Getting Back to Normal
Getting Back to Normal
By Marilyn Levinson
Copyright 2013 by Marilyn Levinson
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass
and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Marilyn Levinson and Untreed Reads Publishing
And Don’t Bring Jeremy
I’m Getting Married
Getting Back to Normal
Marilyn Levinson
CHAPTER ONE
My room looks naked without my bed, my bear collection, and my rock star posters hanging on the walls. No computer. No books. No sign of me, Vanessa Taylor, who’s lived here all my life.
“It’s not my room anymore,” I say out loud. I often talk to myself when I’m excited or upset or want to make a point. “It isn’t fair to make a girl leave home when she’s barely eleven and a half.”
I look around for my “It Isn’t Fair” notebook so I can add this bit of wisdom, but it’s nowhere in sight. My stomach lurches like a canoe in a storm as I remember. My notebook’s in a carton along with my school books. I’ll just die if it gets lost in the move. I should have carried on last night till Daddy gave in and let me bring my most valuable possessions in the car. Even though he was at his grumpiest when I made the suggestion.
“For God’s sake, Vanessa, the movers will load all the cartons onto the van and bring them to the cottage. Your things can’t get lost in four miles.”
Mom would have understood. She would have convinced Daddy to let me take at least some of my most valuable possessions in the car. I have to blink fast, before tears run their usual course down my cheeks. If Mom were here, we wouldn’t be moving in the first place.
Someone’s laughing downstairs. The movers joke as they carry out our stuff to their van. An unfamiliar sound. A normal sound. No one has laughed in this house for a good long time.
Daddy comes out of Robby’s room. “Vannie, are you ready?” he asks as he heads for the stairs. “They’ve finished loading everything.”
“Coming.”
I peer into my parents’ room. The verticals are closed, leaving the room in near darkness. My parents’ bed is stripped down to the mattress. Daddy stopped sleeping here when Mom went to hospice almost four months ago. He’s taking the bed from the guest room to sleep on at the cottage.
My seven-year-old brother tugs at my arm. “Vannie, who’s going to feed Theodore when we’re gone?”
Theodore’s the half-grown tabby who lives under our bushes. The dumb cat runs at the sight of us but devours every scrap of food Robby leaves him. It’s for sure he doesn’t know his name is Theodore.
I put my arm around Robby. “I’m sure the Petersons will look after him,” I say, keeping my doubts to myself.
“Leave them a note and tell them to feed him.”
“Okay. Did you pack everything?”
“Uh-huh.” Robby makes a face. “But Daddy won’t let me take my desk. Why is he so grumpy all the time?”
“He’s upset. He’ll be better after we move to the cottage. Living here makes him miss Mom too much.”
“Well, I miss Mom and I’m upset we’re moving,” Robby says.
He looks as if he’s about to cry, so I say, “Let’s go write that note. We’ll leave it in the kitchen where they’re sure to see it.”
I’ve hardly set foot in the kitchen since Mom died, except to gulp down orange juice or make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for Robby and me. The room’s twice the size of a normal kitchen because Mom was a caterer.
I open the desk drawer and find a piece of paper and a pencil. I write:
Dear Peterson Family,
Please feed the stray cat that lives out back twice a day. He eats anything.
Thank you,
Vanessa and Robby Taylor
PS His name is Theodore.
I show it to Robby. “How’s that?”
Robby reads it slowly. Then he nods. I place the note on the kitchen table.
“Vanessa, Robby, let’s go,” Daddy shouts from the hallway.
“We’re coming.” I take Robby’s hand.
His little body shakes one big no. “I don’t want to live in that dinky cottage.”
“Me, neither,” I tell him, “but we have to.”
If only things would get back to normal instead of spinning faster and faster out of control.
It’s sunny outside, but crisp around the edges—the kind of Long Island weather you’d expect the first Saturday afternoon in October. Daddy, Robby, and I climb into our car. I sit in front. Robby sits in back, next to the cartons filled with Daddy’s papers. Daddy’s been director of Merrymount Gardens for ten years, so there are plenty of boxes. The van follows us down the street.
When we pass the elementary school, Robby starts to whimper. “How will I get to school every day?”
Daddy sighs. “I told you, I’ll drive you there and back.”
“I won’t be able to walk to school. I won’t be able to play with Kevin.”
“Sure you will. We’ve gone through this at least ten times. You can go home with Kevin whenever you like.”
Robby sniffs. “And stay for dinner?”
“If Carolyn invites you. Now stop whining!”
I bite my lip till it hurts. Now, when Robby and I need him the most, Daddy’s more high-strung than ever. He’s always gotten nervous before big fund-raising events, but Mom used to calm him down. Once I came upon them in the kitchen as she was dusting flour from her hands so she could massage Daddy’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Roger. The banquet will be a success as usual. Just remember to place John Birmingham next to Mayda. He contributes more when he’s sitting next to the person he considers to be local royalty.”
I nearly laughed that anyone would consider Aunt Mayda royalty. Just because her family, the Shipleys, used to own Merrymount Gardens and still did in some technical way.
But it did the trick. Daddy patted Mom’s floury hand. “Good suggestion, Sydelle. And I can count on the food being first rate.”
Mom, who catered most of Merrymount affairs, rolled her eyes and said, “I should certainly hope so.”
I found it nauseating the way Mom flattered and pampered Daddy each time he got uptight. Until she got sick. Then we all needed her reassurance that everything would turn out all right. She gave it to us, too, till she grew too weak for pep talks.
We drive through the prettier part of town. Here the houses are large and spaced far apart. After a while, I only catch glimpses of them through the trees. The terrain rises and the woods are dense on both sides of the road. Finally, we come to the sign announcing Merrymount Gardens. Daddy turns in.
Tall beeches line the driveway. Frances, the nice, middle-aged woman who works at the gatehouse, greets us.
“Hello, Roger, Vannie, and Robby. Welcome to Merrymount Gardens. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Daddy follows the curving road that encircles Merrymount Gardens. MG, as Mom and I always called it, wasn’t named after anyone named Merrymount. Nor are they only gardens. It’s actually a huge estate with greenhouses and woods, a pond, some cottages, stables, and a beautiful manor house called Greystone, which we’re passing right now. At least the mansion is true to its name. It’s made of gray stone and gorgeously elegant. Inside, it’s furnished as it was almost a century ago, when Aunt Mayda’s great-grandparents had it built.
“Too bad we can’t live here,” Robby complains.
“You wouldn’t want to,” Daddy says. “It’s full of ghosts and cobwebs.” He winks at me, but I ignore him.
Robby shakes his head. “That’s not true, is it, Vannie?”
“We can’t live in Greystone,” I tell him. “It’s where they hold all those dinners and events.”
“Aunt Mayda lives here,” he says stubbornly.
“Aunt Mayda lives in the city,” I remind him, “and hates staying over. She says in winter her Greystone suite is as cold as Alaska.”
Daddy drives past the duck-filled pond and stops in front of the cottage. The moving van pulls up behind us.
“We’re here,” he announces, as if we can’t see that for ourselves.
The cottage is made of ugly purple-red bricks. It has a weatherbeaten white door and tiny windows. I follow Daddy inside, wrinkling my nose at the musty, old-house smell. It’s as dark and gloomy as I expect it to be, even after we turn on some lights. In the living room, bulky, mismatched pieces crowd around a tattered rug. I check out the kitchen. The linoleum’s worn clear through to the wooden floor in places. The oven and the refrigerator look relatively new, but the sink is badly stained.
“This place is downright hideous,” I say.
“Yeah,” Robby agrees.
“It just takes some getting used to,” Daddy says. “Think of all the fun you’ll have, living at MG.”
We follow him along a short hall. “There are three bedrooms downstairs. A bit small, I’m afraid.”
“Small?” I shout. “They’re closets!”
Daddy ignores me. He points to the two dungeons across from the bathroom. “I’ll sleep here, and use this room as my office. That leaves this bedroom and the one upstairs. Decide where you want to sleep so we can tell the movers where to put your things.”
Robby races up the steps, ahead of Daddy and me. The room at the head of the stairs is twice the size of the largest bedroom downstairs and chock full of furniture.
“This is my room,” Robby announces.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You may get lonely up here by yourself. And you’ll have to walk down the stairs in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.”
“So what? Daddy can put in a night light. Can’t you, Daddy?”
Daddy looks at me. He realizes he’s made one huge mistake, but he’s afraid to start Robby crying again. “Why don’t we let your sister stay up here? There’s a good table where she can set up her computer.”
“It’s a good table for my action figures,” Robby says. “She doesn’t want this room, do you, Vannie?”
But suddenly I do. Through the forest of furniture, I’ve spotted the row of windows along the far wall. Walking closer, I notice the tree growing outside the cottage and the great view of Greystone in the distance.
“I think you’re better off downstairs,” I say lamely.
Robby sees right through me. “You want this room ’cause it’s bigger and better!”
“Vannie’s older,” Daddy says. “She gets first choice.”
Which is the worst thing he could have said. Robby’s face turns a fiery red. “It’s isn’t fair!” he shouts all the way down the rickety stairs.
Daddy tells the movers where our things belong. I put the kitchen stuff away. Our food supply barely takes up two shelves of the refrigerator, which is spotlessly clean. So are the cupboards and drawers where I put our dishes and silverware and Mom’s large supply of staples that I wasn’t about to leave for the Petersons. When I’m done, I tail behind the movers, who are bringing up my bed.
