Chapter 1
In Paris, art seeps
into your feet and drips from your fingertips. Dark-eyed buskers in berets
squeeze out sweet accordion songs, and the birds trill along. The air tastes
like crème brûlée; the light is
melted butter. Or so I’ve heard. In two weeks, I’ll find out for myself.
I can see it all
now: In the golden mornings, Mum and I will set up matching easels on the banks
of the Seine and paint side-by-side. She’ll be too excited to sleep till noon,
too inspired to stare blankly at the wall. Her sadness will fall away like a
too-heavy coat, and she’ll once again fill canvas after canvas with works of
aching beauty.
We’ll while away the
hot afternoons in the Louvre, communing with the masters. Finally meet some of
her long-lost French relatives. Wear goofy hats and stuff ourselves with
pastries and laugh like we haven’t in ages. Every day will be a chick-flick
montage of joie de vivre.
Or is it joyeux de vivre? Theo would know.
“Theo? Thebes?” I
shake my boyfriend, who snoozes beside me on the couch with his school tie
loosely askew and notebook open in his lap. When he doesn’t react, I stroke his
left forearm. He swats at me with an oar-calloused hand, mutters, “Stalin…
Churchill…Roosevelt.”
He must be in bad
shape if he’s dreaming history notes. “Never mind. Just rest.”
I’m not exactly the
most diligent study buddy either. It’s hard to focus when I’m two finals from
freedom. Two finals till I can shop for my France wardrobe, till I can dedicate
maximum brain space to merci, s’il vous
plaît, and three thousand other phrases that will keep me from looking like
a lazy américaine.
I pull out my
highlighter and mark my top three café picks near Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, Summer 2009, just published in
March. I wonder if these places serve iced decaf lattes. Or is iced coffee a
gauche American concoction? Yet another thing to ask Theo.
His
sleeping face pinches. I reach to touch his cheek, then stop. Facing finals
right after two weekend crew regattas in a row has already made him totally
stressed and exhausted. I’m probably stressing him more by talking nonstop
about my trip. For him, it means five long weeks apart. We’ll Skype every day
and muddle through somehow. The painful separation will be totally worth it
when Paris works its magic and Mum’s back to normal.
The kitchen phone
jangles and I guiltily stuff my Paris guidebook under a couch cushion. Theo
stirs, but doesn’t shift enough to free my hair from under his sleep-heavy
head.
Why isn’t Mum
answering? Is she napping again?
With a swift tug, I
free my hair. The hefty textbook I’m supposed to be studying slides off my lap
and thuds to the floor. I sprint to the kitchen, reaching the phone on the
tenth ring.
“Mrs. Deane? Mrs.
Grace Tilman Deane?” A woman asks.
“Just a sec. I’ll
get her.”
I carry the handset
through the apartment to the spare bedroom we use as a studio and gingerly
knock on the door. No answer. Is Mum hiding or deep in another epic zone-out?
Since she left her stressful Madison Avenue advertising job for art school,
thanks to a foundation started in my late father’s memory, Mum should be having
the time of her life. Art was the passion she couldn’t pursue when she was
young for a lot of stupid reasons. But now that she’s actually living her lost
dream, paint seems to dry on her palettes more than her canvases.
I press my ear to
the door and hear only the low hum of the air conditioning. When I peek inside,
our husky-mix Rhys raises his head, perks his ears, gives a fangy yawn. On the
easel above him sits a white canvas with a single red stripe down the center.
Beside the easel is an empty stool. What the heck? Did she go back to bed?
I stare at the phone
a moment. Chances are it’s just some stupid survey or courtesy call. Nothing
worth waking Mum for.
I clear my throat
and mimic Mum’s smoky alto. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Deane? This is
Nurse Lowman from North Penn Health System. In Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania? It’s
about your father. Daniel Tilman?”
Good Lord, now what?
Poppa hasn’t gone berserk on another doctor, has he? You’d think the time he
got hauled off by security would have shamed him into changing his ways. Mum
should let them press charges this time. Poppa might finally get a clue about
how big a jerk he is.
I
deliver the standard Mum line: “My apologies. How can I assist?”
“There’s been an
accident, Mrs. Deane. Your father…his condition is needing surgery and we have
to get your approval to proceed.”
My guts drop seven
stories. I wouldn’t be surprised to find them out on Columbus,
pancake-flattened and dimpled with taxi tire marks. “Poppa’s had an accident?”
I squeak.
“This isn’t Mrs.
Deane, is it?” Her tone is so cold, my wet tongue would stick to it.
“Sorry,
it’s…Danielle, the daughter, I mean Mr. Tilman’s granddaughter. I’m sorry about
pretending to be my mother. I thought you were a telemarketer and Mum’s not
feeling well. Since I’m family, too, it wouldn’t be against HIPAA regulations
for you to tell me what happened, and I can let her know, right?”
“I’m
afraid not, Danielle. I have to speak to your actual mother.”
Crap. It must be
bad. Really bad.
“Um, okay. I’ll, ah,
go find her.” I cover the mouthpiece and head to the master bedroom.
In the phone, I can
distantly hear the nurse crack up and tell her medical cronies, “Get a load of
this: I’ve got some kid from New York on the phone who knows about HIPAA
regulations! City kids! Gawd. She’s probably been playing the stock market
since kindergarten.”
I’d love to give
this bumpkin nurse chick a piece of my mind. Tell her that the adult world
finds some of us young and makes us grow up fast, whether we’re ready or not.
But I don’t say
this, because my persistent knocks are getting no response from Mum at all. As
I step into her dark bedroom, I’m surprised by a strange, sour smell. I pat her
bed, expecting to feel the warm hump of a leg. Instead, I touch something thick
and sticky. Blood? I bring my hand to my nose. Ugh. Spoiled milk.
I switch on the
bedside lamp and find a toppled Stonyfield ice
cream tub that’s left a gooey puddle on her silk bedspread. Okay, it’s organic,
but still. The woman’s a gym addict. Grabbing a tissue to clean the goo off my
fingers, I see a worse sign: Mum’s cell phone is on the dresser. But Mum is
gone.
I take a deep
breath, then uncover the mouthpiece of the phone. “Um…” I tell the nurse, “I
think we might need to call you back.”
* * *
Seeing the empty key
hook by the front door sucks the air right out of me. Dear God, no. I crush the
paper scrap with the hospital’s number in a trembling fist. For all I know,
Poppa will be dead in minutes if they don’t operate. But without Mum’s
approval, they legally can’t.
I cannot believe Mum
left Theo and me alone in the apartment. She usually checks on us every ten
minutes like clockwork, bugging us with questions or roping Theo into chores
like opening jars or pulling things off high shelves. It’s like she has this
bizarre fear that we’re going to rip each other’s clothes off at any moment and
make me the next teen pregnancy statistic.
Well, she can’t have
gone far — probably just to the little market on Columbus to pick up dinner
ingredients. Surely she’ll be back any minute. I should call the front desk and
ask the doorman if he saw her go out. Theo could hold down the fort while I
look for her.
Gosh, I can just
picture her standing in line at Rico’s, looking for all the world like a
bohemian free spirit in her snug t-shirt, paint-spattered jeans, strappy
sandals, gobs of gypsy jewelry, hair in long, loose layers. She’ll glance up
from her basket of Thai basil and coconut milk, see my face and just know. Know
that I’m about to hurl a bomb at her. Know that trouble’s found her yet again,
like it always does.
How can I tell her?
How? It’s only been a year and a half since Dad’s car crash and the month of
ICU agony before he was snatched from us. How can she possibly cope with Poppa
right now? He’s as fatherly to her as a lion is to a gazelle.
I just wish I could
make this all go away.
I look at the
hospital number in my hand again, and my mouth goes as dry as a day-old
croissant. What if Poppa and his car—? There’s no ice on the roads, but a couch
could tumble off a truck, or a rogue deer leap out of the woods and straight
through his windshield. Poppa could have massive bleeding on the brain right
now — pressure building like floodwaters behind a levee, flattening everything.
Cells, synapses, ganglion crushed, dying, dead. I’ve seen it before.
My grand Paris dream
starts to pull away, a face in a taxi window. Off toward Midtown. Off to find a
more worthy recipient.
Who can help me stop
this taxi from driving away with my dream?
A homeless drug
addict steps in front of the taxi in my mind and it stops. The coked-up guy
stands there, fists on hips, chin jutted out, dark eyes flashing, as if daring
the driver to flatten him in his frayed cords and Nietzsche T-shirt. Uncle David?
He winks at me, then
in a blink transforms from his old stoner self into the bald, flannel-shirted
craftsman I now know and love. Of course. If there’s anyone who can help me
sort out what to do about Poppa, it’s Mum’s younger brother, the prodigal son.
I carry the phone to
my bedroom, hit four on speed dial.
Chapter 2
“Ah-yup,” Uncle
David says, another weird Maine expression that’s crept into his speech. A
table saw whines in the background. The tone changes as the blade tastes wood,
gearing up to a horrific shriek like someone being tortured. A woman with
serious lung capacity. A shot-putter. One of those beefy opera singers.
I close my bedroom
door, shout, “Hey! It’s Dani. Could you go to your office maybe?”
“Hey niece o’mine,
what’d ya say? Keegan’s ripping boards and I can’t hear squat. I better go to
my office.” He shouts something to his assistant and gradually the heinous
squealing fades. “A’right. Office. Shoot.”
“I need your help
right away. Some hospital called saying Poppa’s been in an accident and they
want to operate immediately and they need approval from Mum, but she’s not here
and I don’t know where she went or exactly how long she’ll be gone or anything,
and the nurse lady who called wouldn’t give me any details at all but it must be
pretty bad if they have to operate. I’m seriously freaking out. Could you
please, please, please call the hospital and see if you can find out what the
heck is going on and give them the okay to operate?”
“Whoa. Accident?
What kind of accident? Car accident?”
Images
of crumpled fenders, broken glass, thick smoke, and charred car remains click
through my mind in rapid succession. Not
again, Lord. Please, not again. I wobble, sink onto my bed. “I—. I don’t know,” I choke.
“Sorry, I’m just in
shock. I mean, after your dad…” he gives a low whistle. “Gracie’s been through
this kind of hell one too many times. Give me that number. I’ll see what I can
do.”
“Thanks,” I wipe my
eyes and give him the nurse’s name and number. “What should I do now? Mum could
be back any time. She’s gonna just curl up and die when she finds out.”
“Well…” he drawls,
“I reckon there might be, you know, divine providence in her missing that call.
It’s about time I had a go at being the responsible kid. Don’t you worry, and
don’t say nothing. Got it?”
“You want me to lie
to Mum?”
“I’d like to spare
Sis some grief for a change, so let’s keep this between us for now. No
guarantees it’ll work, but it’s worth a shot. Go back to what you were doing
and just be normal.”
I snort. “This
should be good. I’ve got two finals tomorrow.”
“I’m real sorry,
Dani. Go study and try not to worry too much. God’s watching over you and
Gracie. He won’t let you be tested beyond what you can bear, as the Good Book
says.”
* * *
Just be normal, Uncle David said. Right.
I’ve got exams, a dying grandparent, a missing mother. My dream summer hanging
in the balance. Well, not so much a dream as a nightmare-chaser. An antidote to
the poison that’s been building inside of Mum.
I plod back to the
living room. My throat aches even more when I see Theo’s face tipped onto a
couch cushion, muscles slack in peaceful sleep. If Mum and I don’t get to
Paris, then what? Mum becomes even more sad, more sick? Breaks down? Goes to
the hospital and I go where? To freaking Maine with Uncle David? I’d rather
sleep on park benches.
I kneel at Theo’s
feet and shovel papers back into my history binder. My face’s reflection in his
polished school shoes is stretched like a limp, useless noodle.
How could Uncle
David say we’re not being tested beyond what we can bear? Jeez. Mum and I are
still trying to recover from losing Dad. Do we never get to settle into normal?
Real normal, not pretend normal. Not resigned normal.
Church
words flood my mind and push back the rising tide of self-pity. What Uncle
David said is only half-true. Part of the story. There’s more to that passage —
a promise: “When you are tested, he will provide a way out, so that you can
bear up under it.”
Right. There is a way out. My uncle will handle this.
He’ll get Poppa the care he needs and everything will be fine. Mum can stay at
a safe distance and just…send him a get well card. We’ll head to Paris as
planned and leave our worries behind.
I pile my binder and
textbook on the far end of the couch, untuck my shirt again, twist my pleated
skirt askew, and sink into the cushions beside my boyfriend. Theo registers my
return by dropping his head back on my shoulder and draping his warm arm across
me.
I
pull History: Modern to Contemporary
onto my lap and pretend to be engrossed in the Soviet takeover of Eastern
Europe, the Iron Curtain falling, the Cold War blowing in. But I can’t stop my
hands from trembling as I turn the pages. I practice French phrases in my head,
but quelle heure est-il? sounds vaguely
like “kill or steal” and I picture Parisian police descending on me for asking
the time. I open my mental sketch book and let strokes flow over the whiteness,
but the virtual charcoal stick crumbles in my inner grasp.
All right, God, I want to trust you here, but
what the heck are you doing? How will Mum ever believe you aren’t out to get
her? She needs to be healed, not drawn into Poppa’s world and his hateful
words: she’s “uppity,” “useless,” “a waste of space” with “no use for a soul.” I know you expect me to be still, Lord, and
believe you’re going to fix this. Can’t you give me something to hold onto
before I tear out my own hair?
Theo grunts in his
sleep, nuzzles against my collarbone, his whiskers scritching across cotton. I
rest my cheek on the back of his head and breathe in the familiar scent of his
scalp, his musky vanilla cologne. My anxious mind stops flailing and I sink
into memories of our last rooftop picnic.
We
nestled on a tattered afghan, my spine curled against Theo’s chest, blanketed
from the chilly spring air by his toasty arms. The sun sank behind the
buildings and distant windows lit up, one by one. In awed silence we sat,
listening to whirring HVAC units and the distant hum and honk of traffic below.
I could not imagine a more perfect peace than this.
But
soon the roof access door banged open. Mum appeared in her paint-spattered
smock, bringing us a bag of Chinese takeout. Theo jumped to his feet to make
space for her on the blanket, but she backed away, shaking her head. She stared
at the sparkling Manhattan skyline for a moment and her shoulders sagged under
some invisible weight. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared down
the stairs.
In
her overworked fog — or whatever was making her so droopy — Mum had forgotten
to send up normal silverware. So Theo and I cracked apart the cheap chopsticks
from the bottom of the bag and fed each other sloppy clumps of Chinese chicken
and shrimp. Between bites, we talked about the years to come — him studying
psychology, me, art. Living with our families and commuting to college here in
the city to save money.
“I’ll save as much
of my inheritance as I can,” I said, “so we can get a place of our own.”
Theo prodded his Lo-mein,
his ears turning pink. “I take it you plan a wedding in there somewhere,” he
said, more to the noodles than to me. “Shacking up doesn’t seem your style.”
“Yours either.”
“I think my family
would be more supportive of that than me getting married at twenty.”
I swallowed hard.
“That’s just two years from now. You think….”
“Can we pull it off?
I don’t know, Dee. We’re just daydreaming here, right?”
Were we? It felt so
tantalizingly possible. I could picture us brushing our teeth at a dinky
apartment sink, barefoot and sleep rumpled.
“We’d have my trust
fund and I could learn Web design. Mum has tons of business contacts — plenty
to keep us fed and housed while you do med school and then your psychiatry
residency.”
“Web design? Uh-uh.
These hands?” He grasped my wrists and lifted my palms to eye level.
“They’re
meant to make masterpieces, not code HTML.”
“I can still draw
and paint on the side. Heck, I’d rather be a janitor and be with you, than have
gallery shows without you.”
“I don’t deserve
you.” He pulled me close and kissed me. Soy sauce and spice.
WOOF! WO-WOOF! WOOF!
Rhys’s barking snaps
me out of my reverie. As he nudges open the studio and bolts for the front
door, my heart becomes a thumping drum again. It’s Mum. She’s back.
I get my nose out of
Theo’s sweet-smelling hair and rivet my attention on the textbook in my lap.
Theo rolls away from me, onto his other side, but he doesn’t wake.
Here goes. Act One
of Just Be Normal. Places everyone.
Aaand, action!
Mum shuffles in,
sorting a pile of mail, while Rhys runs circles around her. Instead of her
usual strappy sandals, she’s wearing ratty slippers, the once-white chenille
now gray and frayed. Her hair is tangled and there’s a coffee ring on the leg
of her jeans. Yikes.
“Hey.” Her voice is
limp and breathy. “How’s the studying going?”
“Great. Super
stimulating. Right, Theo?”
Mum thumbs through a
magazine and absently pats Rhys’s head. She still hasn’t noticed snooze boy.
“Yeah,
definitely,” I say in a pitiful imitation of Theo’s bass voice. “Once we
dropped some acid, the ’60s came alive for us.”
“What?” Mum’s gaze
drifts up and she takes in the scene. “He’s asleep again?”
“Of course. He’s
used to crew practice at dawn. When four p.m. comes, he’s out. I swear you
could set clocks by it.”
“Another early
bird.” Mum’s chin puckers beneath her downturned mouth — her missing Dad
expression. He woke at six every day, annoyingly chipper.
Her eyes roam. I
turn to see what’s caught her attention. On the wall behind me is a snapshot
from my parents’ engagement day, shot by a Japanese tourist Dad pressed into
service, so the story goes. Dad’s on one knee at Mum’s feet in a grassy spot
among English castle ruins. She cradles his face in her hands as if it were
pure gold.
Gold turned to dust.
Don’t go there.
Don’t let Mum go there, either.
“I
suppose you told Sleeping Beauty where you went?” I say.
“He
said you were in the bathroom, and I thought I’d be right back. But the condo
association president cornered me in the mailroom. What an exhausting motor
mouth. I could use a nap.”
Another nap? No, no,
no. Come on, brain. Think upbeat. Think perky.
“So!” I chirp, “What
came in the mail? Anything good?”
Mum flips through
the pile again. She frowns and waves a lime-green postcard at me — an RSVP card
for my seventeenth birthday bash, held weeks ago. “This came from Poppa Tilman.
I don’t know why he bothered after all this time.”
All the blood in my
head drops to my toes. If I weren’t already sitting, I’d swoon. Why did that
have to come today, of all days?
I stuff my shaking
hands under my thighs. “M-maybe it, uh, got lost in the mail.”
“I don’t think so.
There’s a note on the back: ‘Sorry I missed your party, pumpkin. I’m not coping
well with paper at the moment. Those infernal women your mother keeps sending
can’t work with my system or stay out of my business. But don’t worry your
pretty head none. I ordered something special that’s due to ship any day now.’
I should have known his silence about the invitation wasn’t something so simple
as rudeness.”
“You think he fired another maid?”
“Obviously.
Not that he’d bother telling me about it. In my memory, Pop’s jealously guarded
system is to keep every last thing and make piles to the ceiling. I’m surprised
the contents of his house haven’t spontaneously combusted, they’re packed in so
tight.”
The cordless phone
rings from the far end table, just out of reach. Mum picks it up and checks the
caller ID. “Ah, it’s David. I’ll take this in the studio. Why don’t you ask
Theo to stay for dinner? I’m sure he’ll perk up with a little food.”
I say “okay” to
Mum’s departing back and reach to Rhys for comfort. Stroking his fluffy neck
slows my galloping heart. “Oh, Rhysie, I hope Uncle David’s just making small
talk and he’ll ask for me soon, that he won’t tell her anything. For now, I
guess we need to play normal. Lay down, boy.” He settles at my feet with a grunt
of protest.
I reach for Theo’s
shoulder and give him a little shake. Then a harder one. “Thebes?”
He
lifts his heavy head off of me. His hazel eyes flutter open, more gold than
green in the afternoon light. He groans. “Oh, Dani, I did it again, didn’t I?
Jeez, I’m sorry. I’m just so tired all the time. Maybe I need to start drinking
coffee like you do.”
I smile. “It would
stunt your growth.”
“Little late for
that, don’t you think?” He leans back, stretching, and his firm stomach peeks
between his shirt hem and the waistband of his khakis. I look away and sit on
my hands again before my hormones get the better of me.
“Mum wants to know
if you can stay for supper.”
“Yeah?” he says,
poking me in the ribs. “What about you?” Poke. “Do you want me?” Poke, poke,
poke. “To stay?”
“Not if you’re gonna
be a bully.”
“Moi?” He strikes a Miss Piggy pose.
“Non, ta jument méchante, qui ronfle comme un
os endormi.”
Theo roars with
laughter. “My evil what? Mare? Who snores like a sleepy bone?”
“I meant twin.
Ju-something…else.”
“Ah.
Jumeau méchant. Evil twin. And I do
not snore. Especially not like a bone.”
I roll my eyes.
“Bear. I wanted to say bear.”
“Ours, not os. Bien? Dis-le et répète, Danielle.”
You say it. Repeat.
Oh, brother.
I tip my head side
to side as I chant, “Ours, ours, ours,
ours, ours. Happy?”
“Come on, babe,
cheer up. Your grammar’s quite good. You used the feminine adjective with jument, which was great, even if it
wasn’t the noun you wanted.”
“I’m never gonna get
this. Parisians will bludgeon me with baguettes for crimes against the mother
tongue.”
“You are getting it.
You’re brave enough to try making jokes in another language, which is pretty
complicated. Honestly, you’ve picked up in six months what it took me three
years to learn. Of course, I didn’t have a patient instructor completely
dedicated to my success.”
“Come on, Thebes.
You’ve got to be bored out of your mind teaching a dunce like me.”
“You are way too
hard on yourself. So you made a mistake. Big deal. Who doesn’t? Heck, I’m
learning here, too. Remember the flashcard fiasco?”
“I’d rather not.”
Theo pounding the wall, purple-faced; me hunkered in a distant corner, utterly
stunned by his rare flare of temper — not a scene I care to replay. Ever.
“Well, me neither.
That was totally my bad. But I learned from it, right? I’ve had quite the
adventure developing my cutting-edge teaching techniques.”
I snort.
“Yeah? You doubt me?
I’m deeply insulted.”
“What’s so cutting
edge about, ‘Dis-le et répète’?”
“How do you think
you learned to draw? Practice. Years of filling sketch pads until your
scribbles became art. Anyone who thinks they can get some new skill without
practice is an idiot. So once we get through finals, we will répèter, en français every day, until
you go. Très bien?”
Mum strides into the
living room clenching the phone. I can almost smell the fury pulsing out of her
like fumes from a hot engine.
Pas bien. Mal. Très, très mal.
“There’s been a
change of plans,” she says.
========
For more information and buy links, visit my Books page.
Annie Douglass Lima spent most of her childhood in Kenya and
later graduated from Biola University in Southern California. She and her
husband Floyd currently live in Taiwan, where she teaches fifth grade at
Morrison Academy. She has been writing poetry, short stories, and novels since
her childhood, and to date has published twelve books (two YA action and
adventure novels, four fantasies, a puppet script, and five anthologies of her
students’ poetry). Besides writing, her hobbies include reading (especially
fantasy and science fiction), scrapbooking, and international travel.
