchen and Pat had one of those giant coffee urns upside down in the sink, washing it.

  “Care to talk about it?”

  I said, “You know, at first I didn't want her here at all. I didn't even like her anymore. It's like I didn't even want to like her. But now, you know … after today …”

  She nodded, her head bobbing up and down for a few long seconds. “More you know about somebody, harder it is to stay mad.”

  I almost said I was never mad, I just sort of didn't care. But I didn't say it, because I started to know that it probably wasn't true. I was probably plenty mad without really knowing. And I probably did care. It takes me a long time, sometimes, to figure out how something is supposed to feel.

  My mom was right about one thing. A girl does need a momma. I wasn't sure how to say that to Pat. Like, all of a sudden, for the first time ever, I was thinking, Maybe she really will get sober. And be like a mom again. And then I could be like a kid. Which would be this huge weight off me. I wondered if this was how my dad felt, having to lug me on his shoulders with my hands over his eyes. You can get used to a weight like that and almost forget you've got it. But it sure would feel good to put it down.

  I said to Pat, “You know, if she really does stay sober, we're going to get Bill back for the summer.”

  She said, “Well. If she does. Give it some time.”

  “Maybe after a while we could get him back for good. We could be like a real family.”

  “Don't jump too far down the road.”

  “You think she won't do it?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Why can't you just believe in this?” I was getting mad now. I could feel it. We could both hear it on me.

  She rinsed soap out of both those big urns and set them to drip in the sink. She dried her hands off on a paper towel. I had my hands on my hips, waiting for an answer.

  “Honey, I can't even tell you for a fact that I'll be sober tomorrow. Remember, it's one day at a time.” I thought that was a bad answer, but I didn't say so. “It's just that I see a lot of people come and go in this program. I hope she makes it. Maybe she will. Just wait a while to see.”

  I ran into Zack outside. I don't think he was waiting for me. He was talking to that guy Earl. But it felt weird that I needed him to be there and then he was, kind of like the thing with Snake.

  He looked up at me, and then Earl said “so long” and then it was just the two of us.

  I said, “Hey, Zack.”

  He said, “Hey.” Then he said, “I know you don't really forgive me. But it's okay. It was a terrible thing to say.”

  “Yeah, but it helped get me straightened around. And you called Pat. So I know you must've cared about me. Plus you cared enough to tell me the truth. Even if I hated it. I didn't handle things so great, either. I'm sorry I've been treating you like poison when all you did was try to do the right thing.”

  Nobody said anything for a minute. So I looked up. He had his hand stuck out to me, like he was waiting for me to shake it. So I did.

  “Friends?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. Actually, I was thinking, Maybe eventually. Maybe we'll be friends again eventually, and at least in the meantime we can look at each other. But I didn't say that. I left well enough alone.

  The whole next day in school I carried around the note Snake had left for me in the tree house. I could feel it in my pocket. I took it out and read it again during Mr. Werther's art class.

  It was written on the torn-off end of the last page of my letter, the blank space at the end where I ran out of stuff to say. I guess he took the rest with him, like something he'd want to keep.

  It said, “Cynnie, thanks for this. And thanks for the food.”

  Trouble was, he didn't say where he was or when he was coming back. Or what he actually thought about what I said in my letter. I guess that's why I couldn't get it off my mind. Just as I folded it up and put it back in my pocket, Mr. Werther slipped by behind my shoulder. We were supposed to be sketching quietly on our own. I wasn't doing anything artistic when he came by.

  He said, “See me after class, okay?”

  My stomach got this heavy feel like somebody dropped something into it from a long way up. I thought, I'll just never be able to win with this guy. He's got it out for me now, and nothing I do will ever be good enough.

  When the bell rang I just sat there waiting. At least I had a meeting to go to after school. That always helps a little. Pat says when you share bad things in a meeting, you get to leave half behind, plus you get the courage to hold up the other half. He walked down the aisle.

  I said, “I wasn't passing notes, Mr. Werther. I was just reading a note somebody left me. Days ago. Not even in school. But I know, I was supposed to be drawing. I'm sorry. I just couldn't stop thinking about that note.”

  He sat on the edge of the desk across the aisle. He didn't look mad. “I didn't see any note.”

  “Oh. Me and my big mouth, then, huh?” We both smiled for a minute. “So, why am I here, then?”

  “I just want to say how nice it is to see you get better.”

  I was so surprised I couldn't think what to say at first. Then I said, “How can you see that?”

  “It's all over your face. I can see it in your eyes. You look like you grew up about four years' worth since you left. We were worried about you, you know.”

  “Who's we?” I knew he couldn't be talking about other kids. The other kids in this school would be real surprised to discover I'd been born in the first place.

  “Your teachers. The principal. We're just glad things seem to be getting better for you.”

  I got up to go, because it was embarrassing, having somebody act like they care like that. Kind of nice, but embarrassing. I said, “Yeah, a little better. At least I remembered you told me to stay after class.”

  He laughed. “Well, keep up the good work, Cynthia.”

  Good work. Nobody ever gave me credit for good work before. I wondered if this was the first time I'd ever done any.

  Just as I was walking out the door he said, “I'm tempted to ask you again. About art club.”

  I stopped. Looked back over my shoulder at him. “Art club?” I was trying to think if I had ever talked about it with him before.

  “I asked you twice last year, but you pretty much blew me off.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Last year I pretty much blew everything off.”

  “You do remember my asking, though. Right?”

  That was something like being busted. That was when I knew he could just look at my face and see that I barely remembered talking about it. I had some sort of little sketchy memory. I mean, at least it sounded familiar. But—I don't know how to explain this—it's like it never really went all the way into my ears before. I guess the idea of staying at school longer than I had to was just so foreign to me. I must've heard it like he'd been speaking some other language.

  “Um, yeah,” I said. It didn't sound too convincing. “Pretty much.”

  “Well, it's Wednesday and Friday, if you change your mind.”

  I think at that point I was still pretty sure I wouldn't. But then just as I left his room and swung around the corner into the hall, I got curious about something. And it was so important, I actually went back. And I didn't even know why it was so important. But it was.

  I leaned my shoulder on his door frame, but he didn't see me or look up. He was reading something on his desk.

  “Mr. Werther?” He looked up. Surprised. I could see he'd expected me to run and keep running. Like always. “Do you invite all your students to join art club?”

  He looked into my fa
ce for a second. I felt like he knew why this was an important question. Which is weird, because I still didn't. “No. Just the ones I think have talent.”

  I think I just stood there nodding for a minute. Then I couldn't think what else to do, so I went home.

  When I got home, before I could even get in the door, I heard a little hissing sound. I looked up to the tree house and there was Snake, looking down at me through the hole in the blanket. I climbed up and we sat awhile.

  “Where'd you go today?” I asked.

  “Had to go out and look for work. I'm gonna be at Uncle Ted's junkyard awhile. There's a couch in the office. He said he won't tell my dad where I'm staying. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” It was the first time I'd seen him in daylight since he got back. I couldn't get over how much he'd changed. His face was thinner. He had muscles in his arms. His hair was the color of the reddish-blond wood on our dining room table.

  “I don't know, like … I don't know.”

  “So I guess you're never going back to school, huh?”

  “I'll go back. When I'm sixteen. It's only a few more months. When I'm sixteen I can be an emancipated minor.”

  He explained to me what that was. This deal where if you can take care of yourself and earn money and have a place to live, you can just sort of call yourself an adult early. It's legal.

  I said, “Are you still gonna come over?”

  “You want me to?”

  “Well, sure I do.” He was quiet for a minute, picking at a loose thread on the edge of the mattress. Then he said, “I just sort of finally got used to the idea that you didn't like me much.”

  “No, I do. It just takes me a long time, sometimes. To figure out how I feel about something. By the time I figured out I liked you, you were already gone.”

  That seemed to make sense to him. Not just anybody can understand a thing like that.

  The next few days I drew a lot of pictures. I looked out the window and sketched the house next door. I drew my favorite tree, the one with the tree house. I drew a bunch of pictures of Bill, partly from the picture Nanny and Grampop sent me, partly from memory. I even drew my mom when she was watching TV and not paying any attention to me.

  And it's funny, because all this time I was telling myself I wasn't going to art club. But if I was wrong, and I did go, part of me felt like I needed to know more about art. This was a thing of mine, and I'm not sure why I did it, but it's one of those things you just can't stop yourself from doing. The summer before I went into the first grade I made a girl from down the street teach me the alphabet. Because I figured you needed to know that for the first grade. Like it never occurred to me I was going there to learn it like everybody else.

  I keep thinking I'm going to get busted somehow for not knowing the right stuff.

  One of the pictures of Bill was pretty good, so I sent it to Nanny and Grampop along with a letter. It was this brainstorm I had. Because my phone card was about to run out. And I was trying to think of a way to get them to help me. And they still weren't real big fans of mine after everything that had happened.

  In the letter I told them how long I'd been sober, and what it was like to work with Pat, and the kind of stuff we worked on together. I told them about Mom coming to meetings because she saw how things got better for me when I did it. I even told them about joining art club, because I thought it made me sound like I was more involved with school.

  Then I asked the favor. I asked if I wrote letters to Bill two or three times a week, would they read them to him? I tried to keep it kind of light and chatty.

  I was getting desperate, and I couldn't think what else to do.

  Then, after I mailed the letter, I realized I really had to go to art club. Otherwise I was a liar, and if they found out, they'd never trust me again. And even if they didn't find out, I'd know I was a liar. And the only way to solve the problem I'd just made was to join.

  Join. What a weird word. I'm not sure I'd ever used that word before. I mean, about me, that is.

  The next day I told Mr. Werther I was going to join. I made myself say that word.

  But then I blew off the next three club days.

  Finally one day he just stood right in front of me as I was trying to get out of his class and made me tell him the first day I was coming.

  “Okay, Friday,” I said. With this little catch in my stomach where I knew I would really have to do it.

  I don't know why all this was so hard for me. I don't know why all these things—things other people do without even thinking—are so damn hard for me.

  I just knew I was in art club as of that second.

  I showed up on Friday a little late. I'd circled the fourth floor three times before I could bring myself to go in.

  Everybody was there already. Three girls, but only one I'd ever seen before. I knew her from chemistry, but the other two didn't look familiar. And a boy I sort of knew. Once I'd heard our English teacher read a poem he wrote about being a pariah. She had to tell us what that even meant. So I figured that must mean he was smart.

  And Mr. Werther was there, of course, and he had his dog there with him. Right there in school. I guess he must have gone home and gotten the dog really quick after school, but I don't know because I didn't ask. But I liked that the dog was there. It gave us all something to look at, and that made things easier.

  Mr. Werther came by and gave me paper and some charcoals, and I petted the dog's head. It was a red Irish setter. Pretty. Kind of hyper, but nice. His tongue kept hanging out of his mouth sideways instead of straight. It looked funny.

  “What's his name?” I asked.

  Mr. Werther said she was a girl and her name was Lucy Ricardo. Lucy for short. And when I laughed, he said Irish setters were kind of like the screwball redheads of the dog world.

  That's when I noticed I was sitting at the same table with the girl I knew from chemistry. Rachel, I think her name was. But I didn't even remember deciding where I would sit.

  Then Mr. Werther had to try to get the dog to hold still so we could draw her in charcoal. He had to sit on a stool right behind her and keep her from getting up or lying down, and when she got distracted and turned her head he had to turn it back again.

  Rachel said, “This is a lot better than still life. Last week we drew a bowl of pears.”

  I laughed in a way that sounded a little sarcastic. “At least pears hold still.”

  Mr. Werther heard me and said, “Get used to drawing actual life. It moves, but your art makes it hold still.”

  He didn't sound mad, though.

  I liked having that dog to look at and draw, so I made up my mind to do the best art I had ever done. I guess I'd been wanting to know if Mr. Werther was right or not, ever since he said that thing about me having some talent.

  So I really focused on that dog. I really looked at her and tried to see what made her look exactly the way she looked, and not like any other dog. It was a weird but kind of interesting feeling, because usually I'm all in my own head, half in the room and half out of it. But I really had to be there to look at the dog.

  I decided it was the shine in her eyes and her smile. She had this big open-mouthed grin all the time. And I decided that was more important about this dog than the fact that she was red and had long hair. All Irish setters have long red hair. But this one's shiny eyes and goofy smile made her Lucy Ricardo, Mr. Werther's dog, and not any other Irish setter in the world. The others might have shiny eyes and a big smile, but not these eyes or this smile. Everybody is a little different. People, dogs. Even birds. Snowflakes, if you live somewhere they have snowflakes. No two are exactly the same.

  So I didn't concentrate much on the shape of her body. I just kind of softly showed it with a few lines. But I really worked hard on the eyes and the smile.

  After what felt like about ten minutes, Mr. Werther said, “Time.”

  I looked up at the clock and saw I'd been drawing for almost an hour and a h
alf.

  The other kids got up and gave their drawings to Mr. Werther. The boy who wrote the poem looked over his shoulder at me. I just sat there.

  Mr. Werther came by and stood in front of the table, and I could feel Lucy Ricardo sniffing at the knees of my jeans. I could feel Rachel standing there behind me, like she was waiting for me to get done so she could talk to me. I wasn't used to all this attention. It made me nervous.

  Mr. Werther said, “I brought the dog specially for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you like animals.”

  I couldn't figure out how he would know that about me if I didn't even know it myself. I didn't answer because I didn't know what to say. But I think he could see by my face that I was confused.

  He said, “You think I don't notice what you draw in my class when it's your own choice? Eighty percent horses. Twenty percent other animals.”

  Oh. Horses. Right. I thought about Trudy, but I wasn't going to tell him about that. I still didn't say anything. I had one arm in front of my drawing, because I was hoping I didn't have to show it to him. Maybe he wouldn't think it was good. Maybe he would decide he was wrong. That I didn't have talent after all.

  “Do you have a dog?” he asked.

  I laughed that sarcastic laugh again. “My mother, take care of a dog? I can't even get her to take care of me.”

  “She wouldn't even let you keep a dog if you took care of it yourself?”

  “She wouldn't even let me keep my little brother if I took care of him myself.”

  Then I realized I'd said too much and everybody was a little embarrassed, so I got up to go. I saw him reach out for my picture, so I just ditched it on the table and got out of there before he could tell me if he thought it was good or not.

  Rachel followed me out. I walked fast to try to lose her, but she just walked faster and kept up.

  “You like horses?” she asked. “Do you ride?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, not lately. When I was little, my uncle had a farm, and I used to ride a horse out there. Trudy. But then he died. I was little.”