She started with the thirteen-year-old yearbook, first. She opened it up to the first page and took her time, although it wouldn’t be very hard to skim through and just look for photos of young African-American women.
“She’s not in any of them,” her mother said, from behind her.
Emily jumped, feeling guilty, even though she ought to have every right to find out as much as she wanted about her own birth mother. “I was just looking,” she said, and kept turning pages.
Her mother nodded, and sat down across the room on the love seat.
Neither of them spoke, but after a while, Emily began to feel self-conscious. She had found the page which had a photograph of members of the college’s African-American Society, and she looked at each face, hoping to see something—anything—familiar.
“Are you sure she’s not in here?” Emily asked finally.
“Yes,” her mother said.
She sounded so certain that it was probably true. “There’s a good chance my father is in at least one of these yearbooks,” Emily said.
“It’s certainly possible, but he could also have been a hometown boyfriend, or someone off-campus.” Her mother hesitated. “If you want to know the truth, I’ve looked at them myself before, wondering if I would see someone who resembled you, but I never have.”
“He could be Caucasian or African-American,” Emily said.
Her mother nodded. “Caucasian, I’ve always assumed. But, yes, either is certainly possible.”
So, there was a clue in there. “You mean, my mother has pretty dark skin?” Emily asked.
Her mother seemed to weigh whether it would be okay to answer that, and then nodded.
Emily thought about that. “Do you think it could have bothered her parents, then, that I might be biracial?”
“I’m not sure,” her mother said. “But, not as far as I know. They seemed like extremely good people.”
Wow, it sounded like her mother knew a lot about them. “So, that means that you met them?” Emily asked.
“Just briefly,” her mother said. “We really only had one conversation. Mostly, we just saw each other in passing, at the hospital. It was a very hard situation for them. Obviously, your father and I were overjoyed to be bringing you home with us, but we wanted to make the transition as easy as possible for everyone else, so we tried to be low-key.” Her mother grinned suddenly. “But, wow, were we happy, once we got outside. Then, you threw up in the cab on the way to the hotel, and your father was so panicky that he wanted to turn around right away and go back and have you admitted for observation.”
That was very easy to picture, since it didn’t take much to make her father nervous. Emily had always heard that her parents flew back to Portland—from somewhere or other; although she now knew that it was Atlanta—and that lots of their friends and relatives were at the house, waiting for them, and that there was a huge party. Apparently, Emily’s contribution had been to have a bottle, spit up again, get her diaper changed at least twice, and then sleep the rest of the time. She had seen pictures of the party, and in most of them, she was wrapped in a green crocheted blanket that her California grandmother had made. A photo from the party of her parents holding her with huge smiles on their faces had been framed and was hanging in the front hallway.
That part of her life, at least, was real. But, everything else about who she was felt imaginary. “They’re like ghosts,” Emily said. A different sort of ghost, of course, but still, ghosts. “My mother. My father. All of them. I know they exist, but there’s nothing real.”
Her mother nodded unhappily.
“Do you know stuff about her?” Emily asked. “Personal stuff?”
Her mother shrugged a tiny affirmative shrug.
“But, you’re not going to tell me,” Emily said.
Her mother sighed. “You know that my primary loyalty is to you, but I gave her my word, all of those years ago, and I need to abide by that.”
Integrity was a really good thing—except when it wasn’t.
What she really wanted was a detail of some kind—like “Your mother was a terrific soccer player” or “She was a whiz at chemistry” or that she loved poetry or anything specific like that.
The room was quiet.
Zack was making dog mumbles in his sleep, and Emily patted him gently, to soothe whatever dream he was having.
“She sang,” her mother said.
Emily looked up, startled.
“She was in an a capella group, on campus,” her mother said. “I never got a chance to hear her myself, but I’m told by people who did that she has an absolutely gorgeous voice.”
Wow. “I can barely sing at all,” Emily said. “Or, anyway, not really on key.”
Her mother shrugged. “Just one of those things, I guess.”
Maybe her birth father had been tone-deaf. But, she finally knew something true, and something real, about her past.
“Well,” her mother said. “It’s a start, right?”
Yes, it definitely was.
* * *
During study hall the next day, she told Karen, and her friends Harriet and Florence, about the tiny little nugget of information she had learned about her birth mother. Then, because it was too hard to keep so many secrets—especially from her friends—she told them about everything else that had been going on lately, too, since she could now see ghosts, on top of everything else.
“Zack is amazing,” Florence said. “I’m not even sure if Tabitha knows her name.”
Emily laughed, because Florence’s dog, who was a flaky little spaniel mix, did always seem to have trouble understanding even the most basic things, like “Sit” or “Come.”
“So, okay, if ghosts are real,” Harriet said, “does that mean that vampires are real, too?”
“No,” Emily said, with great authority. “Werewolves and leprechauns are real, but vampires and sprites and monsters are all fake.”
Her friends looked very impressed.
“Wow,” Florence said. “You know that for sure?”
Emily was tempted to play it out, and keep teasing them, but decided that it might be mean. “No,” she said. “I was just kidding around.”
Harriet thought about that. “So, vampires could be real.”
Karen shook her head. “I hope not. My mother says that most of the stuff about vampires totally objectifies women and everything.”
Which was one reason why Emily’s mother and Karen’s mother got along.
“What about female vampires?” Harriet asked logically.
Karen shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ll have to ask her. Maybe they’re okay?”
This was definitely a dumb conversation, and Emily laughed. “If vampires were real, wouldn’t they all be bad, one way or another? Like, maybe not sexist and stuff, but just plain old evil ?”
Florence pretended to look stern. “That’s very vampirist of you.”
“Totally politically incorrect,” Karen agreed.
Somewhere, there probably was a group devoted to protecting the reputations of vampires. “If vampires really existed, we’d have a bunch of people yelling at each other on television all the time about whether they’re good, or bad, and how anyone who disagrees with them is even more bad,” she said. As a political scientist, her mother was very big on the concept that disagreeing with an idea didn’t mean that you had to dislike the person who happened to suggest it.
Harriet looked around uneasily. “Well, I hope that Mr. Griswold is the only ghost around, and that none of those other things are real. Because if they are real, I’m going to have about seven hundred nightmares tonight.”
If it turned out that there were a whole bunch of werewolves and vampires and monsters hanging around on Earth, looking for trouble, Emily was going to have nightmares, too.
“Are you girls studying?” their teacher asked, from the front of the room.
All four of them nodded innocently, and focused down on their books—none of which were
even open.
Florence flipped to the third chapter in their Spanish book, to start doing her homework. “One thing’s for sure,” she whispered. “Your life is really exciting these days, Emily.”
Boy, was it ever!
16
Emily took the bus home after school, and went straight into the Mini-Mart to let Cyril know that she was going home to get Zack first, and would bring him right back with her.
And, mostly, that was exactly what she did. She took the time to put on a fleece sweatshirt, since the air was definitely starting to feel like autumn. She also patted Josephine for a little while, changed the water in her dish, and fed her.
Then, since she was getting nonstop images of Zack’s dish overflowing with food, she fed him, too. Usually, he only had a couple of dog biscuits when she got home from school, and didn’t eat supper until about six, but apparently, he was extra-hungry today.
Of course, once they got down to the Mini-Mart, Cyril was bound to give Zack all sorts of treats, but Emily assumed that he would have no trouble gobbling them down.
Zack barked happily, so she assumed that he knew precisely what she was thinking—and liked the idea. He finished his food, and then went out to stand by the back door.
“Okay,” she said to Josephine, giving her one last pat on the head. “Be a good girl.”
In return, she got a flash of a blur of fur racing through every room in the house, leaving behind a path of total destruction. Shredded sofa cushions and pillows, broken glasses and dishes, silverware strewn across the kitchen floor, books knocked off every shelf of every bookcase, framed photos and paintings falling off the walls—the house was pretty much trashed.
Then, she could have sworn she heard—or, no, sensed—a really high-pitched sound that was apparently cat laughter. Cat cackling, actually.
Reading Josephine’s mind was always a little bit unsettling.
Zack must have also tuned in, because he barked very, very sharply—and Emily was pretty sure she sensed more gales of cat laughter.
“Maybe you could just like, take a nice nap on the windowsill in the sun,” Emily said.
All she got back was a sound that might be a cat snicker.
Before going outside, Emily checked all of the windows, to make sure that they were closed. Since Josephine was obviously feeling mischievous today, Emily wouldn’t put it past her to sneak out and follow them. Granted, Josephine already seemed to be asleep on the couch—but, she might be faking it.
The leaves were starting to turn, and fall was definitely coming. Emily liked fall, for lots of reasons, including the fact that the air smelled extra-clean and sharp. But, it had started raining while she was in the house, and so, she and Zack walked along more quickly than they would have otherwise.
Emily had assumed that she would sit outside at the picnic table, and listen to people’s stories for a couple of hours while she was waiting for her father to come and pick her up. But, since it was raining even harder now, that idea seemed much less appealing.
Before opening the front door of the store, Emily pictured Zack shaking energetically, so that he would be a little less wet when they went inside—and he cooperatively did just that. Cyril was waiting for them with an old beach towel, and Emily used it to dry Zack off even more, making sure to spend extra time on his paws, in case someone came in whom he really liked and felt like jumping up to greet.
When she was finished, she hung the towel up neatly on a small coatrack, which was right next to the entrance.
Cyril had set up a card table with a new sketch pad, some pens and colored pencils, a small carton of cold orange juice, a wooden bowl with pretzels, and a dish of M&M’s. Seeing all of that made her feel as though maybe she wasn’t imposing as much as she had been afraid she might be, since it looked as though he liked the idea of babysitting for an afternoon.
So, she sat down, and drew quietly, and sipped juice. Zack slept under the table, sprawled across her feet—which made her sneakers feel even more wet, but she didn’t mind at all.
Mostly, she drew the activity in the store—customers coming in and out, people standing in small clumps to chat briefly, Mr. Washburn—who regularly hung out at the store—lounging by the ice cream freezer as he read the latest edition of the Bailey’s Cove Bugle, and Cyril hustling around to locate obscure items on various shelves, and ringing up people’s purchases, while he made a near-constant stream of offbeat comments and observations. Every so often, he would pause to check on her, and she would assure him that she was fine and ask if he needed any help, and he would say, no, no, it’s under control.
The steady stream of customers slowed down as the rain outside came down harder.
“What are you drawing?” Cyril asked, after he wiped down various display cases, and straightened a few shelves.
Emily couldn’t help feeling shy. She didn’t even always show her parents her drawings, especially if they didn’t come out very well. “Nothing special. Just, you know, stuff. ”
“Is it okay if I look?” he asked.
She was afraid that he wouldn’t like them, but she handed the sketchbook to him. He sat down across the table from her, and took his time going through the pad, paying close attention to each and every sketch.
“These are very good, Emily,” he said.
Well, grown-ups always said things like that, to be nice. She shrugged self-consciously. “Thank you. I was just practicing.”
“They’re absolutely spiffy,” he said. “Would it be all right if I keep this one?”
She leaned over and saw that he had picked out a sketch she had done of him standing behind the cash register, gesturing with both hands and looking as though he was in the middle of a long and opinionated conversation. “Sure,” she said, genuinely surprised. “You, um, like it?”
He nodded, and went down one of the aisles to poke through a shelf. He returned with a new black picture frame.
“I’m going to hang it right up,” he said, “so that everyone will be able to see it, but I want you to sign it, first.”
Oh, dear. “But, it’s not finished,” she said uncomfortably. “There’s a lot more I should do, to make it better.”
He shook his head. “It’s perfect, just the way it is.”
She felt shy, but carefully wrote her name and the date on the bottom right-hand corner of the page.
“There,” he said, looking pleased. “Now, when you’re famous someday, I’ll already own one of your early works, and everyone will be jealous.”
Not that Emily wanted to be famous, particularly, but the idea of being a professional artist was definitely appealing.
Since she was curious, she decided to ask a sort of personal question. “You like children, sir?” she said. “I mean, you know, except for Bobby.”
“Bobby,” Cyril said, and shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s a shifty-eyed, squinty little punk.”
Right. Whatever. “Okay, but other than that, you like children?” Emily asked.
Cyril nodded. “My wife and I wanted children more than I can tell you. But then, she got sick, and—” His eyes looked distant and sad. “Well. Things don’t always work out the way you hope they will.”
She had never met Cyril’s wife, who had died at least twenty years ago, but people in town always said really complimentary things about her. “I’ve heard she was a really great person,” Emily said, tentatively.
Cyril nodded. “You would have liked her. And pretty as a picture? You bet! I never stopped being thankful that she was willing to marry me.” He sighed, and took out his wallet, to look at a photograph, which he showed her.
“Wow. She was beautiful,” Emily said. And she really was. In the photo, she looked like a model.
“I’ll never stop missing her,” Cyril said, putting his wallet away. “And it was a great loss for both of us, that we weren’t able to have a child. My friend Sam used to drag me along when he took his son fishing, or to ballgames, or I’d go over to the house t
o have supper, and—well, I enjoyed every minute.”
Sam. Emily sat up straight. “You mean, Mr. Griswold?”
Cyril nodded, looking sad again. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him, too.” He glanced over. “You know about what happened?”
Boy, did she ever. Emily nodded back.
“Terrible loss,” Cyril said. “I’ll never get over that one, either.”
Emily nodded, letting a respectful silence pass. “So, you used to be friends with Mrs. Griswold?” she asked.
Cyril nodded. “You bet. Abigail was always a handful, but she was so full of energy, I figured she’d be governor someday.” He grinned. “Or maybe take over a small country somewhere.”
That had to be a joke, so Emily laughed.
“But, after it happened, she pushed everyone away,” he said. “Even Hank, their son. And, after a while—well, people make their choices. Me, I didn’t have any patience for it.”
“Do you think the accident was her fault?” Emily asked.
Cyril shook his head. “People say some right foolish things about that night, but, no. There’s a reason they call them accidents.”
For some reason, that made Emily think of her birth mother—who sang with a glorious voice. She had gotten pregnant by accident, and maybe, after that, she had just tried to make the best decisions possible. Maybe she had made some mistakes—but, maybe that was okay.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Cyril looked at her curiously. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” Emily said. Then, she changed the subject. “Are you always going to be mad at Bobby?”
Cyril frowned. “The criminal strain runs deep in his blood.”
Sometimes, Emily thought that his whole attitude towards Bobby—and Bobby’s entire family—was a complete put-on, but she wasn’t always sure. “I think he’s reformed,” she said. “Left his, you know, bad ways in the past. Plus, of course, he’s my friend, and so, it really matters to me.”
Cyril moved his jaw. “Tell you what,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ll move the line he has to stand behind closer to the store.”
Dog Whisperer Page 12
