Out of the Box

by Michelle Mulder

  Jeanette reaches out and places a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Ellie.”

  I meet her eyes, willing myself not to cry.

  “You’re not a bad person for not wanting to deal with this,” she says. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.

  “I love you, Ellie,” Jeanette says, and I hug her like I’m never going to see her again.

  Supper is tense—the kind of tension I’m used to at home but that never happens at Jeanette’s house. She and Alison always worked things out before eating together. Mom doesn’t care about stuff like that.

  Later, Jeanette goes out to weed her garden, and I follow her. As soon as I do, Mom comes out too, saying nothing but sitting within earshot, like a prison warden.

  My aunt and I weed silently for a while. I try again to remember my violin recital, when my parents were smiling and life was something to be celebrated. I want to hang on to that image, but I’m not sure I can.

  Halfway through the second row of carrots, I make a decision.

  “I’m going to make a phone call,” I say, wiping the dirt from my knees.

  Jeanette nods. Mom looks up from her magazine but does not smile. I walk past her into the house.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “All the way downtown, all by yourself?” Mom asks. “Mom, I’m thirteen,” I say. “I have to go out into the world on my own sometime.” Telling her I’ve been doing it all summer—and on a bicycle, no less—will only make matters worse.

  “But isn’t that box heavy? Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Jeanette knows where I’m going.”

  The box Mom referred to is the bandoneón. I’m taking it to Frank’s along with a letter I wrote last night.

  Dear Mr. Moreno,

  Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would, since you only met me once and I wasn’t exactly honest about why I went to the tea talk. I know I should have told you about the bandoneón, but I didn’t know how. I figured if I went up to you and said I had something that was your father’s, you’d probably think I was nuts.

  Okay. And there’s another reason too. I love this bandoneón and would give just about anything to keep it. But I keep thinking of that picture you told me about, the one of your father playing and your mother clapping behind him. You sounded so grateful for that photograph, and I know the bandoneón would mean a lot to you too. It was something of theirs that made them happy, and it doesn’t feel right to keep it from you.

  Inside the lining of the case, you’ll find an envelope with all sorts of things inside—all the clues I followed to find you. I’ve left everything exactly how I found it.

  I’m leaving Victoria tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but Frank has my email address if you want it.

  Yours truly,

  Ellie Saunders

  P.S. Any idea how both you and your father’s bandoneón wound up in Canada separately?

  Frank asks me if I’m sure about this, and when I nod, he tells me he’s proud and disappointed at the same time. “You have the makings of a damn fine player, and I hate to see you go without a bandoneón. If ever I hear of one for sale, you’ll be the first to know, and if you don’t go about finding one yourself, I’ll personally come over and give you a swift kick in the pants.” Coming from Frank, I figure that’s the highest compliment. I thank him, he hugs me, and Louise gives me a CD that Frank and his tango group made a few years ago. I promise I’ll visit again as soon as I can.

  I walk back along Government Street feeling lonelier than I have in my whole life. I eat the granola bar that I brought for Ned and am relieved that Sarah’s busy at the petting zoo. Last night I tried to figure out what to say to her, and I wrote a whole speech in my head about how much her friendship has meant to me and how awful I feel about how it’s turned out. When I woke up this morning, though, I knew I’d never have the courage to say all that, so it’s just as well I won’t be able to see her.

  In the end, I wrapped up something I found in the basement—a box of my aunt’s clothes from the seventies, which Jeanette agrees Sarah will love. The card that I taped to the top said only Sarah, I’m sorry for being such a lame friend. Hope this makes up for it a bit. E

  I wrote her name on the envelope and left the package at her front door. Sometimes there’s only so much you can do.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  At home, nothing and everything has changed. My list of chores for each person still hangs in the kitchen. The house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since I left, and the only thing in the fridge is half a liter of milk.

  The second we’re in the door, Dad hugs me, tells me how much he missed me, and suggests we go out for dinner. Mom says he should have had supper on the table by now. Dad stomps off into the kitchen, and half an hour later, we’re sitting down to pasta with salmon Alfredo sauce, whipped up with stuff from the pantry and the last of the milk. I smile. No canned soup. No sandwiches. At least in one way, it’s good to be home.

  My father and I spend the next two days cleaning the house while Mom’s at work. I weed the bark mulch in the backyard, walk to the library, fill my backpack with novels and walk home.

  I think about the paper Jeanette slipped into my hand before we left: the name and phone number of a counselor, a friend of Alison’s who works within a bus ride of my school. “In case you ever want to talk to someone outside the family. Just make an appointment. I’ll pay.” I don’t think I’ll call, but I’ve saved the paper, just in case.

  On Saturday, I wake up to the sound of arguing and the growling of my stomach. I ignore my hunger, grab a book from the stack by my bed and try to read. I promised Jeanette I wouldn’t get involved in my parents’ arguments anymore, and if I show up in the kitchen to make breakfast, they’ll want my opinion. It’s safer to stay in my room.

  When I was at Jeanette’s, curled up in a deck chair under the cherry tree on my last night there, I felt like I could stand up to anyone. It was two in the morning, Mom was snoring in the living room, and my aunt and I were having a secret farewell picnic in the backyard. She was talking about setting boundaries and said again that my job is to be a kid. She said my parents need to talk to other adults about their problems, not to me, and that I have every right to tell them that. I wrapped my hands tighter around my mug of hot chocolate and pictured myself standing up to Mom. I pictured her tears, but they didn’t hurt me. I felt strong, powerful.

  But now, with their shouting ringing in my ears, I’m hiding out in my bedroom, too scared to go out and too hungry to stay. Finally hunger wins out and I go to the kitchen, where Mom is banging dishes in the sink and Dad’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, glowering at the floor.

  “Don’t bother,” Mom says when I open the fridge door. “It’s not like your father’s made the effort to shop properly lately.”

  “It’s been a busy week, Gloria.” He sounds more tired than angry.

  “So we don’t need to eat?” Clank, clatter, crash.

  I grit my teeth, open the pantry and pull out a box of crackers. I’ve just found an unopened peanut butter when Mom turns to face me. “Right, Ellie?”

  “What?” I bang the jar down on the counter louder than I mean to, and she startles, as if she’s the only one around here with noise privileges.

  “Division of labor,” she snaps. “I mean, this is a family issue, right? So what do you think?”

  I think nothing has changed. I think I can try all my life to help them, and they’ll keep running in circles, arguing and crying about the same old stuff. My life would be way better with Jeanette, and I wish I’d fought to stay with her. I yank down the page of chores that I’d posted on the fridge and shake it at them. “This is what I think. Why bother asking if you’re not going to listen anyway?” I crumple it into a ball, hurl it at the floor, grab the box of crackers and slam out the front door.

  I walk fast, head d
own. I don’t look up until the rows of identical houses give way to older ones with yards dotted with flowers or vegetables or trees. I pass a llama and what I think is a chicken coop. I feel my jaw relax. I stop white-knuckling my cracker box.

  I don’t stop walking until I reach an empty lot. It’s full of blackberry bushes, and if Jeanette were here, we’d change any plans we had and spend the afternoon picking instead.

  The fruit is ripe, the bushes are loaded, and I have an empty cracker box. I’m tempted, but I should be getting back. I’ve been gone less than an hour, but my parents have no idea where I am, I don’t have my cell with me, and Mom is no doubt imagining me snatched up by a serial killer or mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.

  I sigh. Sometimes I wonder what she’d do for excitement if she actually lived in reality instead of her head.

  I place my box in a bush, propping it up the way Jeanette does, so it won’t fall over no matter how full it gets. Then I reach for a blackberry, avoiding the prickles, and pop that first one into my mouth. It’s warm and sweet and tastes of summer.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mom’s furious at me when I get home. She yells and cries. I hug her but don’t apologize. She begs me to tell her where I’m going next time. I agree and head up to my room, pretending not to hear her sniffling. By lunchtime she’s pulled herself together, and we all act like nothing’s happened.

  I abandon my stack of library books and scour the Internet for bandoneóns for sale. I find none I could ever afford, but decide to start earning some money so I’ll be prepared when a cheaper one comes up. Besides, staying out of my parents’ problems will be easier if I’m out of the house as much as possible.

  In the next few days, I find lawns to mow, kids to babysit and a newspaper route. I also make an appointment with that counselor, because it can’t hurt, and maybe it’ll inspire my parents to see someone themselves. My summer becomes busy. Mom declares I’m wasting my childhood by working too hard (I bite my tongue), but she doesn’t try to stop me.

  I decide that, someday, I will go live with Jeanette. Not right now, but maybe in a few years, when Mom is better, or at least when she’s figured out that I won’t try to solve her problems anymore. That’s when I’ll ask if I can go, and I won’t give up until my parents say yes. None of it should surprise my mother: it will be evidence of the rebellious streak that she’s been waiting for all along. And I know Jeanette wouldn’t mind. She calls every few days now, and she talks to everyone in the house. Other than hers, though, we don’t receive many phone calls. No one comes by, either, until the last Friday of summer, when the doorbell rings.

  “What are you doing here?” I shriek, flinging my arms around Jeanette, who is standing on our doorstep with a bandoneón case in one hand.

  “Special delivery,” she says. “I figured you might want this before school starts and you get too busy to practice.”

  “What? How—?”

  “May I come in?” she asks. “Or do you expect me to tell you the whole long story on your front walk?”

  I step aside, and she marches into the living room. The place looks a lot better than it did a month ago. Dad and I have been doing the housework together, because Mom’s declared that if things ever fall into complete chaos again, she and I will be checking into a hotel, and Dad can expect divorce papers in the mail. The house is now clean, but messy. Mom leaves stacks of paper wherever she goes, and the entire place is starting to look like her office desk.

  Jeanette places the bandoneón gently on the footstool and sits down on one end of the couch. I curl up opposite her. “Do my parents know you’re here?” I ask.

  “Not unless they heard me come in,” she says, tucking her feet up beneath her. “Gloria can hardly complain about me dropping by without calling though.”

  “How did you wind up with the bandoneón?”

  “Would you believe Facundo offered to trade it for a broken lawn mower and a china cabinet full of rusted bike chains?”

  I laugh. “No way.”

  “Worth a shot,” she says. “Anyway, Frank told him your story, and Facundo wants you to keep playing. He sent a letter explaining it all. It’s in the case. He said you’d know where to find it.”

  I’m fighting back tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank you will do for starters,” she says. “I’ve got his email address, if you want to write to him. Interesting guy.”

  “You talked to him?” I ask.

  She nods. “Frank invited me along when Facundo came over. You and Frank had quite the sleuthing operation going this summer. Why didn’t you ever mention it?”

  I feel my face go red. “I was afraid you’d want me to give back the bandoneón.”

  “But you did anyway.”

  “I didn’t know I would until Mom showed up.”

  She smiles at me. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

  “I can’t believe he gave it back to me.”

  “He says it’s on loan until you can buy one of your own,” she explains. “The only hitch is that he wants to hear you play next time you’re in Victoria.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Will I be in Victoria again?”

  “You will if I have anything to do with it. I’m not going to do all the traveling in this relationship, and you know that house is way too big for just one person.”

  I rocket off my end of the couch and tackle her in a bear hug.

  “Help! Help! I’m being attacked by a teenager!” she shouts. I pull back, laughing, and she tells me Sarah keeps visiting and asking after me. “She’s even promised to help with the yard sale. She’s going around asking other people on the block if they have stuff to donate too. It’s going to be huge!”

  Thank you, Sarah.

  “She sent you a gift, by the way. It’s still in the car, but I’ll get it later.” She hugs her knees to her chest and smiles at me. “Anyway, Frank and I decided that, if you’ll be playing for Facundo, you should probably get a teacher here. Frank’s got a pal who lives not too far away who’s willing to make house calls.”

  When Dad comes in, I’ve got a grin on my face that doesn’t at all match the raging tango tune I’m playing. He stands in the doorway listening and doesn’t say a word about the horrible accordion-y sound. Instead, he smiles. That evening, while Dad’s watching TV, Jeanette’s reading in her room and Mom is in her office, I place the bandoneón case and Sarah’s gift on my bed.

  I take a deep breath and open the case. Peeping out from beneath the liner is a crisp, white envelope. My name is written on the front, and the handwritten letter inside is dated a week ago.

  Dear Ellie,

  First of all, thank you. My head is still spinning from the twists of fate that brought my father’s bandoneón to me. I don’t have words to express my gratitude, and so I’m resorting to a rather unorthodox gesture of thanks, which I hope you’ll understand.

  When I first arrived at Frank’s place a few weeks ago, I couldn’t wait to touch the same keys that my father, and his father before him, had touched. For years, I’ve been hearing about this instrument, how my father received it as a gift from his father and played it every night after school for hours. I’m sure he would have become a professional musician if he could have, but as I told you at the tea shop, in his lifetime, the government forbade the gatherings where tango would be played. It seems to me a terrible irony that the government barred him from doing what he loved, yet killed him all the same.

  After my parents disappeared, the bandoneón sat in a place of honor in my grandparents’ living room, next to my parents’ wedding picture. Years later, after my grandparents died, my aunt Ceci brought the bandoneón home with her to Canada. (She had escaped Argentina when the dictatorship first began, and it was she who sent the airline tickets and money to my parents, resources that, unfortunately, they were never able to use.)

  A few years before I met Ceci, someone broke into her house here in Victoria and stole all sorts of valuables, including
the bandoneón. It was the only memento she had left of her brother, and Ceci was devastated. When she met me and talked to me about my father playing the bandoneón, she cried. She wanted so much to be able to pass the instrument on to me. I never imagined I would someday hold it in my own hands, and I wouldn’t have dreamed that someone who received it as a gift, as you did, would be kind enough to give it back.

  The envelope inside took my breath away. I didn’t know my parents had ever received Ceci’s gift. The money would have paid their way in secret across the La Plata River to Uruguay. From there, they would have flown to Caracas, where they could have lived in safety.

  For weeks now, I’ve been thinking about how life would have been if their flight had been just a week earlier. I would have grown up with my parents. They might still be alive today.

  I have to remind myself that there’s no point thinking this way. Things are as they are, and our job is to make the most of them. I’m donating the money to the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who helped me find my biological family. I like the idea that money meant to keep my family together can be used to reunite someone else’s.

  I also want this bandoneón, which made my father so happy, to inspire another musician. When I first arrived at Frank’s a few weeks ago, I felt like I was claiming another piece of my identity.

  I wanted only to take the bandoneón and go, but I remembered my manners and made polite conversation with Frank and Jeanette. They told me about you and Alison and how thrilled you were this summer to discover the instrument and learn to play it.

  Half an hour later, I thanked them and went on my way. As I was going to sleep that night, though, their words about your excitement echoed in my mind. I thought about you, and about me and my family. Although I have my grandfather’s laugh, my father’s passion for music and my mother’s for books, I am not a bandoneón player. This instrument is my prized possession because if its past, but it was your prized possession because of its future.