‘You never answered me when I asked you how Eliza Rose knew you.’
It’s like watching an explosion in slow motion. Knowing it’s coming and not being able to do anything about it. And the whole scene is even worse than I thought it’d be.
‘You did what?’ Tobin asks.
‘I didn’t think it was that big a deal,’ I say.
‘No? Then why didn’t you tell me about it, huh? Why didn’t you tell me the truth that day when I asked you where you were? You said you were at Mrs Dickerson’s.’
‘I did go to Mrs Dickerson’s. She made finger sandwiches that didn’t look like fingers at all. Egg salad fingers with no tomatoes. You can even ask her.’
‘And then to Nick French’s.’
‘Well, so what, anyway?’ I say. ‘It’s a free country. I can have other friends.’
‘This isn’t about having other friends, and you know it.’
I do know it.
Deep down inside, I know it. And that’s why I kept it a secret, I suppose. But what is deep inside and what is coming out of my mouth are not exactly in sync. My volcano is taking over, and the lava is flowing, and I can’t seem to stop it.
And he can’t seem to stop his, either.
‘Just ’cause you don’t have other friends, does that mean I can’t?’ I blow lava in his direction.
The look on his face is like I punched him in the gut again, then spat on his new shoes, and then stole his safari hat and threw it in the rubbish.
It’s too far.
And I know it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. If I was a cartoon character, I would have been trying to grab the words back before they reached him, letter by letter.
I picture my cartoon character trying to take back the words. But life isn’t as easy as The Bugs Bunny Show. It’s real. Tobin hears the words I spew at him loud and clear. I know it because the whites of his eyes turn redder.
‘They’re mean to me.’ His voice sounds high and squeaky.
I sigh and drop my head.
‘I know it, Tobin. Maybe if you came with me, they’d see you differently. Like how I see you.’
‘What in the world makes you think I would want to be friends with any of them?’
‘I think you do,’ I tell him.
‘Wrong!’ he tells me.
‘I think I’m right.’
‘Wrong again!’
‘Look at how good friends we are. Maybe they could even help us – you know, be a part of the Inc. in some way.’
‘Never!’ Tobin’s voice is loud now. ‘I don’t need them! I don’t need anyone! Not even you! I’m sorry I ever even met you!’
‘Well, maybe I feel the same about you!’ I shout back at him.
‘I don’t want you working here any more,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am serious. Turn in your name badge and see yourself out. You are officially relieved of your position as assistant Bigfoot detective with Bigfoot Detectives Inc.’
‘Tobin—’
He holds out his hand palm up, waiting for his stupid handmade badge with the glue clumped up on the back.
I stare at him, and he stares at me.
‘Fine,’ I say, pulling it off my T-shirt.
I throw it on top of the desk.
‘Leave.’ He points to the door.
I don’t know what else to say. I stomp towards the door and put my hand on the rusty knob. Before I open it, I turn around to look at him one more time.
He’s already got his head buried in his ridiculous yellow legal pad, and he’s shuffling the papers furiously.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask him.
‘Already done,’ he says.
‘Fine, have it your way,’ I say, pulling the door open.
The whole garage door rattles when I give the side door one good hard slam. And then I walk away without even once looking back.
34. Hold the Pickles
Charlie and I eat dinner alone. He’s ordered deli sandwiches from Diesel’s.
Again.
Egg salad. With tomatoes.
Again.
The fact that he still hasn’t cared enough to figure out that I hate tomatoes makes me want to scream. Miss Cotton would know on the first day I lived with her. And if not the first, then for sure the second.
‘Where’s Tobin tonight?’ Charlie asks, taking a bite of his BLT on rye. ‘I got him his usual, ham and cheese, hold the pickles.’
I roll my eyes at the pickle comment as I’m forced to pull each slimy tomato off with my fingers and put them on the side of my plate.
‘How should I know?’ I ask. ‘I’m not his keeper. Am I supposed to be in charge of him or something? Because I’m not.’
Charlie stops chewing and looks at me with a perplexed expression.
‘And just so you know, I hate tomatoes. I don’t know why you haven’t figured that out yet,’ I tell him. ‘I only have to pick them out with my fingers every time.’
He starts chewing again, then swallows, and then takes a long drink of his iced tea.
‘Did you and Tobin have a fight?’ he finally asks.
‘He had a fight. I didn’t have a fight. You said there was nothing wrong with playing with the others, and you were wrong. He thought there was plenty wrong with it.’
‘Did you call Professor Malcolm today?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wants us to send him the hair sample, and he’ll test it and bring us back the results.’
‘That’s wonderful news! Aren’t you excited? Tobin must be ecstatic. You don’t know where he is?’
‘I said I didn’t,’ I say again, louder this time. ‘I mean, am I supposed to babysit that kid or something? Are we expected to be joined at the hip?’
‘Lemonade.’ Charlie puts down his sandwich and leans in close across the table. ‘Why are you shouting at me?’
‘He fired me!’ I push my plate away.
Charlie looks confused.
‘That doesn’t sound like Tobin.’
‘Well, it’s exactly what he did!’
‘What happened?’
‘You said he’d understand about going to Nick French’s. You said it wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Didn’t take it well, I gather?’
‘No. He took my badge away, and he fired me. Me! I found the footprints and the hair sample, and he fired me!’
Charlie leans back in his chair.
‘He’s a very sensitive kid,’ he says. ‘He carries a lot of pain inside him. I think if anyone could understand that, it would be you.’
‘Take his side, why don’t you!’
‘I–I’m not taking anyone’s side, Lem, I’m just saying—’
‘I wish I’d never come to this place!’ I shout from deep inside my volcano. ‘I wish I’d never even heard of Willow Creek, or that stupid beast of yours that lives out in these woods.’
Charlie takes a deep breath and pushes his chair back.
‘You came here for a reason, Lem.’
‘Only because Mama died. That’s it. She didn’t want anything to do with this place when she was alive, either!’
I feel like I’m being sucked deep in the quicksand and he doesn’t even notice.
Just like he hasn’t figured it out about the stupid tomatoes.
There’s no big, strong hand to reach for me now. I’m sinking fast. He’s too busy searching for Tobin.
Saving Tobin.
Ordering hold the pickles for Tobin.
My volcano is out of control, spewing hot lava everywhere I go. And I can’t stop it.
‘I hate it here! And so did Mama!’
I get up from the table and start to run.
I want to run until I make it all the way home. Then I can forget this place and all the people in it. The screen door slams behind me. It’s already dark. Low thunder rolls. But I don’t even care if it storms al
l over me. I keep running and running and running.
Running until I can’t hear Charlie calling my name any more.
The rain comes somewhere between Nick French’s house and Mrs Dickerson’s place. It comes at first in small, bitty sprinkles, and then in sloppy splashes that hit the top of my head and leak into my eyes. Soon the splashes turn to buckets.
But I keep running.
Cracks of thunder and flashes of light wage a war above me. But tonight I’m not even scared, because tonight I’m hoping that one of those strikes of lightning finds its way to earth and zaps me into dust. Then I won’t ever have to think of anything again.
Not Mama.
Not Tobin.
Not Charlie.
Not Delores Jaworski.
Not even whatever is hiding in the woods.
Then maybe I’ll be free from the quicksand waiting to suck me in and never let me breathe again. Free of the load that is just too heavy for me to carry.
I keep running until I find myself knocking on Mrs Dickerson’s screen door, drenched to the bone.
Some rain. But mostly tears.
‘Lemonade Liberty Witt!’ Mrs Dickerson exclaims, pushing the door open. She is lipstick-less and her long white hair blows free in the wind. ‘Sweet girl, you come inside this instant. What in the world are you doing out on a night like this?’
‘I don’t–I don’t – we had a fight . . . and I—’
‘OK . . . well, never you mind. You’re here now, let’s get you into something warm and dry.’
She takes me into the front bedroom and digs through a stash of clothes in a dresser drawer near the bed.
‘Let’s see here,’ she says, rummaging through folded piles while I drip on the hardwood floor and shiver. ‘I always have something on hand for the grandchildren when they come to visit. Yes, here we go. This should do nicely . . . and . . . let’s see, ah, this too, maybe. Here, sweetheart, put these on and put your wet clothes in the tub.’
‘Thank you,’ I say through chattering teeth.
‘Hurry up now, before you catch pneumonia.’
After I towel off and get changed in the bathroom, I find Mrs Dickerson in the kitchen heating up water for tea and pulling cookies out of the cookie jar. I hope she has some meringue clouds left from the other day. I didn’t even get to try them.
‘Now, have a seat and we can talk.’ She points to the kitchen table, already set with cloth napkins and teacups on saucers. In the centre of the table are a tiny pitcher of milk, a jar of honey and a bowl full of lemon wedges.
I pull a chair out and sit down. I’m still shivering. The kettle whistles on the stove, and she pours steaming water into my cup and then into hers. The rain clicks on the kitchen window. I wrap my frozen fingers around the warm cup and put my face over the steam to heat my nose and cheeks. I watch the tea from the bag seep into the water in slow waves until the water is all brown, while Mrs Dickerson settles in a seat across from me.
‘I already tried to phone Charlie, but he didn’t answer. He must be worried sick.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Now, please tell me what happened,’ she says.
The tears come fast, even though I thought I couldn’t possibly have one more left. I tell her all about Tobin firing me, and Charlie and the tomatoes, and Tobin’s pickle-less sandwich, and how Delores Jaworski came to the shop, and Kick the Can, and Rainbow, and everything else. I tell her that everyone here in Willow Creek hates me. My words spill over each other because they can’t get out fast enough.
‘I wish I’d never even come here,’ I finally say. ‘It’s been a complete and total disaster.’
She takes a long, deep breath and then a slow sip of tea with her eyes closed.
‘My goodness, that is a bad day, isn’t it?’ she says to me after putting her cup on its saucer.
I nod. ‘The worst day in the world. Well . . . not the worst, but it’s up there.’
She nods.
‘That last day with Mama . . .’ I start, but can’t finish.
She reaches across the table and touches my hand.
‘Lemonade, do you remember when I spoke to you about your mother and Charlie?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Remember when I told you that sometimes when people are grieving badly, those sad feelings can come out in the wrong way?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘You have all lost someone or something important, haven’t you? You’re all grieving that loss in your own ways.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I guess so.’
‘You’ve lost your dear, lovely mother. A beautiful person inside and out.’
I swallow the lump.
‘Tobin has lost his brave and dutiful father. A good man who loved his family with everything he had inside him.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘And Charlie has lost twice. First his wonderful wife, and then his lovely daughter. How devastated he would be to lose what’s most important to him now.’
‘Tobin?’ I ask.
‘You, sweet Lemonade. You.’
‘He doesn’t care about me,’ I tell her, staring at my china cup. ‘Not as much as he cares about Tobin. I told you about the pickles, didn’t I? Didn’t I? He doesn’t want me here, anyhow. He never did. He couldn’t care less if I up and move back to San Francisco.’
She looks at me curiously. ‘What makes you say that?’
I think hard about her question.
I think of the books Charlie has brought home for me, the duvet, the steamy milk, the space in the hall where I swiped the picture of Mama. I think of Rainbow, and his great big hand reaching out for me.
I shrug.
‘I just know it,’ I say. ‘And Tobin hates me too. He took my badge and everything.’
‘I know Charlie loves you more than anything. And he would give anything to have another chance to make things right with Elizabeth. Sad feelings can take control of us and make us choose things we wouldn’t normally choose.’
‘Like mean words,’ I say.
‘Exactly, sweetheart.’
‘I said mean things to both Charlie and Tobin. I didn’t know how to stop them. They just kept coming up and flying out, and I couldn’t take them back.’
‘They love you.’ She smiles at me. ‘I’m sure they’re hurting just as you are. I bet they would love to change today just as much as you would.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘You really don’t want to leave Willow Creek, do you?’
The lump gets bigger and bigger, and my eyes blur with tears, until I burst.
‘No!’ I cry out, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I want to stay here with Charlie and with you and with Tobin and Debbie and with Mr Harold and all the kids I’ve met . . .’
Mrs Dickerson comes over to my side of the table and hugs me hard.
The phone rings.
‘I’ll bet that’s Charlie now, out of his mind with worry.’ She straightens and moves her cane towards the yellow phone on the wall.
‘Hello? Yes, I—’
She turns her back to me.
‘Oh, no,’ she whispers. ‘Oh, my God . . . Yes, we’ll be right there.’
She slips the receiver back on the wall and turns to look at me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Oh, honey. There’s been an accident.’
35. Grandfather
Mrs Dickerson drives an old red Volkswagen Beetle with rust on the back wheel arches. It makes a buzzing noise when the speedometer gets over fifty-five miles per hour.
It buzzes the whole way to the hospital.
But that’s the only thing I really remember about getting there, because my brain is too busy worrying. When we finally make it, Debbie is waiting for us in her white nurse’s uniform, white shoes and a white nurse’s hat. Tobin is sitting on a stuffed bench welded to the wall, twisting his fingers in knots and then untwisting them again.
‘Where is he?
’ I demand, running towards Debbie down a long hall. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
She bends at the waist to face me eye to eye, her arms wide to catch me. When I reach them, they feel like a life vest keeping me from going under, and I feel my legs let me go.
‘Shh,’ she says gently, holding me tight. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
‘No!’ I cry. ‘No, it isn’t! He’s hurt because of me! Because of me! It won’t ever be OK again. Not ever!’
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Tobin by my side now. Tobin in his khaki shorts, red T-shirt and that stupid safari hat strapped tightly under his chin, peering over his glasses at me.
He grabs my hand without saying a word.
I hold it tight.
Mrs Dickerson is still scooting her cane down the hall to catch up to us, and when she does, she places her arm around me too.
And then we all hug.
One giant hug. It feels warm and safe and comfortable and familiar. It feels like a family. Maybe not by blood, but by choice.
And by love.
A feeling I thought would never, ever exist again in my whole life. The lump is back, and I don’t even try to swallow it down.
I just let myself cry.
Even though Charlie is still sleeping, and it’s way past visiting hours, and kids aren’t really supposed to be in the rooms because they have too many germs on their hands, Debbie gives me permission to see him. But only after I scrub my hands twice with disinfectant soap and swear I’ll stay no more than five minutes.
‘He’s going to be OK,’ she says. ‘But he needs to rest right now, so you can only stay a few minutes.’
‘I promise,’ I tell her, crossing an X over my chest.
Tobin and Mrs Dickerson watch from the bench while Debbie pushes open the thick wooden door of Charlie’s room.
Charlie.
Charlie Milford Witt is printed in bold letters on a metal chart hanging from the end of his bed.
Charlie Milford Witt.
He is still. His eyes closed. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up under his arms and tucked tight around him, the two thirds of what’s left of his hair in a mess.
He’s pale. Even paler than Eliza Rose was on that afternoon she told us about her Bigfoot sighting.
Bigfoot, Tobin & Me Page 14
