Nora (9 page)

Patsy sat up.

“Your hand's freezing,” she said crossly.

I opened my mouth to say, Mother came back. She was here.

Instead, I said, “What's the other reason Daddy wants to marry her?”

“It's the middle of the night, Nora. You must be on drugs,” Patsy said.

“I want to know,” I said.

“I told you. He's a gentleman of the old school. He's lonely. She's got him painted into a corner. She expects him to marry her. I could've told you that. Now scram.”

Patsy lay down and promptly began to snore.

There were other questions I wanted to ask. They could wait. I wanted to think about what had happened, go over it in my head. To be absolutely sure.

I got into bed. Pictures played against my eyelids. Only happy ones, no terrible ones of me and my bare behind. We were all together—Mother, Daddy, Patsy, and me. All moving in slow motion and smiling.

I got out of bed and went downstairs again. I turned on the light in the living room. The cushion, the one that had sighed, bore a faint imprint. Of what I did not know. I thought about plumping it up to make it fat and smooth, the way Mother likes them. Then I pulled my hand back. I decided to leave it alone, the way it was.

At the foot of the stairs, I paused. I felt a slight pressure on my arm. And when I turned, which I did reluctantly, and because there was no way in the world that I could not have turned, my heart thudded wildly in my throat.

And there was absolutely no one there.

Sixteen

That was on Saturday. All of that happened on a Saturday.

Next morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. My head hurt and my mouth felt furry and I felt as if I was still blushing from last night. A dull ache in my stomach didn't help. Lucky for Patsy she didn't show up with breakfast on a tray for me again. I probably would've thrown it at her.

After I took a shower and washed my hair, I felt much better. And when I remembered the way the couch cushions had sighed last night, I was so excited and thrilled that the panty hose business seemed to fade away. Almost.

First I wanted to see Baba. There were plenty of things I had to ask her. I planned to tell her about Mother coming back to the house last night. It crossed my mind that, although Baba believed in ghosts per se, she might not believe me when I told her about our mother. She might think I was going cuckoo. I wanted her to listen to me, to understand and to explain, if possible, exactly what had happened. I knew Baba would have some of the answers. Not all. I didn't expect her to have all. Nobody has that many.

I dialed Baba's number. It rang and rang. Maybe she was in the tub. Baba was into long, relaxing hot baths. She poured so much stuff into her tub it was a wonder there was room for her. Bath salts, bath oils, some special powder she bought that was supposed to ease aches and pains.

“Not that I'm old, you understand,” she'd said. “I'm more middle-aged. Middle age goes on until you're about eighty. Then you slide on into senility. I do not plan on ever being senile. Come to think of it, I don't know a whole lot of people who do! However, I will do all I can to remain alert, bright eyed, and indefatigable.”

Knowing Baba was good for my vocabulary. She was always telling Patsy and me to look it up. Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't.

I was about to hang up when Baba answered. Her voice sounded sort of wobbly and strange.

“I won't be going to church with you this morning, I'm afraid,” she said. “I'm not well, not well at all.”

Baba wards off germs with vitamins. She does aerobics and yoga. Once she had the flu, but that's because the flu nails everyone, young and old—it doesn't care who you are.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“Well, I did the stupidest thing,” Baba said. “I tripped and fell over that little rag rug I have in the bathroom. I did something to my wrist. I think it's probably just sprained, not broken. It hurts, though. And it's swollen. I'll wait until tomorrow and if it still bothers me, I'll go to the doctor.”

“Are you hurt?” I said. “I'll get Daddy.”

“No, don't. I'll be all right, Nora. I'll rest today. I've got the papers. They'll keep me busy.”

“What's the trouble?” Daddy said. He'd been listening to my end of the conversation.

“Baba tripped on her little rag rug and did something to her wrist,” I said. “She sounds kind of shook up.”

“Tell her I'm on my way,” Daddy said, patting his pockets for his keys. He always does that. “Tell her to sit tight and I'll be right there.”

“Can I come?” I said.

“If you're ready to go now,” Daddy said. “This minute.”

I left a note for Patsy telling her we'd gone to Baba's. She was in the shower washing her hair, and that usually took her about half an hour.

Baba opened her door as far as the chain lock would allow. She peered out at Daddy and me. Her hair was a mess and she wore the blush-colored robe with her initials on the sleeve we'd given her for her birthday.

It occurred to me I'd never seen her with her hair a mess before. She was usually very careful about her appearance. It made her look younger, somehow.

“Would you like some coffee, Sam?” she asked when she let us in.

“Sit down, darling. I'll get it,” Daddy said. He poured two cups, one for Baba and one for him. He knows I hate coffee.

“Let's see that wrist,” Daddy said.

Reluctantly, Baba held it out for his inspection. “It's only a sprain,” she said. “I can manage fine. It'll go down in a few days. It's nothing.”

“Looks like something to me,” Daddy said. “I think we better go to the emergency room and have it X-rayed.”

Baba pulled a face and said, “Don't make a fuss, Sam. You know how I feel about you making a fuss.”

Daddy insisted and I helped Baba get dressed and we went to the emergency room. Fortunately it wasn't crowded, so they took Baba right away. X-rays showed she'd broken a small bone in her right wrist. A nice young doctor said Baba would have to have a cast. “Only a little cast,” the doctor said, smiling at us. I caught Daddy smiling back. She'd make a very nice stepmother, I thought. A little young for Daddy, but who cares? It'd be cool to have a doctor for a stepmother.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Baba said. “What a to-do! I knew I never should've bought that little rug. This is ridiculous.”

“Do you live alone?” the doctor asked Baba.

“I certainly do,” Baba said. It was a point of pride with her.

“She'll come back with us until she's better,” Daddy announced. “We'll look after her.”

“I can look after myself,” Baba said. She's very stubborn at times.

After she had her cast put on, we went to her condo to pick up some of her things and drove her home with us.

I was glad, and I think Baba was, too, although she wouldn't admit it. I liked the idea of taking care of her. And it would give me a chance to tell her about Mother and hear what she had to say.

Seventeen

“Oh, cool,” Patsy said when she saw Baba's cast. “We'll get all our friends to autograph it.”

“Spare me,” Baba said. “Give me a break, Patsy.”

“You got one—you want another?” Patsy said.

Baba moved into our guest room. The visiting nurse service said it would send someone over a few times a week to give Baba a bath, fix her hair, tie her shoes if necessary.

“I'm not having a perfect stranger give me a bath,” Baba said. “I am not an invalid, am I?”

“Well, yes,” we said. “You are.” Daddy went out and bought Baba an armload of romance novels—Barbara Cartland, Danielle Steele. Barbara Cartland is this ancient person who talks her stories into a machine and has gotten very rich doing so. She is British and related to the royal family and wears nothing but pink.

When I told Roberta about Barbara Cartland, she accused me of making it all up. Would that my imagination were that fertile. I'd talk a few stories into a machine, too, and also make big bucks doing so.

I still had not told Patsy about our mother returning and sitting on the couch and taking my hand in hers. I still had not thought it through. Too much had happened.

The doctor gave Baba some medicine to help her sleep. Her wrist hurt. “If you want anything in the night,” I told her, “just holler.” Maybe I could get Baba alone that way. It'd be just her and me at 3:00
A.M.,
and then I'd tell her about the astonishing event and get her opinion.

Monday morning Patsy and I got up early to fix Baba breakfast and make her comfortable. Daddy was going to his office late. We would all work together to take care of her.

“I have to go to the orthodontist's after school,” Patsy said. “But I'll come straight home from there. I can read you the newspaper, Baba. I will massage your back so you don't get bedsores. You can dictate your thank-you letters to me, Baba. For all the candy and flowers and stuff your friends will send you.”

“Patsy, you are a dear, good child,” Baba said, “but I am not helpless.” Patsy really liked getting into stuff. Having Baba in our home with a broken wrist made Patsy feel sort of like Florence Nightingale, I guess.

Daddy fixed a little table on the left side of Baba's bed and put the telephone on it, along with a box of tissues and Baba's medicine and some water. Baba's friend Bernice would come at lunchtime with something delicious for both of them to eat.

When I got home from school, the house was quiet. I went into Baba's room. She had fallen asleep sitting up with her glasses on. The radio was playing a golden oldie. I took off her glasses carefully so as not to wake her, and she slipped down under the covers without a ripple.

The kitchen was spotless, which always made me nervous. I decided to bake some cookies to louse up the kitchen and cheer myself up. How come I always seem to need cheering up on Mondays? I asked myself. Last Monday, when Chuck Whipple came over, and now this Monday.

And no one was coming over.

I took out the sugar and the flour and set them on the kitchen counter. They looked kind of dopey and expectant, sitting there, waiting for my magic touch. I went into the living room and sat down on the couch that sighed.

You're losing it, kid, I told myself. I carry on quite a fascinating dialogue with myself at times.

A sudden noise at the back door made me jump.

It was Chuck Whipple, still oozing sex appeal all over the doormat, which said GO AWAY in big letters. (My uncle Joe had given that mat to my father last Christmas. They both thought it was very funny. I could take it or leave it.)

My first impulse was to hide. Pretend I wasn't there. But I wanted to test him, see if he showed any signs he'd seen me with my big fat butt hanging out last Saturday night. Maybe he'd tease me about it. I got red just thinking about what I'd do if he mentioned it.

“Oh, hi,” I said. I made myself look right at him.

He wasn't going to say anything. Even if he'd seen what happened, he wouldn't let on. He was too polite.

And he was here, in our kitchen. He must still like me!

I had to laugh. And maybe shout, I was so glad to see Chuck. “Hi,” I said again.

“I thought you always baked cookies on Monday,” Chuck said. I guess he hadn't seen me and my butt. I almost fainted with relief. I'd never noticed that his smile was tipsy, one-sided. Or that he had a dimple on the side he smiled on. How come I'd never noticed that before? It was a very important thing.

“My grandmother's asleep,” I told him. “She broke her wrist, so she's staying with us until she gets better.”

“I'm sorry,” Chuck said. “I'm really sorry.” In a rush, not looking at me, he said, “I'm trying out for the basketball team tomorrow. My mother and father said I should. I probably won't make it.”

“Oh, I hope you do,” I said.

“They think I should make more friends,” Chuck said. “They think if I'm on the basketball team, I'll make friends. But I don't know.” He stared at me and I felt my cheeks burning. “So far, you're my only friend. Well, you and Patsy.”

“Patsy's not here,” I said. “She's at the orthodontist.”

“You always say that,” Chuck said. “She must spend a lot of time there. Is the orthodontist a really good-looking guy or something?”

“Not so's you'd notice,” I said.

“Have you ever moved?”

It was the thing he'd really wanted to talk about all along. I knew that without knowing how I knew.

“No,” I said. “I've always lived here, in this town. It must be tough, moving to a strange place, getting used to everything all over. Like school and kids and teachers. A new house. I imagine it's hard for you.”

I had said the right things. I could see the gloom lift off him and sail into the atmosphere, a great gray balloon that would not be missed.

“Oh, I can handle it,” he said. “It's nothing I can't handle. Not too much of a hassle. It's just that sometimes I don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to get there. You know?”

I did, sort of.

A sudden thought erupted in my head. I would like him to kiss me, I thought. I would like him to
try
to kiss me. I am almost fourteen years old and a boy has never tried to kiss me. When my mother was my age, she had already kissed plenty of boys playing Spin the Bottle. Jane Morris said my mother just grabbed hold of those boys and kissed 'em until she felt like letting go. I would like to do that. I wondered what Chuck Whipple would do if all of a sudden I grabbed him and started kissing him.

Somebody had to make the first move. I walked slowly toward Chuck, who was standing by the kitchen door. I had almost reached him. My head was up and I kept my eyes on his.

“Hey, you guys!” Patsy shouted. “What is this, some kind of a tryst or something?”