by Linda Benson
“I’m working on that,” I say.
“What do you have up your sleeve this time?” says Swede, taking a seat at the table and pouring himself a cup of the strong-smelling brew.
I set a bowl of wheat flakes down and begin eating. “Oh, it’s going to be a surprise,” I say.
The telephone erupts with a loud ring, and Aunt Trudy, out of old habit, starts to stand up to reach for it.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say.
I walk around the table to the long kitchen counter, pick up the cordless receiver, and say hello.
I hear a voice, slightly garbled but also vaguely familiar, on the other end. It’s my mother.
I cannot. Even. Talk. My tongue feels frozen in my mouth. After all these months and months of longing and dreaming about my mother calling, she is finally on the other end of the line, and I cannot even get one word out.
“Olive, is that you? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I respond, barely recognizing the sound of my own words. I take the cordless phone with me into the living room and collapse on the couch, clutching the receiver to my ear.
“How are you doing, hon?” she purrs into the phone, as if nothing has happened at all. As if she has not been in jail, and has not left me alone with Aunt Trudy for all these months without even one stupid phone call! “I’m in Las Vegas. I finally got a job working in one of the casinos, and my friend Lily and I found an apartment together. It’s not much, but it’ll do until I can get back on my feet and find something better.”
“That’s good.” The words come out normal, but I feel my whole body beginning to shake all over.
“Olive, are you mad at me? You sound so—so far away.”
“I am far away, Mom. I’m in Washington, and you’re in Las Vegas. That’s in Nevada, right? How come you can’t get a job up here?”
“Olive, you know I don’t like the rain, and it rains up there all the time, doesn’t it? You’d like it down here, honey. It’s warm, like Southern California. I just can’t take that rain. It’s probably raining outside right now, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t even mind it. Aunt Trudy bought me a new parka with a hood, and she has a nice house with lots of animals. And Rags still sleeps on my blanket and she likes it here. I don’t think she’d like Las Vegas. She wouldn’t like being moved again.”
“Rags would get used to it. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Olive, when I was in jail, but I knew your aunt would take good care of you. But I want you to come down here and be with me. I’d really like that a lot. You could get started in a new school—”
“Aunt Trudy had an operation,” I practically shout into the phone. “She needed it for her heart. And she’s doing good but I need to stay here and help her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Olive. Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes,” I say, my fingers trembling. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“I can’t right now, hon. I have to leave in a jiffy, so I won’t be late for work. But as soon as Trudy is up and around, Olive, you think about coming down here. I miss you. I’ll call you back pretty soon and we can figure out the arrangements, all right?”
I hold the phone next to my ear, processing all of this. She misses me. Like I missed her, and everything about her, for more than six entire months. She wants me to come down there and live in an apartment with her and Lily. In Las Vegas. Just a couple of weeks ago this seemed like all I wanted in the whole entire world. But my mother has no time to talk, not even to Aunt Trudy. She has to go to work, and needs to get off the phone. Right. Now.
“Olive?” she breathes into the telephone. I can almost smell her perfume and see her fixing herself up in the mirror, putting her lipstick on, her hair piled up on top of her head.
My head is swimming fast, thinking about what to say. I think about everything that happened over the last few months. I think about David, and Aunt Trudy, and Swede, the yellow dog, the horses, the cats, Goldy. I wish there was a giant neon sign right in front of me in the living room that would tell me what to say, which direction I should go.
But I don’t see a sign anywhere. Instead, I take a deep breath and look inside my heart.
“Mom,” I say. “It doesn’t rain all the time in Washington. Aunt Trudy makes the best pancakes in the world. There’s a guy named Swede who’s going to teach me to ride horses. We have lots of animals here, too, and I have a friend…who’s a boy, named David, and he likes dogs and he likes me, too. And guess what? I’m staying here.”
56-David
It’s the middle of December already, and I can’t believe I’m finally fifteen. Mom has decorated the house with every Christmas decoration we own, and the tree in the living room is about ten feet tall. My brother Grant will be here in a few days, and boy, do I have a lot to tell him. Maybe he can help me decide if I want to go to the Air Force Academy or not. I twist his football ring around on my finger, and it’s not as loose as it used to be.
I thought my birthday would never get here. Soon I’ll be able to get my learner’s permit, and if I work for Swede next year hauling hay, maybe I can earn enough to buy a car.
Almost as soon as I have that thought, as if on cue, I hear a diesel pickup pull into our driveway. It sounds exactly like Swede’s Dodge, even though I can’t see it from the upstairs window. The hay deliveries, as well as my contract with Swede, are all wrapped up so I wonder what he’s doing here on a weekend.
The long chime of the doorbell sounds, and I sprint down the stairs to open the door, but my mom gets there before me. The smell of lasagna wafts in from the kitchen, where Mom’s making my very favorite food of all time.
I slide across the wide hallway to grab the front door handle, but Mom intercepts me.
“Go,” she says.
“Huh? I was just getting—”
“Listen, son,” she says in a fake harsh voice. “Just because you are fifteen years old today, don’t think you still don’t have to do what your mother tells you. Now go back, or well…just turn around or something.”
Oh, I get it. It’s my birthday, and she’s having my present delivered. It’s a surprise. I play along with the game, as if I’m seven years old, just to please her. My dad walks in from the kitchen and stands at the edge of the front hallway. Things are still kind of strained between us, since that incident on the way back from the Portland bus station, but he’s pretty much got off my back. What could Swede possibly be bringing me that they both know about?
I hear my mother open the door wide. “Okay,” she says to me. “You can turn around now.”
I am totally shocked by what I see. It’s not Swede. Olive stands there, with her long hair swinging behind her in two braids. She’s got a smile plastered on her face so big it makes her freckles pop out.
“Hold still,” she says, as my present wiggles in her arms. It has a big red bow around its neck. “Happy birthday, David! Your parents said it was all right. You can have her.”
I never would have expected this in a million years. I look around at my mom, who is smiling, and my dad, who sips his coffee and just nods.
I reach for Goldy, just as she jumps out of Olive’s arms and noses through the plants around the front porch. She’s not a little pup anymore, but already comes up to my knees. She darts between my legs, races past both my parents, and toward the family room and my mother’s new furniture.
“Great,” says my dad. “I told you so.”
My mother chases through the house after her.
“Goldy,” I holler, sneaking a grin to Olive. “Get back here, you little rascal.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you now,” says my dad. “Maybe Grant can help you fence off part of the yard for her. Is that what you’re going to call her? Goldy?”
“I don’t know,” I say, as the pup scrambles back toward the front door. I reach down to intercept her, scoop her into my arms, and she plants kisses all over my face.
“We just called he
r Goldy because of her color,” says Olive. “It was a temporary name. Maybe you can think of something better.”
“I’ll have to think of a really good name,” I say. “Something extremely cool. I know what I’m definitely not going to call her though.”
Olive’s eyes light up, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“Calypso!” we burst out at the same time, and start cracking up.
Acknowledgments
It takes many people to help make a book. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my early readers, who dedicated their time and critiques toward helping bring both sense and readability into this manuscript, which originally was known as Signs. Danette Fuhrer, Katrina Stonoff, Amy Flugel, Gwen Kruger, and Anne Rounds all helped immensely with their thoughts and words. Thanks especially to my friends Kerry O’Malley Cerra for her great critique of a later version, and Maggie Dana for input on the cover.
I sought out specialists to help with certain areas of the storyline, too, and I’d like to thank Fire Chief Bud Goodwillie, Staff Sergeants Shane D. Lies and Gabe D. Martin of the United States Army, Staff Sergeant Melinda L. Hurst of the Unites States Marine Corps, and Staff Sergeant Alexander A. Barajas from the United States Air Force for their willingness to be interviewed and their help in keeping my facts straight.
A special thanks goes to members of my own “Neighborhood Knowledge System” (you know who you are) for your kindness in helping return lost animals to their proper homes, and for inspiring that storyline.
I’ve called upon many friends and family members to ask advice and information while writing this book, and I thank all of you for your willingness to help.
Thanks to my great editor, Kathy Teel, cover designer Kelly Shorten, interior designer Coreen Montagna, and all the folks at Musa Publishing for their help in bringing this book to publication.
And to all those who are lost, both animal and human, may you find your way home.
About the Author
Linda Benson is the author of several middle grade and young adult books, including Six Degrees of Lost, The Girl Who Remembered Horses, Finding Chance, and The Horse Jar (which has been translated into Spanish.) Watch for a new book out soon from Musa Publishing called Walking the Dog.
Her passion for nature and animals often finds its way into her writing. She has been a veterinary assistant, zoo keeper, race track groom, realtor, children’s librarian, and owned both a native plant nursery and a saddle shop.
Ms. Benson lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a variety of animals, all of them adopted. To find out more:
www.lindabenson.net
www.lindabenson.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/LindaBensonAuthor
