Mrs. Chandler takes a deep breath before opening her door. “Sometimes having a third person to talk to who isn’t a family member helps to—” She stops to search for a word.
“To get my sister back?” I ask hopefully, and Mrs. Chandler looks away, giving me my answer.
“What I’m trying to say is that whatever you say to her is between you and her, Sara. You don’t have to worry about her telling anyone your answers.”
“What answers? I thought I was telling stories?”
“You are, sort of. She’ll show you some pictures, and you tell her what you think is happening in them.”
I get out of the car and stare at the big white building. It’s a funny game they want me to play, but whatever makes them happy, I guess.
“Words and pictures, or just pictures?” I ask, testing again to see if it’s a trap.
“Just pictures.”
I sigh a big sigh of relief, and Mrs. Chandler smiles. “You’ll do just fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I hesitate at the door. “This isn’t a trick, is it? To get me to go in, and then you’ll lock the door behind me?”
To my surprise, her eyes tear up. “No, Sara. It’s not a trick. Dan and I won’t trick you. Ever.”
Her face looks like she’s telling the truth, but so did Mrs. Craig’s when she said that Anna and I would never be split up, so I look around very carefully when we walk through the door. The office is small, with fancy red chairs that have curved legs.
The wallpaper is made to look like a wooded path, and I swear it looks like I could just up and walk right through the wall.
I try to picture where the path leads. Maybe it’s like the path Little Red Riding Hood took when she got into trouble with the wolf.
A glass window slides open, and a head pokes out.
“Sara?” Another woman walks out a door leading into the glassed-in area, and she smiles at me. I tense up. “You must be Sara.” She walks over and bends down, putting her hand out for me to shake. I look at it, wondering if she has washed it. When it’s close to mine, I grab it and pull it to my nose.
Her hand smells like soap. I let go and then re-grab it, this time to shake it.
Mrs. Chandler laughs uncomfortably. “Sorry about that. We had a lesson earlier on washing our hands.”
“No problem. I’m glad I passed the test,” the uniformed lady answers, smiling.
“Ready to go back and see the doctor?” She guides me through the door and down a short hallway.
“Ah, you must be Sara,” a rich, deep voice says. The person attached to the voice is round, with puffy cheeks and wire-gray hair pulled up into a bun on top of her head. She is wearing a big yellow tent-dress that matches the walls and swishes when she walks. “I am Dr. Kitanovski,” she says, talking very slowly, like I might not get it the first time. “I am sorry for my talking. Can you understand what I am saying?” Only when she says it, it sounds like “vat I am say ink.”
I grin. She’s a lot like Rachel Silverman. I like her. “Yeah, I understand,” I answer, and she smiles. Her office is filled with books. They’re on an old claw-legged table in one corner, on her desk, on the floor, in bookcases lining the walls. Red ones, yellow ones, blue ones, white ones, green ones, black ones, and orange; sitting-down ones, standing-up ones, open ones, closed ones. The air smells of them, and something sweet. Maybe the sweet smell is her.
“This is good,” she says, only when she says it, it sounds more like “Zeese is goot.”
“You like pictures, yes?”
I nod as she pulls a stack of pictures out of a box on her desk.
She smiles warmly and sits me in a comfy chair that hugs me when I sit. It’s by a small, round table that has a lamp on it. The lamp is full of liquid, and purple bubbles float up and down.
“I show you a picture and you tell a story you see, yes?”
Again I nod, but when she holds up the picture, it’s a picture of three pebbles. Only one of the pebbles is white.
“What you make of this picture. You like it?” Her face crinkles up with worry lines.
“It’s nice,” I lie, looking away. Even I know that lying to make someone feel better is still a lie.
“What in it do you see, Sara? Look close.”
I stare at the three pebbles, turning it this way and that. “Well, it’s three stones that are different shapes and colors. One of them is all white.”
“These stones, they have a story, yes?”
“Kind of. They are together in your picture, but they didn’t come from the same place.”
“No? What place they come?”
“This one,” I say, pointing to the speckled one, “probably broke off of a mountain. This one”—I point to the reddish one—“probably came from underground somewhere, and this one”—I point to the white one—“came from a stream. All the color got washed off and the water polished it up.”
“Very good, Sara.” She put the picture back on her desk and opened a drawer, pulling out three stones, just like the ones in the picture.
“You have the stones!”
“Yes. I have a story, too. Want to hear?”
I grin. Dr. Knows-Something-or-Other is reminding me of Ben, and I love Ben’s stories.
“I say this stone”—she pushes the speckled one toward me—“is how you see you.”
“And this stone”—she nudges the red one so it rests beside the speckled one—“is how others see you.”
“Okaaaay,” I say, drawing out the “ay,” because I’m not sure her story is as good as Ben’s after all.
“And this white one, what do you think that might be?”
I review in my mind what she has told me. The first one is how I see myself. The second one is how others see me, so what’s left? I squirm, fingering Ben’s penny in my pocket. Ben would know the answer. What would he say the other one means?
“I don’t know,” I finally admit.
“No worries,” she says, saying “worries” like it starts with a v.
“What about this one, what picture do you see?”
She holds up another picture of a slender woman, stretching her arms high.
“A dancer,” I say quickly. The game is getting easier with each picture.
“Do you like to dance?” she asks, and I shrug. Anna and I liked dancing with the leaves, but I don’t think that’s the dancing she means. Pablo’s box comes to mind, with the tiny dancer twirling in front of the mirror in the box he gave me.
“I like music,” I answer. “I sing like Daddy.”
“You sing!” Her eyes widen and a smile spreads across her face. “Can you sing something for me?” The word “something” comes out “somesing.”
While she gets comfortable in her chair, I sing Daddy’s song “Old Tears,” and her eyes bulge like frogs’ eyes and turn wet and glassy before I’m done.
“You are a beautiful singer, Sara. I feel your song here.” She pats her heart. “These old tears you sing of. Who are they for?”
My throat tightens. Mama pops up in my mind, followed by Daddy.
“My sister,” I finally whisper.
She bends down and looks up into my face. “You miss her, yes?”
I nod.
“And you worry about her?”
I keep nodding.
“What if I try to check on her and let you know how she is doing—would that make you feel better?”
“You’ll do that? You’ll check to make sure she’s okay?” I jump up and hug her.
“There, there,” she says, and pats my back.
After a little bit, she smiles and takes another picture off the pile. “And this picture? What do you see here?”
I stare long and hard at the next picture. “A witch flying away on a cloud broom,” I finally answer, handing it back to her.
“Show me this witch you see,” she says, taking my hand and guiding it to the picture.
I point out the witch and the broom.
“T
his witch, where is she flying to?”
I stare at the dark, witch-shaped stain and look away. Except for the pointy hat, it could be Mama flying away, but I don’t want to say that, so I shrug. “I don’t know,” I mumble.
She props the picture up on the table beside her. “Who’s flying away from Sara?” she asks, staring at the picture, and before I can stop them, tears prick my eyes, stinging them. I try to blink them away, but they spill down my cheeks and drip onto my lap.
Dr. Kitanovski hugs me and says soothing things that I can’t understand because she’s not speaking in English anymore. “You come back and see me, yes?” she finally says.
I shrug but then nod, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Do we have to look at more pictures?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no.
“Next time, we play games. You like games?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know too many, but I can learn.”
She hugs me again. “Yes. You can learn. You can teach me things, too,” she adds, and I nod, even though I don’t know a thing I can teach her.
“This is for you,” she says, giving me a piece of paper with a squiggly line on it. “Draw a picture for me for next time, and use that line in your picture. You can do that?”
I look at the S-shaped line and nod. “Okay. I’ll draw you a picture.” Of what, I wasn’t sure, but maybe I’d think of something between now and then, whenever that will be.
“And don’t forget the white stone,” she reminds me. “Think of what story it might be trying to tell.”
CHAPTER 24
“IT LOOKS LIKE YOU AND the doctor had fun, Sara,” Mrs. Chandler says on the way home. “Did you like her?”
I nod. “She doesn’t tell stories too good,” I admit, “but she likes to play games. We’re going to play some of them next time I see her.”
“Sounds fun! Maybe you can teach me some, and we can play them together during the week.”
I don’t answer and she doesn’t push.
“Lexie came over while you were getting dressed.”
“What did she want?” I snap.
“She says she’s sorry,” Mrs. Chandler says, turning onto our street. “Something about making you choose. Anyway, she wants to see if you and she can be friends.”
“I don’t need a friend. I need Anna!” I shout, wadding up the paper Dr. Kitanovski gave me to draw on and throwing it onto the floor of the car.
Mrs. Chandler pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine. “Can you at least talk to her?”
I start to say no, when a movement in the window catches my eye. I turn, only to see Lexie’s face staring right at me. I cry out, startled, and they both start laughing.
“It’s not funny!” I shout.
“We’re not laughing at you,” Mrs. Chandler says, still laughing. “It’s just funny when someone presses her face against a window.”
“Not to me.” I stare straight ahead, refusing to look at Lexie, but out of the corner of my eye I try to see if she’s got Sneaker with her.
“I’m sorry I was so mean,” Lexie says through the window.
“Sara—” Mrs. Chandler starts to say, then stops. “I have snacks inside, if you girls are hungry.”
With all the growling my stomach does, I can’t hide that I’m always hungry, but does she have to eat with us?
“Thank you, Mrs. Chandler. That sounds great,” Lexie says. She sounds really nice now.
They head up the porch steps, but I stay in the car, staring out the front window.
“Are you coming, Sara?” Mrs. Chandler calls over her shoulder. I know she sees me. Does it look like I’m coming?
They disappear inside the house, which is fine with me. I bend over and pick up the wadded-up paper from Dr. Kitanovski and uncrinkle it. When I smooth it out on my lap, I smile, because it looks just as wrinkly as Dr. Kitanovski. I search for a pencil and find one on the floor, along with a Life Saver. It has a little fuzz on it, but I eat it anyway. Cherry, my favorite.
I stare at the S and turn the paper on its side. Then I see it. The S is the rim on Daddy’s hat. I draw it the best I can remember.
When I’m done, I look out the window to see if Sneaker’s anywhere around. She isn’t, but other strays leap in and out of the bushes. I count them and stop after twelve.
A car is creepy when you’re the only one sitting in it, so I get out and slam the door to let them know I’m coming.
When I get inside, I see Lexie and Mrs. Chandler at the table, heads together, laughing. Lexie is making faces with the fruit on her plate.
“The cantaloupe can be the smile,” she says, putting her slice down at the bottom of her plate.
I would have turned my slice upside down.
“Or a frown, if you want,” she quickly adds, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Grapes make good eyes if you poke a raisin through the top.” She pokes raisins into two grapes and slices off the bottoms so they’ll stand up. “Banana slices make good noses.” She polishes off her face and shows it to Mrs. Chandler. Even though she doesn’t show it to me, I can see it. I hate to say it, but making food faces looks fun.
“You want to try one, Sara?” Mrs. Chandler asks, sliding a can of pineapple toward me.
I want to, but I don’t want to. I feel the pull inside me. “Not really,” I answer, edging toward the table. “But if you’re going to make me, I guess I could try one.”
For the next half hour or so, we make funny faces with pineapple slices, cherries, orange peels, and any other thing we can get our hands on. I even make hair out of stick pretzels for one of my faces. Each face makes us laugh louder and harder. Then we eat them.
The phone rings, and I jump up. Maybe it’s Mrs. Craig calling to say I can talk to Anna. I closely watch Mrs. Chandler’s face when she answers it.
“She’s right here,” she says, and my heart takes wing. “Do you want to talk to her?”
I jump up from the table, but it isn’t me she hands the phone to, it’s Lexie.
“Sorry, sweetie. It’s Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Chandler says as she sits back down at the table.
I sink against the back of my chair and push the plate with my half-eaten funny faces away.
Lexie cups her hand over the phone. “Can you come over tomorrow?” she asks me before hanging up.
I look at Mrs. Chandler, who nods. “It’s fine with me, Sara. Do you want to go to Lexie’s tomorrow?”
I miss Sneaker, so I nod. “I guess.”
“She said yes, Mom,” Lexie practically shouts into the phone. “Okay, I’m on my way. Bye. Love you too.”
“Miss Penny’s cat had more kittens,” Lexie says to us after she hangs up the phone. “Mom says they’re all coming into our yard, searching for food.”
“Who’s Miss Penny?” I ask.
“She lives in the house on the other side of us. She won’t fix her cat, and so it keeps having kittens. This is her cat’s third litter.”
“Someone should call Animal Control. They’d get her to get that cat fixed,” Mrs. Chandler says while wrapping up the leftover fruit.
“Dad says they’ll become fielders and keep the mouse population down,” Lexie adds.
“Not too many fields left around here,” Mrs. Chandler says, wiping the table. “Not that I’m against mouse control! Still, it’s cats that are overrunning the neighborhood these days, not mice.”
“It’s a catastrophe,” Lexie says, and they both start laughing.
I don’t get what’s so funny, so I just sit there.
“What’s a cat’s trophy?” I ask when Mrs. Chandler comes back into the kitchen.
She frowns slightly, then smiles. “A catastrophe? A catastrophe is a disaster,” she answers.
I know all about disasters. Mama taking off. Disaster. Daddy getting put in jail. Disaster. Anna being taken to the special center. Disaster. And none of it is funny, so why were they laughing?
“Lexie was using a play on words,” Mrs. Chandler explains, brus
hing my hair away from my face. “Catastrophe is spelled C-A-T-A-S-T-R-O-P-H-E. Since it starts with the word ‘cat,’ it’s a funny play on words.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised, like she’s asking if I understand, so I nod.
“You really like Lexie, don’t you?” I ask, emphasizing Lexie’s name.
Mrs. Chandler smiles. “Yes, I do like Lexie. She’s got a lot of spirit.”
“What about me? Do I have spirit?”
“You have a lot of spirit, Sara.”
I feel better knowing she likes me, too.
“I have to start on dinner. Want to help?” She waits for me to answer.
“Sure!”
“Be sure to wash your hands before we start.”
Mrs. Chandler has a thing about washing hands. “Okay,” I say on my way to the bathroom. “Then I’ll sing you a song.”
“By heart?”
“No, with my mouth,” I shout over the running water, and shake my head at the thought. Who sings a song from their heart?
CHAPTER 25
I HIDE MAMA’S LETTER IN a box stashed in my closet, along with other treasures I find around the neighborhood. Rocks. Feathers. Strings. Buttons. Then, every night before going to sleep, I grab Mama’s letter, try to sound out some words, and then put it back in the box to keep it safe.
There’s not a day or night that I don’t look at it. And not a day or night passes that I don’t worry about Anna. And barely a moment passes that I’m not glued to the radio, listening for Daddy’s songs.
“I never thought I’d be a fan of country music,” Mr. Chandler says one morning, slipping in behind me and reaching to turn the volume down on the radio. “But I can see why you like it, Sara.”
“Daddy can make his guitar sound like someone singing,” I tell him. “You don’t even need words to know what it says. Bet you can’t play guitar.” I look at him closely, but his face doesn’t give anything away.
“Nope. Can’t play guitar. Can’t sing. Have two left feet when it comes to dancing, but I can juggle. Does that count?”
“I guess.” I never saw anyone juggle before.
He smiles and picks up a glass apple from Mrs. Chandler’s fake-fruit bowl, and looks around for two more things to juggle.
Sara Lost and Found Page 12
