Is This Tomorrow

by Caroline Leavitt

  “I just know things,” she said. The truth was she had heard a senior girl in school talking about how she and her boyfriend always came here, but she wanted the boys to think she had somehow known this magically. “Like Houdini,” she said, “I can make things appear,” and when he grinned, she felt something in her heart fluttering, like a bird’s wing. She didn’t tell him that she thought Houdini was a jerk, a man who could have lived if he had gotten medical attention, a man who promised his wife he would come back from death and then didn’t.

  “She does know things,” Jimmy admitted to Lewis. “She showed me how to make phony phone calls. She knows how to get a burger at Brigham’s and sneak out without paying.”

  Lewis looked at Rose as if she were a new page in a book. After that, they rarely excluded her, and if Lewis came over when Jimmy wasn’t around, Lewis didn’t turn and go home. He stayed and hung out with her. He didn’t act as if she were second best, either. Lewis tested out his magic tricks on her. She gave him books she thought he should read, and she began to protect him, the way she had Jimmy when he was younger, only it felt weird and different with Lewis. She told herself she was brushing her hair a hundred times because there were knots in it, that she was wearing Ava’s perfume not because of Lewis, who never noticed, but because didn’t every girl want to smell good? Lewis looked her straight in the eyes when he talked to her, and every time he did, she felt herself listing. It was crazy. He was her brother’s best friend. He was her friend. He was too young, just a kid. Girls her age were interested in eighth- or ninth-grade boys, not sixth graders, whom they viewed with disdain.

  Now, there was nobody who wanted to be with Rose. She traced a line someone had dug into the desk. Biff loves Tina Forever. She wondered if he still did. She thought about what Lewis was doing now, where Jimmy might be. She knew she’d feel it in her body if Jimmy were gone. She’d somehow know it if he were being hurt in some way. Instead, she felt that same connection she had always had to her brother, as if nothing had changed. But things were hidden, like in one of Lewis’s magic tricks, and she swore if she shut her eyes, if she listened, she could hear him whispering to her, telling her where he was, and why. One thing she had to believe: Jimmy was alive.

  ONE AFTERNOON, SHE came out of school to find her mother waiting for her, dressed, with a little veiled hat on. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going someplace special.” Rose got in the car. She didn’t say a word, not even when her mother parked in front of a brown house, not even when a woman in a turquoise turban opened the door. “Ah, an old soul,” she said, looking at Rose.

  “I’m thirteen,” Rose said.

  “This is Miss Diane. She’s a psychic,” Rose’s mother said. “She’s going to help us find Jimmy.”

  The tight fist in Rose’s chest loosened, becoming fingers against her ribs. She told herself it didn’t matter that Miss Diane’s turban was sort of hokey looking and had printed moons and stars all over it. Miss Diane led them deeper into the house. There were plastic slipcovers on the sofa, and a TV tray set up by the TV with a plate of what looked like macaroni and cheese. The house smelled sour, like milk curdling, and Rose noticed a litter box shoved in one corner and a white cat dumbly lying in the center of it. Miss Diane rested her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “We shall see what we shall see,” she said.

  They all sat at a green leather card table. Dot handed Miss Diane two folded bills which Miss Diane discreetly tucked into her pocket. Then Miss Diane ordered everyone to hold hands. Rose didn’t like the powdery feel of Miss Diane’s hands, but when she tried to loosen her grip, Miss Diane’s fingers tightened around hers. Miss Diane shut her eyes for a moment and then breathed noisily. She opened her eyes and, to Rose’s relief, let go of everyone’s hands. “I see water,” she said. “Deep green water. I see him.” She shook her head. “I see the letter W. Is there water near you with a W?”

  “Walden Pond,” said Rose’s mother, her lips beginning to tremble.

  “He’s alive,” Rose said. She dug her fingers into the spongy edges of the table.

  “Walden Pond,” Miss Diane said. “That’s what I’m seeing.” Miss Diane frowned and shut her eyes again, and in the silence, Rose could hear the creaks the floor made.

  “He didn’t like Walden Pond,” Rose said. Every time he had to go to Walden with Rose and her mother, he sat on the shore. The water was too cold or there were too many people. He always had excuses.

  “I see deep water,” Miss Diane said. “And the name Jack. Does that mean anything to you?” When Rose’s mother remained blank, Miss Diane said, “I see the name Thomas. And Martin. Do you know a Martin?” She folded her hands, threading the fingers together.

  Rose’s mother shook her head. “Who are they? Who’s Martin?” She looked at Rose, frowning. “Do you know?” she begged.

  “I’m seeing a Rodney,” Miss Diane said. “It’s definitely a man,” she said.

  “Is he coming back?” Rose’s mother cried. “Is he alive?”

  “He’s alive—” Rose said again, but Miss Diane shrugged.

  “I can know only what I’m shown.”

  Rose’s mother grabbed Miss Diane’s sleeve and when Miss Diane pulled away, she gripped it again, harder this time. “How can you not know? I just paid you forty dollars? How can you not know? What kind of person are you?” Her body began to shake and Rose peeled her mother’s fingers free. “Mom,” she said.

  Miss Diane smoothed her dress. “There’s nothing more to see today,” she said. “Maybe another time. But at least now, you have information.” Then, she stood at the door, watching Rose and her mother get into the car and when Rose turned around, Miss Diane waved.

  The whole ride home, all Rose could think about were the slipcovers, the smell of the house, and the litter box. She thought of how Miss Diane had only closed her eyes for two seconds. “She’s a fake, Mom,” Rose said. “I know he’s alive.” But her mother kept driving. “Let me concentrate on the road,” she said.

  As soon as they got home, Rose’s mother called the police. Rose couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she heard the way her mother kept insisting. “Please, I want you to do this,” she said. “How far is Walden Pond? You can be there in five minutes. I don’t know about the psychic, but it’s one of the places he went to. Isn’t it worth a look?”

  An hour later, the phone rang. The detective told Rose’s mother that there was nothing there. There were no clues. The lake was clear and didn’t need to be drained. Nobody who worked there at the pond had seen anything and they didn’t have time for any more wild-goose chases.

  ROSE CAME HOME from school the next day to find her mother curled up on her bed, still in her nightgown, even though there were policemen in the house drinking coffee at the dining room table. “Mom?” Her mother beckoned Rose, patting the bed, and Rose, surprised, climbed up. Her mother hooped one arm about her, pinning her in place. “My girl,” she said and Rose tried to shift position. Her mother’s perfume smelled stale and vanilla, and she was holding Rose like a vise. When Rose tried to move, her mother held faster. “Stay,” she said.

  “Mom,” Rose said. Her mouth felt as if she had swallowed a wash towel. “I know he’s alive.”

  Her mother’s arm loosened and she sat up. “Rose, please,” she said.

  “He is. I know it. I’d feel it if something happened—”

  “That doesn’t help.” Her mother got up from the bed, grabbing for a robe, pulling it around her. She stared at herself in the mirror, and then turned away. Rose had always thought her mother was pretty, had always loved it when her mother came into her grade-school class to chaperone trips, wearing one of her flowery dresses with a full skirt, her high heels that clicked along the floor. But now, Rose’s mother walked toward Rose like an old woman, and Rose suddenly wanted to fling herself into her mother’s arms and beg, don’t go, don’t go away.

  “I can find him,” Rose said.

  “You can find him, is that right?” her mother
countered. “Well, then, you never should have lost him in the first place,” she said, and walked away, leaving Rose sitting on the bed.

  IT WAS AFTER school and Rose’s mother had given her money to take a cab home, but instead Rose walked all the way back to the neighborhood, taking her time. She didn’t want to go inside her house and be drenched by her mother’s sorrow. When she got to Warwick Avenue, she saw Mrs. Hill dropping off Lewis at his house. Neither one of them spotted her, which was good because Mrs. Hill would probably yell at Rose for being on her own. She waited until Mrs. Hill was gone, and then she sprang over to Lewis.

  She took his arm and gently tugged him aside. “What are you doing alone?” His voice sounded flattened, like a can.

  “Jimmy’s alive.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, his whole face lighting up. “He is? He’s alive? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know where. I just know my brother and I know he’s alive somewhere.”

  Lewis dug his hands into his pockets. His hair was falling in his face, his smile gone. He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

  “I just know. I feel it.”

  “Rose, feeling doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I’m telling you, I feel it. I feel him.” She grabbed his arm. “Who knows him better than we do? I have no one else but you. You were there for this. You have to help me. You have to. Remember Houdini? Things are not always the way they appear. We have to do something. We can’t just sit around.”

  He looked past her, as if he were thinking. “What do you want to do?”

  It was Rose’s idea to buy special notebooks to keep track of things the way the cops were doing. “Every time I pass a place I have a feeling about, I’m going to write that place down and we can investigate it,” Rose said.

  “Maybe we can write down the descriptions of people who look suspicious,” Lewis said. “Or the license numbers on cars. We can try to figure out where everyone was every hour of that day.”

  “We won’t miss a thing,” she told him. “And we shouldn’t go anywhere without our notebooks. Not ever. We need to collect as much information as we can. Later, we can compare notes.”

  They walked down to the Star Market, even though they weren’t supposed to, stopping only so Rose could call her mother from a pay phone and lie about the cab. “It was late, so I had to call again,” she said, promising to be home soon.

  The Star had all kinds of notebooks with movie stars’ pictures on the covers. Lewis grabbed Tony Curtis, who had played Houdini in the movies, though Rose thought his hair was too greasy. Judy Garland looked insane to Rose, and in the end, Rose got Jimmy Stewart because she felt he had such a kind face, and because his name was Jimmy.

  They went back to Rose’s house and if Dot was surprised to see Lewis, she didn’t say anything. They got to work immediately, quietly stepping into Jimmy’s room, cataloging everything they found in their notebooks: a button in Jimmy’s underwear drawer, a dark stain on a white T-shirt, and a portrait Jimmy had drawn of a man with the head of a growling lion and the body of a man. “What does it mean?” Lewis asked. “How is this supposed to help us?”

  “I don’t know. I just have a feeling about it. Write it down.”

  That night, after Lewis had left, Rose wrote a letter to Jimmy in her notebook, as if he could somehow read her words and find his way back to her.

  Dear Jimmy,

  One of the cops left a white ring on the table with his coffee cup when he was here. I’m sorry that they have gone through all your things and probably broken some stuff.

  She thought about not telling him that, and then decided that she shouldn’t protect him, because who knew what information might be necessary for him to know? Who knew what she might forget? She told him all the things that were going on in the neighborhood, how the neighbors always drew their kids closer when they saw Rose walking by, how their mother cried at night when she thought Rose was sleeping, how the Bicardis down the block bought a great big Doberman pinscher for protection, which they walked with everywhere, even though they didn’t have any children. She’d put down everything so when he came back, if he couldn’t remember anything, she would bring the world back to him.

  Rose spent most of her free time wandering around the house or reading. None of the kids were outside anymore. The only time you saw anyone was when their parents were with them, and what fun was that? When she did see them, they asked her about Jimmy. Had she heard anything? Did they have any clues? “Do you want to help me look?” Rose would ask hopefully, but the kids shied away. “My mom won’t let me,” one boy said. “I have to go right home,” said a girl. She saw how the kids wouldn’t meet her eyes anymore and their fathers gave her these slow, sad looks that made her look away.

  The mothers were worse. One day she was outside by herself, reading on the front porch, when Mrs. Hill strode over. “Go inside,” she urged. “I’m on my porch,” Rose said. The policemen were still in the house. She was reading A High Wind in Jamaica. She was a proper English girl on a pirate ship and here was Mrs. Hill pulling her back to Warwick Avenue.

  “You didn’t even hear me until I was right on you,” Mrs. Hill said. She reached forward and grabbed Rose’s arm, her fingers handcuffs. “Anyone could do this. Someone you don’t know. Someone you don’t want to know. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Rose tried to pull away and Mrs. Hill held on tighter. “Rose, I’m just worried about you. Please. Don’t give me a heart attack. You’re safer in your house. And where’s the whistle you kids are supposed to have? Why aren’t you wearing it?” She let Rose go and Rose rubbed her arm. The skin was still red where Mrs. Hill had grabbed her.

  Rose opened her front door and went inside. The house smelled stale, and she didn’t have to look in her mother’s room to know she was sleeping again in her clothes. There was that bottle of pills by the bed. Dot was in bed almost all the time now. The laundry sat piled in chairs. The dishes towered in the sink. Meals, if Rose didn’t cook them, were cereal and whatever fruit was around.

  Lewis used to tell Rose how he ran his house because his mother was always working. He had shown her how he could cook dinner, and even made her spaghetti one afternoon, which impressed her. But now she ran her house, too, and suddenly it didn’t seem that great anymore. It seemed terrifying. Neighbors kept bringing them food—hot-dog casseroles and Tater-Tot hot dish with potato-chip crusts, things she was advised to just heat up and then serve, but Rose’s mother often didn’t get up for dinner.

  Rose didn’t want any of the casseroles, which always smelled funny, but today there was nothing in the refrigerator except a few soggy tomatoes and an onion, which she took out and put on the counter. She pulled a box of spaghetti from the cabinet and tried to remember how Lewis had cooked the spaghetti. Oil spattered in a pan. She cut up the tomato and the onion and threw them in the oil, hoping for a kind of sauce, hoping, too, that the smell would rouse her mother. She tasted it when it was a kind of mush, and when it didn’t seem too bad, she poured it over the noodles. She brought a plate to her mother’s room. “Mom,” she said. “You have to eat.” Her mother rolled over, covering herself with the blanket.

  Rose nudged her mother. “I made you some food,” she said and her mother lifted herself up and looked at Rose as if she didn’t know her. “Let me sleep,” she said.

  My beautiful girl, her mother used to call her. My little dollface. Her mother used to invite the Avon lady in just so the two of them could get the little gold samples of lipstick without buying a thing. Her mother sometimes took her dress-shopping at Zayre’s, both of them giddy over the clothing, dresses so inexpensive you could get three of them at a time. Sometimes, after school, Rose would come home and find outfits from Filene’s Basement spread out across her bed. Sharkskin sailor dresses with gold buttons and silk ties. Corduroy skirts with red ricrac trim on the hem. “Look at the labels!” her mother said, pointing out Bergdorf Goodman, I. Magnin. “Look at the price!” She
showed Rose how she had gotten a twenty-dollar designer dress for two dollars. “You don’t have to have money to look like a million dollars,” she said.

  Well, Rose didn’t dress like a million dollars anymore, or even ten dollars. In fact, Rose had worn the same yellow corduroy jumper all week, just changing the blouse underneath. She barely brushed her hair but kept it braided. People made allowances for her. “What she’s been through,” she heard a teacher say, but Rose always wanted to blurt, “What about Jimmy? What about what he’s going through?”

  Rose went into the kitchen and ate the spaghetti by herself. She wasn’t really hungry, but told herself she had to be healthy to find her brother. Afterward, she cleaned the dishes and the pots and all the coffee cups the policemen had used. Then she went into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, at her bangs that were so long now they hid her eyes. Her teachers always asked her to pin her hair back, which was as thrilling as it was embarrassing. Her hair was down to her waist now, so long and black that the kids sometimes asked her if she were a witch who could do spells. “In your dreams,” she said. If she could cast spells, wouldn’t she have done so already? She waved her hands. “Abracadabra,” she hissed, but all that happened is she heard the heat clicking on.

  She had lost so much weight now, there were hollows in her cheeks and her eyes seemed more luminous against her pale skin. Jimmy’s absence made her somehow more mysterious. The other kids watched her, and the older boys began to take new and sudden notice. She was the girl with the missing brother. She had been through something and now, because of it, she knew something that they didn’t.

  She continued to write Jimmy every night in her notebook, and the more she wrote, the more she felt as if he were standing behind her. People are saying your body is in the woods, in the water. I don’t believe any of it. Sometimes she read what she wrote out loud, as if it would help make her words a bridge to him. The more pages she filled up, the more hopeful she felt. He would hear her. He would find his way back.