Hold Me Tight
Lorie Ann Grover
MARGARET K. MC ELDERRY BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney
Also by Lorie Ann Grover
Loose Threads
On Pointe
MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS
2005 Lorie Ann Grover
Hold Me Tight authorKEYvalue000000
hold me tight
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Lorie Ann Grover
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Book design by Yaffa Jaskoll
The text for this book is set in Meridien Roman 10.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 0-689-85248-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-6898-5248-0
eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-3195-4
For David Grover,
faithful husband and father
I thank
my mother,
Karine Leary,
for her
bravery and love,
my editor,
Emma Dryden,
for her
insight and encouragement,
and my writing friends.
Sue Ford,
Joan Holub,
and Laura Kvasnosky,
for their
input and inspiration.
hold me tight
Sunday Night
“I’m leaving.”
Dad stands above me
in the living room.
His eyes are
empty black spots.
On the floor,
I cram my fingers
into the throw rug fringe.
The strings
twist and grab
and hold me tight.
My little brother, Dale, is crying.
Since he’s only seven,
how much does he understand?
His eyes dart like zigzag lightning
from Dad
to Mom.
“Be a man, Dale,” my dad says.
Mom’s eyes
bulge
like her pregnant belly.
She rocks on her knees
on the cold terrazzo floor.
“Good-bye, Essie-girl,” Dad says to me.
His brown pants rake by
my skinny legs.
He opens the front door.
Dark, hot
Miami air
swooshes in,
swallowing up
our air-conditioning.
Slam.
“No!”
I yank my hands free
and stumble to the hall window.
The metal screen
presses into my lips.
“Come back,” I whisper.
My breath fogs
against the closed jalousie.
The slanted red car lights
disappear.
Dale whimpers.
Mom moans.
I shut my eyes.
The Police
I bite my fist
to stop the dead feeling
numbing me.
I snap open my eyes,
crawl to the phone,
and snatch it.
“We should call the police,
and they can stop Dad
and bring him back
because it’s like
breaking the law
for him to leave
us!”
“It’s not against the law.”
Mom lunges over to me.
The phone clatters out of my hand.
She scoops it up
and smashes it
back into its cradle.
Left Out
“Mommy.
Mommy.
Mommy,” says Dale.
She doesn’t answer.
“Mommy.
Mommy.
Mommy.” He tugs her shirt.
“Shhh,” I hiss.
“Mommy.
Mommy.
Mommy.”
“Would you stop already!”
I shove him.
He shoves me back.
Mom rolls to her feet
and leaves us
in the empty hall.
Her bedroom door closes.
Click.
“Es?” Dale whispers.
I pat his little sharp shoulder blades.
I’m scared
too.
Okay
“It’s time to go to bed, Doozerdude.”
Dale goes without a fight.
I tuck him in.
“When will Daddy come—,” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“But—”
“Shhh.”
“But—”
“Go to sleep, Doozerdude.”
“Are we going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
I turn off his light.
“We’re going to be okay.”
I don’t believe it.
Four
Dad, Mom,
Dale, and I
make four.
That’s us.
Mom,
Dale, and I
make three.
Are we still
a family?
Wandering Through the House
Dad’s clothes are missing
from the laundry basket.
The ceramic beer mugs
Mom painted for him
are still on the shelf.
But the six-pack of beer
is gone from the fridge.
His secret stash of black licorice
behind the cornmeal
and his Popular Mechanics magazines
that were in the rack by the couch
are missing.
He left the TV.
It must have been too heavy
to haul out quick.
The new DVD player is gone.
But he left us the old VCR.
His toothbrush,
electric razor, and comb are gone.
That rubbery pick on a stick
for his gums.
Our radio,
our computer
and all the cool games,
our CDs,
every bit of music,
except Dale’s little kid tapes,
are gone.
But Dad’s cell phone is here.
Figures.
He wouldn’t want
us
to be able to call
him.
Work
Flick.
The light blares
above his empty desk.
Dad’s office is cleared out.
I drag my hand over
the cold metal desktop
and drop into his chair.
I spin it fast
like I’m not allowed to.
Where will he work
between sales trips?
The room zips by.
Doesn’t he need our home
at least
to work from?
Casings
I lift the curtain
and look out the office window.
The whole backyard is black.
My reflection
breaks into rectangles
on the jalousies.
I lean my elbows on the tile sill.
The curtain swings back and
brushes my arm.
Yuck!
I leap up.
Roach egg casings are clinging
to the back of the material.
Some are hard, dark brown,
and shiny.
The eggs still inside.
Others are broken open.
Left-behind, empty, hairy shells.
My skin creeps,
and I drop the material.
It sways closed.
No way I’m touching that ick.
Mom must not know
that creepo stuff is there
just out of sight.
It’s funny
the roaches stuck their eggs
in Dad’s office.
Dial Tone
Hmmmmm
goes the dial tone.
I slam the phone down
like Mom did.
The Rolodex cards
stick to my fingers,
but there’s no one to call
for help.
No way I’m calling Pastor Lyon.
It’s just too embarrassing
to think of telling him
something this bad.
None of us
know our neighbors that well.
There’s that old lady, Ms. Ruthie,
we see outside watering her flowers sometimes.
What could she ever do to help?
There’s not even anyone my age
around here.
Dale knows a few of the little kids.
Mom doesn’t have any relatives to call.
She’s an only child,
and her folks died before Dale and I were born.
Plus, she totally stopped trying
to make friends in the neighborhood
when Don and Didi moved away.
Said it was too hard on her.
Mr. Paul is about her only friend
who comes around.
And he lives way over
in the Saga Bay Apartments.
I don’t like him much.
He has creepo eyes.
I’m not
calling him.
Dad’s never let us meet his family
up in Canada somewhere.
He left home at sixteen.
Huh.
Can leaving home
become a habit?
Kitchen Calendar
I take a felt tip
and black out today,
Sunday, December 1st.
I scribble
edge to edge.
This day
is totally dark.
In Bed
“Dad gave me you
the day I was born,” I remind my old bear.
“You are ten whole years old now,
Dumplin’ Spinner.
When I first got you,
you were bigger than me.
Dad always said he loved you
the second he saw you,
and he named you right then.
Wasn’t it that way with me, too?
Must have been.
Well, I think he used to love us.”
I hug Dumplin’ Spinner
under my chin.
Praying
Why, God, why?
Why did he leave?
Why did he leave
me?
Why,
God,
why?
Wally
What will Wally say?
My best friend
since kindergarten,
the one I tell my secrets to.
I can’t tell this one
to Wally.
“My dad doesn’t want me.”
I can’t tell him that.
Garbage
If this happened to Wally
his drama teacher
would ask him
how it feels.
Wally would ask me
how Dad’s leaving feels.
It feels like garbage,
rotten stinking garbage,
is piled on top of me,
and I can’t breathe a speck
because the pile
is pressing on my chest,
making me feel like
I’m garbage too.
Freaking scared, completely mad, totally sad.
That’s how it feels.
My Whole Name
Finally,
Mom comes out of her room.
She checks on Dale.
Then she comes
to check on me.
“Estele,” she says.
“Oh, Estele Leann.” She sits
on the edge of my bed.
Her voice says
she’s sorry
for leaving us
alone
wondering what’s next.
That’s what she means
when she says my whole name.
Mom is like that.
You have to look around her words
to hear her.
Dad just says it straight.
Like tonight:
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Mom’s hand
brushes my cheek,
and I smell
garlic on her fingertips
from dinner.
When everything seemed normal.
“Mom—”
“Shhh.”
She tucks me tight and whispers,
“Well be okay.”
I believe it more
when she says it.
A little.
“I. L. Y.” She turns off the light.
“I. L. Y.,” I say.
I love you,
Mom.
Listening
She paces through the house.
Step, step, sniffle.
Step, step, sob.
Will she
step, step
away from me,
too?
Thinking Ahead
The air conditioner hum
stops in the middle of the night.
I get up.
Mom’s in front of the control panel.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford
cool air now,” she says.
I nod.
“We have to think about what to do next.”
I nod.
“I won’t be able to get a job
until after the baby comes
because of my weak back.”
I nod.
“We have to go back to bed, Estele.”
She shuffles straight to her room.
I go to mine
and bang on the window crank
with the palm of my hand.
Finally, the jalousies creak open.
Humid air seeps in.
I lie down on my bed,
rub my sore hand,
and start to sweat
like rotting garbage.
Morning
I dress
and drag myself down the hallway.
My hand brushes
along the wall
to Dad’s office door.
Closed.
I press my ear
up against the wood.
Silence.
Creak.
I peek in.
Nope.
He’s really not here.
Breakfast
I stop outside the kitchen and listen.
“Mommy, will you leave us too?” Dale asks.
A spoon clatters.
“Oh, Dale-o,” Mom answers. “Never.Ý
“But are you sure?” he says.
“Very sure,” says Mom.
Absolutely?
L
eftovers
“Your breath stinks,” I tell Dale.
“Go brush your teeth, Doozerdude.”
“Make me,” he says
and bumps me,
reaching for the cereal.
“I haven’t even eaten yet.”
“Go brush your teeth, Dale,” says Mom.
So he does
after
he glares at me.
Mom gets up
and scrubs last night’s dirty dishes.
I get everything out of the fridge
and make a turkey sandwich
with our Thanksgiving leftovers.
Everything seemed perfect
last Thursday.
Each of us
at the table
saying what
we were thankful for:
Mom—the baby inside her;
Dale—the green jiggly salad;
Me—the days off from school;
Dad—each of us.
Yeah, right.
Nuts
Where is Dad?
Where’s he staying?
Who’s going to cook for him
or make his lunches?
Because it’s my job
to make his lunch
and put it in the fridge
so it’s ready
if he makes a sales trip
or eats at home.
And I always put in fifteen peanuts,
because that’s the exact number
he likes each day.
I hate them
because sometimes I don’t see
that bitter reddish papery stuff
around the nut,
and it spoils the whole taste.
Getting a good one
isn’t worth risking that other stuff.
So where is Dad?
What am I supposed to do
with this pile
of icko peanuts?
Swallowing
Every cereal wheat square
gets stuck in my throat.
Dry, poky sticks
pile on top of each other.
Crisscrossed.
I gulp some orange juice.
It
burns through
into
my stomach.
Doozerdude
Dale drinks the milk
out of his cereal bowl,
then licks the cinnamon sugar
off his plate.
Mom doesn’t even notice.
I give him a grossed-out look
and try to kick him
under the table.
I miss.
He licks it again.
A Second
Mom’s working on a list.
Crossing stuff off.
Adding more.
Her forehead
crinkles tighter
and tighter.
“We’re going to be okay, Mom.
She looks up quick.
There’s a second of fear
before she hides it.
“You’re right, Estele.”
She pats my arm.
I grab hold of her hand
and squeeze it
until she smiles.
Off to School
Mom lowers herself
into the car.
Dale jumps into
the shady front seat.
“Get in, Estele,” Mom says.
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