Nest (18 page)

I nod. If she asks me one more time, I’ll tell her the whole story, even though it’s private.

Mrs. Mitchell looks like she’s trying to figure something out. She’s staring at me with her head tipped to
the side. “Okay, then,” she finally says. “You’ve made a promise. Come shake my hand.”

Mrs. Mitchell stands up and sticks her hand out. It’s warm and dry, and I want to keep holding it. I want to sit in her lap at her desk. I want to share a bag of potato chips with her and ask
What bird is always out of breath?
and when she says
I give up
, then I want to say
A puffin
and listen to her laugh.

“Okay, Naomi,” Mrs. Mitchell says. “We’ve got a deal. I expect not to see you here again.” She pulls her hand away and smiles at me. “Now get going and get smart.”

Since Mrs. Mitchell didn’t tell me to march, I guess I can walk back however I feel like it. First I take baby steps, and then I take two steps forward, one step back, and by the time I get to the classroom, Miss Gallagher is making her speech about straightening up our work areas and pushing in our chairs and treating our classroom like we would our own homes so that we’ll feel proud when we return in the morning. Everyone is scurrying around, and the room is so noisy with squeaks and thumps and talking that no one pays any attention to me.

When I sit in the bus seat next to Dawn, she says, “Want me to open the window?” and then she pinches the locks and pushes the window down. She turns
around and says to Sally, really excited, “Open your window for Chirp. Pass it on.” Sally passes it on to Tommy, who passes it on to Sean, et cetera, et cetera, and soon the whole bus is filled with the
eeeeee
of everyone shoving down their windows. Mr. Bob, the bus driver, doesn’t say anything; he never does. He just reaches for his blue wool cap on the dashboard and puts it on while the wind whips everybody’s hair around.

“Heck no, we won’t go! Heck no, we won’t go! Yay, Chirp!” Joey yells from the back of the bus.

I know I’m in big trouble, because I got sent to the principal’s office, but I feel happy with everyone’s windows open for me.

“Here, Chirp.” Dawn hands me a whole packet of SweeTARTS.

I should be worried, since Dad will be receiving a phone call from Mrs. Mitchell this evening and he’ll be very disappointed, since he’s proud that both of his daughters have their heads screwed on straight and never have problems at school, but I don’t feel worried. I don’t feel worried, and it’s a great ride home, all tangy-sweet and cold-wind-blowy with so many windows open just for me.

When Dad comes home from work, I’ve already got the spaghetti water boiling and the table set.

“Good job, Chirp,” Dad says. “I appreciate your taking up the slack.” He’s sorting through the mail, which is the first thing he always does when he comes home, after he puts his briefcase in its spot by the front hall closet.

“We all need to pitch in, I guess,” I say. I’m thinking that Mrs. Mitchell won’t call during dinner, and maybe after dinner I can make a really long phone call, so she’ll get a busy signal and eventually give up. The trouble is, I’m not a big phone talker.

I put the spaghetti in the pot and go upstairs to talk to Rachel while Dad changes out of his work clothes.

Rachel’s sitting on her floor, working on a macramé belt for Bruce for Christmas, just in case he decides to give her a Hanukkah present.

“Are you going to call Bruce tonight?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Well, are you going to call Genevieve? Or Evie?”

“What’s wrong, Chirp?” She puts down the belt.

Even though she acts like a jerk sometimes, Rachel usually knows what’s up with me.

“Mrs. Mitchell’s going to call Dad.”

“Mrs. Mitchell? Really? Wow.”

“I needed air, so I opened the window when Miss Gallagher told me not to, and before that I talked back to her, so she sent me to Mrs. Mitchell.”

“I always wondered what it would be like to be sent to the principal. What did she do?” Rachel asks.

“She just talked to me a little and said I had to
promise to be better and that she was going to call Mom and Dad.”

“She didn’t yell?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you know Dad won’t yell, either,” she says.

“I know.”

“He’ll just talk you to death.”

“I know.”

Rachel’s got her forehead all wrinkled up, and she’s nodding just like Dad does. “I’m concerned, Naomi, that this behavior might be an expression of some other upset, such as the fact that your mother is trapped in a nuthouse with an old lemon meringue pie. Do you have anything you’d like to say about this?” she says, and leans in close to me.

“Stop it,” I say, giggling.

“Are you sure that you don’t have feelings you’d like to share?” Rachel’s nose is almost touching mine. She’s talking in a deep voice. She’s trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” I say, giggling harder. She sounds so much like Dad I can’t stand it.

“Uh-huh. That’s interesting.
Yes
. Can you say a bit more about what
yes
means to you?”

I lean forward and rub her nose with my nose and she says
gross
, but I can tell that she likes it, and then she grabs my knee, which tickles like crazy, and I go for her armpits. We’re rolling around on top of all the stuff on her floor, notebooks and pencils
and the macramé belt, and it’s crunchy. I’m cracking up and Rachel’s cracking up and yelling
Stop stop stop
, but she doesn’t mean it and I don’t stop until she finally flops onto her back and takes a fluttery breath and gives me a peace sign.

“Peace,” I say, and flop down next to her. We just lie there. My heart’s beating hard. Rachel smells like coconut.

“Hey,” she says, “I suddenly feel like I have a lot to say on the phone tonight.”

I look over at her. She’s smiling at me.

“Thanks.”

“No sweat.”

The spaghetti I made is overdone, but Dad and Rachel don’t complain. Rachel and I eat super fast so she can get on the phone.

“Whoa,” Dad says. “You girls are hungry!”

“Uh-huh,” we say at the same time.

“Have some more salad,” Dad says, passing the bowl across to us.

We each take some and wolf it down.

“And you’re in luck tonight,” Dad says. “Annie dropped off an apple pie for dessert!”

Rachel races to the cabinet and gets plates.

Normally we’d have a who-can-eat-her-dessert-slower-and-still-have-some-left-while-her-sister-doesn’t
contest, but tonight we both eat up our pie and don’t ask for more.

“May I be excused?” Rachel asks. “I have stuff to do.” She gives me the quickest wink, like just one flap of a butterfly’s wing.

“Actually, honey,” Dad says, “there’s something I want to talk to you two about.” Maybe Mrs. Mitchell already reached him at work and now Dad wants to tell us how upset he is with me. Rachel looks at me and shrugs.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been talking with the people who are caring for Mom,” Dad says. “We’ve made the decision to begin treating Mom with electroconvulsive therapy. Like I told you before, medication hasn’t been working, and this should really help Mom feel better.”

“WHAT?” Rachel yells. She lets her fork fall onto the table.

“Mom is going to begin ECT tomorrow,” Dad says calmly.

Dad’s already explained to me that ECT will only help, not hurt, Mom, but it still creeps me out to think of electricity going into her brain.

Rachel puts her elbows on the table and stands up partway, like maybe she’s going to jump over the dirty dishes and land on Dad and bite his neck like a predator, which is an animal that needs to kill and eat other animals to stay alive.

“You’re going to let them electrocute my mother?” she shrieks.

“Rachel,” Dad says.

“Dad!” Rachel yells.

“You’re overreacting, honey. ECT is a safe and effective treatment for an anxious depression like Mom’s. Mom will be under anesthesia and won’t feel any pain. There can sometimes be some side effects, like a bit of memory loss, but they’re temporary.” He reaches toward Rachel, but she shrinks away like his hand is oozing with a contagious skin rash.

“Overreacting?” Rachel yells. “They’re going to electrocute Mom and you’re trying to tell us it’s a good thing!”

“Given the severity of Mom’s symptoms, it
is
a good thing,” Dad says. “Medication hasn’t helped her. I’m confident Mom will learn to manage her MS. It’s the depression that we’ve got to get under control.”

“Unbelievable!” Rachel smacks the table and the milk in my glass ripples.

“I know that this is a lot for you to absorb,” Dad says, “but you need to trust me that this is a step in the right direction.”

“Do you believe in lobotomies, too?” Rachel asks. “Do you think maybe they should give that a try?”

“What’s a lobotomy?” I ask.

“It’s when they cut out—”

“Rachel!” Dad says. “You are
not
helping here at all. If you can’t be reasonable, we’re going to end this
conversation.” Dad’s lips are clenched together, like he doesn’t trust the words that might tumble out.

Rachel shakes her head. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. They’re going to zap her with electricity. Why won’t you just admit it?”

“I still want to know what a lobotomy is,” I say, but no one’s listening.

“I’m not going to keep discussing this with you, since you seem determined to be impossible,” Dad says. “My point is simply that it’s a safe and effective treatment that should help Mom, not some barbaric torture out of a science fiction movie.” Dad shakes his head, as if he’s trying to loosen up that crazy idea.

“Well, if you care what I think, which you obviously don’t, I think Mom just needs a little more rest and—”

The phone rings.

“She’s
been
resting,” Dad says. “You saw yourself how troubled Mom still is.”

“Well, you could try being a little more patient,” Rachel says. “You tell us patience is a good thing, but it doesn’t seem like
you
have any.” She’s so mad that she’s spitting out each word.

“Rachel,” Dad says, “if you had any idea what I’ve been up against—” I think maybe he’s going to ignore the phone, but he pushes himself up from the table. He’s so mad the muscle in his jaw is twitching. “I’ll be right back.” He stomps to his office.

“Well, I won’t be here!” Rachel yells after him. She stands up. Her face is red. Her chin is quivering.
“Sorry, Chirp,” she mumbles, and runs out the front door. She definitely—
bam
—does not believe in not slamming.

First, I pick up all of the silverware and put it on my plate. Second, I get Dad’s plate and Rachel’s plate and stack them under my plate and carry them to the counter. Third, I clear our glasses. Fourth, I use a damp sponge, not a sopping-wet one, and wipe the table until it’s clean, which means not just smearing the spaghetti sauce around. Fifth, I go to the living room and get the wooden antelope that Dad gave Mom for their first anniversary and put it in the middle of the table as a centerpiece. Mom says that little things make a big difference, and I figure we need a big difference around here.

Dad walks back into the kitchen.

“Oh, Chirp,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry, just tired. He rubs his face. He doesn’t notice the clean table. He doesn’t notice the antelope.

“Dad.” Should I apologize for opening the window in our classroom? Should I be mad at him like Rachel?

“Should I be worried about your sister?” Dad asks in a worn-out voice.

“No. She probably just went to Genevieve’s house.”

“And you? Should I be worried about you, honey?” Dad asks. “That was Mrs. Mitchell.”

“No.”

“Good.” He looks at me like he’s going to ask another
question, but then he just takes a slow, loud breath. “Let’s have some ice cream.”

So I get up and come back to the table with two bowls of Butter Brickle. I bring the Hershey’s Syrup because maybe it will make a big difference. We eat without saying one more word, and when we’re done, Dad gets us seconds and I don’t even have to ask.