Chasing Jupiter

by Rachel Coker

  My words sounded empty and hollow. It was just like she’d said several months ago. My own strength just wasn’t enough to find what I craved.

  “Scarlett.” Mrs. Greene reached out and squeezed my hand in her own. “No one could have a bigger heart than you. There’s nothing else you could have done.” Her eyes looked sad, and she rubbed my fingers softly.

  I swallowed, forcing down the lump in my throat. “I can’t go on without knowing that God is in control of this. Of my life. I need to know that no matter what happens, there is a reason for it all.” My eyes were starting to water up, so I concentrated on staring at a small spot on the ceiling. My mouth was moving faster than my brain. I took a deep breath. “If I could just trust that God had a reason for it all.”

  Mrs. Greene nodded and stood, reaching for a Bible on the counter. She laid it on the table and flipped through the pages, her eyes skimming the text. Then she looked up at me. Reaching over to smooth a stray hair off my forehead, she gave me a small smile. “God always has a reason, Scarlett.” She glanced down at the Bible.

  “Here’s a familiar passage, but I think it might be helpful to you. Jeremiah 29:11–13: “For I know the things I think toward you sayeth the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will harken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.”

  Mrs. Green closed the Bible and looked at me. Her green eyes were bright and piercing. “God always has a plan, Scarlett. And if you are his child, then he promises that it will be for good. You may not know it right away. It may take years of pain and suffering to finally be able to look back and see how God was using trials in your life for good.”

  My chest pinched in confusion and frustration and bitterness. “Then I don’t see the point. Why trust God if nothing will be any better?”

  “Because”—Mrs. Greene pressed my hand gently—”you will never be without peace. You will never get to a point where your strength is gone and you don’t think you can go on. God will always be there to protect you. Even when everything seems dark and there doesn’t seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel, God will be there.”

  My lips felt dry. I chewed one corner and tried to calm my shaky chest. “How can I know that he’s near?”

  A soft smile spread on Mrs. Greene’s face. “What did the Bible say?” She glanced down at the text and read it slowly. “And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.” She looked up at me. Silence filled the kitchen, pierced by the unhindered ticking of the clock on the wall. Finally, she pressed her lips together and smiled. “It’s up to you, Scarlett. Do you want to find him?”

  I gulped, unable to find the words to express what I was thinking. My heart was pounding. Deep down, I knew this was what I wanted. To find God. To give over control of my life and trust him to take care of me.

  Mrs. Greene pushed away from the table and grabbed the tea pot. “More tea?” But before she poured a drop, she hesitated. Pointing to my cup, she said, “You, just like your cup, are empty. There is nothing good in you. Nothing to fill you but God.” She motioned toward the teapot. “Who knew tea could be so meaningful, right?”

  I wanted to laugh, but my throat burned with the stinging tears I was holding back. I pressed my lips together and stared at the steam rising from my cup. “I don’t …” My voice broke to a whisper. “I don’t deserve it.”

  “Scarlett, honey, it doesn’t matter.”

  Involuntarily, my shoulders slumped and I buried my face on the table, erupting in tears. I cried without making a single noise, my chest aching for all the things I thought I’d done wrong and all the ways I could have made them right. If I’d only turned to God, instead of trying to do it all on my own.

  God, forgive me. I’d wanted to say the words aloud, but even as I thought them in my head, I knew that it was enough. Forgive me, and make me whole.

  Mrs. Greene rubbed my back in small circular motions. After my eyes were swollen beyond the point of seeing, I lifted my head and smiled. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  I was sitting in the kitchen when Mama came in. Pulling off her uniform gloves, she shut the door behind her and glanced at me. “Oh, I see you’re already eating. Good. I think your dad will be working late tonight. He’s doing that double-shift at the paper factory until peach season comes again.” She shook her head. “And you won’t believe how busy we’ve been at the bed and breakfast. Everyone wants a plantation-style Christmas getaway all of a sudden.”

  I took another bite of my sandwich and wiped the crumbs off my skirt. “Do they have a Christmas tree?”

  Mama nodded and pumped some lotion onto her hands. “It must be ten feet tall.” She smoothed the lotion into her skin, and I watched it dissolve in small swirls.

  “You know”—I gulped down my food—”I’m thinking about decorating our tree tonight.”

  Mama blinked and froze. “Are you.?” She opened and closed her mouth but seemed unable to finish the thought.

  I nodded. “I’m sure.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck and heaved a shaky breath. “I’ll help you.”

  I made Mama a sandwich and sat with her at the table until she was finished. Then I carried the dishes into the kitchen and placed them in the sink. “I’m going to get Grandpop Barley. He might like to watch.”

  Grandpop Barley’s room was dark as always. I switched on his light and knelt at the side of his bed. “Grandpop Barley,” I whispered, shaking him gently. “Come downstairs. I want you to see something.”

  I helped him out of bed and into his robe. Then I led him down the stairs and settled him on the couch. “There. Now just sit and watch us decorate the tree.”

  Mama walked into the living room, struggling under the weight of several boxes. “I grabbed these out of the attic. I think they’re all marked. Ornaments are in … this one.” She held up the largest of the boxes. Kneeling on the ground, she opened the box and pulled out the first ornament. It was a gold-painted pinecone with Juli, 1956 written on the side. Her shoulders slumped.

  My heart pinched. This is going to be harder than I thought. Gently, I reached out and squeezed her hand. She looked up and smiled.

  “Right. Now I think this one should go over here, don’t you?”

  I nodded and hung it on the far side of the tree, near the top. I stood back to admire the single ornament. “It looks good.”

  We spent the rest of the evening hanging the old ornaments one by one until the tree was filled.

  “There,” Mama said, standing back to appraise the last one. “What do you think?”

  I settled on the couch next to Grandpop Barley and motioned for Mama to sit next to me. I soaked in the sight of the Christmas tree, heavy with our family’s memories. A smile tugged at my lips. “It’s beautiful.”

  Mama nodded, resting a hand over her mouth. Tears glistened in her eyes. “It looks …” She sighed. “It looks like family.”

  I covered her hand with my own. “We’re still a family,” I whispered, lacing her fingers through mine.

  She gulped and turned toward me, smiling. “You do know how much I love you, Scarlett?”

  I hugged her in response. She smelled sweet, like the bread they baked at the bed and breakfast. Her hair was soft and warm against my cheek. I pulled back and rubbed her shoulders, feeling how thin they had become. “I love you too.”

  And I did. She hadn’t been the best mother in the world. She was far from perfect. She’d taken me for granted before and ignored Cliff. She didn’t know me inside and out—and probably didn’t care to—but she did love me. And, in the end, I loved her too. That was all that really mattered.

  “O, Christmas tree, O, Christmas tree, how lovely are your branches.”

  I jerked back and whipped my head around, shocked at the sound of Grandpop Barley’s raspy voice. He was sitting with his hands in his lap, sm
iling contentedly at the pretty tree. He looked at me and gave a small smile.

  I looked at Mama. She was beaming, her face sunny again.

  The door in the kitchen opened, and I could hear Dad come in, dropping his keys on the counter. I jumped up. “Dad! Dad!”

  His head popped around the corner, looking surprised. “What? What?”

  “Grandpop Barley was just singing ‘O, Christmas Tree,’ at least one line. But the point is, he talked about something other than peanut butter!”

  A grin spread across Dad’s face. “Good.” He glanced at the tree as he bent to kiss Mama. “It’s beautiful, honey. Absolutely beautiful.”

  Chapter 17

  Well …” Dad rubbed his hands together and attempted to break the silence filling the kitchen. Mama and I sat next to him at the table, eating with our eyes glued to our plates. “There’s a political meeting in town tonight. I guess I’ll take Old Clunker. Do either of you want to go?”

  Mama glanced up, giving him a small smile. “Of course, dear.”

  I shrugged. “No, thanks.” Taking another bite of chicken, I tried not to look at all the empty settings on the table. Cliff’s. Juli’s. And even though he was upstairs sleeping, Grandpop Barley’s.

  Deep breaths, Scarlett. We are still a family with or without them.

  Pressing my napkin to my mouth, I slid away from the table. “May I please be excused? I have some homework to get done.”

  Dad looked up. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with us tonight? You don’t want to be all alone, do you?”

  The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. All alone. My face strained. I’m all alone all the time. Whenever you’re both at work, I’m here by myself.

  Immediately, Dad reddened. “I didn’t mean … I only meant to say that …”

  “It’s okay.” I forced a smile. “Grandpop Barley’s sleeping upstairs, right?”

  Mama and Dad lowered their eyes, glancing at each other. I saw Mama’s hand slip off of her lap and squeeze his. The small gesture made my heart warm, for some reason. A reminder that we were still there for each other. That we would make it through this life together, somehow. I looked away and carried my plate to the sink.

  I stood by the sink for a while and looked out the window. The sun was starting to set. I could hear Mama and Dad leave the table and head to their bedroom to grab their coats and shoes.

  Turning off the water in the sink, I leaned against the counter and pressed my nose up against the window pane. It was slightly cool, wetting my skin. I closed my eyes and breathed in.

  Give me a purpose, God. Give me something—anything—to take my mind off this pain and serve you instead.

  I stood by the window and watched until I saw Old Clunker rev up and drive away in a cloud of dust. Then I tromped up the stairs and settled on the floor in my room. The house felt big and empty, even though I knew Grandpop Barley was asleep just down the hall. Somehow, it still felt like I was alone.

  Well, I guess I’d better get started on that paper. I pulled my schoolbook out of my day bag and opened it up on the floor. Spreading out, I cracked it open and perused the title suggestions. Five thousand words on the balance of power in the US government. Fun.

  Pulling my bag open, I searched for a pencil. That’s weird. I could have sworn there was one in here. I dumped open the bag, pouring out the contents on the floor. Crumpled-up paper, candy wrappers, and loose change, but no pencil.

  I bet there’s one in Cliff’s room. I stood and headed into the hallway, only pausing for a moment before pushing open Cliff’s door.

  The moment I did, my chest felt as if it had been hit by a wall of bricks. I hadn’t been in his room since the day of his fall, but nothing had changed. Dirty clothes were still folded neatly on the floor, books were perfectly lined up on the shelves, and rows of blocks remained stacked along the wall. His battered copy of The Complete Spanish Dictionary was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Salty bile bubbled up in my throat. Oh. Tears pricked my eyes, stinging them to the point of blindness. I stood stock still and stared at all of Cliff’s things.

  The room seemed untouched by time. In this room, I could almost believe that Cliff was still here with us, laughing and talking. That he was upstairs firing up Grandpop Barley or downstairs stacking cans in the kitchen. After supper, we would ride our bikes to Frank’s orchard and stare at the clouds and laugh until our sides hurt and we were too sleepy to keep our eyes open. And then I would watch Cliff crawl into bed and read him a chapter out of one of his favorite books, caving when he asked for one more because it was so adorable when he said, “Por favor?”

  I just need to get a pencil and get out. I began rummaging through his drawers. Get out before …

  My eyes fell on a book sitting on Cliff’s dresser: Peter and Wendy. My chest tightened. I reached out and picked up the book, flipping through the pages. Illustrations of laughing Peter, worried Peter, surprised Peter, and triumphant Peter flashed before my eyes. In the back of the book was a folded piece of paper.

  With trembling hands, I opened the paper and smoothed out the wrinkles. My Birthday List. By Cliff Blaine. June 6, 1969.

  I scanned the list, remembering the look on Cliff’s face as he read each of the items to me. One monkey from Japan. Eight moons in the sky instead of one. Fifteen Spanish battles.

  And there it was, right at the bottom. Sixteen rockets to Jupiter. Written in his childish scrawl, smeared with frosting and smelling of peppermints.

  As I stared at the piece of paper, the memories rushing over me stronger than a freight train, one thought echoed in my mind.

  Cliff never got his rocket to Jupiter.

  My legs folded beneath me. How could I have been so stupid? In the middle of Juli, and politics, and Grandpop Barley, I had forgotten the one who was the most precious to me. The little brother who had stuck by me and made me smile on horrible days and whispered that he wished he had ocean eyes like mine while he twirled his fingers in my tangled hair. Cliff, who had wanted that rocket more than anything in this world, but had given it up for the sake of our family’s happiness.

  My stomach twisted at the memory of our betrayal of that sacrifice. The day our family was hanging by threads, Cliff was the only one who cared about gluing it back together.

  We can glue it together now. It’s been ripped and shattered and scarred, but the pieces are still there. Just because Cliff had a bruised brain and Grandpop Barley couldn’t remember his left from his right didn’t make them any less family.

  I looked back down at Peter and Wendy. Hidden in the back was another folded paper. When I pulled it out and opened it, a smile pulled at my lips.

  It was a drawing of one giant spaceship, painted green, with the words To Jupiter sprawled across the front. An entire crew was drawn inside. Cliff, me, Frank, and Grandpop Barley with a vibrant red tie. We were smiling and waving as we hurtled into space.

  Turning the page over, I saw a short message scribbled on the back:

  Cliff Blaine, 1969

  My sister Scarlett is going to build me a rocket to Jupiter. When she reads Peter and Wendy, it makes me think sometimes about flying to Jupiter and being in my rocket ship. Peter Pan didn’t want to grow up, but I think I do because then I can go to space for real, which is something I can’t do as a kid. Scarlett doesn’t want to grow up. I think because she seems sad sometimes when she talks about grown-ups. But I think that she will make a great grown-up some day because she is the best sister already in the world.

  I finished the note, then looked over it again. My eyes devoured every word. I wanted it in my memory forever.

  Cliff had faith in me. He believed that I would make it through this world okay and turn out just fine. The knowledge of that fact made me want to believe it too.

  I folded up the paper and stuck it back in the book, closing it with a thud. It may be too late now, but I’m going to build him that rocket.

  Near Christmas, we went to visit Cliff
, and the nurses told us that he was allowed to come home with us on Christmas Eve and spend the night, as long as we had him back the next afternoon. So Dad arranged to pick him up in Old Clunker, and we’d let him have his old bedroom back. The only condition was that a nurse had to come along, just to make sure he had someone familiar there. She would sleep on a cot by Cliff’s bed in case he needed anything during the night.

  I didn’t care if a whole team of nurses had to come—Christmas was less than two weeks away, and we finally had something to look forward to. Juli may have left for good, but we’d have the rest of our family together for a solid twenty-four hours. Suddenly, I was glad we decided to decorate a tree.

  I had brought Cliff the copy of Peter and Wendy in case he decided he wanted to read any more of it. Stacey had asked everyone else to step out in the hallway so they could arrange Cliff’s visit home, and since Albert was gone, I found myself alone with Cliff for the first time since his accident. Just the two us. Well, a nurse was sitting in the corner to keep an eye on him. But the nurses were so common there that I could ignore her completely.

  I stood at the edge of the bed with the book clasped in my hands. Cliff was propped up on some pillows and still dressed in his pajamas. It was a pair he’d gotten at the home. All minty green with white stripes. He looked at the book in my hands curiously but didn’t say anything.

  I followed his gaze and held up the book. “This is your favorite book. Peter and Wendy. We never finished it. Even once you were gone, we didn’t read any of it. Not without you.”

  He grabbed a candy cane off the bedside table, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. But he stared at me in silence, as if willing for me to go on.

  God, how do I handle this? He’s looking at me. My skin tingled. Oh, God, he actually sees me.

  I licked my lips and opened the book. “We were on the last chapter.” I cleared my throat. “Chapter Seventeen. When Wendy grew up …”