Operation Oleander (9780547534213) (6 page)

“How long?” I ask her.

“I don't know. I'm planning for two weeks. It could be longer.”

“Why don't I go with you?” I could help out. Stay with Dad while she gets some sleep.

Mom tries on a pair of loafers, then pitches them back into the closet.

“I could help,” I repeat.

She stuffs a pair of sandals into a liner pocket of the suitcase. “I need you to stay here.”

She had heard me.

“With Cara,” she says. “She needs you here. I need you here. You're the big sister.”

“But—”

Mom reaches over and puts her hand on mine. “I'm counting on you. Just like your dad is.”

I nod.

“Jess, you take notes. I'll get the last things out of the cabinet.” She disappears into the bathroom. The cabinet door creaks open again. “Okay. One, you have to watch Cara every time you go to the pool with her. You know she isn't afraid of anything. I warned Libby, but you need to keep an eye out.”

She wants me to write that down?

“But, Mom—”

“Two. No chocolate for Cara. She gets sick.”

And cranky. “I know.”

“Are you writing this down?”

I scrawl out the directions so far. “Yes.”

“The bills. I think they're paid up. But I need you to look for them. Get the mail every day and open anything that looks official. If anything is due soon, let Mrs. Johnson know. We'll figure out what to do if I'm not back soon enough.”

“It's okay, Mom. I'm sure the army will help.”

“They don't pay the bills, Jess.” Mom throws a few more things into the suitcase and rips the zipper closed. “Heaven knows they don't do that.” She lifts the bag upright onto the floor.

“I want you to keep up your routine, Jess. Go to the beach. Go to the pool. Get ready for camp.” But nothing's routine, I want to tell her. I do those things with Meriwether.

I open my mouth to say something, but Mom's still talking.

“Chores, too. You do your own laundry. Help Mrs. Johnson with the housework.”

I hold the pencil in midair. “Mrs. Johnson?”

Mom makes a funny look with her mouth.

“I asked Libby to stay with you while I'm gone.”

My mouth drops open. “But why does she have to stay here?”

I don't want her hovering over me. She already feels too much at home here. What will she do next? Sleep in my parents' bedroom?

“Come on, Jess. You can't stay here alone with Cara.”

“I—” Before I can say anything else, Cara bursts into the room and jumps onto Mom's bed. Into the things she's set aside to go into her carry-on.

“Cara!” I wrestle her off the bed, and her face goes pink, then red. Big tears loom on the edges of her lashes.

“There you are.” Mrs. Johnson stands at the bedroom door. “I know a little princess who wants a treat.” She holds a package of Popsicles in her hands.

Cara stops pouting and slips off the bed, running after Mrs. Johnson, who heads back to the kitchen, where she makes sandwiches.

Just after the lunch that no one eats, a horn honks outside.

The cab's here.

Mom rolls the bag into the living room. “I want to check my purse first. Passport, boarding pass. Wallet.” The military support unit had arranged Mom's flights. “I'm going to tell Cara.”

While Mom's in the kitchen, I run into my bedroom and dig for the envelope containing the letter I wrote to her in Ms. Rivera's class before deployment. The one I hadn't given her. Because it seemed so silly then to write a letter to someone who wasn't going anywhere, not like Dad. I'd told her how much I missed Dad's whistling reveille. How Dad had told me he bought her perfume he spent half a day's pay on when they were just married. I grab a chocolate bar, too, from my drawer that's too high for Cara to reach. I slip them both into Mom's carry-on just as she's heading for the door.

“They don't have American chocolate over there.” I make an excuse for why I'm slipping something into her bag.

“Of course they do,” Mrs. Johnson says. “You can even get Hershey's. Though who wants milk chocolate when you can get the best dark chocolate in the world?”

Mom's holding Cara in her arms.

“It's okay. Jess knows I prefer milk chocolate.” Mom winks at me, and I hug her hard, my arms around both her and Cara.

Mom nods at Mrs. Johnson and passes Cara to her without making a big production. Cara hasn't figured it all out yet. I see the tears in Mom's eyes, though, as she leaves.

The rollaway bag clatters over the seams in the driveway as Mom makes her way toward the waiting cab and climbs in.

I watch the car until it turns at the end of the street and disappears.

Only then do I notice Mom's gardenia blooming white by the steps, the blossoms like ghosts. The sweet scent too strong to bear.

A
FTER MOM
leaves, we wander around like we're in a stranger's house. Eventually, we gather in the kitchen, even Mrs. Johnson. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because that was where we heard the official news. When we'd all been together.

I wash out the coffee cups from earlier. Mom's, Mrs. Johnson's, and Mrs. Butler's. I scrub the counter, too, where the cups have left faint brown rings. I bear down hard with the sponge.

“I'm just going over to grab a few things from my house,” Mrs. Johnson says. “I'll be right back. Keep an eye on Cara.”

I squint at her. Does she think I need her to tell me to take care of Cara? I've been taking care of Cara since she was just a baby. No one except Mom and Dad has ever been as careful about Cara as I am.

Cara nibbles peanut butter cookies at the kitchen table. Mrs. Johnson told her she could have two before dinner. She eats both of them around the edge like a bunny chewing a carrot, making them last as long as possible. If Mom were here, she'd tell Cara to cut it out and eat them like a little girl should. But I don't say anything. I let her eat them the way she wants.

The door to the carport clicks shut behind Mrs. Johnson. I dry the cups and put them away. I take in a deep breath and let it out. I count to ten, to make sure she's gone. Then I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and dial Meriwether's number on the phone.

The spaces between the rings stretch out longer than usual. Four rings, and still no answer. The machine message comes on. Will Meriwether pick up as soon as I say my name?

The answering-machine voice comes over the phone. It's Meriwether's mother's voice asking the caller to leave a message and a number at the tone. I almost drop the receiver. When the machine beeps, for a moment nothing comes out of my mouth. Then, in a rush, “Meriwether, it's me, Jess. I'm so sorry. Please call me.”

I hang up.

The door to the carport opens.

Mrs. Johnson pushes inside. Her carpetbag purse bounces against her rib cage, and she hauls a box of frozen pizza.

Mrs. Johnson speaks to Cara in a tempting voice like a villainess in a Disney movie. “Piz-za!”

Cara grins. “Pizza!” Peanut butter cookie crumbs rim her mouth.

Traitor.
Somehow Mrs. Johnson knows the only food group Cara likes besides Popsicles and cookies is pizza.

“Put the oven on, Jess. Four hundred fifty degrees.” I turn back to the stove and jerk the dial over to the right setting. Mom's not even been gone an hour, and it feels like forever.

When will Meriwether call me back?

 

The telephone rings, and my feet hit the bedroom floor. Pale light glows around the blinds. Not as bright as yesterday. I run for the phone in the living room and catch it before it rings a second time.

I squint at the clock. Seven in the morning.

“Mom?”

“Jess?”

“Hi, Mom,” I say. Her voice sounds slow, but maybe she's tired. Or maybe it's just the long-distance satellite phone distorting her voice. I press my hand over my other ear to hear her better. “How's Dad?”

There's a delay in the line. My voice echoes across the miles, as if each syllable has to cross the Atlantic Ocean separately.

Mrs. Johnson staggers into the room—she
is
sleeping in my parents' bed—her hair unbrushed. Her eyebrows form questions I want to ignore, but I nod before I look away.

“It's hard to hear you,” Mom says. “I saw your dad for a few minutes when I got in. He's still unconscious, though. He hasn't been awake since the attacks.”

Dad doesn't know he's in Germany; he doesn't know they flew him from Afghanistan on a medevac plane. Maybe he doesn't even know that Meriwether's mother and Private Davis are dead. I blink and wonder whether inside his head he's trapped in a whiteout that blots out everything.

“Why can't they wake him up?” I wind the cord in my hand.

“They're keeping him sedated. On purpose. He's going back into surgery today.”

“For what?”

“Some shrapnel in his left eye. They're concerned about both of his eyes. He has a concussion, too. And neck injuries. Because of where he was standing, most of his injuries are upper body. Is Libby there?”

“Yes,” I say, but I don't let go of the phone. “When will they know something?”

“I don't know, Jess. It could be another day or two,” Mom says. She pauses. “I found your note, Jess. Thank you. You don't know how much that means to me.”

I press my eyelids together hard. But I'm not going to cry. Not here. Not in front of Mrs. Johnson. Not where Mom can hear me.
Be strong for me, Jess.
That's what Dad would say.

“Here's Mrs. Johnson.” I pass the phone over.

Mrs. Johnson says “Hello” and then waits, listening. “Oh, we're doing fine. Had a little pizza last night.” This time she's the one who doesn't meet my eyes. Mrs. Johnson doesn't tell Mom what a pain Cara became last night. Maybe it was all the sugar from the Popsicle and the cookies. Maybe it was Mom going away and Cara not really understanding. But when we finally got her to sleep—after I read her the caribou story again—Mrs. Johnson and I had also collapsed, exhausted. Mrs. Johnson doesn't tell Mom any of this.

Is Mom doing the same thing on the other end of the phone? Telling us only part of the story so we won't worry?

The morning light comes through the kitchen window. Patchy fog drapes over the backyard and our neighbor's bamboo fence.

“Sure, I'll make sure she does,” Mrs. Johnson says, nodding toward me.

What?
What's Mom telling her?

“What's that?” Mrs. Johnson's voice rises, as if there's some background noise. She covers her other ear the way I did. “Let us know. And get some rest, you hear?”

“Wait.” I grab for the phone as Mrs. Johnson hangs up the receiver. “Hello?”

But the line's dead.

“I wasn't finished talking to Mom.”

“I'm sorry, your mother had to go. One of the doctors came in to talk to her. You don't keep them waiting. Your dad's going in for more surgery.”

“What did you mean—‘make sure she does'?” I ask.

“Your mother said that I need to make sure you get out of the house and don't stay stuck here like some tick on a dog. Worrying about things. I can handle Cara.”

I fold my arms. Handling Cara had taken both of us last night.

“I know what you're thinking,” Mrs. Johnson says. “I'm figuring that child out. She's like my old cat, Horace. I could open five cans of cat food before His Highness would eat one. Drat it all if that cat sometimes didn't go back and pick the very first can I'd opened. After all that.”

“What'd you do?” I ask, despite everything.

“I got smarter, that's what. I opened two at once and gave him a little of both. Put the rest away and left the room. That was that. The old cat just wanted me crooning over him. Sometimes you have to step back.”

I nod.

“Okay, breakfast, and then I want you out of the house,” Mrs. Johnson says. She opens the refrigerator door and retrieves eggs. “You can help by scrambling these.”

I press my lips together. She's ordering me around again, and we haven't even survived twenty-four hours together yet. How many more days before Mom and Dad come home?

“Do we wake Cara up?” she asks me.

“Let her sleep,” I say, not ready to deal with my sister.

“My thoughts exactly,” Mrs. Johnson says, getting out two plates and silverware and setting the table.

I crack the eggs into a bowl and whisk in some milk the way Dad does. Then I beat the mixture until it's golden yellow.

As soon as breakfast's over, I know what I have to do. Where I have to go.

I
STAND IN
front of Meriwether's house, trying to convince myself to walk up the sidewalk and knock. The sun has pushed the fog out, leaving every surface covered in a thin layer of dampness, as if the world is waking up sweaty from a bad dream. Small American flags line the driveway. A wreath of red, white, and blue ribbons hangs from the door. Curtains on windows flanking the door remain closed.

The house looks as if no one's home. Maybe Meriwether and her dad are sleeping in. Maybe they went away.

From the back of their house, though, I hear a sound. At first I can't tell what it is. But it's not like someone breaking in or anything. In fact, it sounds more like yard work.

Yard work?

I tiptoe down the driveway. The gate of the carport is unlocked, and the gate hangs open. I walk through and into the backyard.

For a moment seeing the backyard takes away my breath. Meriwether's mother had turned the far corner of the yard into a magical area, with tiny white lights strung into dwarf trees. Last summer I helped them dig a hole large enough for a plastic pond, complete with fountain and some goldfish they'd bought on sale. Last time I was over, though, only two flickers of orange could be seen hiding in the dark green watercress. A heron had eaten the rest of the fish, but Meriwether's mother, from her base in Afghanistan, made us promise her we wouldn't do anything to scare away the heron.