Jubilee

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  Dog followed me as I ran to Mason’s house. I opened the gate and pointed, until Dog realized I wanted him to go into their yard.

  And that’s what he did. When I shut the gate, his head went down, his tail waved from left to right, an unhappy wave. He made a sound deep in his throat. I stood there for a moment, crying. Dog and I belonged together.

  He cried too as I ran to the ferry, my hands over my ears.

  If only Mason would hear him and come outside.

  I bought my ferry ticket. Luckily, I didn’t know the ticket person. I was the last one through the gate, hurrying up the gangplank and inside.

  My hand up, half hiding my face, I went along the aisle so no one would recognize me, or wonder why a girl would be on the ferry by herself this late.

  I tucked myself into the hose closet on the main deck as the ferry gave a warning blast and set off onto open water.

  The air was close; it smelled like kerosene, or engine fuel. It was sickening. I tried to take small breaths as I scrunched up on top of a coil of heavy rope.

  I closed my eyes, thinking of Dog and Mason together, and Aunt Cora, who wouldn’t see my note until morning. Ms. Quirk. Gideon, who wanted to be my father and didn’t know I wanted it too. I’d forgotten his cartoon. Sophie, who’d be glad I was gone.

  I felt the warm tears on my cheeks.

  I pictured my mother, who missed me, and who would hold out her arms.

  It seemed forever until the ferry bumped to a stop.

  I hurried off before the captain could see me. Outside, I took deep breaths of the cold sea air, and stood in the shadows of the parking lot. Car doors began to open and shut, one pulling out after another.

  I waited, trying to get my bearings. And like magic, I saw the sign under the light: Smith Street.

  It was a good omen.

  I began to walk. I was tired and cold, but I was almost there.

  I took a guess and went to my right, where houses were attached to each other, but it was hard to see the numbers in the darkness.

  I walked for blocks before I realized I was farther away from where I should probably be, and turned back.

  Only a few houses had lights, and even the streetlights overhead seemed dim. I shivered as I retraced my steps. I was alone in the street, alone in that strange place. How strange it felt without Dog at my side, without the familiar sounds of the island.

  At the crossroads, I went the other way. I peered at the numbers: 420, 418, and there it was: 416. I looked up at the brick house that was almost the color of my hair. No lights glowed in any windows, upstairs or down.

  I swallowed, and was suddenly uneasy about waking her. Should I curl up somewhere and wait until morning?

  But then I saw a pinprick of light above the bell on the door.

  I made myself go up the narrow front path and press that bell. I waited to hear footsteps, but it was quiet.

  I put my hand against the wooden door, staring at the lion knocker. How could I rap that knocker and make a noise that would wake everyone in the houses around me?

  What could I do?

  I was ready to sink down, my head against the door, and close my eyes. Imagine if she found me there, sleeping, in the morning.

  But then—footsteps.

  Coming down the stairs?

  Down the hall?

  I squeezed my hands together to stop their shaking.

  I’d pictured this so many times: my mother opening the door and seeing me.

  This was the time I was going to speak.

  The door opened and a woman peered out. Her hair was thick and red like mine, but much straighter. She was taller than Aunt Cora, younger, thinner. She hesitated, lips trembling.

  I opened my mouth.

  I tried to say Judith.

  I tried to say Mother, but I didn’t make a sound.

  I didn’t have to, though.

  She opened the door wider, and put out her hands to touch my shoulders.

  She pulled me into the hall, hands still grasping my shoulders. We stared at each other in the dim light.

  Her question-mark face was gone; it would never come back. Her real face was familiar, with blue-gray eyes like Aunt Cora’s. Freckles like mine.

  She snapped on lights as we went down the hall and into the kitchen. “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Judith? Is that what they call you?”

  I nodded. What would I call her?

  She shook her head. “I’ll have to get used to that. I’ve called you Jay all these years.” She waved me into a chair. “Like a blue jay, the bird, you know?”

  Jay. Not my name. Not my name at all.

  It was almost as if we were strangers. We were strangers.

  She brushed back her hair. “Cora called me a few minutes ago to tell me you were coming. She wanted me to watch out for you. She asked me to call when you arrived.”

  Her fingers went to her hair again. “I would have met you at the ferry, if I’d known sooner.”

  It didn’t matter. I had done it. I was sitting in my mother’s kitchen.

  My mother, the stranger.

  Aunt Cora had awakened; she knew I was gone. I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Did she think I didn’t love her?

  My mother—Amber, I’d call her in my mind—picked up the phone. I heard Aunt Cora’s voice as Amber told her I was there.

  She spoke for just a moment. “She looks fine, don’t worry.” When she put down the phone, she said, “Cora said to tell you it was all right, that she understands.”

  Why did I have this pain? It wasn’t exactly all right; it didn’t feel the way I’d imagined it. Strange.

  She opened the refrigerator. “Not much in here. We’ll shop tomorrow.” She pulled out a container of orange juice and poured two glasses. “I’m a mess in the kitchen.”

  I watched her move around, wearing a purple bathrobe that was soft as fur, a button missing on top. She opened a box of cookies and slid them onto a plate.

  “You’ll have to stay alone for a while tomorrow. I have to work. But we’ll settle you in and talk about all this in the morning.”

  I didn’t try to answer. I knew words weren’t coming. I took a sip of juice and a bite of a cookie. Suddenly I was tired. Bone-tired, Aunt Cora would have said. Bushed, Gideon would have said. And Dog would have yawned, his jaws opened wide.

  I yawned now too, quickly covering my mouth.

  “Of course,” Amber said. “Upstairs. The extra bedroom is a little cluttered.” She smiled. “Not a little, a lot. But we’ll manage. Jay—Judith, we’ll manage. Step by step, we’ll get it together.”

  I finished the juice and she went up ahead of me to a room at the end of the hall. It was small. It might have been cozy, but I was too tired to think about it as she said good night.

  She turned back from the door, and reached out. She ran her hand over my hair, which was so much like hers, and gave me a quick hug. I watched as she padded down the hall to her bedroom.

  She hadn’t told me why she’d left, what had been so wrong.

  But maybe tomorrow.

  I tossed my jacket over the end of the bed, toed out of my sneakers, and pulled the quilt up to burrow underneath it. I stretched out my feet, feeling something missing.

  Dog wasn’t curled up at the bottom of the bed, resting on my feet, keeping them warm.

  Oh, Dog. Suppose he was still outside all this time, with no one to be with him? If only Mason knew he was there. If only he’d taken him in. Dog would be on his bed now, warm and safe. But I couldn’t be sure of it.

  What about my mother? Amber, who looked like Aunt Cora, whose hair was almost like mine? How did I feel about her? I just didn’t know.

  I must have slept; I dreamed, but not of Aunt Cora or Gideon, not even of Mason and Dog. I dreamed of a bale of turtles playing and afterward sunning themselves on a lacy log.

  Early in the morning, I slipped out of bed and knelt below the window. In the distance the water was gray with small whitecaps, and the fer
ry, like a toy, was halfway across.

  The island rose up, almost hidden, but green and lovely. Not my island anymore. Suppose I never saw it again, or Aunt Cora and Gideon? Suppose I never saw Dog? I bit down hard on my lip.

  I heard footsteps going down the stairs. Amber was awake. I found the bathroom and ran warm water over my face and brushed my teeth with my finger. And then I was ready to go downstairs…

  To see my mother.

  On my way down the hall, I heard her humming. It was a good sound, happy. I took a breath and went into the kitchen.

  She turned and smiled. “Good morning.”

  I froze.

  “I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about talking. Cora told me…” Her voice trailed off. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll work it all out.”

  I smiled then.

  She poured orange juice again, and pushed the plate of cookies toward me. “We’ll get cereal later, maybe eggs.” She leaned forward. “You can stay as long as you want; I want you to know that.” She held my wrist. “It’s strange, isn’t it, seeing each other?”

  She knew how I felt, and she was feeling the same way.

  But what I wanted to know most of all I couldn’t ask. Why had she left me? What had I done?

  I pursed my lips and blew just a bit of air through them, almost as if I wanted to whistle. But there was no sound, and she glanced at me quickly before she pulled out a chair and sat down.

  She was crying. “I’d be furious if I had a mother who’d just walked out. I’ve been angry at myself for all these years.”

  I leaned forward. Maybe I’d hear it now. What I’d done. What was wrong with me.

  But she glanced up at the clock. “I have to go to work at the bookstore. I’d ask for the day off, but I did that last week. And I’m late even now. Do you think you’ll be all right? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I nodded.

  Just before she left, she reached up to a shelf and picked up a shell. Long and narrow, it was a swirl of a shell, covered with small brown squares.

  “It’s a junonia. I found it on the island one day.” She put it in my hand. “If you’d like it, it’s yours. Keep it in your room.”

  I put my fingers over the smooth shell, remembering what Ms. Quirk had said. Maybe someday I’ll find one.

  Amber reached for a leather jacket and went out the back door. “You’ll be all right, Jay? The store’s number is on the refrigerator.”

  I waved. Then everything was quiet. At home I would have heard the foghorn, or the ferry nosing into the slip, maybe church bells.

  After I washed and dried the glasses and wiped off the table, I went to investigate: a living room with a couch and two flowered chairs, a dining room with chairs marching around a dark wood table.

  Upstairs, the bedroom doors were open.

  I remembered going into Aunt Cora’s bedroom. Now she knew I’d found the birthday card in her dresser drawer.

  What did she think? That I didn’t care about her, that I wasn’t a jubilee after all? And how would she tell Gideon I was gone?

  What would Mr. Kaufmann say to me?

  I went into the bedroom. A few boxes were piled in the corner; a framed picture of a city street hung on the wall, a little crooked.

  I dragged the boxes into the hall closet and closed the door on them. Then I scraped the bed across the floor so I could look out the window and see the wires that stretched across the back of the houses, and much further, the water, and the smudge of the island.

  I pulled out my book to read about a pioneer girl named Laura, but the words ran into each other, and it was hard to pay attention.

  I stretched and went back down to the kitchen. Maybe I could find something for lunch. Maybe I’d cook dinner. I’d watched Aunt Cora almost every night as she put potatoes on to bake and vegetables on to boil.

  Nothing was in the kitchen cabinets except salt and pepper and a jar of apricot jelly. No wonder Amber was so skinny.

  There was money in my jacket pocket. I stood at the window, watching the street, which was much busier than the ones on the island.

  Ms. Quirk would say, Go for it, Judith.

  And so I went out the front door, making sure it didn’t lock behind me.

  At five o’clock, Amber stood in the kitchen doorway. “I smell bread toasting. I see eggs frying.”

  She swooped toward me, put her arms around my waist, and twirled me around the table. “You’re a genius.” She laughed as we danced around the kitchen.

  She made me laugh too; she made me happy. I put my hands on her arms as we twirled, and as I did, I glanced toward the stove. The eggs were burning.

  I pointed, but for another moment, she wouldn’t let go.

  Then we were apart, both a little out of breath, as I turned the eggs with a spatula. She sat at the table, waiting. “No one has done this for me in years,” she said. “And I certainly couldn’t do it for myself.”

  I put toast and butter on the table, and even the jar of apricot jelly.

  “I’m in heaven,” she said.

  I dumped the eggs on two plates and sat too. I liked the way she ate, the bites she took of the toast, the look on her face. “You made such a great meal.” She hesitated. “Could I ask you…”

  I tilted my head.

  “I’ve called you Jay for so long. It’s because of a bird we saw together when I was still on the island.”

  Jubilee. Red. Judith. Jude. All good names. And now Jay. Why not?

  I almost said it. I formed the words with my lips, but nothing happened. Instead, I nodded.

  She hadn’t seen my cartoons yet. So while we ate, I pulled out a pad and drew a stick figure holding a bird.

  She closed her eyes. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you.”

  We finished the eggs and I brought out a little cake I’d made from a mix. It was high on one side, flat on the other. I’d tried to even it out with lots of chocolate icing that came from a can.

  But it was terrible. I took a forkful, and made myself take another. Then I raised my hands over the cake, and made motions as if I’d toss it, but Amber kept eating, one small bite after another. “It’s delicious,” she said.

  I shook my head. She didn’t have to do that. But she kept eating, until I pulled the plate away from her, grabbed my pad again, and wrote the words EEEK. NOT BIRD FOOD.

  She was laughing again.

  And so was I.

  The next three nights we went to a diner. It was warm inside, the windows steamy. “I wish I knew what you’re doing all day,” she said.

  I smiled. Every day, I’d gone down to the water, a long way from the ferry slip. A cement path lined the edge for as far as I could see.

  I’d walked along that path. The gray-green water was much deeper at the edge than it was at home. Still, I could see shells and fish that were larger than the little ones that darted near our wharf.

  I’d found a tiny library, and in the afternoon, I’d tiptoed back to the children’s section to leaf through books about turtles.

  Now Amber leaned forward. “I wonder what you’re thinking.” Her voice was louder than usual, because a TV blared on the wall overhead, giving the weather.

  A server came toward us. “I’m Ellie, and we have pasta tonight. It’s really good.”

  Ellie had tried some, I could see that. Tomato sauce was smeared across the sleeve and the front of her shirt.

  We both nodded.

  Ellie’s tomato stains reminded me of Mason. He would have loved wandering along the water with me. And Dog would have sat up on the rocks watching. I raised my hand to my chest, feeling that ache.

  “I never stay in one place for long,” Amber said.

  What did that mean? What was she telling me?

  Above us, on the television, was the weather forecast: heavy storms on their way.

  “There are things I have to tell you,” Amber said.

  I sat up and nodded.

  Amber tapped my wris
t. “You want to know what happened to me.”

  I swallowed. Waited.

  “I was seventeen when you were born. You were beautiful. Even then you had red in your hair.”

  Over our heads, the TV blared news about the storm. And the server stopped to talk when she brought our plates to the table.

  But how could I eat?

  Amber spread her hands wide. “I did everything wrong. If you cried, I didn’t know how to comfort you. You began to walk, and then fell. Fell more than once. My fault.” She raised her shoulders. “My own parents had died. Cora and I had only each other.”

  I could see it: Amber, who didn’t know what to do.

  “My friends were still in high school,” she said. “And I was home with a baby doing everything wrong. All I could think of was escaping, going to California, becoming an actress, or at least something exciting, something new.”

  The TV: “A possible hurricane. Massive flooding over the weekend.”

  “And I knew that Cora would be a wonderful mother. All she’d ever wanted was a child to love. A little girl. You.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve always been sorry. But you deserved a better mother.”

  For the first time, I was almost glad I didn’t speak. What could I say? How could I tell her how glad I was that she didn’t think it was my fault?

  We began to eat but put our forks down after a few mouthfuls. I could see she was worn out, and I was too.

  But there was something she had to know. I took out my pad and drew a school. It took up most of the page. I drew children going inside.

  “An apartment house?” she guessed.

  I wrote school on top. Even I knew I couldn’t wander around near the water all day. I had to go back to school.

  I saw the shock on her face. “You see what a flake I am? You see? I never thought of school.”

  I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh.

  “What’s today? Friday. Yes, Friday. The weekend’s coming. And I have to work. But I’ll be off on Monday and we’ll start you off fresh and new.”

  We walked back to Smith Street and went up to our bedrooms early.

  But I didn’t sleep. What had Ms. Quirk said? Something like You have to know a person to appreciate him.