Nothing But Blue (23 page)

 

 

 

 

1

 

I unlatched the wooden gate of the goat pasture and headed to my favorite sitting rock. Petunia waddled over, chewing her cud.

“Ready?” I said, stroking her fur and jingling the bell on her collar. “We're reading a new story today. You'll like it. It's about a girl who falls asleep for one hundred years.” I took the worn copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
from under my arm. It was the same copy I'd had all my life, the one Dad used to read to me at bedtime when I was little. Even though I had just finished seventh grade, I still loved old fairy tales. When Petunia gave birth, I planned to read to her kid, too. By the size of her belly, it looked like, once again, she had more than one in there. Last year Petunia had twins, and I gave them English and history lessons so that by the time we sold them they were the smartest goats in Maine.

Every year we take Petunia to a farm in the next town to breed her with a buck. I used to go along and watch them prance around in what Dad calls their mating ritual. The buck lunges after Petunia, who always skitters away, until finally she lets him climb on her back. The last time I went I felt sorry for Petunia. It didn't look as though she was having much fun. If that's all there is to sex, it's never going to be for me. It's probably unfair to compare goats to humans, but after all, we're animals, too.

This spring I told my father I didn't want to go anymore. He was disappointed. He thinks it's good for my brother, Phil, and me to be educated about nature. But I wanted to give Petunia some privacy. It seemed like the more I knew about that sort of stuff the less I wanted to think about it. Kids in school had already started dating and doing things I didn't want anything to do with. Not to mention that they didn't want anything to do with me, either.

I cleared my throat and began reading. “Sleeping Beauty. By the Brothers Grimm. Read by Phoebe Sharp.” I glanced at Petunia. She continued chewing. “Once upon a time, in a far-off land, there lived a couple who longed for a child.” I managed to finish half the story before Petunia tried eating the pages.

“Hey! None of that. Don't you like it?” I held the book out of reach. “That's it for today, anyway. It's supper-time.” I led Petunia into the barn and scooped some grain into her bin. She ate eagerly and ignored me when I tried to give her a hug.

“See you tomorrow for morning milking,” I said.

I took out my camera, a crappy Instamatic I got at a yard sale last year, and clicked the end of my roll on Petunia. I was marking the progress of her pregnancy. Someday I would have a real camera. A 35 mm with a zoom lens. How could I be a professional without a zoom lens? While I was at it, I would have my own darkroom, too. Instead of piling up rolls and rolls of film waiting to be developed, I could print my own and make artistic changes in light and focus. Watch the image emerge right before my eyes in a deep red glow. The problem was money. Dad works but there's not much extra. I'm pretty good at saving my baby-sitting money, but photo equipment costs a lot, and in our tiny town there's limited baby-sitting to be found.

Most of my photos were of the animals and the farm and always in black and white. I should have lived in the era when photography was new because I love all that old equipment, the old box cameras, which had a black cloth that you hid under in order to take a picture. But for now I had to be satisfied with photography books from the library and my own Instamatic.

On my way down the path I stopped by the stone wall and took a deep breath. Our black lab, Bear, ran up to join me. We stood there, both breathing in with our noses held high. The air smelled of new leaves. I wrapped my arms around myself and watched the misty pink sun begin to drop over the hills. The days were getting longer, and it was lighter later. It was still a little chilly in the evenings, but it was feeling almost like summer. I loved this time of year. It was fresh and untouched, as if anything could happen. It was romantic, like a fairy tale. I sighed and then headed inside with Bear jumping and barking at my heels.

As soon as I walked into the kitchen, Dad hung up the phone. He let out a big sigh. “Well,” he said.

“Well, what?” I asked.

“We'll discuss it after dinner. Now help your brother set the table.”

My dad. He tries his best, but I don't think he's ever recovered from my mother's death, almost eleven years ago. He's not bad looking, especially if he shaved off his beard, but he's hardly ever dated in my entire lifetime. About five years ago, he went out with the school librarian for a couple of dinners. He put on a tie and hired Michael to watch us, but then all of a sudden he stopped calling her. When I asked him about it, all he said was that she wasn't for him and that was that. You'd think he'd want to find someone to keep him company, but the way he's so quiet and stern would probably drive any woman away. I wonder if he was like this when my mom was alive, or if he developed this stiffness after. Before my mom died he was going to go back to school to get his degree in biology, but now he works for our neighbors who run an organic seed farm. It gives him enough time for our farm and allows him to keep an eye on Phil and me, though it's mostly me he's strict with. Phil gets away with murder, probably because he's older and a boy.

Some people might wonder why we don't sell the farm and buy a place in town, but that would devastate my dad almost as much as losing my mother did. I'm just as glad, because it would devastate me, too. I love this farm and wouldn't want to ever live anywhere else. I was born here. I know all the paths through the woods and which rocks they lead to, I've seen the trees grow, and every night the sunset is different. The only thing that would get me to leave is studying photography with one of the masters, like Ansel Adams or that guy who took photos of still lifes of fruit and made them look like landscapes. Too bad they're dead. Like I said, I should have been born in a different era.

All through dinner, Phil went on about Crystal, his newest girlfriend—how cool and pretty she was, how she liked him. Phil is the opposite of me. He's popular. Everyone thinks he's good-looking, he always has a girlfriend, he's smart without being too smart, and no one ever makes fun of him for being arty or too quiet. Phil and I used to play all the time when we were little kids, but ever since he started high school, we've drifted in different directions. Now he was excited about his last year of school while I was dreading eighth grade. I wished I could be almost out for good. Summer was, by far, my favorite season. No school.

I was quiet through dinner. Not unusual for me. When we were done, Phil got ready to excuse himself.

“Just a sec,” Dad said, scratching his beard. “There's something we need to discuss.”

“A family discussion?” Phil groaned. “I told Crystal I'd call her.”

“This involves us all. You can call her after,” Dad said.

“What is it?” I asked, taking a sip of water.

“I got a call from an old friend from college,” Dad said. “A close friend of your mother's.”

Phil stopped fiddling with his fork, and I put my glass down with a
kacbink.
Dad hardly ever mentioned our mother. I was only two when she died of cancer, so I don't remember her at all. She used to be a designer; she made clothes and sets for the theater and stuff, but she gave it up to have kids and raise them on a farm. Phil says he remembers Halloween, when she sewed our costumes by hand. One year he went as a dog and I went as a turtle. She made the shell out of wire and soft fabric.

“This woman was your mom's best friend at NYU. Her name is Gerelyn. She's an actress. She has a daughter.” He paused and we waited for more. “Gerelyn did okay after college. Moved to Los Angeles and got a few bit roles in movies, and she was in some commercials. She made good money. She got commercial jobs for the baby, too.” I had never heard anything about this friend. My mother, and father, too, knew a real actress? Why hadn't he ever mentioned this? “She's living back in New York City now. She's having a hard time.”

“Dad, I'm glad you had friends and all, but Crystal's waiting. Can I go?” Phil asked.

“Just a minute, Phil.” Dad took a breath. “Gerelyn needs some help and is going to check herself into a clinic for a couple of months. She battles with pretty severe depression.”

No one said a word. Everyone gets depressed nowadays, but to go to a clinic for it, that's pretty serious.

“I think she may have attempted suicide,” Dad said, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, geez. That's bad,” Phil said.

“Yes, it is. And it's why we should help her out. She was a good friend to your mother.”

“I don't get how this involves us.” Phil edged back in his seat.

“She lost touch with us after a while. But she turned up for the funeral, toddler in tow.” Dad seemed to be talking more to himself than to us. He rubbed his face with his hands and continued, “Well, the gist of it is, Gerelyn is going to go to a clinic this summer and needs a place for her daughter to stay.”

“Here?” said Phil. “She's going to stay here?”

“Well, it might be a good thing. She's close to Phoebe's age. She could help on the farm, keep you kids company.”

“I've got Crystal to keep me company,” Phil said. “Unless she's cute.”

I shot Phil a look.

“What?” he said. “There's no harm in looking.”

“Whether she's cute or not, it's something I want us to consider. It would be a huge help to Gerelyn, and I'd like to help her.”

“What's the daughter's name?” Phil asked.

“Melita,” Dad said.

Phil burst out laughing. “Like the coffee?”

“I suppose so,” Dad said. “I remember she was an unusual baby. Very striking.”

“Where would she stay?” I asked, fearing the answer. My mind was trying to grasp the idea of someone else being around. I didn't like it. I also didn't like what I thought Dad was going to say.

“She could sleep in the guest room,” he said.

“That's my workroom!” I groaned. It was true. Sort of. I kept my photographs in there and some art supplies in case I ever wanted to do something creative. I hoped someday it would be my darkroom. But I hadn't used it all year. Just clicked my crappy camera and collected rolls of film.

“You can work in your bedroom for a summer, Phoebe. It'll be good for you to have someone your age around,” Dad said. This meant he had already made up his mind. “You need more friends,” he added. Dad is always telling me I need friends. But I disagree. I have the goats. I have
my books. I have my art. But most of all I have my mind, which, as far as I can tell, is more imaginative than any of my fellow classmates' in all of Plattville. Not that there are very many—twenty-two in my entire year. In the fall we would all start at the fancy new consolidated school in Dunham, where kids would be bused in from all over. It was a bigger school, but not necessarily better.

“Let's make this work, kids,” Dad said. “The point is that we'll have another person around for the summer. The poor kid probably needs some stability in her life.” Dad loved taking care of things. That was the whole idea behind living on the farm. He could take care of the animals. But a person was different. “So what do you think?” He lifted his eyebrows in a question that was already answered.

“Why not?” Phil said. “I'll be hanging with Crystal most of the time anyway.”

“Phoebe?”

No!
I wanted to scream.
I have big plans this summer. Of course I don't exactly know what they are yet, but they certainly don't involve some crazy person's kid named after coffee being in the way!
But I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess,” I said.

There went everything. Down the drain.