Out of the Blue (3 page)

“IT'S A JAR. JAM —
is it jam or peanut butter?” Mum's loud voice woke Megan up. She felt her way down the ladder and opened the bedroom door.

Dad was standing next to a big piece of paper pinned to the wall. He was making frantic come-on motions with his hands and pointing with a black crayon to a drawing of a jar and a squidge. Mum and Betsy were yelling.

“What's that blob supposed to be?” said Mum.

Dad added wings to the squidge.

Betsy threw herself back on the couch. “It's a bee —
honey
!
Right?”

Dad clapped his hands and pointed a finger at Betsy. He scribbled out the honey pot and started to draw something else.

“Cheese,” said Mum. “Honey cheese. What the heck is honey cheese?”

Dad groaned and pointed to the egg timer. There was just a trickle of sand left. He continued decorating the big circle he had drawn on the paper.

“Pizza! Honey pizza. Pizza honey. Don't keep drawing the same thing. Honey pie. Hey! It's honey pie, right?”

Dad shook his head.

“Time!” said Megan.

Dad fell onto the floor and lay with his legs in the air like a dead bug. “Honeymoon. That was the moon. How come everything I draw you guess pizza, Judy?”

“Because everything you draw looks like pizza. Why didn't you draw the moon like a crescent?”

“I was trying to make it look real.”

“Weirdo,” said Mum.

The whole family was weird as far as Megan was concerned. Pictionary at eight o'clock in the morning? What happened to the concept of sleeping in on weekends?

“My turn,” said Betsy. “Going to play, Megan?”

Megan rubbed her eyes and shook her head. She went back into the bedroom and began to pull on her clothes. It felt good to see Mum and Dad being goofy. Since Mum went back to school she was always so busy. Always doing two things at once, like reading while she ironed or making essay notes while waiting in the doctor's reception area. It wasn't all bad. Dad cooked more, which meant pasta instead of all the nourishing food groups. And Mum had less time to notice things like neat rooms. But Megan missed the hanging-out time with Mum, talking to her while she folded laundry, watching bad TV talk shows together. And secretly she liked Mum's taste in books better than the complete Sherlock Holmes.

“Wait till summer,” Mum kept saying. “I'll have a nice long holiday and we can get caught up on everything.” Megan wasn't sure that everything would keep until the summer.

“It's a boat. No, a shoe. A banana split?” Mum yelled from the living room.

Megan grinned. Whatever the reason, that gooey mood that Mum had been in for the last while seemed to have disappeared. A hopeful sign. She slid her feet into her runners and kicked open the door.

“The agony of defeat,” said Dad. “I accept it. I'm going to chop some kindling.”

“Good morning, twelve-year-old person,” said Mum. “Help yourself to some breakfast.”

Megan yawned. Her stomach was still asleep. “Later, okay?” She followed Dad outside and sat on a log. Watery sunshine made its way through thin clouds.

“Now that you're twelve, do you want to learn how to handle an ax?” said Dad.

Megan shook her head. Dad had offered before, but whenever she pictured herself pulling that ax blade down out of the sky, she also pictured it slicing right into her foot. “No thanks, but now that I'm twelve can I canoe in the ocean? I mean, now that I have my own paddle and everything.”

Dad parked the ax in the chopping block. “I don't see any reason why not.”

Megan woke up. “Really? Now?”

Dad looked out over the water. “Nice calm sea. Sure. Help me take this wood in and we'll get the canoe.”

Megan held her arms like a tray and Dad piled wood onto them. Since Dad seemed to be on a yes track she thought she would try something else. “Can I paddle to Pig Island?”

Dad paused for a minute. Megan's arms were starting to break.

“Okay, but you have to stay on this side of the island. It's sometimes choppy on the other side.”

“Yea!” Megan tried to dance, but she was too wood laden. So she stagger-danced into the cottage. Pig Island, alone. She had often been there, for picnics, or to go shrimping. But she had always wanted to be there just by herself. Today was the day.

Mum wasn't quite as yesish as Dad. She was full of rules and advice about life jackets, and keeping your weight low and centered in the canoe, and not going beyond the mouth of the bay, all of which Megan already knew. She looked out the front window. The sea was flat as a plate. “I'll be careful.”

“Can I come?” asked Betsy.

Megan's heart sank.

“No,” said Mum firmly. “Megan will need to concentrate. I'll take you out later if you like.”

The whole family came down for the launch. Megan got herself settled. Mum handed her a sandwich. Dad pushed off. A scrape on the sand and then the canoe floated free. Everything that had been heavy and clumsy was suddenly light and graceful. Free, away from the edge of the world. On to China!

It took a few strokes to get the canoe under control. Megan felt bulky in her life jacket, and the canoe kept jiggling. But then her arms remembered what to do and she settled into a rhythm. “Bye!”

“Stay where we can see you,” yelled Mum. Bumper ran back and forth along the beach barking his goodbyes.

Megan nodded, dug her paddle in deep, and turned toward Pig Island.

The new paddle was just the right length. Megan's strokes left drippy half-moons on the flat surface of the water. She began to hum quietly, “Dip dip and swing.” A sea gull gave a loud “Braaak,” and Megan looked up, startled, to see that she was only a few lengths away from the island. It was almost as though she had thought herself there.

She pulled the canoe up onto the narrow beach. Oof. She plunked down on the pebbles to catch her breath. What was it about being on a small island? It was like feeling totally safe and private. But more. At home, if you wanted to feel safe and private, you had to go inside walls and locked doors. But on an island you could be safe and free all at once.

Megan jumped up. First thing was to walk right around the island. For today it was hers. She set off clockwise. As soon as the canoe was out of sight Megan began to look for sources of food and shelter. Was twelve too old to play desert island castaway? She picked up a pebble and pitched it as hard as she could into the trees. Oh, who cares? Who would know anyway?

She scrambled along the shore, balancing on rocks and ducking under overhanging bushes. Not too much in the way of berries. It was going to have to be roots and grubs—yuck—until she could plant her own crops.

Hey! This was new. A big overhanging arbutus tree blocked her way. It must have come down last winter. Megan climbed up onto its peeling red trunk and carefully crawled out over the water. Climbing a tree sideways. She gave a tentative bounce and moved forward to where a branch made a secure handhold. She stood up, held on tight, and bounced higher. This was great. She must tell Betsy. Just like a trampoline. She looked down the trunk toward the shore. It would be wimpy to crawl back. She steadied herself on the branch and then ran along the trunk, taking a flying leap across the upturned roots, onto the salal bushes beyond.

As she landed she fell forward and her hand came to rest against something cool and hard. She pulled it out from under the leaves. A Japanese fish float. She stared at the baseball-size glass ball. You
never
found them anymore. It was way above the tide line. Maybe that's why it had been hidden for so long. She held the deep blue glass up to the sun. It would look beautiful beside the shells and driftwood on the windowsill in the cottage. She slipped it into her pocket. It pressed slightly against her hip as she walked. It was like another birthday present, a present from a total stranger.

She came around the final curve of the island and spied the red canoe. She froze with terror. For so many years she had longed for the sight of another human being and now — were they friend or were they foe? And what was that? It looked like a paper bag that probably contained a sandwich. So welcome after years of grubs.

Megan carried her lunch and her life jacket along the beach to a chairlike rock at the water's edge. She took off her shoes and put her feet in the water. A pale line moved up and down her ankles with the rise and fall of the gentle waves. She wiggled her toes in the cold, leaned back against her life jacket, and unwrapped her sandwich.

She stared at the canoe. A short ship if there ever was one. But there was something good about being totally in control. Probably on that tall ship thing you had to just do what you were told. Was there one part of her that was a bit relieved not to have to face all those older kids she didn't know? Maybe. Anyway, the important thing was that nobody had guessed what she had been thinking. What if she had told Erin or John? She felt hot just imagining it. She adjusted her life-jacket pillow. Keeping quiet — that had been her life jacket. Maybe she had sort of capsized, but she hadn't drowned.

“LUPPER!” MUM WAS
standing by the stove.

“Lupper?” said Betsy.

“Well, if you can have brunch, I don't see why you can't have a late afternoon meal called lupper,” said Mum. “I don't know about everyone else, but I'm starving. This island air.”

After a lupper of chili and more birthday cake Betsy wanted to play another round of Pictionary, but Dad said no. “Not now, Bets,” he said. “Mum has something she wants to talk about. Come sit by the fire. I'll get the tea, Judy.”

Betsy snuggled in between Mum and Dad on the lumpy couch, and Megan sat on the floor and poked a stick into the fire. Maybe she could take the canoe out again tomorrow.

Mum cleared her throat. “I have something to tell you girls, and it's a little hard to talk about.” Her voice squeezed shut.

Megan turned around from the fire. Since they had come to the island, Mum had been normal again. What was up now?

“Good or bad?” said Betsy, sitting up straight.

Mum laughed a little. “Good, yes, most definitely good.”

Hope bubbled up in Megan. Had they saved her final birthday present until now? Was the trip really going to happen after all?

Mum blew her nose. “A long time ago, when I was just a teenager — seventeen — I had a baby, a girl. I was too young to care for her, so I gave her up for adoption. I've never told you about this because . . . well, it was very private, and sad for me. And I wasn't sure you would understand until you were older.”

Mum took a deep drink of tea, like someone gulping air. It was so quiet they could hear her swallowing.

“It was a very hard thing to decide when I was that age. And I have always wondered about her. How did she grow up? Was she happy? And so, a couple of years ago, I put my name down at a registry where adopted children can find their birth parents if they want to. And about a month ago I received a letter from her. And we met. . . .” Mum's voice was getting thinner and thinner. She drank more tea. “And we met, and now she would like to get to know the rest of the family. And I would like that, too.”

There was a long pause. “Her name is Natalie.” Dad reached across Betsy and took Mum's hand.

“Is she my age?” said Betsy. “Would she play with me?”

Mum smiled. “No, she was born long before you, Betsy, long before Megan. She's twenty-four years old and she's going to be married this summer, in early July. She wants us to come to the wedding. I think that's why she decided to try and find me. Getting married makes you think about. . .”

“Your ancestors,” said Dad.

Megan was so full of confusion that she felt her edges disappearing, like a cloud. Then a twig snapped in the fire and she jumped back into herself. She picked a question out of the messy pile in her mind. “How come you got pregnant when you didn't want a baby?”
Mum swallowed and sat up straighten “I didn't use birth control.”

“But
why
didn't you?”

“Oh, Megan, it's complicated. Rob came along and he played the guitar and he was older and. . . . Somehow I thought it would never happen to me.”

What did guitar playing have to do with it? And “complicated.” That's not how Mum had described sex and all that before. Had she been lying?

“Has she been to our house?” said Betsy. “Has she seen our room?”

“No, we decided to meet for the first time in a restaurant. That turned out to be not such a hot idea because we both kept crying.”

Right, Megan thought, lunch with a friend.

“Yes,” said Dad, “from what I've gathered they cried into their soup, and then they cried into their cheesecake, and then they cried into their coffee, and didn't eat anything.”

“Why were you sad?” said Betsy.

“Not sad,” said Mum, “happy.”

“I don't cry when I'm happy,” said Betsy.

“No,” said Mum with a smile, “it's one of the weird things grown-ups do.”

This was all becoming too unreal. Megan needed to know. “Didn't you
want
to keep the baby? Lots of kids have only one parent.”

“Yes, part of me did want to keep her. I even bought little things, socks, and put them away. But at the same time, I knew I couldn't really be a mother, not the right kind. There was a sad, regretful place in me for years. It didn't go away until I had you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, as soon as I held you, right after you were born, that little sad knot just melted away. Because then I knew I could be a real mother.”

“Is she my sister or my cousin?” said Betsy.

“Sister—well, half sister.”

“When's her birthday? Did you ask her?”

“September 28.” Mum's voice got thin again. “I didn't have to ask.”

Betsy nodded. “Now can we play Pictionary?”

“Let's save it till tomorrow,” said Dad. “But we could use a little wood. Want to come down to the beach with me and help collect it?”

“Sure,” said Betsy.

Megan and Mum sat quietly as Dad and Betsy left. Megan stared into the fire. Mum's hand came down on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know.”

“It's a shock, I realize. I tried to think of how to tell you so it wouldn't be out of the blue. But it is just out of the blue.”

Mum's hand was heavy on Megan's shoulder, and annoying. “I just want you to know—I like Natalie a lot and I hope you will, too, but she isn't my daughter the way you and Betsy are.”

Well, obviously.

“I've been thinking about this a lot, since I met Natalie. It's like with her I had the first couple of pages and now I'm jumping into the middle of chapter eleven or something. But with you and Betsy we're in the whole story together. I mean, you and I have twelve whole chapters called “Christmas Morning.” And then there's “Chicken Pox” and “Soccer Triumph: Megan's Winning Goal.” Not to mention “What Really Happened to Gerald the Gerbil and Why We Can't Tell Betsy.”

How obvious could you get? Mum was trying to get her to laugh. Well, forget that.

“If you want to ask me anything . . .”

Megan sat still as a stone, and Mum squeezed her shoulder and then removed her hand. “Do you want to go help Dad?”

A fog of tiredness settled on Megan. “No, I think I'll go read.”

Mum kissed her on the top of her head. “Okay.”

Megan took
The Secret Garden
into the upper bunk and read until the light grew dim. She could hear Betsy talking nonstop in the next room. Surely it was time for bed. She made the trek to the outhouse and then got a mug of water from the bottle next to the sink. She took her toothbrush to the open window near the stove. Spitting out the window was one of the best of the island traditions. She glanced over to the fire where Betsy was sitting, poking the coals with a stick. Mum and Dad were sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

About a month ago I received a letter.
Mum and Dad on the other couch, Mum holding that piece of paper. And what had Dad said? “Anything is a risk.” A risk. The risk of high seas and the mainmast snapping in a storm. Megan spit toothpaste water out the window. Her disappointment came flooding back. How could she have been so
wrong
?
Megan Hungerford — girl detective. More like girl stupido-head. Tall ships. Move that idea right into the little garbage can. Instead pick option B—a total stranger moving into your life. She flung the rest of the water out into the trees. “We're in the whole story together.” Well, not quite. What about the chapter called “Birthday Wrecked, Trip Stolen”? All by this Natalie person.

“When is Natalie coming to our house?” said Betsy.

“I've invited her for dinner a week from Sunday,” said Mum.

“Can Auntie Marie and Uncle Howie and John come, too?”

“I think we'll be enough to cope with the first time,” said Mum with a grin. “Although Marie is so curious that I wouldn't be surprised to see her hidden in the hedge with a periscope.”

Megan turned around from the window. “You told Marie before you told us?”

“Yes, when I was trying to decide what to do I needed to talk to someone who knew me when I was seventeen and knew the background to the story. There isn't really anyone except Marie and Josh. And Josh . . . well, it isn't something to talk about long distance.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just Marie and Howie. I asked them not to tell John until I had talked to you.”

“So now are you going to tell everyone?”

“Well, I'm not going to hire a skywriter,” said Mum, “but I don't see any reason to keep it a secret. I'm sick of secrets.”

Yeah, right. Sick of secrets now. Keeps something a secret from her own children and then decides to broadcast it. Betsy would probably announce it in school. It was all going to be totally embarrassing. Well, one thing was for sure. Nobody was going to hear it from her.

Later, in bed, Betsy just wouldn't shut up. Her voice from the bottom bunk was as insistent as a mosquito's whine.

“She probably wears makeup. I mean she's a grown-up. Mum doesn't wear makeup, but I think our sister will. Maybe she'll let us try it on. Do you think so? Hey! Hey, Megan, do you think so? Are you asleep?”

Megan's top-bunk mattress began to bounce up and down. “Betsy, get your feet off the bottom of my bunk.”

“Okay. What do you think? Long hair or short hair? I hope it's long. I hope she's pretty.”

“Oh, good grief. She's not a Barbie doll, you know.”

Betsy giggled. “You're funny. A Barbie doll! I know that. I know she's a human being. Maybe she'll come and live with us. Oh no, I forgot, she's going to get married. So she'll go and live in her own house. But I'll bet she has us for overnights sometimes. . . .”

Megan lay curled up and quiet and, at long last, Betsy dropped off to sleep in the middle of a word.

Finally, space to think. Some room to take out her tangled thoughts and have a look at them. Megan stretched out long and stiff in the bed and reached her arms up to press against the roof. A lie. Mum and Dad had been lying to her for years. Maybe not in words but in silence. “Just tell the truth,” they always said, “even if you've done something wrong. In the long run it gets you into less trouble than lying, and you don't have to carry the lie around.” Yeah, right. Good advice from liars. What else had they lied about? Why should she believe them about anything?

Megan's arms and legs felt as though they would explode if she had to lie in bed one more minute. She stuck her head over the side of the bunk and listened to Betsy. Deep, regular breathing. She was gone. Carefully Megan stuck her feet out and found the rungs of the ladder. She climbed down, front side forward. Her toes curled on the cold linoleum. She touched the back of the door and felt something soft, somebody's jacket or robe. She pulled it off the hook, opened the door, and stepped out into the living room.

The dying fire lit the room softly. The door to the big bedroom was closed. Good. She looked at what she had grabbed. Uncle Howie's kangaroo jacket. She pulled it over her head. It was as long as a dress. The sleeves hung down like flippers. She crawled into a corner of the couch, stretched the soft fabric over her knees, and pulled up the hood. It smelled like seaweed and smoke.

She stared through the screen into the fire. The worst thing was the way Mum seemed to expect her to be, like, thrilled. And they were so happy with the way Betsy was acting. When it was only that Betsy was too dumb to get it. Well, forget thrilled. She wasn't thrilled. She wasn't thrilled and she wasn't going to lie about it. She would be polite. She wasn't about to sulk or have a Betsy-style tantrum. It wasn't worth the effort. But this Natalie person was not her sister. She was just an accident. Why did you have to include an accident in your family?

The firelight played over the scrapbooks in the bookcase. Would Natalie want to come here? Would she be writing in the book? Maybe she would want to bring her husband when they were married. Maybe they would have a baby, and it would be one of the births recorded. Hey, hold it, was there anything . . . ?

Megan did some arithmetic. If Natalie was twenty-four years old, then she was born in September of . . . Megan pulled her arms out of the flipper sleeves and reached over to the bookcase. That was too early. Here it was. Surely there would be some hint. She turned the pages. Records of storms and seal sightings, recipes, some driftwood sketches that Gram had made. On the day Natalie was born, some family called the Gills had been for the weekend and had fed lettuce to the rabbits. Nothing. So these books were a lie, too. All that stuff just closed over the top of what had really happened and hid it.

Megan let the book fall to the floor.
Fwap.
She hunched down in her jacket and listened. But there was no noise from the big bedroom. There was no noise at all. Just the sound of ash falling in the fire, a whispering sound, a sound like a secret.