“I’d rather stay here,” I tell her flatly. With Dad, I think. But I don’t say that part out loud.
She shrugs. “You’ll be alone all day.”
Like this is any different than it’s been with her in the house. It might be better. At least there will be no pretense. “It’s okay,” I tell her.
Maybe this is the beginning of a divorce. Maybe this is how it happens. First, parents need a break.The next thing you know, it’s all custody battles and court hearings. But right now I don’t care. Actually, I am relieved. I know this sounds strange.
“I’ll be leaving in an hour, if you change your mind,” Mom tells me. She looks so weary. It makes me feel sad suddenly, like maybe I should go with her. Maybe she needs me. But she would never ever say that. It would be too honest. And honesty is not a virtue in the Holden house.
“Okay,” I tell her. She clips into the house, her pumps clicking on the stone path. The discussion is over, just like that. I think again that maybe I should agree to go with her.
But I don’t.
When Mom finally does leave, she calls me into the foyer to say good-bye. She hugs me really tight and kisses my cheeks. I can see tears in her eyes when she pulls away from me.
“Be safe, Jane,” she whispers. I nod. “I’ll call you every morning,” she promises. I nod again. That guilty feeling starts to bubble up again, making me feel hot and cold at the same time. Dad comes downstairs and Mom kisses him softly on the cheek. I can’t read his expression at all. Mom shuts the front door with a soft click.
And then there were two.
Other than the exciting task of painting my toenails fluorescent green, the rest of the day is uneventful. I return to my room, and stay there, reading my camera manual for the fiftieth time. In the afternoon, Dad comes into my room carrying the puppy.
“Want to hold her?” Dad asks.
I look at this fluffy thing, with its wet black nose and big sad eyes.
I shake my head no.
“We could go out for ice cream,” Dad suggests.
I shake my head again.
“Miniature golf? You used to love that.”
“When I was five.”
“Bungee jumping?”
That gets a smile. But just a teeny one.
“She still needs a name,” Dad reminds me.
“Is she staying?”
Dad nods. “She’s staying.”
I consider the dog. “How about ‘Kona’?” I offer.
Kona is the one place Lizzie and I always dreamed of visiting. Kona, Hawaii. When we grew up, we were going to build vacation homes there. Side by side on the same stretch of sand.
I don’t know if we ever shared this dream with our parents—if we ever asked them to take us there for a vacation. So when Dad says thoughtfully, “Kona it is,” I don’t know if it means anything to him or not. Either way, the puppy has a name. And she’s staying.
Dad orders pizza for dinner and we sit in front of the television while we eat. I don’t mind. At least we don’t have to fake-talk about things the way we did when we ate dinner “as a family.” Then it hits me. We aren’t a family anymore. Just a fragment of a family—the leftovers.
I also realize that this is the first time Dad and I have ever been on our own, just the two of us. And it’s the first time we’ve ever eaten dinner in front of the TV. I wonder again if Mom and Dad are getting divorced. Maybe Mom is never coming back. Maybe this is just how it’s going to be from now on.The thought makes me really, really tired. I tell Dad I’m going to bed. “I have to leave for an early meeting tomorrow,” Dad tells me. “Will you be all right on your own?” he asks.
“No problem,” I tell him.
“You’re on puppy duty, then,” he finishes.
“Okay.” My mouth forms the words, but truthfully I’m not so sure. Kona is curled up in a little ball next to Dad’s feet. She’s looking pretty cute. But I still haven’t held her.
“I’ll write down how to feed her. She eats three times a day. Take her out before and afterward. And if you can, give her some time outside the crate. So she doesn’t get too lonely.”
“Okay, Dad,” I mumble as I peck him on the cheek.
He pats my head. “Sleep tight, Little Bunny.”
Dad hasn’t called me “Little Bunny” since I was seven. Normally, this would really annoy me. But for some reason, right now I kind of like it.
The next morning, I open my eyes. And then it hits me. Today, I am a puppy sitter. I pull on some board shorts and a tank top and dash down to the kitchen. As soon as I open the kitchen door, I can hear the puppy scratching at her crate.
“Okay, okay. Hold on,” I tell her as I try to get the latch open. I pull up the metal latch and the door swings open. Out she bounds. Covered in water. No, wait. She smells like a public bathroom. Oh no! She’s covered in pee. She leaps on me, pressing both wet paws against my shirt.
“Great,” I tell her. “Now we both need a bath.” I am beyond annoyed. How could Dad do this to me? He was the one who wanted this puppy. Not me. And now I have to wash the crate, wash her, wash me, wash my clothes, and the kitchen floor.
I walk toward the door. Kona scampers beside me, eager to keep up, all the while making little puppy yipping sounds. When I open the door, she sees the grass and makes a dash for it. While she’s sniffing around, I lean against the door frame. A whole day to myself. No one watching. Commenting. Criticizing. I can do anything I want today. Well, after I clean up Kona’s mess. But after that, I can do anything I want.
The trouble is, I have absolutely no idea what that is.
It takes me almost an hour to clean up and feed Kona. I had no idea a puppy could eat so fast. I munch a bowl of cereal while she laps up her mushy puppy kibble. Mom calls. She rambles on with unimportant details about my grandparents. Things like “Your grandmother bought a new golf cart,” and “The orthopedic shoes your grandfather tried really helped his gout.” Oh, and “Did you know they have lots of classes here, like macramé and origami?” I tune her out after three minutes of this. Then Mom tells me she loves me, and we hang up.
Afterward, I take my camera and head outside. Kona follows me. She stays right behind my feet, no matter where I go.
I walk around the yard, snapping photos of the trees, flowers, a bird sitting on the fence. Even I have to admit, the pictures are kind of on the boring side. Just then, Kona dashes out from behind me. She’s after a little white butterfly. The butterfly flits among the flowers, and Kona leaps in right after her. I start shooting: Kona splashing through the sprinklers. Kona leaping in the air to catch the butterfly. Kona tripping over the potted plants. Kona rolling in the grass. Kona collapsing in the shade, tongue hanging sideways out of her mouth.
All the while I am laughing. I can’t help it. She’s hysterical. She must be the most clueless puppy in the world. And she’s adorable.
I fish a Popsicle out of the freezer and drop into the hammock. I use my left foot to push myself back and forth. Kona stands underneath, whining at me.
“What?” I ask her. “You want to come up?” She stops whining and stares at me with her big sad eyes.
“Okay,” I agree. I reach down and swoop her up into my arms. I set her down near my leg. Only Kona has other ideas. She shimmies up next to my body and folds herself into my side. She places her head on top of my chest and closes her eyes.
And this is how I spend my first day alone.
Not alone at all.
That night, after Dad and I gorge on spaghetti and meatballs, I decide to download the photographs. I want to print some for Dad to see.
I take out the manual and turn to the pages about downloading pictures. First, I load the software. Then I attach the cable from the camera to my computer. The pictures start showing up, one by one.
My stomach churns. Suddenly those meatballs don’t feel so good. My head spins. There’s Lizzie in her coffin. The stitches holding her lips closed. The pallor of her skin.
I had
forgotten. There are twelve of them. Twelve pictures of my dead sister. Twelve shots before my father stopped me, mortified at my conduct. And as much as I agree with him, I have to admit that I find the pictures fascinating. So fascinating that I print them out right away. I hold them in my hands. Lizzie.
Kona is curled up near my feet and I startle her when I jump up to stash the photos in my bedside table. I don’t want Dad to see them by mistake.
By the time I take a look at the photos of Kona, I don’t even feel like doing this anymore. I am so exhausted all I want to do is sleep. That’s when Dad comes into the room.
“What’s going on in here?” he asks in a friendly voice. I can’t believe how different this Dad is from the Dad he used to be. The Dad I used to have didn’t even look up from his papers when I came into the room. This Dad is coming into my room to see what I’m up to. Then it occurs to me. Maybe he does think I’m going to fall apart. Maybe he thinks I need special watching.
I quickly scroll down to the pictures of the puppy so as not to prove him right.
“I took some pictures of the puppy today. I wanted to surprise you.”
Dad pretends to cover his eyes. “I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”
“No, that’s okay,” I assure him. Dad reaches under me to pick up Kona.
“Looks like you two have bonded.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You could say that.”
“Was that before or after the pee fest?”
“Definitely after.” I groan.
Dad leans in over my shoulder. “Hey, some of these are really good, Jane.”
Dad’s never complimented me on anything before. Not like this.
“Really?” I ask.
Dad nods. “You have a really good eye.That’s something that can’t be taught. It’s the way you see things.Your shots have meaning. You see this one.” He points to one of Kona splashing through the sprinklers. “This one has humor in it. It’s funny. But this one.” He gestures to one of Kona resting on the grass. “This one is quiet and thoughtful.”
Dad swings around to look at me. “You are quite an artist, Jane Holden.”
I beam. Inside and out.
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask him. I want to print one out for him.
“I think it would have to be this one.” Dad points to a photo of Kona leaping in the air, the white butterfly just out of reach. “I like it for its infinite possibilities.”
We smile at each other then.
The phone rings in the other room. While Dad goes to answer it, I slide some of the photo paper into the printer. I hit the print button. I am waiting for it to print out when Dad returns. He doesn’t look happy.
“I have to fly to San Francisco tomorrow morning,” Dad tells me. “It’s a big client. No one else can handle it.”
Oh.
“We’ll just have to get a sitter for you.”
A sitter! “Dad, seriously. I can stay by myself for a couple of days.”
“It’s three nights and four days. Either you have a sitter, or I put you on a plane to Sun City.” Geriatric sunbathing, here I come.
I do my best negotiating. I even resort to whining. But Dad is not budging on this. I take a deep breath. I just had my first day of freedom and now it’s all going to be ruined. Ruined by a babysitter. My every move will be watched, analyzed, reported. There has to be some argument, some angle. Then it hits me. I know how to derail this plan.
“Who?” I ask him sarcastically. I know for a fact that Dad has no idea where to find a babysitter.
Dad shakes a finger at me. “You think you’re so smart,” he says. “But I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I will find you a babysitter.” And it’s over, just like that.
One thing I can say for sure about my father, he is true to his word. Dad finds me a babysitter all right—the oldest woman on the planet, Mrs. Barnaby. She used to work as Dad’s secretary until she retired. In addition to being the oldest woman on the planet, she’s also the cheeriest. She’s so happy that she makes you want to scream and rip your hair out.
I know it’s going to be the longest four days of my life.
Chapter 11
When the doorbell rings the next morning at exactly 8 A.M., I am unprepared for the sight of her. Head-to-toe purple. She’s wearing shoes, drapey pants, and a large caftan-type top—all in the same shade of ripe berry. She has short, poufy white hair around which she has tied a scarf in the same shade of—you guessed it—purple. I bet even her underwear is purple. Not that I want to dwell on the subject. Mrs. Barnaby is also large. Let’s just say she is a very big woman.
“Well, hi there, sugar plum,” her voice kind of drawls. And her smile, I have to admit, is infectious. I smile back.
“Hi, Mrs. Barnaby.” I step back to clear a path. “Come in.” She carries a tiny little lemon-lime-colored Samsonite suitcase.
“Call me Ethel,” she says. “We’re going to have a good time together.”
I bet, I think. Break out the bingo boards.
Kona dashes into the room, wagging her tail. “And who is this?” Ethel asks as she scoops the puppy up and plants a big wet one on her mouth.
Yuck.
“Kona,” I tell her.
“Every family needs a dog,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, this family is down to one. Me.”
She surprises me then. She sets Kona down gently and reaches out for me. She wraps me in the biggest bear hug. And she squeezes me tight.
“Darlin’, your daddy’s coming back. And your mama’ll be back, too.”
She pulls back then and looks at me. Real direct. Eye to eye. I notice that her eyes are sort of purplish. “And how are you doin’?”
“Fine,” I tell her. My answer is on autopilot. And it’s the one I know people expect from me. No one wants to know the truth.That every morning when I open my eyes, my body has forgotten. For one brief second, I feel normal. But then, with the next breath, it all comes rushing back into me, like slamming headlong into a giant gray concrete wall. Or that the weight of it is so enormous that I can barely get up out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. No one wants to know that.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
“You said that,” Ethel responds kindly. She tilts her head to the side and studies me. I feel like a specimen under a microscope. I look down at my feet.
“Well, I imagine at your age, you’re not too happy about having a babysitter.”
I look up at Ethel then. How did she know that?
She smiles at me. “I was young once, too. A very long time ago.” She adjusts her purple scarf. “I’ll just stay out of your way and let you do your thing,” she promises.
I nod, happy at least that my babysitter is going to leave me alone.
I head outside to shoot some pictures of Kona. I toss a ball to her. She trips over her feet trying to catch it. I snap a shot. Then I follow her around and take pictures as she prances around the yard with the ball in her mouth.
Ethel keeps her promise and leaves me alone all morning. But at exactly noon, she calls me for lunch.
“I don’t believe breakfast food is reserved for morning,” Ethel confesses. “To me, breakfast food is comfort food. And comfort food can be eaten anytime you need some comforting.”
So we have chocolate-chip pancakes for lunch.
It feels strange to be sitting at our table with a total stranger, instead of my parents and Lizzie. Now I have to be polite and make conversation.
“Thank you for the pancakes,” I offer. They do taste really good, and I don’t want Ethel reporting to Dad that I was rude.
“They’re one of my specialties,” Ethel tells me.
I expect to be asked questions, and to have to answer all these things about myself, like I am being graded. So I am surprised when Ethel starts to tell me about herself.
“I had a dog when I was your age,” she begins. “Jack was his name. He was a mixed breed;
a mutt, my mama called him. But I didn’t care about that. He was perfect to me.”
She gets a smile on her face as she remembers. I listen as I eat. It feels good to be somewhere else with my thoughts for a minute. I picture a young Ethel, dressed in a purple sundress, playing with a little brown-and-white puppy.
“You see, I was an only child. And my daddy, well, he left my mama and me when I was just a baby. So my mama had to raise me all on her own. And she had to work a lot. So I spent most of my time alone. Until I found Jack. Or rather, Jack found me.”
I chew quietly and think about this. Ethel’s life sounds really sad.
“Sometimes it’s hard to understand why bad things happen,” Ethel continues. “But I believe there’s a reason for everything. Maybe it won’t come clear to us right away, but I think if we remind ourselves that one day, we’ll understand why, I think it makes it easier to get through the rough times.”
I shrug. I’ve heard people say this before. But I’m not sure I believe it. After all, what could be the reason for Lizzie dying? What could ever make that okay?
“I see you’re chewing that over, and I can see you have something to say about it,” Ethel says. “Speak your mind, honey, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of. Except keeping things inside too long and letting them rot.”
“I just don’t believe everything happens for a reason. That’s all,” I tell her. It feels so strange to speak my mind like this. And scary, I have to admit. My stomach clenches as I speak, because I’m afraid I’m going to get in trouble.
But instead of Ethel getting mad at me, she puts her hands together and starts clapping.
“Bravo, darlin’. I love a good debate.”
I realize that Ethel welcomes my disagreement. She applauds my honesty. And that feels good.
“I can’t think of one reason, not one, why my sister shouldn’t be here right now.”
Ethel nods at me. She listens to me. And the shocking thing is that she doesn’t try to change my mind. She doesn’t try to convince me to hide my real feelings.
Jane In Bloom Page 7
