My mother sits on the stool and doesn’t talk for a long while. When she finally whispers to my father, I overhear what she says.
“All these years Madeline led me to believe her daughter died saving Derek. I can’t believe this! It’s an outrage!”
I squeeze in next to my mom. “It wasn’t my fault—that’s good news, right? You should be happy.”
My father agrees and tells Mom they can talk about it later. Even though she’s upset, she thanks Lauren and buys some jewelry, almost like she’s paying her back for finally giving her the truth.
Mom is crying as she hugs Lauren good-bye. When we get ready to leave, Lauren grabs me.
“This is a gift.” She holds out the leather necklace with the shells and feathers I was looking at earlier. “Wear it when you skateboard.”
“Maybe it’ll bring me a message from the gods.”
She smiles. “Sometimes all you can hope for is a good ride.” She fastens it around my neck, then holds me out to admire the necklace. I take her words and her feathers as a kind of all-weather gear to wrap around me in a storm.
I hug Lauren good-bye even though I don’t have to, then catch up to my parents. They’re standing beside the car, and my mom’s still crying.
“We’re going to visit Madeline James a day early,” she says. “I feel so betrayed. This time I’m the one who wants some answers.”
My father shoots me an expression that says, Look what you’ve gotten us into now.
Mrs. James
When my father asks my mother to reconsider, her answer is an outburst of anger and hurt. I’d give anything to rewind to the day I found that newspaper article. What was I thinking?
Mrs. James’s house is surrounded by roses, and I suddenly wonder how Carly’s doing at Learning Camp. And just like our visit to Carly’s, I ask my mother if I can wait in the car.
“You started this,” my mom says. “You might as well see how it ends.”
Mrs. James meets us in the garden. She’s wearing green boots, tan shorts, and a bright pink shirt. Even though her hair is very blond, she looks much older than my parents. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow! But please come in.”
She seems touched to finally meet us and gives my mother a hug. Mom wears the same pinched expression she has when my uncle Bob visits with a new girlfriend.
Mrs. James bends down to shake my hand. “And you must be Derek. Let’s get you some lemonade.”
We follow her to the kitchen, where she takes a pitcher from the fridge. The half slices of lemon float in the container like sunny smiles; I wonder if they’ll change to frowns after Mom gives Mrs. James a piece of her mind. Even though Mrs. James lied all those years about the facts of her daughter’s death, I pray Mom doesn’t let her see the anger she displayed in the car. My father looks as worried as I do.
The walls are filled with unframed photos of Susan in a giant collage that reminds me of the photos of patients in Mom’s office. I tug Mom’s sleeve and point to the collage, but her mind is focused on this decade-long injustice.
“Susan would’ve been twenty-eight next week.” Mrs. James runs her finger with its bright pink nail across the photo of her daughter holding a cat.
“About that day—” my mother begins.
Mrs. James turns toward my mother, and the earth stops spinning on its axis—or at least that’s how it seems to me. Mrs. James’s eyes are filled with such sadness, they actually halt the words coming out of my mother’s mouth. No matter what Mrs. James made up about Susan’s heroism, the woman lost her daughter, and judging by the look in her eyes, it might as well have been yesterday.
I’ve never seen my mom struggle the way she does now. She stares at her feet, shakes her head, and after a few moments, looks up.
“Susan sounds like a wonderful girl,” Mom says. “Please tell us more.”
And just like that, Mrs. James’s face lights up, and she shows us pictures of Susan at her dance recital, Susan with her grandparents in Germany, Susan and the child she tutored after school. No one interrupts her and we nod with enthusiasm as Mrs. James goes from photo to photo. My mother puts her arm on mine for just a second, then turns her attention back to Mrs. James. In all the movies I’ve watched, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone make a bigger sacrifice than Mom makes today. When we leave a few hours later, my mother and Mrs. James hug for a long time.
As we pull out of the driveway, my mom stares out the window. “Are we done with the story of Susan James?” she finally asks.
“It’s official. That story is closed,” I say. “But there’s a new one that needs our immediate attention.”
When she turns in her seat to face me, she’s smiling. “And what’s that?”
“When do we eat?”
Mom tries to grab me, but I slide across the seat toward Bodi.
“I guess Mom picked the right dog when she rescued Bodi from the shelter all those years ago,” Dad says.
I nod but the truth is that Lauren’s story doesn’t make me love Bodi more. Not because I don’t appreciate that he saved my life, but because it’s impossible for me to love him one bit more than I already do. I’m his Calvin and he’s my Hobbes—always has been, always will be.
Bodi lies on my lap, belly up, and I rub him vigorously. “You had my diaper in your mouth, you dirty dog. I hope it wasn’t full of poop.” He meets my eyes as if to say, I would’ve saved you anyway, you big knucklehead.
One More Thing
The next day, something is bothering me, but I can’t figure out what. As my parents read the paper and drink coffee on the porch, I realize what’s been nagging at me.
“Okay, I know I said the story of Susan James is officially closed, but there’s one more thing we have to do before we leave the island.”
My father’s head drops like he’s been hit in the back of the neck with a basketball. My mother ignores me and keeps reading.
“We have to go to South Beach. It’s where it all happened.”
“Too many memories,” Dad says. “Not to mention crowded.”
“How about if we go early?” I ask. “Just for a few minutes. Please?”
My mother puts down her newspaper. “Does it ever end?”
“Yes. Today, I promise.”
Margot’s way of visualizing a book as if it’s a movie, my flip-o-rama drawings, and Michael’s animation of my vocabulary words have sort of changed the way I think about stories. Not seeing South Beach when we’re on Martha’s Vineyard seems like a missing frame in the life of Susan James.
My mother is silent for several minutes. “I actually think it’s a good idea. Let’s go now before it gets too hot.”
“And crowded,” my dad says again.
I ask if Bodi can come, but Mom says dogs aren’t allowed on the beach during summer hours. Lucky for me, Susan James disregarded those rules ten years ago.
We pack water bottles, sunscreen, and snacks, and head across the island.
Dad parks along the side of the road and we walk to the right where Lauren said she and Susan went that day. Walking so far in the deep sand is difficult, so we move to the shoreline, where the packed wet sand makes it easier.
After we pass the last lifeguard, we go on for several minutes more. The waves are bigger than other beaches we’ve been to on this trip; I actually jump at the noise one of them makes when it crashes beside me.
My father grabs my mother’s hand, and we keep walking. After a while, my parents stop and face the water. The landscape is beautiful, but it’s hard not to think about what happened here. I take a deep breath and say good-bye to Susan James. Mom grabs my hand; the ocean view is infinite.
“Next stop, Portugal,” my father says.
I throw some rocks into the water and think about Mrs. James struggling to go through daily activities like weeding her garden or taking out the trash because of a bad decision her daughter made all those years ago. I’m certainly not the only one who’d want to rewind back to that day and make s
ome different choices. Thankfully, I’m spared from all this thinking when my mother’s cell goes off with its Pink Panther ringtone.
She turns away from the water to take the call, and I can tell by her face something’s wrong. Has something happened to Bodi or Grandma or Matt or Michael or Pedro?
I jump in circles around Mom when I hear her say, “I’m so sorry.”
She holds out her hand for me to stop disturbing her so she can hear. I turn toward the ocean where the postcard view seems ominous again.
“What happened?” I ask when my mother says good-bye.
“That was Carly’s mom. They found Ginger dead in her cage this morning. Carly feels terrible—she’s very upset.”
I’m relieved it’s the class hedgehog instead of someone I love. Then I realize Carly probably feels awful even though she only had Ginger for the summer. When a giant wave comes, it hits my legs and I feel the tug of the riptide, the same undertow that pulled Susan James away from her life. I borrow Mom’s phone and pull up the number of the last call received.
When Mrs. Rodriquez answers, I ask if I can speak to Carly. I can tell she’s crying when she finally comes to the phone.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I sit in the sand and listen, caught between the waves and Carly’s sobs.
As Good as It Gets
Often when we take family vacations, we have busy schedules: hiking, seeing friends, visiting museums. But for the rest of this trip we do nothing, and it’s a hundred times better. When I tell my parents, they agree.
For my Mom, SUSAN JAMES DROWNING ON HER OWN + ME BEING ALIVE = LESS STRESS FOR EVERYONE INVOLVED. She lets me eat fish and chips wrapped in paper and doesn’t wipe the tartar sauce off my chin. She just laughs when I ask if I can run through the golf course in my underwear at night. It’s almost as if that newspaper article had taken root in a small corner of my mother’s brain and finding out what really happened has somehow dissolved that tiny growth, freeing Mom up for other things.
For our last day, Mom wants to go to Lambert Cove to see the sunset. It’s a beach for town residents, but after six o’clock, anyone can go. We park our car, leave our shoes alongside everyone else’s, and walk down the wooden, sandy boardwalk to the beach. My dad identifies plants as we go and stops to make a few notes when he gets an idea. I know Bodi wants to be off-leash, but I also know Mom’s enjoying it here and I don’t want to ruin her fun by breaking the rules. (For once.)
I bend down and see droplets of water on a spiderweb between two shrubs. I have to agree with Mom when she says this place is magical. When we finally reach the water, I understand why she loves it so much. It’s one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen, completely different from those back home.
“Why don’t you take Bodi off the leash?” Mom says. “I’m sure he wants to run.”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. Even though he runs slower than he did when I was little, Bodi almost keeps up with me. When I turn back to find my parents, they’re walking arm in arm far behind.
A few younger kids are playing Frisbee near the dunes while their grandfather cooks hamburgers on a small grill. The smell attracts Bodi, who sniffs around the man’s cooler.
“You want a burger?” he asks me. “There’s more than enough to go around.”
Even though I’ve eaten fish and chips, two chocolate cookies, a strawberry smoothie, and a bag of pretzels, I say yes. The man tells me to help myself to the ketchup, mustard, and relish from his cooler.
“Oops!” The man pretends to drop a burger in the sand, then gives it to Bodi. I think about doing one of my classics where I squirt ketchup on my hand and tell my parents I cut myself on a fishhook, but they look so happy I decide to let them be.
I might’ve seen an East Coast sunset when I was little, but I certainly don’t remember anything like the oranges and pinks that fill the sky now. I stand still for several minutes and feel a kind of joy. Then the moment passes—like all perfect moments do—and the imperfect ones roll in like waves. A mosquito nails me on the ankle and the bite swells to the size of a nickel. I drop the last piece of hamburger in the sand and a lady yells at me to put Bodi back on his leash. It’s okay, though; anyone who expects perfect to stick around is a moron.
The four of us sit in the sand and watch the sky until after the sun is long gone. I pick up Bodi’s poop in a plastic bag and am surprised when we get to the parking lot and there aren’t any trash barrels. My mom says it’s “Take Out What You Bring In,” so I find a place in the trunk where the bag won’t get squished.
We spent so much time at the beach that we have to hurry to make the ferry. Mom drives since she knows the island better than Dad does. When we pull into the large boat, the attendant yells at my mother in a Boston accent I’ve only heard on TV.
“Hey, lady!” he shouts. “Pay attention! Over here!”
I love it when her MomMad isn’t directed at me. “Did he just call me ‘lady’?” she asks. “Did he?”
My father tells her it’s no big deal, but I can see the anger rising in my mother’s eyes. The guy motions furiously for my mother to drive forward until our car almost touches the one in front of us.
“Excuse me?” she asks. “But did you have to be so rude?”
“Lady, I’ve got to move a ton of cars through here in the next few minutes. Don’t take it personal.”
“Personally,” she corrects him.
I almost feel bad for the guy, but not quite.
We decide to sit in the upper cabin and grab supplies from the car for the crossing.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Dad asks.
I find the bag of Bodi’s poop and while the attendant directs cars onto the ferry I drop it into the tiny workroom where he’ll hang out during our voyage. Both Mom and Dad see me, but instead of being angry, they both laugh. As we head upstairs, we can already smell the fumes.
It’s almost another perfect moment.
Back Home
Ten minutes after our arrival, Matt skateboards over to my house. After listening to Lauren Hutchins talk about losing her best friend, I’m happier than usual to see Matt walk in the door.
We skateboard down to the boardwalk, and I tell Matt all about Lauren, Mrs. James, and South Beach. When I tell him Bodi saved my life and not Susan, he suggests we contact the mayor and try to get an official Bodi Holiday so we can take a day off from school. He also tells me Jamie had to pay a professional service a week’s salary to clean up the monumental mess he made in the house before their parents came home. We order strawberry slushies and watch the high school kids surf around the rocks. It’s amazing how different two oceans can be.
As we ride home, I tell Matt we have to make a stop. When he asks where we’re going, I say we have to play superhero and lend assistance to someone in need. He seems okay with that until he sees the name RODRIQUEZ on the door.
“Is this Carly’s house? Dude, what are we doing here?” he whispers.
“We’re helping Carly plant some flowers for Ginger.”
“Miss Goody Two-shoes killed the class hedgehog?” A demented grin appears on Matt’s face until he sees my expression.
“She’s not that bad,” I say.
When Carly answers the door, she seems surprised but happy to see us.
“I like your necklace,” Carly says.
“I like your armband.” I point to the black felt band on her arm.
“Nice job killing Ginger,” Matt tells her.
I elbow him in the ribs and he shuts up.
Carly gets three of her mother’s shovels and we dig holes on the side of the house near where she buried Ginger. We plant big clumps of daisies, then water them. It seems Carly’s learned a lot about plants from her mom.
After we finish, we say a few words for Ginger.
“Ginger was a good hedgehog,” Carly begins. “She gave everyone at our school so much pleasure. The Science Center won’t be the
same without her.”
Matt seems to have gotten over the fact that we’re at Carly’s house and adds some thoughts of his own. “Ginger stuck me with one of her quills last year, but I didn’t mind. I hope they don’t replace her with some lame animal like that gerbil we had in kindergarten who wouldn’t even run on his stupid wheel.”
“I hope that Ginger ends up in a prickle of great hedgehogs with lots of grapes and crickets,” I say. Silently, I hope wherever Ginger ends up, she runs into Susan James and they can hang out for a while.
Mrs. Rodriquez brings us apple juice and chocolate chip cookies and tells us we did a great job with the plants.
“Hey, Matt,” Carly says, “you want to steal a diamond?”
Matt seems confused, but for the first time today, Carly appears almost happy. We stay until dinnertime, dodging the motion detectors in Carly’s basement, then designing a new system we’ll set up next week—during our last few days of freedom.
See You Later, Learning Camp
The final week of Learning Camp reminds me of the last week of school—neither the teachers nor the students work too hard. Margot lets us do our summer reading, even helping us edit our reports. I spend most days leaning against one of the trees, slowly making my way through the book Ms. Williams gave me. It’s hard, but I take my time. If Bodi could be here with me, I almost wouldn’t mind.
Margot knows the book I’m reading, so at the end of every chapter I close my eyes and she asks me questions about what I see. Soon there are a bunch of us underneath the tree picturing the story in our heads. Afterward, I wonder how alike our scenes were, if we saw similar or different details. Then I come to my senses and join the water balloon fight in progress on the basketball court.
My Life as a Book Page 7
