by Lisa Tucker
I was right, it was a list, but it wasn’t anything like what I expected. The items were numbered one through ten but they weren’t groceries to buy or chores to do (or fail at) or pointless reminders. Each one was a date, written out in longhand: month, day, year. But the month and the day were always the same; the only thing that changed was the year.
When the light turned green, I put down the paper, but still, I had to drive very slowly. It was hard to see even though I had the wipers going full blast.
The date Dad had written over and over was April 23—my birthday. And the years on his list were all the ones he’d missed, the years he’d been away from me.
chapter
sixteen
It was only two days to Christmas and I was fighting off the flu. Everyone who saw me said I looked “peaked”—not to mention the barking cough that turned people’s heads in the grocery store. I made a point of laughing it off, insisting it sounded worse than it was. And I told Mike the truth: I would not get sick. It was simply a matter of will.
I had a million things to do. There was the tree to finish decorating, Tommy’s presents to wrap, Christmas dinner to worry about, stocking candy, a million things. Even if Dad and I were getting along better—I hadn’t told him I’d found that list, but I kept it in my purse, took it out sometimes, fingered it like a lucky charm—he couldn’t handle all this. And Juanita was busy herself, working double shifts, feeding all the tired shoppers and lonely holiday drunks.
“But at least I ain’t coughing like you,” she said.
We were in the kitchen, making sugar cookies. Dad was having his morning coffee in his usual place: on the chair next to Mary Beth. Tommy was destroying a circle of dough with the rolling pin.
“Check this out,” Juanita said. She’d taken a knife and pushed in eyes and a mouth on the Santa’s face. “At least you can tell where the head is now.”
“It looks silly,” Tommy said, and giggled.
Juanita shrugged. “He’s supposed to be jolly.”
I was covering the countertop with flour for the next batch when Juanita mentioned that she’d run into Holly’s mother at the gas station on the way over. Betty was dressed for church. Juanita said Betty was always telling anyone who’d listen that she’d attended church every day since Holly went into a coma.
“But Rose Kennedy, she ain’t,” Juanita said. She glanced at Tommy and lowered her voice. “She can get down on her knees all she likes and it won’t change that she pimped her own daughter to that bastard George.”
I was taken aback by how harsh Juanita sounded. “Maybe she didn’t know.”
“Oh, please. Think about it. Your kid comes and tells you something like that. If you didn’t know, you might be surprised and upset and a whole lot of things. You might even be mad at your kid, for bringing it up. But you’d also be just a little bit different to your husband. Even if you thought he was innocent, it would take you a day or two to get rid of all your doubts.” Juanita shook her head. “I saw them at the hospital that same night. She was fussing over George and petting him like he was the baby. And she said Holly’s name like this, Howleee, like the most disgusting-ass word, all curdled milk on her tongue.”
Tommy was eager to start frosting. I told him the cookies were still too hot, but when he whined, Juanita told him to start mixing the food coloring in the frosting. Within seconds, his hands were covered in green, he even had a blotch on the end of his nose.
“Don’t touch anything,” I told him.
“I wanna show Grandpa.” He held his palms out. “I look like a dragon.”
I told him to call Grandpa in here, but he’d already escaped. I heard him doing his best dragon roar as he ran down the hall to Mary Beth’s room.
I followed him, coaxed him back to the kitchen, helped him wash his hands. I felt flushed, though, and a little dizzy, like maybe I could use a minute to lie down. I was just going to ask Juanita if she could handle the frosting part, when she picked up her purse and said she had to run. It was almost noon and she had to get to work.
I managed to finish the cookies and decided to take a hot shower. I was still shivering when I got out, but I reminded myself I wasn’t sick. I couldn’t be sick because Tommy’s Christmas play was this afternoon at two o’clock.
He was watching TV. I’d already told him twice to get dressed. “Don’t you want to play the shepherd?” I pleaded. We’d spent hours the night before making him a cutout staff, covered with tinfoil. He was finally in his room; I was trying to reach the camera in the top cabinet when the doorbell rang.
I was a little nervous. Last night the house had been egged for the fourth time by kids playing pranks. At least I told myself it had to be kids. Juanita swore George was putting somebody up to it.
I broke into a smile when I saw Mike’s face framed by the curtains in Agnes’s front door. I didn’t expect him today, but I was always glad to see him. He rarely had time to come over; if anything, his life was more complicated than mine. Not only did he have school and his job and his college applications to finish, he was also working hard to save his mom—with music.
When I first picked up Mary Beth’s notebook a few weeks before, I was hoping to find something in it for her. She used to say music could bring you back to yourself, but all the songs I’d tried on her so far had done nothing: in fact, she usually fell asleep whenever I turned the stereo on. I read pages and pages of her notes about music and memory before it hit me this could be exactly what Mike was looking for. He was desperate for something concrete to do for his mom, and this was so simple. As long as he didn’t tell his dad or his grandparents the idea came from my sister, they wouldn’t object and neither would the rehab nurses.
One of Mary Beth’s big principles was that specific music evoked specific memories. She’d done some reading about music therapy, this was way back, before she met Ben, and I remembered how disappointed she was that most of it was about tones and rhythms. It didn’t use the crucial fact, my sister insisted, that the mind stores music better than almost anything.
Actually, it was a scrawl in the margin of one of the last pages of Mary Beth’s notebook that seemed most important. “Pick only music from the happiest part of a person’s past,” she wrote. “Make them want their life back.”
At first I was worried because I remembered that Holly only had two songs. But Mary Beth had spent hours and hours forcing her to listen to other music, and jotting down Holly’s reaction. The chart was really three charts, covered back and front. Mary Beth had even asked Holly to remember when and where she first heard a song and noted that, too. So, for instance, one of the entries on the chart was “Yellow Rose of Texas,” a rodeo at the Ozarks, age nine.
Mike had so many tunes to try: from when his mom was a little kid, when she fell in love, when he and his sisters were babies. And the best part was, he swore it was helping from the very first day.
His mom wasn’t really in a coma, or at least not what comas are like in the movies. Her eyes would open and move around, but she didn’t seem to be responding to anything. But when he started playing the music, his mom’s gaze became steady and he was positive she could hear it. Even her breathing seemed to be in sync with the music. And she didn’t have one seizure the entire time he was playing the records. The nurse said it was probably a coincidence, but Mike refused to believe it. A week later, when his mom still hadn’t had a seizure, Mike turned a deaf ear to all the speculation about which medicine was doing the trick because he knew exactly what was helping his mom.
I knew it was helping him. Every time I talked to him now, he had news. His mom’s score on some coma scale had improved. The doctor hadn’t substantiated this, but Mike knew how the scale was done and he was positive they’d see it the next time they examined her. The sounds she was making were more like words, he was sure, even if no one could understand them yet.
The improvements he talked about were all pretty vague and I feared Juanita was right that it was just
wishful thinking. She admired Mike for the effort, though. “He’s one hell of a kid,” she’d say, and then shake her head before announcing: “He’s in for a world of heartbreak.”
I thought about this as I looked at him while I was unlocking the door. A world of heartbreak? Then something was wrong with the world.
I had to undo three dead bolts and two chain locks. Agnes was even more paranoid now that we were having so many “pranks.” I worried constantly that she was going to tell us to move, but so far she’d only grumbled that this trouble wasn’t worth the rent we were paying.
“I’ve been at Hillcrest all night.” Mike was out of breath as he stepped into Agnes’s hall.
“Is something going on?”
“Yeah.” He put his hands on my shoulders and exhaled. “I told my mom about you.”
He was looking right at me. His eyes were round and pale and dead-on earnest.
“What do you mean?” My voice sounded afraid, and I was, suddenly. I knew he was just going to say she’d winced more at the pinch part of the coma scale or she’d breathed differently or she’d looked straight at him—but my stomach was doing little flips. It was hope, and I didn’t want it. Hope and disappointment were two sides of the same coin, I’d discovered, and I had to avoid the one to avoid the other.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “She thinks we’ll make a cute couple.”
My legs felt like rubber. Mike went with me to the stairs. We sat on the third step, crushed together to fit.
After a moment, I said, “Your mom told you that.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded.
“Her voice is a little weird right now, but the doctor said it’s just because she hasn’t used it in so long. She’s passed all their tests so far. She knows who we are, and who she is. The only thing she doesn’t know is how she got there, but the doctor said that’s normal.”
“Wow.”
“I told her it was all your idea.” He put his arm around my waist. “You told me to play the records, because you’re the smartest girl in the universe.”
“It was Mary Beth’s idea.”
He said yeah, but he obviously wasn’t interested in my sister right then. Before I could even ask how this happened, he was kissing me.
“You feel warm,” he said, touching my cheek. “Like a fever.”
“I’m fine,” I said, turning my face to kiss his hand.
After a while I thought to ask if there was any particular song that had helped his mom.
“Yeah. An old Beatles one. ‘Penny Lane.’ It was on that chart you gave me.” He shrugged. “Your sister wrote that Mom was listening to it when I took my first step.”
His cheeks looked pink so I didn’t smile. I was already thinking of how pleased Mary Beth would be that it was her song reading that brought Holly out of it.
He promised to call me later from the hospital. I went upstairs and told Dad what had happened. He nodded, but he didn’t seem to get how important this was. I snapped off the TV and told Tommy he had five minutes to find his shoes and get his coat on. I wandered back into Mary Beth’s room, but she was facedown, snoring loudly. She slept most of the day; Dr. Dunham called it “hypersomnia,” which was just a fancy way of saying she slept too much.
Right then, I didn’t mind. I knew I could use some time to think about the best way to tell my sister. It wasn’t enough that Holly was better. I had to make my sister believe Holly didn’t blame her for anything.
As we pulled up to Tommy’s school, I knew what I’d say. I’d tell my sister that Holly asked for Mary Beth. Then I’d tell my sister that Holly said three words, loudly and clearly enough for all the nurses to hear: “All is forgiven.”
It was a line from one of the nineteenth-century novels I’d read last summer. I loved the way it sounded, but I also knew forgiveness would mean more to my sister than anything. I still remembered the night Mary Beth walked ten miles to the rehab hospital just to tell Holly she was sorry.
“All is forgiven.” It gave me chills just thinking about it.
Tommy’s play didn’t last long, and he was adorable as a shepherd. He only got to say one sentence: “Look at that big light!” but he put his whole heart in it and blinked up at the drooping cardboard as if it really was the star of Bethlehem. His bow at the end was as dignified as the second grader who played Jesus. I clapped and whistled and jumped up with all the other parents.
I was dying to get home, but Tommy begged to stay for the snacks. “It’s cupcakes,” he said. “Red and green ones!”
I said okay and leaned against the wall of the gym, wishing I could wait in the car. It wasn’t just that I felt bad. The longer I stood there, the more questions I would get about Mary Beth.
But all that was about to change. Holly was better. Wouldn’t everyone be surprised when they found out? Holly was better and soon enough, my sister would be her old self again. Maybe the two of them could hold a little press conference of their own, exposing George for what he really was. And Mike and I would be there, standing behind them, cheering them on.
This was my fantasy as I stood in the gym of Tommy’s school, watching him stuff cupcake in his mouth and giggle with Peter and Jonah and some other kids. I told everyone who asked that my sister was still a little sick, but the doctor had ruled out anything serious. And she was planning a big Christmas dinner. Both ham and turkey this year, since our dad had come home.
I was so deep in my daydream I could already smell that ham baking in brown sugar. Mary Beth and Dad were in the kitchen, and Tommy and I were in the living room, watching boring parades. I was still in my pajamas, the soft ones Mary Beth had bought me. She’d already apologized for giving me such an ordinary present, but I told her I knew she hadn’t had much time to shop. And pajamas were perfect anyway, since all I wanted to do was sleep. I was so tired, but Mary Beth said it was nothing to worry about. She’d give me lots of fluids and chicken soup, and I’d be fine by New Years’ Eve so I could go out with Mike.
“Leeann?”
I blinked and saw Jonah’s mom Elly. We’d arranged a play date for this afternoon; I’d forgotten about that. It was just about three-thirty, Tommy was supposed to go home with her, and I would pick him up at seven. It was fine with me. It gave me lots of time to talk to Mary Beth, and maybe some time to sleep, too.
When I drove up to our house, I was in such a hurry to get in I barely noticed the BMW parked across the street. I was inside, trying to get up the stairs even though my legs were aching and uncooperative, when I realized Dad was on the landing. He was hunched down, with his hands twisted together, pacing back and forth. I called his name and when he looked up I realized something was very wrong. His face had that same panicked expression it’d had at the mall.
“What are you doing out here?” I said. My eyes felt hot and itchy; the walls behind him seemed to glisten and sway. When he didn’t answer, I said, “Come on,” as gently as I could manage. I took his hand and led him back inside, to the couch. I was about to sit down with him when I heard what sounded like a dresser drawer opening in my sister’s room.
“Is she up?” My voice was incredulous. Unless Dad had already told her about Holly, how could she be up and getting dressed? Had Holly herself called?
He shook his head and mumbled, “Him.”
“Him?”
I turned to her door when I realized it was true. Someone was in my sister’s room. I heard the footsteps myself. Heavy, angry, male.
It flashed through my mind that it was George, Holly’s father, here to kill my sister or even all three of us. I started down the hall. Mary Beth was in there. I would protect her or die trying.
I let out a huge sigh of relief when I saw who it really was. Ben. Just Ben. Naturally I was surprised to see him, but it was pretty easy to put together what must have happened. The BMW was Rebecca’s. Rebecca must have told him all the rumors about Holly and my sister.
I might have asked him what he was doing here if he’d said hello or
even looked at me. And if it hadn’t been so obvious what he was doing. He had a grocery bag and he was throwing underwear and pajamas from Mary Beth’s drawer into it. He was packing her things.
I was still so relieved it wasn’t George that I slumped down on my sister’s bed and just watched him. He seemed much more grown-up. His hair was so short that if he ran his hands through it, it wouldn’t leave horns sticking out like it used to. He was wearing blue wool pants and a nice, thick gray sweater. No jeans and no sneakers. I’d never seen him without sneakers. I didn’t even know he owned leather shoes.
Of course he was angry, and that might have made him seem older. His voice sounded like a teacher’s, except teachers never talked this way to me, only to the unruly kids, the bad ones.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here? Dammit, can’t you see how she looks?”
I really wasn’t sure what he was asking. Of course I could see she’d lost a lot of weight, anyone could see that. She was so weak now; whenever she had to go to the bathroom, she swayed and crawled along the wall like an invalid. I could certainly see her hair looked like a rat’s nest, but I also knew how she whimpered whenever I tried to comb out the tangles.
I watched Ben remove a pair of hose from the hook of one of her bras. He threw the bra into the bag, even though she’d always hated that bra. It was the underwire type and it would really poke her now that she was so skinny.
Was he talking about her skin? It did look pretty bad, flaking around her knuckles and nail beds, but I applied that medicated lotion every chance I got. Dr. Dunham hadn’t been over since his wife had a stroke, but on the phone he told me the raw sores around my sister’s mouth and nose would definitely clear up after a few more days of her antibiotic.
