Stained Glass Summer

by Mindy Hardwick

  “That’s funny, Jasmine,” he said. “You make me laugh.”

  I pretended everything had been a joke and tried to laugh with Dad. Inside, I was devastated and vowed to be more careful about what I said.

  The Goodwill van is parked outside our apartment, and my stomach cramps. I can barely watch as a tall, heavy-set man lifts a brown leather couch into the van and a woman tosses a black plastic garbage sack behind the couch. I don’t need to look closely to know what is inside that garbage bag, or to know whose couch is now sitting in the van. The only things left in the studio are Dad’s award pictures, and those are stacked in a corner.

  “That’ll do it,” the man hollers. “Shut ’em down. Move ’em on.”

  I step out of the humid June air and into the cool air-conditioned lobby. As I wait for the elevator, I play with my ring. Dad has not called, even though it’s been two weeks since he left. I can’t help but wonder, what if something awful and terrible happened? What if he’s dead? The questions race through my mind like small animals on a treadmill going nowhere. I keep asking Mom if she thinks Dad is okay, but she just gives me one of her looks that says, “Don’t ask me anything about your dad.”

  When the elevator doors swish open, I step inside and collapse against the soft, cushioned wall. Did I do something terrible to make Dad leave and not call? My insides hurt so badly I want to sink to the floor, wrap myself in a ball, and never get up. The elevator reaches the top floor, and I step outside onto the plush hallway carpet. I insert my key into the apartment lock and stumble over the paint drop cloths that cover the entry floor. Mom has decided the yellow doesn’t really work for the living room, so now the painters are covering the walls with a light green. Mom stands nearby and grins up at one of the painters. I begin to wonder if Mom likes the attention from the painters and this is why she keeps changing colors.

  I wave to her before heading into the kitchen, where I pour a glass of fruit juice from the silver pitcher. This is another new item in the apartment. Some days it seems like there isn’t one thing that is the same as it used to be. Taking a sip of the cold grapefruit and kiwi drink, I squish my eyes together at the bitter juice. Mom believes in healthy energy drinks. I’m trying to believe in them, but so far I’m not having much luck.

  “Jasmine,” Mom says as she clip-clops into the kitchen in her high heels. I sniff. She’s got on a lot of perfume for a casual afternoon at home.

  “Mmm…” I say, and take another swallow of the fruit juice. There is no way I can drink the rest. I place my half-full glass in the sink with a loud thump, and turn to see that Mom is holding a white packet with Fisher’s gold seal stamp on the top.

  “No,” I manage to spit out. We’ve avoided this conversation until now. She’s had the packet on the living room table for two weeks, but every time she tries to bring up Fisher’s summer classes, I change the subject. It’s worked up until this minute.

  “Yes.” Mom drops the packet on the kitchen table with a loud thump. “I really want you to take these summer classes.” She swallows and then says softly, “It will help take your mind off other things.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m going to help at the Art Palace this summer.”

  “Doing what?” Mom eyes me warily. She knows when I’m lying.

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.” I know there is absolutely nothing I can do at the Art Palace. I’m too young to work and too old to take their classes. I am stuck, and Mom knows it too. But just as I’m trying to figure out how to get out of the Fishers classes, heavy footsteps move in the hall and toward the kitchen.

  “Is that my favorite niece?” Uncle Jasper booms.

  “Uncle Jasper!” I love the thick, curly hair that he wears tied in a ponytail, and the way his blue eyes dance with something that is a cross between mischief and amusement. His surprise visit is right on time!

  “How’s my favorite artist?”

  “Terrible,” I say.

  A male voice calls out from the living room. “This wall too?”

  “Be right back.” Mom nods curtly to me. “We need to register this week.”

  I scowl at the packet like it’s a disease.

  “What’s wrong?” Uncle Jasper asks.

  “Summer classes at the private school.” I can barely say the words. They’re a big black fungus in my mouth. “French. Spanish. That type of thing.”

  “Your mom’s school.” Uncle Jasper picks up the packet. “I remember. Too bad I never got to go there. We didn’t have the money for me to go, too.”

  “You’re lucky,” I say, and then, because I always love to hear Uncle Jasper’s stories and I don’t want to talk about Fishers, I ask “How’s the Island?”

  Uncle Jasper talks about summers eating salmon and catching crab as the sky stays light until ten o’clock. He talks about ferry rides that take an hour, and pods of orcas that swim nearby, and he talks about how everyone helps everyone else. It sounds like heaven to me.

  Uncle Jasper once showed me a map with the tiny Northwest Islands grouped together, with names like Stewart, Lopez, Orcas, and San Juan. I couldn’t keep them all straight and decided Uncle Jasper lived on the Island. I like the way it sounds, as if the Island, without a name, is somewhere in between worlds, like the legends of King Arthur and the Ladies of Avalon who traveled in boats in a mist to get to their Islands.

  “I’ve got my hands full.” Uncle Jasper drops the catalogue on the table. “I’m mentoring a boy.” He peers at me closely. “He’s a year older than you. I’m showing him a few things in woodworking. It’s part of a summer program with the school. They fix up seventh and eighth graders with mentors.”

  I twirl my ring. I wish I could go to the Island. I’d like a mentor and to be a part of that kind of school program.

  “Everything okay?” Uncle Jasper taps my arm.

  “Not really,” I choke out. I can’t help but remember the last two weeks of waiting and checking my cell phone, always hoping Dad might call, while every day Mom made some change, wiping away our old life and replacing it with a new one. A new life in which I’m not even sure I have a place.

  Everything is definitely not okay. I chew hard on my lower lip as Mom walks back into the kitchen. She sighs and picks up the Fisher’s catalogue. “Did you pick something out?” she asks.

  “No. Uncle Jasper and I were talking about the Island. He’s mentoring someone my age this summer.” And then, I see how my life can change. I can escape this new life Mom is trying to create. My heart starts pounding.

  “Do you think…” I stop as both Mom and Uncle Jasper turn toward me.

  “Can I…” I exhale and swallow hard. No turning back. “Go to the Island for the summer? I could do the mentor program too.” I say the words so fast I’m not even sure anyone understands what I’ve just asked. I feel like a hundred pounds presses on my chest. If they say no, life will continue to get worse, and my dreams of becoming an artist will be packed away in boxes like Dad’s award pictures.

  Mom studies me. “I don’t know, Jasmine. The Island is a long way away. What if you get homesick? You’ve never even been there.” She smiles at me. “What if I get homesick for you?”

  “You can come visit! Right, Uncle Jasper? Mom can visit.”

  I twirl my ring. Please. Please. Please.

  “Island life is different,” Uncle Jasper says. “It’s not like Chicago.”

  “I’ll adjust.” I can adjust to anything. I’m good at adjusting.

  Uncle Jasper drums his right hand on the table. “I don’t know…”

  “It’s not really a bad idea,” Mom says. “She could use a little break. Things have been hard.” She pushes her hair off her forehead. “For both of us.” She looks steadily at Uncle Jasper. “Maybe a summer on the Island would give us a chance to heal a bit. I could come out later in the summer. Bring her home. The mentor program does sound like something she would enjoy.”

  Uncle Jasper stops drumming his fingers. “I
’m not good with a twelve-year old. I’ve never had kids. I don’t know too much about being a parent.”

  “I’ll be good,” I blurt out. “I promise. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  Uncle Jasper chuckles and Mom laughs. “He’ll know you’re there,” Mom says. “And I’ll know you’re not here.”

  “Do you think it could work?” I twirl my ring. I can hardly breathe. My heart pounds so hard that any minute it will burst in a red, bubbly mess onto Mom’s new shiny silver kitchen appliances.

  “We could make it work,” Uncle Jasper says carefully. “For the summer.”

  “Art,” I breathe. “I can do art. On the Island!” I leap up in a large swoop and crash into Uncle Jasper. “Thank you. Thank you.” The hundred pounds lifts. There will be no Fishers with French and Spanish classes. Instead, there will be art.

  I wrap my arms around Uncle Jasper and, for the first time since Dad left, I feel something that resembles hope. But when I open my eyes and look at Mom, I see the sadness on her face. And I wonder, have I done the right thing? Should I have stayed? Who will watch out for Mom? Who will be a team with her?

  “Mom?” I ask. “It’s okay, right?”

  Mom smiles at me. A real smile, one that reaches her eyes. “I’m happy for you,” she says as our eyes meet. “I know you’ll have a great summer.”

  “A great summer,” I say softly.

  Chapter Four

  In the Seattle airport, I yank my black suitcase off the baggage carousel and set it upright on its tiny wheels. It’s been three weeks since Uncle Jasper was in Chicago. I hope he still wants me on the Island for the summer. My stomach does somersaults as I try not to worry. Everything on the Island will be new. Will I fit in? Will I have friends? Will Opal remember to pick me up from the airport?

  I pull up the handle of my suitcase and slowly wheel it out of baggage claim. The day before I left, Uncle Jasper called Mom. He explained that a friend of his, Opal, was going to be in Seattle the day I arrived. He’d asked her to pick me up at the airport. Mom protested that she needed to rethink sending me out to the Island. Uncle Jasper couldn’t even pick me up at the airport. He was sending some stranger! What else would he not be able to do when I was living with him during the summer? Panicked, I’d picked up the bedroom phone in time to hear Uncle Jasper explain how the Island was very far north of the airport. It wasn’t just a quick trip for him to pick me up. It’d be easier to have Opal get me when she was already going to be off Island for the day. He’d explained that this was often done on the Island. Everyone helped everyone out. Opal was a good friend of his, and we could trust her.

  I’d heard Mom taking deep breaths before saying, “Okay, Jasper. But if anything happens—I mean anything—I will be on the next plane out there. And you will be a dead man!” Uncle Jasper reassured Mom that nothing would happen and I would be in good hands.

  I take a look around the airport. The only problem is that Uncle Jasper didn’t tell me what Opal looked like, and I don’t see anyone holding a sign with my name. I pull out my cell phone. I don’t want to bother Uncle Jasper, but I’m trying hard not to remember all the times I’ve sat outside the Art Palace waiting for Dad. I’m a little scared that the same thing is about to happen in the Seattle airport.

  I scroll through my phone number list until I come to Uncle Jasper, and I hesitate. Sometimes after too many questions in the art studio, Dad would send me downstairs and tell me to come back later, when I could work on my art and not talk so much. I don’t want Uncle Jasper to tell me to hop back on a plane and come back when I can bother him less. I slip my cell phone into my pocket and tell myself this isn’t the time to panic. I can be patient and wait.

  Rolling my luggage out of baggage claim, I head toward a tall cart on wheels where narrow glass bottles of vanilla, orange, and raspberry syrup perch on a shelf next to a tall silver espresso machine.

  “Help you?” a girl behind the espresso stand asks. Coffee Girl’s blonde, straight hair scrunches into a ball on the top of her head. I run my left hand through my tangled thick, long curly hair. It never scrunches like a small ball on top of my head, and I hope that isn’t the style on the Island.

  “An orange Italian soda, please.” Sometimes after shopping with Mom at Van Bauers, we stop at a café with pastries, jazz, and Italian sodas. I always love the moments at the small wrought iron tables with Mom.

  I try to imagine what Mom is doing in Chicago right now. Does she miss me? The last three weeks, Mom seemed to relax without Dad in the house. She laughed more, and I often found her talking on the phone to a girlfriend or e-mailing someone at night. She also relaxed on my bedtime. Often it’d be ten-thirty before she’d set down her book and remind me to head off to bed. In some ways, I liked having Dad gone. There was more freedom for both of us. But now I wonder, what would she do at night without me?

  “Jasmine?” A woman with gray hair pulled up in a bun touches my arm as the Coffee Girl scoops ice into a tall plastic cup.

  “Yes?” I stare at the gray-haired woman’s short clipped fingernails. She looks like she needs a good trip to one of Mom’s spas. There are small, healed cuts on the tops of her hands. In health class we learned about teens who cut themselves, but I didn’t think adults did it too. I don’t want to be rude, so I quickly look away.

  “I’m Opal.” The woman removes her hand from my arm. “I’ll take you to the Island.”

  This is Opal?

  Opal rubs her forehead and squints as if the light in the airport gives her a headache. Or maybe it’s that she’s not quite dressed for the occasion, in her cream-colored work boots with brown dirty laces, flannel shirt, and jeans. I like her oval silver hair clasp with jade stones, which pulls her hair into a clump on top of her head. The barrette looks like something I might buy for my own hair.

  Opal reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a crayon drawing, framed in silver with colored pieces of glass glued onto the frame’s edges. “I believe this is yours. Jasper was worried you might not believe a strange woman trying to pick you up from the airport. He gave this to me.”

  The colored sunshine daisy picture is something I did in pre-school. I’m a little embarrassed to see it in Opal’s hands. Why did Uncle Jasper give Opal this one? I’ve sent him a picture every Christmas. He could have shown Opal one of my latest paintings with shadow and depth. In my last painting at home, a girl emerges from a soft caramel haze and stands on a cliff with no ridges or rocks while gazing into a periwinkle sky. The girl and the mist bother me. They stare out of the misty realm like they know something that I have forgotten.

  Opal sticks the picture into her large canvas bag. “It’s one of your uncle’s favorites.”

  I don’t want Opal to see me staring. But who is she to Uncle Jasper? Is she really just a friend? She has my picture, so she must be someone special. A girlfriend? I try to picture Uncle Jasper and Opal together on a date. I want to giggle, and I quickly turn away from her.

  Coffee Girl sets my Italian soda on the counter. “Do you want a drink?” I ask Opal. “I’ll buy you one.” I want to get off to a good start with Opal. She seems important.

  “I don’t like coffee.” Opal shakes her head. “And Italian sodas are too syrupy sweet for my taste.”

  “Okay.” I reach into my black patent leather wallet for a five-dollar bill. Opal sounds like Mom and her health drinks. I fumble through the stack of bills in my wallet. Mom made sure to give me enough money for food on the plane. “You can buy one of those little lunches,” she said. “It’s a long flight to Seattle.” I took the money, but I didn’t buy a lunch. I was too nervous to eat.

  Opal hands me a white napkin, and out of the corner of my eye, I take another peek at her. I make a mental note to buy a flannel shirt. Even if it is August and I’ve never liked flannel, I am going to fit into Island life.

  In the parking garage, Opal’s work boots clomp on the concrete floor. My black sandals make flip-flop noises as I walk beside her. I love my bl
ack sandals, but maybe on the Island sandals aren’t the fashion. I add to my mental list, find work boots.

  Opal stops in front of a dark brown Buick. The car doesn’t look like any of the new cars that Dad drives, or even any of the cars I’ve seen on the road in Chicago. It looks like it has been around for a long time. The sides are scratched and one of the doors is dented. Two of the tires don’t even have hubcaps. I hope we’re going to make it to the Island without a breakdown on the freeway.

  “Hop in.” Opal opens the passenger side and hurls my suitcase over the seats.

  I marvel at her strength before realizing that my colored pencils, sketchbooks, and paintbrushes are crashing against the inside of my suitcase, and my carefully organized supplies are now a mess. At home, my art pencils are always sharp, and I store them in a row sorted by the colors of the rainbow. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple. I stack my paper in one corner of the desk, and I always wash and clean my brushes after each use. Dad says it is important to keep art supplies organized.

  “My…” I stop as I soon as I see Opal’s frowning face.

  “What?” Opal pushes back a strand of long gray hair that has slipped out of her barrette and wipes her forehead. The frown on her face doesn’t disappear.

  “Nothing.” I shake my head and slip inside the car. It’s better not to say anything. And I should have offered to lift the suitcase myself. Dad always took care of our suitcases when we traveled. But Dad isn’t here, and from now on I will have to start thinking faster and take care of a few more things myself.

  I slip inside the car and try to get comfortable on the tan vinyl bench seats. I’ve never been in a car with bench seats. I run my hands over the vinyl before I roll down the window and inhale the night air. It smells like a Christmas tree farm that I went to with Dad when I was six. It was the first time I remember realizing that Mom and Dad might not be getting along. Mom had said the best Christmas trees were artificial and there was no point traipsing all over. At the farm, Dad became angry with me for running and hiding in the trees. We left without buying a tree. When we got home, Mom set up a fake tree in the living room with a small “I told you so” smirk on her face.