Meeting Miss 405 (5 page)

When I show Dad, he props the white paper with my name in beautiful calligraphy on the bookshelf. Then he stands back and looks at it a long time. He picks it up again and looks at it some more. “You did this?”

“Miss Stella is teaching me calligraphy.”

“This is lovely work, Tan. Perhaps you'd like to send it to Mom.”

“I can take it when we go see her. You said we could go when she was settled in at Grandpa's. Four weeks is a long time to get settled.”

He sets the paper back on the shelf and sits in his favorite chair, pulling me down with him. When I am comfortable on his lap, I think that maybe this was
why Mom went to stay with Grandpa instead of staying home where I can take care of her. Maybe being home with Grandpa makes Mom feel as warm and safe as I feel in Dad's arms.

When you feel depressed, I bet it is important to feel safe and warm.

Dad rubs his chin into my head. “Tansy, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You have to listen. Think carefully about what I'm going to tell you before you get mad.”

I try to pull away to look at him, but he holds me close. “Tell me first. I can't make any promises,” I say.

Dad takes a deep breath that I feel all down my back. “I told you that Mom was staying with Grandpa until she felt better,” he says. “But that was not quite true.”

“You lied?”

“Perhaps not quite a lie. But I let you believe something by not telling you the whole truth. Mom is very sick. Depression is like other diseases. To get better you have to have the right treatment.”

“I thought that all she needed was to sit and look at the water and be taken care of by Grandpa.
While we take care of business here. And then she would be better and she could come home.”

“It will take a bit more than that.” Dad rubs my shoulder round and round. “We found a special doctor for Mom's depression. He takes just a few patients for six weeks at a time on a special program. That is where Mom is. At Dr. Graham's clinic.”

“Mom is in the nuthouse?”

“Tansy!”

I haul myself off his lap and stare at him. “Devin and Ryan are right! My mom
is
a nutcase and she
is
at the funny farm!” I'm yelling and crying, and I don't care if the neighbors hear me. “You should have told me. I told everyone she was staying with Grandpa. You made me lie! You said we could go visit her. But she is a
nutcase
! And you never told me! I bet she will never come home now. When were you going to tell me
that
?”

I dash into my room and slam the door behind me.

In movies, people throw themselves on their beds and start crying loudly when everything's gone wrong or someone dies suddenly. I thought that was just make-believe.

But that is just what you do in real life when you find out that your worst enemies are right and that your dad has not been telling the truth. That is what you do when you want things to be like they used to be. Even if you can't remember what that was like. Because your mother has been depressed for so long.

And now she is in the nuthouse. Just like all the other loony tunes.

And she may never come home.

I must have fallen asleep. When I wake up, the room is dim and my face feels fat and hot. My nose is so plugged I think I may suffocate. So I start crying again.

“Tansy? May I come in?”

“Go away!”

“I will go away for a little while if you want me to. But I
will
come back.” Dad's voice is very low and sad.

“Fine then!”

“Are you hungry?”

“No!”

I turn over and listen to his footsteps going down the hall.

I lied. I am hungry. So hungry that it feels like my stomach is meeting in the middle and not liking what it finds.

Have I had supper yet? Maybe it is breakfast time. I try to remember what homework I should have done and if I have done it yet.

I don't even know if it is yesterday or today, or what I have to do for school.

I would know if I was super-concentrated like Miss Stella.

So I decide to lie still and concentrate for a minute before I go to find something to eat.

Just yesterday—or maybe it was today—after Miss Stella explained about being mindful and super-concentrated, we went outside so I could practice by concentrating on the smell of summer coming.

I thought it was a silly idea. But it turned out to be kind of fun.

We sat in our chairs and closed our eyes.

Miss Stella told me to let go of all my other thoughts and just be part of the world around me. That took a while. Trying not to think about stuff makes you think about it harder.

“It's just like everything,” she told me. “It will take practice. But you can start now. What can you smell?”

I wiggled in my seat until I was comfortable. Then I squeezed my eyes so no light came through. “Maybe a barbecue?”

“What else?”

“Can I change my mind? Not a barbecue. A hot dog being barbecued! I know that smell and I can't stand it.”

“Don't bother about whether a smell is good or bad,” she said. “A smell is a smell is a smell. What else?”

“Your cucumber soap from the bathroom. And the new roof next door. And car fumes. There is too much traffic around here.”

“Mmm.”

“And the tomato plants! I never knew they smelled when they are still growing.”

After the smelling moment, we did a listening one. Then a touching one and a seeing one and a tasting one.

This is the list I wrote in my best calligraphy later. Miss Stella told me that when you are being super
concentrated about writing one thing, you should not be thinking about something else. Like what you might have for supper. Or if Dad will be home late. Or what the other person is noticing.

So while I wrote my list, I just concentrated on writing.

Taste

Hot dogs
. I never knew you could taste what you can smell without tasting. If you know what I mean.

Touch

The hard edge of the chair under my legs
.

Sun on my knees
.

Something creepy-crawly running up my arm
. I was going to shake it off, but Miss Stella said if I waited it out and just kept feeling it tickle as it crawled on me, it would stop eventually. And she was right.

Sound

Sirens
. There are always lots of sirens around here.

Crinkly sounds from the breeze in the trees
.

Mr. 101 driving his car into the parking lot. Then his door slamming
.

A ball hitting a baseball bat in the park up the street
.

Seeing

A crow walking all over the carport roof like he owns the place
. Crows are the bossiest birds. But I shouldn't have said that. Miss Stella said being super-concentrated is not about judging. But that can be hard.

The branch of the tree tipping over as an invisible squirrel scampers along it
.

My toes curling over the white railing
.

Miss Stella sitting in her chair next to me with her hands folded on her lap and her eyes closed
.

Her wrinkles
. I saw all of them. Every one. And I noticed they are not ugly at all. They are just wrinkles.

Now as I lie in bed, I try to stop thinking about what happened yesterday and just concentrate on today instead. But it's hard!

I roll over and over until I'm all mummified like the middle of a sausage roll, with just one toe sticking out from under the covers.

Then I tug my arms out and reach under my bed for a scrap of paper and a pencil. And I write a new list:

A little breeze trickling through the window
.

My chest all tight like someone has their hands around it and is squeezing it
.

My ears stretching to hear what Dad is doing
.

The silence Dad makes in the other room
.

The lumpy shadowy look of the clothes on the chair
. I should have put them away. But forget that last part. It was judging. They were just clothes on a chair.

A little twitch in my left foot
.

A huge hole inside me that won't be filled up until Mom comes home
.

Trembly feelings all up and down me that I think is worry about Mom and all the bad things that could happen at home and at school that she needs to be here for
.

A little quiet place inside all the holes and trembles
. Maybe this is the place that knows Dad will take care of what he can take care of. And we can worry about the rest later.

When I am done, part of me wants to get up and find Dad so I can tell him I am sorry I made a fuss before. Even though everything I said is still true and it hurts so much it is just like being pricked all over by hundreds of pins.

But instead I lie still and practice not worrying about later or what comes next. Just being there.

Miss Stella said that sometimes just being there is the best place to be.

I am about to drift off to sleep again when a little knock comes on the door. Then it opens and a glint of light sneaks through.

“Tansy?” says Dad.

“Mmm?”

“Feeling better?”

“A bit.” I sit up and lean back on my pillow.

Dad has a halo around him from the hallway light. “Can I come in now?”

“Okay.”

He sits on my bed. He hands me a plate as he switches on the bedside lamp.

“What kind of cookies are these?” I ask.

“I finally got them at the health food store. They are guaranteed allergy-proof.
Manufactured in a nut-free facility
. It says so on the package.”

I bite into one. “I can take these to school for a snack.” I say with my mouth full.

“Are you ready to talk?” asks Dad. “I think we need to.”

“Okay.” That scary place inside me twitches, but I close my eyes and let it be. I take another bite of the nut-free cookie. “Can you start? I don't know how.”

“Sure.” Dad clears his throat.

Suddenly I get it. He is scared too! But he is grown up, so he is not allowed to act out and be rude to friends and pick fights and sulk and throw himself on the bed in tears like they do in the movies.

I bet the scared place inside Dad is even bigger than mine. As well as worrying that Mom might not get better, he has to take care of me. “Go on, Dad.” I hand him a cookie and watch him nibble it while he thinks.

“I should have told you about Mom and the treatment program right at the beginning. I apologize.”

“I forgive you.” I pull my duvet up to my chest and wrap my arms around myself tight.

“We have to think of it as taking care of Mom the best way we can. It does not matter—not a bit—what your friends think about your mom being sick. Or where she needs to go to get better.” He taps gently on my bundle of bedcovers. “It matters what
you
think. But I am sorry that your friends make you feel bad about it.”

“They are not
my
friends.”

“You said Ryan was one of the ones making fun. You went to preschool with him. Remember? You went to the same parties. Perhaps you are not friends now, but he's been part of your life for quite a few years.”

“He is friends with Devin now.”

“Ah, well. Poor Devin. Think what
he
has to deal with, with his allergies and all. Maybe he is mean to you because making you angry is easier than thinking about how scared he is.”

“Of what?”

Dad takes the plate off the bed and puts it on my bedside cupboard. “Think about it a little, Tansy. I know you can figure it out. Now. We need to get something straight here.”

“Okay.”

“Your mother
will
come home. I don't know when. Not yet. She only has ten days left of the program and is doing well. They have given her different drugs that are helping. When the six weeks is up, she will spend a couple more weeks resting up at Grandpa's. You know how close they are. We will visit her, and perhaps you can even stay for a few days and help Grandpa out. Then when she goes back to the clinic…” he puts one hand on my shoulder, as if he knows what I am going to say, “…it will just be for one day. They will assess her and maybe adjust the medications. And then she will come home. We hope.”