Then I opened my eyes.
And found myself lying in my own bed. The luminous dial on the bedside clock said 4:26 a.m. A dream. A very bad dream, but only a dream. Lying back against my pillow, I stared at my shadowy bedroom. A streetlight cast a slim beam through the closed blinds that illuminated the things on my dresser. A bottle of cologne from my grandmother glowed eerily, its amber liquid looking like molten gold. My collection of bears, perched on the floor to ceiling shelves, offered impassive stares. Not a single thing out of place. Yet, I wanted to cower down under my blanket like a four-year-old.
My sheet was tangled around my legs and I was drenched in sweat. Tomorrow—or rather, today—loomed menacingly and I desperately needed more sleep. Straightening the sheet and quilt, I punched my pillow a few times then burrowed down into its plump softness. I reached for the handmade quilt with the green border and blue and yellow flowers my grandmother and ladies from her church had sewn, and pulled it over my head. But sleep was playing a catch-me-if-you-can game and it was no use. I was wide-awake—wired. The nightmare had been too sobering.
Flinging off the covers, I stumbled into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My coppery brown hair, cut in a short bob, was a tousled mess. A small pimple had blossomed on my chin, and I had dark circles under both eyes. I looked ghastly and felt ghastly. My nice, comfortable world seemed soiled and depressed. I didn’t feel at all in the Christmas spirit. In fact, I was now dreading the holidays and, what was crazier, I didn’t know why. What had happened to my firm resolve of the night before?
I showered and dressed for school in a stupor. Normally it took several minutes just to choose what to wear. No matter how many times I’d plan my outfit the night before, it never mattered. Usually by morning the outfit chosen the previous night was too, too wrong and had to be changed. But not this morning. This morning I couldn’t care less what I put on. It could be a potato sack and I wouldn’t have cared.
Awfully early but there was no point returning to bed so I grabbed my tote bag and quietly made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Mom and Dad weren’t up yet and the kitchen was cold, not the cheerful place it usually was. I adjusted the thermostat and opened the cupboard for some instant cocoa. I filled a mug half way with water and stuck it in the microwave for a minute. When the timer went off, I added milk. Carrying the steaming mug over to the table, I sat to blow and sip and empty my mind of residual images and thoughts.
The hot cocoa felt good slipping down my throat. So comforting, I decided on another cup. While it was heating in the microwave, I stuck a slice of bread in the toaster and got out peanut butter and a jar of homemade raspberry jam. Spreading a lavish amount of both on the golden brown toast, I returned to the table, opened my vocabulary book and enjoyed my peaceful solitary breakfast.
With so much time to kill before I had to catch the bus, and with my attention so weak it couldn’t hold a sentence, let alone a word for even a nanosecond, I ambled into the living room and turned on the TV. I watched some inane cartoons for a while then switched to news. But even that couldn’t hold my attention very long.
With my feet curled up under me on the sofa, my eyes wandered to the various knickknacks, furniture, and accessories around the room—all the nice things I took for granted that my parents provided for our comfort.
Idly, my fingers caressed the soft texture of the rich dark green leather sofa, while my eyes admired the matching easy chairs on either side. Everything was well appointed and expensive. The big-screen TV was wonderful, and I smiled at the memories it evoked of family movie weekends, Dad called ‘Merrick Monster Movie Madness.’ The stereo system was state-of-the-art and plenty of tapes, CDs, and records were played on it—cranked up so we could ‘experience’ the music like Dad said he’d done when he was my age.
On top of the fireplace mantel a polar bear carved from Alaskan ivory stood ready to pounce on a fish. A painting of my grandparents’ farm, done by a well-known local artist, hung on the wall. A vase made from Venetian glass sat on the bookcase. All in all, it was a very pleasant and tastefully furnished room. Mom had done a great job decorating it.
I was still wandering the labyrinth of my thoughts when my parents came downstairs. Mom said she had to call my name out three times before I heard, and I could tell they were surprised to see me already up, dressed and ready for school. Dad made a joke about vacation jitters, which I ignored.
“I couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” I explained when Mom asked if I felt ill.
“Well, after fussing so much about your coat yesterday and fretting about having to sit next to the Coughlins, I thought maybe you were coming down with something.” Mom gave me a hug. “You don’t feel warm so I guess you’re all right.”
“Aw, she’s excited about Christmas. Remember how she’d ride an emotional roller coaster when she was in grade school?” Dad tweaked my nose. “That’s just our Katie. Right, Princess? Lots of fun heading your way.”
I didn’t react to his treating me like I was still a six-year-old, and put on a light-hearted smile. I’m sure it came out more a grimace. Mom’s remark about the coat had reminded me that I’d liberally doused it with freshener the evening before so I jumped up from the couch and headed for the laundry room to see whether it was dry enough to wear. It was. I sniffed the left sleeve but could only smell the scent left from the spray. Reluctantly I took the coat from the hanger and brought it into the kitchen.
“How’s the poor coat?” Mom asked with a rather patronizing grin on her face.
“Okay, I guess.”
Dad looked up from the morning paper. “What happened to it?”
Glancing at Mom, I decided not to press the issue. I lowered my eyes and mumbled a hurried, “Nothing, Dad.”
Satisfied, he returned to the sports section and no more was said about the stupid coat.
When it was time to head to the bus stop, I hesitated only a second, then slipped into the notorious garment, making only a slight grimace as I did. Catching the frown on Mom’s face, I grabbed my tote, threw my arms around Dad’s neck in a rare burst of familial devotion, waved to my mother, and hurried out the door.
I made it to the bus stop with plenty of time to spare and heaved a loud sigh of relief tinged with a hefty dose of frustration. A fifth grader, Hilary Johnson, grinned at me. “High school must be a lot of fun because you look horrible,” she said with a smirk on her pert little face.
I forced a smile. “Oh, yeah, a real party everyday.”
“Yeah…I bet. You look like you had a wow of a party last night.”
“Thanks. Just you wait. Five hours of homework every night, term papers to write—not to mention three novels to read a week—and see what you look like in the morning.” I shrugged. “I just didn’t sleep very well last night. That’s all.”
“Yuck! And I bet you have a humongous test coming up today, too. Right? I heard the teachers in high school are always giving pop quizzes. You must be freaked out.”
“Yeah, well, seems like we have a test everyday. A ninth grader’s lot in life to be horrendously overburdened.” I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t feel very glib and clever that morning and wished Hilary wouldn’t prattle on and on about how bad I looked. I mean, what could I say? You didn’t exactly say things like Yeah, I had a horrible day yesterday. I had to sit next to a Coughlin, although, when I thought about it, Hilary would probably understand. Nobody liked the Coughlins.
The others who caught the bus at our corner finally arrived and three conversations began crossing over one another like my grandmother’s crocheting until the bus turned the corner and came to its usual screeching halt in front of us. One by one the odd assortment of kids trouped onto the bus and found their places. I climbed aboard, clutching the straps to my tote bag. Nancy was coming to school today, but the nagging fear that something unexpected might happen kept my nerves on edge. If I had to sit next to the Coughlins again, I really would lose it.
But she
was there. Relief flooded over me and I grinned.
“Hi!” Nancy almost shrieked as I got settled. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I barely survived an entire day being coddled by my overprotective, demented mother. Gosh, I am so glad to be back. You haven’t any clue what a pain my mother can be. She’s a nervous Nellie when it comes to anything medical.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know how glad I am to see you,” I responded. “I was about to pull my hair out by the roots, I was freaking you weren’t coming today.”
Nancy laughed and patted my hand. “You poor baby. I’m so sorry I put you through such a thing. Next time I’m absent, maybe you should ask your dad to drive you.”
I made a face and shook my head. “You don’t think I tried? I told you on the phone. My parents haven’t an ounce of empathy in their veins. They don’t see anything wrong with riding the bus—Coughlin or no Coughlin. My parents don’t coddle.”
“Jeez, they wouldn’t drive you even in an emergency?” Nancy pressed.
“Uh-uh. They don’t consider the Coughlins an emergency. Hence my embarrassing ride of yesterday—both ways, mind you.”
“Yuck, that’s too bad. Gosh, I can’t wait ’til I get my license. Oh well, you don’t have to sit next to them today, so let’s not think about it any more. Let’s plan what we’re going to do when school lets out. The mall, of course, and a million movies—”
FIVE
Mrs. Abrams, homeroom and World History, the last class of the day, had cooked up a delightful way to experience the true meaning of the holidays. Although she couldn’t come right out and say “Christmas” and “Bible” and less than politically correct terms like that, she did circumnavigate the whole idea about it being a “meaningful” season. We were going to have “secret pals.” Can you believe it? In the ninth grade, we were going to revisit that insipid tradition from grade school and be forced into buying cheap, useless gifts for people we didn’t even like. It was insane, inane, and just plain criminal, but the woman had her heart set on it, declaring it a social thing to do and wasn’t World History a “social” studies class, after all?
Since most of us actually tolerated her as a teacher and thought her a fairly decent human being, no one voiced anything stronger than a mild protest. She got around it with the administration by convincing them it was to foster camaraderie and team spirit and self-esteem—don’t ask me how that fits in—thereby encouraging our sense of social justice, or something to that effect. Anyway, the party was set for the last day before break, and we were to draw names this afternoon for the gift exchange.
“Girls will draw from a girls-only box,” several moans and snickers could be heard, “and boys will draw from a boys-only box. No, there is to be no discussion on this one point. It’s not meant to be a game. I want it to be fun and rewarding but instructionally motivating, too,” Mrs. Abrams dictated—truly oblivious to what we were all really thinking.
There was a low murmuring as Donna Edwards collected the girls’ names and Jorge Lopez, the boys’ names, and dropped them all into two sacks provided by Mrs. Abrams. Everyone sat back and waited for the dastardly deed to be done. Most of the kids considered it mildly humorous. Others just thought it a waste of time but were willing to be good sports. One by one everybody reached into the appropriate sack and drew out a name. Spurts of laughter and one or two coarse words erupted as various students read aloud the names they’d drawn. “Secret pals” was a joke but there was nothing poor Mrs. Abrams could do about it.
Only when Rose Coughlin reached in and brought out a wrinkled slip with the name “Claudia Jackson” on it, did dead silence invade the room.
“Oh, goodie,” Claudia said. “I look forward to your surprise, Rose.”
Snickers came from most of the boys, and a few girls giggled until Mrs. Abrams cleared her throat. The remaining students picked their slips from the sacks, and then everybody stood around in small groups chatting about who’d drawn whom, until Mrs. Abrams again cleared her throat to signal that it was time to get back to work. As if.
Believe it or not, the hour flew by. Even I was able to keep focused on the fate of some prissy-butt king named Louis—history’s one of my least favorite classes—and was able to offer one or two comments during discussion. The fact that I had drawn Julia’s name certainly was a positive motivator. Totally relieved I hadn’t drawn Rose’s name, I could relax and actually enjoy the gift exchange. I already decided what Julia’s gift would be. A pair of hoop earrings I’d seen at the mall. A perfect gift for someone who liked to bedeck herself with funky jewelry.
I even enjoyed the bus ride home that afternoon. Nancy and I discussed the gifts we planned to buy, what we’d wear that day, and how totally thankful each was that Rose hadn’t drawn her name or vice versa.
“I can’t imagine what Rose will give Claudia,” Nancy commented as she rummaged through her purse for her ChapStick.
I nodded.
“Something totally gross, for sure,” she said.
I nodded again.
“Gosh, I’m so glad Donna got my name,” Nancy made a face while applying the lip protector generously. “And I’m so relieved I picked Molly.”
“Yeah, and I’m glad Cindy picked my name,” I said with yet another nod. “Do you remember who, uh, got Rose’s name, by any chance?”
Nancy wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Jeez, I don’t kn—oh, yeah. Julia. Julia picked Rose’s name. Can you believe that?” She pulled the zipper on her purse back and forth. “God, the poor thing. But, of all people, Julia will pull it off. She’ll do something sweet yet neutral, I’m sure. I’m just happy I don’t have to worry about it.”
I nodded for the fourth time and gazed out the window at the dismal landscape passing by, feeling suddenly tired. The weatherman had predicted more snow. Missouri winters can be the opposite—bleak, stark, and cold. Naked oak trees lined roads and fence lines. New potholes formed on the highway. But we got our share of the white stuff. Sometimes, we got days off from school, which was nice. Except for making up the time.
Man, I so wanted spring to arrive.
That evening, my parents decided it was a good time to decorate the tree. The tall Frasier fir was set up in the living room in front of the large bay window. Dad and the tree wrestled for several minutes until he was finally able to secure it in its stand while Mom and I untangled the long strings of colorful lights. For the next hour, we unwrapped fragile ornaments and hung them on the pungent branches. The very last thing to be placed on the tree was the star I’d made in first grade. Dad attached it to the top. We stood back to admire our work.
“Another winner,” Dad beamed.
“It’s beautiful, John. Simply beautiful,” Mom sighed, her arm around my shoulders.
For some crazy reason the lights blurred. I rubbed the back of a hand across my eyes. Not quick enough. Dad chuckled. “Kathy, I think we have a weepy daughter on our hands.” He tweaked my nose the way he always did when he teased me.
Mom squeezed me tighter and laughed. “Oh, Katie. I used to get very emotional about Christmas when I was your age, too. Gosh, what am I saying? I still do. Isn’t this fun?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t know what to say. The lump in my throat hadn’t come from the beautiful Christmas tree or my age or anything remotely like that. I’d suddenly been bombarded with thoughts of Rose Coughlin and the dreary, soggy shoebox she lived in. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that there’d be no fragrant fir tree being lovingly decorated at the Coughlin Place this Christmas. It occurred to me that Rose and Jimmy-John might not have ever had a tree. The thought depressed me and actually made me sick to my stomach.
I pulled free from Mom’s embrace and forced a wide smile. “The tree looks great. Doesn’t it? But you know? I think I may be starting a cold or something. I think I’ll head up to bed early and just read for a while, if that’s okay. I want to nip this cold in the bud. Can’t miss the party and all the festivities can I?” I hugged both my parents
then flew up the stairs. I was really afraid that if I stayed a moment longer, I might burst into tears. And that would be so totally stupid, not to mention totally freaking out my mother. I’d never be able to explain it away.
That night in bed, I tossed and turned, while pictures of the Coughlin Place flicked again and again through my poor tormented mind like the slide shows Gramps always insisted on when we visited the farm. As far back as I can remember, Gramps would take out boxes and boxes of slides—pictures of the whole family from years and years back—and project them onto a big screen. One by one, in staccato fashion, they’d flash by until Grams would invariably tell him to slow down, and then predictably he’d respond with “We got too many t’show, Helen. I gotta march these fellers through,” and he’d continue to click-click-click, displaying one after the other ’til the rest of us reeled in our seats.
I’d never been inside the Coughlin Place and could only imagine what it looked like. Too horrible to imagine, really. What kind of furniture did they have? Did they own a TV? A stereo system with CD player? What was Rose’s bedroom like? Did she even have a bedroom? Did she have a collection of stuffed bears like I did? Did she have a collection of anything? The thoughts and pictures tumbled and leaped through my mind, and once again I couldn’t sleep. At this rate I’d be a zombie by Christmas.
SIX
By the end of the week I’d regained some Christmas spirit and was looking forward to meeting Nancy at the mall on Saturday, where we’d buy our party gifts together. Nancy was still not sure what she wanted to give Molly so we planned to cruise the mall until we saw something that caught our eye.
When I got home Friday, I threw my stuff on the bottom stair and joined my mother in the kitchen. Cookies shaped like bells, trees, and stars lined one counter. Mom was frosting one when I sauntered in.
“Hi, Mom. Mmm, cookies look great,” I licked my lips.
“Well, hi, yourself. Don’t touch. They’re for the Christmas baskets.” She smiled.
By Any Other Name Page 3
