Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  “You shouldn’t ask that,” I say. “It’s not polite.” I smile at Granny to make it clear that I’m trying my best to steer Alexander in the right direction.

  She doesn’t respond at first. She putters around a bit in the kitchen, piles up all the dishes, takes off her apron, and says, “Come on, then, coats on, we’re going.”

  Granny helps us cover all the books we have in our satchels. There’s even enough paper left for the books we left at home. And at the end of the afternoon, she plays a card game with us. Alexander wins. “I’m the best,” he cries. Actually, I let him win. I gave Granny a few meaningful looks so that she would realize, but I don’t know if she understood. She was very quiet.

  When she drops us off at home, at six on the dot, she gives Alexander another kiss and clutches my face between her hands. They feel cold, as though she’s just made a snowman without wearing gloves. “Ask her whether she’ll help you cover the rest of the books, won’t you, so the teacher won’t gripe tomorrow. And tell her I was happy to buy that paper for you.” Then she kisses me on my left cheek.

  “Yes,” I say, thinking what a strange word gripe is and also that I’m not going to pass on her message. In the same way that Granny doesn’t like us talking about Marie, Daddy and Marie don’t like it when we mention Granny. We always have to be really careful what we say.

  I turn around at the door to wave at Granny one last time. She’s still there, in her car with the engine running, but she doesn’t look at me. She’s looking through the big window into the living room. I hope she doesn’t notice we’ve got a new sideboard and there are different curtains. Marie wanted them. She also wanted a new table with new chairs and a new bed. It had to be her house too, Daddy said, and we went to buy the stuff, even before the wedding. Alexander and I were allowed to go along. It took ages and we had to be quiet and well behaved. In the end nearly all the stuff they picked I thought was ugly. Only the chairs are OK, they’re orange and white, and orange is a pretty color. Apart from that, I prefer it when things stay the same. But well, it’s not up to you when you’re a kid. Other people always make all the decisions, even the ones that have to do with you.

  Every time I come home, it takes a while to get used to it. I haven’t told anyone because it would seem ungrateful. Lots of children don’t get new stuff in their homes. And ungrateful children are the worst, Mommy always said.

  As we eat sandwiches with Marie in the kitchen—Daddy’s still with his patients—Alexander says, “Granny bought me cool paper to cover my books. And she covered all the books in my bag, but you have to do the other ones.”

  “All right, then, tomorrow,” Marie says.

  “No, it has to be tonight,” Alexander says, taking such a big bite that all the smoked meat in his sandwich disappears into his mouth in one go. “Otherwise, my teacher will get angry about it.”

  “I still have to bake three cakes this evening for the charity event my mother is organizing. Are there many books left to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Now Marie sighs. “All right, if need be, I can get the cakes from the bakery. But my mother will be disappointed,” she says, sighing again.

  “It’s sigh-day today,” Alexander says.

  “What do you mean?” Marie says. Her voice shakes a little.

  “Nothing.”

  “Granny sighed a lot today,” I say in an attempt to shift the guilt onto someone who won’t be bothered by it. For a moment, it’s as though she’s going to cry. We sit there quietly and stare at our plates. Not saying anything is actually the best approach. And wolfing down your sandwiches and drinking up every last drop of milk. The only sound is Marie’s knife on her plate. When she doesn’t look like she’s going to eat anything else, I ask, “Is it all right if I clear the table?”

  “Yes,” she says, before disappearing into the dining room.

  I order Alexander to go and help her. For once he doesn’t make a fuss. We fetch our books and lay the roll of paper next to them. I count the books—there are still eleven left to cover. Granny did most of them. Marie sits at the big table smoking a cigarette, she sucks on it hard and the glow of the reddish-orange ash makes her face even prettier. I don’t know whether we’ve done something wrong.

  “Here they are.”

  “Thanks.” When she’s finished her cigarette, she moves to the middle of the table and gets to work. Once Alexander’s first book is ready, Marie calls him. “That’s one,” she says triumphantly.

  Alexander picks up the book and says, “It’s crooked,” before adding, as quick as lightning, “but that doesn’t matter, of course.” I thought that was clever of him.

  We have to go to bed early that night. I offered to help with the cakes but Marie didn’t want that. We didn’t see Daddy.

  When we give her a kiss before going upstairs, she gives both of us a hug, one in each arm, and presses us close to her. She smells of Nivea, the little blue pot that’s in our bathroom now. Being held is the nicest thing there is. That and being allowed to eat candy when it’s normally not allowed, or being allowed to stay up late, or playing with Ellen’s mom’s makeup—she’s allowed to—or being given a new thick book to read.

  “You know that Mommy loves you very much? Very, very much.”

  We nod. Then she lets go. I think: It’s just like a movie, except she didn’t say it in English.

  16

  So, we did end up in the Beaver’s class. There was a 50 percent chance and of course we had bad luck. Fifth grade was bound to be a disaster, that’s what Ellen and I said to each other at the start of the school year. And we were right.

  It happens on a Tuesday morning. The teacher gets mad. Our class is much too noisy, and anyone who says another word will be drawn and quartered. She says that: “drawn and quartered.” I can see that she’s really angry so I stay silent. But when the teacher turns to the blackboard, Sophie, who has always been a daredevil, whispers, “Another word.” The class giggles, including me. Then the teacher, her back to us, says, loud enough for it to be heard in the neighboring classrooms, “Mona, two pages of lines for tomorrow: ‘I must learn to hold my tongue in class.’”

  “But, miss, I wasn’t the one who—”

  “It’s always you.” She doesn’t even look at me.

  I look around and everyone pretends it doesn’t have anything to do with them. Even Ellen keeps on staring at the teacher as she plays with the lucky charm attached to her pencil case. I don’t have a lucky charm.

  “No, it wasn’t, it really—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence, unless you want me to make it four pages. If necessary, consider it a punishment for all the times you got away with it. Open your exercise books to page seventeen.”

  I could cry, but I don’t. I’m very good at not crying, which is one advantage. The Beaver is famous for this kind of nastiness. It’s true that I talk in class a lot, but never when the teacher is about to lose her temper, I know better than that.

  When I get home, I go straight to my room. Sometimes we get a four o’clock snack if we’re good and usually I don’t want to miss that, but today all the snacks in the world can go to the children in Africa or wherever they’re hungry, as far as I’m concerned. Injustice is the worst, I think. Along with not being able to get to sleep for ages, and being frightened, and having to be on your own in a dark basement, and everyone dying.

  Marie comes in while I’m doing my homework. “You went upstairs so fast. Here, I’ve brought you some warm pudding, vanilla, your favorite.” She gives me a wet kiss on my cheek. I don’t dare wipe my cheek. She sits down on my bed. “So how was your day?”

  I want to tell her, but I’m worried I might cry and crying isn’t appealing, so I just say, “Good.”

  “I had a good day too. Mom came to visit.” I smile at her because I can’t think of anything to ask about her mother. “And Monique, a friend of mine, called to tell me she’s pregnant. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”
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  “What’s the nicest thing you did today?”

  “We were allowed to play basketball and my team won. I scored twice.”

  “I wasn’t any good at sports as a kid. Well done, you.”

  It might be because of the pudding, but I feel really warm inside.

  At six fifteen, Daddy calls me down for dinner. He’s finished work early. I’m writing a story about bad teachers who turn into slugs and about a girl with magic powers who can make anything happen she wants.

  At the table, Alexander talks nonstop about Jeremy, who brought his tortoise to school. He wants a tortoise too, and tortoises this and tortoises that. I don’t listen. After a while Marie interrupts him to tell Monique’s news to Daddy. She says she’s very happy for her friend. Daddy just says, “Oh lovely.” And then he asks Alexander another question about the tortoise.

  “You’re so quiet.” Marie turns to me.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are. And you don’t even like the horsemeat I got especially for you. You haven’t eaten any of it.”

  I don’t know why she thinks I like horsemeat. Daddy likes it. But horsemeat makes me think of the animals, and even though they’re a little bit scary close up, they’re very pretty, and they have forelocks, which are a kind of bangs, and knees and muzzles, and they’re called “noble animals.” I don’t say any of this. “I’m not hungry right now. Maybe later.”

  Daddy is putting some horsemeat onto his bread and asks, “How was school?”

  “The Beaver’s horrible,” I reply. It just slips out.

  “Oh? But you were so happy earlier. Her team won at basketball, Daddy.” I don’t know why she calls my dad, who isn’t her dad, Daddy, especially when she’s not even our real mother.

  Then Daddy asks, “Why is Miss Beavering horrible?”

  “Yes, I’d like to know the answer to that too.”

  I don’t know what to do. If I tell them about the unfair punishment, Marie will be offended that I kept it from her, and if I don’t tell them, it will be a kind of lie.

  Then Alexander chimes in. “Miss Beavering is mean, everyone says that. She’s like Mr. Van Hulle. It’s a shame you have to have her.”

  I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve been holding them back the whole day, or because of my brother suddenly being nice to me, but they come, the tears.

  “It can’t be that bad, can it?” Marie says. “You’re always happy to go to school. You were happy earlier. There’s no need to put on the amateur dramatics for your mother.”

  Daddy says soothingly, “Hey, my big girl, what’s all this?”

  I can’t say anything because I’m sobbing too much and because, if I don’t watch out, snot is going to run out of my nose. So I get up. I want to go get a paper towel, but Marie stops me.

  “For god’s sake, tell us what’s the matter.” She sounds more angry than worried and I cry even harder, which makes me need the paper even more, so I tear myself free and rush to the kitchen. I’m just in time to tear off a square and wipe my nose.

  “What the hell am I doing wrong?” Marie cries. “No one trusts me here. I’m doing my best. I don’t know what more I can do.” And then she begins to bawl, much louder and with more tears than me.

  I stop crying from the shock. “No,” I say, “I just had to wipe my nose.”

  She hardly seems to hear me. In the meantime, Daddy has gone to stand behind her. He rubs her back and looks at us. He nods at me.

  “It’s just that I got punished today for something I didn’t do.”

  She still doesn’t react. Alexander climbs onto her lap and gives her a kiss.

  “We do know how much you do for us. So much.” I say this in a serious voice. “So much.” I look at Daddy, but he keeps looking down.

  “The children are very grateful.”

  She seems to calm down, sobbing less. Then Daddy takes her into the next room.

  I clear the table and, a few minutes later, Alexander and I go into the living room. Marie is sitting in the big armchair.

  She says, “I’m only trying to do things right, you know. Really. But I’m not used to all of this. I hope you can understand.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “And I don’t need a tortoise,” Alexander says. Once again, he hasn’t understood any of it.

  Marie’s face is red from the crying. She looks awful. I feel bad for having made her unhappy when she’s trying so hard to do her best.

  That evening I’m already in my bed when Daddy comes into my room. This doesn’t happen much. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and looks serious.

  “Sorry for what happened earlier,” I say.

  “Never mind. You just have to be more careful. Mommy’s not as strong as you are. And for her it’s a really big change, to go from living with her parents to having a family with children. It can be too much for her sometimes. Do you want to help her? Be a big girl and be sweet to her. Don’t say anything that might upset her. Can you do that for Daddy, do you think?”

  “Of course.” I feel proud that Daddy is confiding in me, that he needs my help.

  “My sweet daughter,” he says, pinching my nose and giving me a kiss on the forehead. “And now under the covers with you. Chop, chop.”

  I let him tuck me in. I always enjoy that, even if I’m too old for it.

  When he’s gone, I solemnly promise myself never to make Marie sad. I want Daddy to be able to count on me. He’s had such a difficult time, and sometimes he and Marie argue, and he shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of nonsense on top of it. I get my flashlight from under the bed—it’s always there, along with a book for when I can’t sleep.

  I get out my notebook and write in a blue pen in my nicest letters: “Im will by happy evryday.” It sounds better in English than in Dutch. I put it in the drawer of my bedside table. It’s a resolution. Like a New Year’s resolution, but it’s all right to do it in October too, I decide. Everyone likes happy people. Happy people never make others unhappy. That’s what I think.

  17

  “Stunning.” Marie claps her hands when I come out of the changing room. She’s brought me to an expensive store so we can pick out some new clothes together because I had such a good report card. “Do you like it?”

  I look in the mirror. It’s a short red-and-white gingham dress, a cute collar, and two pockets with the checks running in a different direction. I look eleven, even though I won’t be for another six weeks and four days.

  “It looks wonderful on her,” the saleswoman says, straightening something on my dress that was already straight, but that’s what they do in expensive stores, I think. We never came here with my mommy.

  “Want to try the other one?”

  I nod. I go back into the changing room and take the other dress off its hanger. New clothes smell like the fabric, I think, or like a smell that is trying to be flowers but doesn’t come from flowers. This one is blue with a pattern of white clover. It’s a little longer, tight at the top, and pleated at the bottom, as if it has a separate skirt.

  “Oh,” Marie says, covering her mouth. “Even better, this one. Don’t you think?” She looks at me in the mirror and puts her hands on my shoulders.

  The saleswoman says, “Those colors look pretty with her eyes and her hair.”

  “Don’t they?” Marie coos. “Everything suits this princess.” She pinches my cheek. It hurts a bit but I don’t mind.

  “What do you think?”

  “This one,” I say with a smile.

  As Marie pays at the register, the saleswoman hands me the big bag. I hang it over my shoulder. I’m proud I can walk along the street with it. Marie looks at me. When she’s happy, she smiles so big you can see her gums.

  “Thank you,” I say when we’re outside, and I give Marie a big kiss.

  “Are you happy with it?”

  “Yes, of course, very.” I give her another kiss, just to be sure.

  “And now, should we have pancakes
or ice cream? I’d love a coffee, actually.”

  I beam at her.

  “Are you having fun spending time with your mommy?”

  I nod. I feel very grown-up, the two of us like this. Alexander would be jealous, I know that for sure.

  18

  I jolt awake. I had such a scary dream. I was walking in a forest of bare trees and the clothes of dead people were hanging in the branches. They hung there like the men and women were still in them, even though you couldn’t see them. I was all on my own, frantically searching for something or someone I couldn’t find. The sky was dark gray, my hands were cold, my nose and feet too, and the mossy ground felt slippery. And I was very, very scared because someone was following me. I don’t remember anything else after that.

  I rub my eyes and sit up in bed. The house is quiet. I want to forget the nightmare as quickly as possible. But some dreams stick to the roof of your head. I try to think of other things but can’t really. I’m thirsty. I make saliva in my mouth and swallow it. It doesn’t help. Do I dare get a drink from the fridge? I’m not allowed to. Still, I get out of bed and walk barefoot to the kitchen downstairs. I look for a glass and take the very big one Daddy uses for beer. Nighttime thirst is always worse. I fill the glass with water and I drink with greedy gulps and burp. It’s good no one can see me, I think, burping again.

  As I’m putting the water back into the fridge, I hear a sound, like there’s someone on the stairs. I turn out the light and hide in the bathroom next to the kitchen, the glass still in my hand. Don’t turn on the light. If they catch me, there’ll be trouble. I close the toilet lid and sit down on it. The tiles feel cold beneath my feet so I pull up my knees.

  Somebody comes into the kitchen. The fridge opens, I hear rummaging, the fridge closes again. Things are put on the table. Then the pantry door squeaks, the sound of boxes and jars and bags being picked up and put down again. Someone going back and forth. Finally, the door squeaks again and I hear it latching. A chair is pulled out from the table, someone sits down and moves the chair closer. What’s going to happen now? It’s one in the morning or something.