Circa Now

by Amber McRee Turner

  Circa picked up one of Great-Aunt Ruby’s dried-up ink bottles from off the shelf. She felt just as angry red and crumbly inside.

  “Man, you sure weren’t kidding before,” Miles said. “Your mom really doesn’t want anything to do with that Memory Wall project.”

  “It’s because she says it hurts her too bad,” said Circa. “She blames all the restored pictures in this studio for killing my dad. You’ve seen how she hardly ever even comes over to this side of the room.”

  Miles looked across the dozens of images crammed onto the walls. “That’s a tough battle, Circa,” he said.

  Circa shook the bottle to hear the flakes of color knock around inside. “You know that thing that happens when you’ve got something you want to say and then it just escapes your brain?” she said. “But you know that it was something important and it drives you crazy?”

  “Look who you’re talking to,” said Miles.

  “Well, I feel like that’s what happened to my dad,” Circa said. “That he had something important to say with that Memory Wall but didn’t get to.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean,” said Miles, kicking the beanbag chair into shape. “But listen, for what it’s worth, I really do bet Stanley was making all that junk up today. About the fountain and stuff.”

  “Thanks,” said Circa. “I really, really hope you’re right.”

  Miles arranged the beanbag around him. “So you didn’t say. How was the visit today? Before the, um, incident.”

  “It was all right,” said Circa. “Nattie liked it.”

  Then she thought for a minute. “Surely Lily would have told me if they had decided to put a fountain there instead.”

  “Did you get to see the captain?” said Miles.

  “No,” Circa said, not wanting to tell Miles about the unsuccessful poster bait. “Still not a pixel or a peep.”

  Circa fell back into Dad’s chair and gave it a spin. “So why’d you do it?” she said. “Why’d you clobber Stanley today? Was it truly just because he flicked a cigarette at you?”

  Miles dropped into the beanbag. “You really want to know?” he said.

  “Really,” said Circa.

  Miles put his elbows to his knees just like the way he was sitting when Circa first met him. She thought about how that seemed like forever ago.

  “He insulted your family,” Miles said. “You, your mom, your dad. And, well, I just lost it.”

  “And you flattened him,” said Circa. “Defending us?”

  “I flattened him, but not near as flat as he deserved.” Miles shrugged. “Who do I know any better than the Monroes?” he said.

  Circa cooled down inside. Miles had not only calmed her worries, but had managed to make her feel safe too. No one but Dad had ever been able to do that. She decided that even if she couldn’t yet tell Miles fully about her Shopt beliefs, then she could still secretly do a test with him. Something fun that might just serve up a thinnest-ever slice of justice as a bonus.

  “Come on,” she said, wheeling Dad’s chair to the desk. “I have an idea. Go grab that yearbook off the shelf over there. The red one with the silver writing.”

  Miles got up and handed Circa the book. She flipped to a page in the middle, lifted the lid on the scanner, and carefully placed the book facedown. On the computer, she clicked to scan the page into Photoshop and waited for the hum of the machine to finish. As soon as it did, the resulting image popped up on the monitor. Among other people, there in the middle was Stanley Betts’s big senior picture. Circa cropped the photo so it was just Stanley and not the rest of the junk on the page.

  Then she turned to Miles. “So what do we do to him?” she asked.

  Miles’s face got full of mischief.

  “Nothing too cruel,” said Circa, thinking about nests and warts and purple glasses. “You know, in case it comes true or something.”

  Miles gave her a sidewise glance. “Comes true?” he said. “You accidentally inhale some of that paint in those jars?”

  Circa paused, tempted to spill everything, wondering if it was the right thing to do, if maybe telling him was the one way to get Dad’s message out. Only she couldn’t see putting more hurt on Miles after the day he’d had.

  “Ha,” she said. “Had you going, right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Miles. “Now. Moving on. How about snakes coming out Stanley’s ears?”

  “Hmm. Still too cruel,” said Circa.

  “Circa, it’s pretend here.”

  “I know,” she lied.

  “Swollen nose?” said Miles.

  “He’s probably got that already.”

  “An angry neck tattoo?”

  “No. He’d like that.”

  “A jillion fire ants, then?” he said.

  “Good idea, but too hard to Photoshop,” Circa said.

  “I think you’re underestimating your skills,” said Miles. “How about dental work?”

  Stanley glared from the screen like he was mocking her. She felt her skin crawl, like he was right there in the studio smoking and spitting and cussing the Monroes.

  “Dental work it is,” said Circa, tempted to make teeth disappear, go crooked, or turn a putrid green. Instead, she settled on coloring the top two middle ones a very unattractive shade of creamed corn.

  Miles watched every click of the mouse, every swish of the paintbrush tool, every zoomed-in, edited pixel, until Stanley’s nasty smile had been made over.

  “I meant what I told you before,” he said. “Never mind what your mom says about it. You’re getting really good at this,” he said, making Circa proud.

  “I’ll save it as ‘Jackola,’” she announced, and then printed out a copy for them to take turns laughing over. As Miles held on to the photo and admired its artistry, Circa was alarmed by the raw places on his knuckles. Inside, she hoped and prayed there wouldn’t be any repercussions from the day’s Miles versus Stanley bout.

  The next morning, something that sounded an awful lot like a repercussion knocked at the front door.

  “Circa, go see who that is,” called Mom from upstairs.

  Over breakfast, Circa and Miles were discussing whether Great-Uncle Mileage would ever catch up with his long-lost nephew, and the adventure that might ensue when he did.

  “Of course I have to answer it,” said Circa. “She’s probably still lying in bed.”

  “Come on. Give her a break,” said Miles.

  Circa stuffed in a last bite of granola bar and went to peek out the front room window.

  “It’s a woman in a suit,” she reported up the steps. “She’s holding a clipboard.”

  The woman knocked again.

  “Go ahead and answer,” called Mom. “I’ll be right there.”

  Circa was surprised to hear the hair dryer come on. She opened the door.

  “Hello, young lady,” the woman said somewhat mechanically. She wore an official-looking ID badge that was obscured by a big jangly necklace. Circa noticed she had clumps of not-smoothed-in face powder poised to fall right off her nose.

  “Is your mother or father home?” the woman said, nervously clearing her throat every other word.

  “My mother is,” said Circa. “She’ll be right…Oh, here she is.”

  Mom came rushing down the steps, trying to gather her half-dry hair up into a clip.

  “Mrs. Monroe?” The woman stuck her hand out stiffly. “I’m a representative of the Georgia Department of Child Services. We were contacted by the local police. It is my understanding that you have a lost child here?”

  “Oh, um, yes, we do,” said Mom. “A found one really.”

  Circa backed herself slowly into the kitchen. “Miles,” she said. “It’s some lady from the state of Georgia, something about child services. You don’t think she’s out here because of the fight, do you?” />
  “How am I supposed to know?” said Miles, looking worried.

  “Miles? Circa?” called Mom. “Can you come in here, please?”

  The two of them walked into the living room, Miles never taking his eyes off his own feet.

  “Let’s everybody sit down, I guess,” said Mom, clearing stacks of mail off the furniture.

  Miles and Circa sat together on the couch, while Mom and the woman in the suit took the chairs opposite them. Circa noticed right off that the woman’s face was shockingly pink, even through all that powder, and that she seemed very uneasy. In fact, she looked like she wanted to bolt right out of the room, way more so than even Mom or Miles. The woman kept on clearing her throat like there was a popcorn kernel stuck on the back of her tongue. Circa would have felt sorry for her, had she not suddenly been struck by a sickening jolt of familiarity in the woman’s face.

  Circa waved to get Mom’s attention as the woman bent to dig through her giant purse for something to write with.

  “Look familiar?” she mouthed to Mom.

  Mom nodded yes and shrugged, then Circa poked Miles to ask him the same thing. As soon as Miles looked up from his feet and concentrated on the woman’s face, his eyes grew wide with recognition.

  “Miles,” said Mom, “this lady is here from the Department of Child Services. She’s going to try to help figure your situation out. This is…pardon me, miss, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Linholt,” said the woman. “Barbara Linholt.”

  The room fell so quiet, you could have heard a shriveled flower petal drop. Circa, Mom, and Miles all gaped in disbelief. Mrs. Linholt cleared her throat and went right on talking.

  “Miles, your case showed up on the bottom of my list for this week, and then my boss came in and said she’d seen a poster of you at the coffee shop and on our building this morning. So I decided to make you my top priority instead.”

  Everything was coming out like blah-blah-blah to a dumbstruck Mom, Circa, and Miles, though, which must have been obvious, because it wasn’t long at all before Mrs. Linholt stopped herself midsentence.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Monroe,” she said. “And yes, I am the same Mrs. Linholt who pitched a minor hissy fit about the photo you guys were restoring for me. As soon as I pulled up and saw that you were the Monroes of Studio Monroe, I knew this would be a tense visit.”

  She moved her badge from under the necklace. “I hid this before I came in,” she said.

  Mrs. Linholt looked all sorts of frazzled. “Forgive me for being flustered,” she said, patting at her pink face. “I suffered some painful windburn from the tornado.

  “Thankfully, most of my family were inside the park bathroom when it hit the reunion,” Mrs. Linholt continued. “But the trauma, oh the trauma. This is my first day back at work since that day, and I’m a little scattered to say the least, so please bear with me.”

  Mom cocked her head in astonishment.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Linholt said. “Mrs. Monroe, I feel so uncomfortable sitting here like this after I fussed with your husband so. Please pass along my apologies, and do tell him I’m willing to compromise and pay him half of his fee.”

  Mom shot a blank look of disgust at Circa, which Circa in turn shared with Miles. Fortunately, this woman in their living room mentioned nothing of the fight with Stanley. Unfortunately, she’d also been oblivious to other, much more crucial information.

  She doesn’t know about Dad, thought Circa. How in the world could she not know?

  “Whew. Now that that’s been said,” continued Mrs. Linholt. “I’ve got quite a few questions I need to ask Miles before the state can determine where—”

  “He died,” interrupted Mom sharply. “He’s dead, you know.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mrs. Linholt.

  Circa and Miles both sunk low into the couch.

  “My husband. He was killed delivering your reunion photos. That you demanded he bring. I just thought you might need to know that.”

  Mrs. Linholt covered her mouth to muffle a little squeak of alarm, but Mom wasn’t near done with her yet.

  “And let me ask you this, Mrs. Linholt,” she said. “Do you even recognize this boy here? This boy who hitchhiked a hundred miles from the very site of your picnic? This boy who apparently wasn’t invited to hide out in the bathroom with the rest of your family?”

  Mrs. Linholt made a squeaky gasp. “Well. Mercy,” she said. “He does look a tad familiar. But, well. Mercy. I don’t know why. You see, I’ve been through a terrible—”

  “Ordeal?” said Mom through her teeth.

  Mrs. Linholt immediately began scritch-scratching her pencil across her clipboard, murmuring to herself and checking boxes superfast. She was speed-reading interview questions and coughing the answers to herself at full tilt. “Physical exam. Check.” Cough. “Police notified. Check. Temporary accommodations.” Cough. “Check. Psychiatric evaluation…Has he had one, Mrs. Monroe?”

  Mom shook her head.

  “Okay, no worries then,” Mrs. Linholt said nervously. “As a courtesy, I’ll just set that up myself.”

  “Is that absolutely necessary?” said Mom, her jaw so clenched it was hard to understand her. “The psychiatrist thing?”

  Mom had suffered much trouble with those doctors over the years. Circa knew she wasn’t going to take this one easily.

  “Yes, it has to be done before placement is decided,” said Mrs. Linholt. “And considering that all this should have been handled the day the boy showed up, I’ll call right now and arrange it.” She opened up the huge giraffe-pattern purse at her feet and frantically juggled out a cell phone covered in silver sparkles.

  Placement? wondered Circa. She looked at Miles to see if he’d caught that word too, but instead he seemed instantly and completely mesmerized by the phone in Mrs. Linholt’s hand. In fact, Circa noted that Miles never took his eyes off the phone the whole time Mrs. Linholt barked into the phone about paging an available psychiatrist. She was demanding in that way the Monroes had been quite familiar with to get what she wanted, glancing up occasionally at the three sets of eyes glaring at her, and practically threatening the person on the other end that he’d better send someone out today.

  As soon as she pressed to hang up, Mrs. Linholt gathered her things and stood to leave.

  “The state of Georgia is sorry for your loss, ma’am,” she said as she scrambled toward the door, like she was scared Mom would pounce on her. “The psychiatrist on call will be here ASAP. After that, we will notify you of a decision concerning the young man.” Mrs. Linholt left even pinker than she came.

  No sooner had the door shut than Mom excused herself to the kitchen. Most likely for more than half of a bad-day pill, thought Circa, as she and Miles remained in a total slump on the couch.

  “Man. That was awful,” said Circa.

  Miles didn’t say a word, but instead appeared to be in some kind of daze. A stupor of sorts. The look, as it turned out, of a memory waking up.

  “Circa.” He turned to her and said slowly, “I talked to your dad.”

  Circa’s jaw dropped open. “What do you mean you talked to my dad?”

  “On the phone,” Miles said. “The day of the storm.”

  Circa scooted as close to Miles as she could. He began to spill the story in pieces as it came to him.

  “I had walked up to the clearing and asked that lady, Mrs. Linholt, if she would help me,” he said. “She pointed me over to a cooler full of lemonades and told me to sit down, as she walked away and made a phone call. I thought that the call was to help me, even though it sounded like she was fussing at someone on the phone. After that, she just left me sitting there while she started putting food out on a picnic table. So while she was working, I snuck her phone—that glittery one—out of her purse and I called the last number on there. It was a ma
n that answered, and the first thing he said was Studio Monroe.”

  Circa got chills upon chills. Dad. She remembered that last mysterious phone call Dad had gotten as he walked out the door that afternoon.

  “I couldn’t remember anything,” said Miles.

  “Even before the storm?” marveled Circa.

  “Even before,” said Miles. “I was scared to death. I told him I needed help. I begged him to please come get me. The man said he would come, so I found a spot where I could sit up against a brick barbecue and rest while I waited for him. Then I got weaker and weaker, and the wind starting to blow harder, and there were people across the way arguing about whether to pack up or not. But that woman, she was insisting that they wait it out in the bathroom. Next thing I knew, I was knocked to the ground when the big wind came. I woke up in the shelter of a big tree propped on top of the brick pile. The reunion photo was on the ground beside me, so I picked it up and got as far from there as I could.”

  Miles went radiant as the gush of a memory filled him up.

  “So to finally answer your question, Circa,” he said. “No, I don’t think I ever saw your dad. But, yes. I did meet him.”

  The thought of Miles and her dad talking to each other, even if briefly, did Circa’s heart some good. If a nasty like Barbara Linholt had been the reason Dad had to be out in the storm, Circa could at least be proud that he’d also gone to try to help someone worth helping. Especially someone with no memory.

  “Are you sure that’s all?” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just keep thinking you might have a message or something, like from my dad to me.”

  “How could I?” said Miles. “I told you I didn’t even see him.”

  Circa struggled to think of a way to say what she was feeling inside. “It’s just that I thought maybe there’d be a message from him built in or something,” she said, immediately wishing she’d thought of a better way to say what she was thinking.

  “What do you mean, built in?” said Miles.