Some Kind of Happiness (18 page)

Even Ruth is quiet while we stand by the shrine, listening to the wind move through the house. A train horn sounds, and the spell is broken.

“Good night,” Kennedy says, waving at the Travers family photo. “See you soon.”

Everyone files out after her and does the same thing, saying good-bye to the Travers family like they are real people instead of ghosts. I am the last one out, and as I step onto the porch, I notice Cole giving Kennedy our stolen box of dues. I had forgotten all about it.

I search for the proper word to describe the expression on his face:
Adoring. Soft. Bashful. Nervous.

None of those quite work; his expression is all of those things at once, and more.

The best way to describe it is this:

Mom and Dad used to look at each other like that.

M
Y AUNTS HAVE TO DRAG
my cousins out of the house on Tuesday morning—literally, in Dex and Ruth's case. Not even Kennedy's sweet-talking can console them.

I help Aunt Bridget get Dex and Ruth settled in the car. They will not sit still until I remind them of their impending knighthood, at which point they turn into statues.

Once they are buckled in, Aunt Bridget closes the door and lets out a huge sigh. “Thank you, Finley.”

“You're welcome.”

“I tell you, I've never seen them like this. Coming over here for days and days at a time. That's certainly never happened before. They usually think Grandma's house is so boring. ‘There's nothing to
do
here.' ‘She'll make us
clean
.' ‘Can we go
home
yet?' But now? You'd think taking them for two short days is the end of the world.”

Aunt Bridget looks like she cannot decide if she wants to smile. She brushes hair out of my eyes, and her fingers are warm against my skin, like Mom's. I try not to lean in to her, but I think I might a little bit.

“You're working some kind of magic on them, Finley.”

Avery passes by on her way to the garage, wearing her
orange paint shorts, a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and a crooked smile. “Black magic, you mean.”

Aunt Bridget rolls her eyes. “Don't mind Avery. She's a teenager. She can't help being obnoxious.”

I laugh, which feels strange; this is sharp and shiny Aunt Bridget, after all. I know she is angry at Dad. I always wonder if she is angry at me, too.

But then Aunt Bridget holds me close and kisses the top of my head. I hear her heartbeat, and I wonder, since we are Harts, if mine sounds just like hers.

“I'm glad you're here,” she whispers, and instead of answering, I press my cheek harder against her chest.

When they leave, I run after their car down the long driveway, waving back at Dex and Ruth, until I can no longer keep up.

•  •  •

Mom calls at 7:57 on Thursday. She has not called in a few days, and I was not expecting her to tonight, but I guess she felt brave enough to conquer her phone fear today. When her picture pops up on the screen—her freckled face kissing my freckled face—I smile. It's impossible to look at that picture without smiling. Our faces are so squashed and happy in it.

If someone found my notebook and read what I have written about my mother, they might think I don't like her very much:

Mom snapped at me tonight when I messed up her stack of papers. Then Dad snapped
at her for snapping at me, and now they are downstairs yelling at each other. I hate her.

Mom's yelling again. I hate it when she's like this. She gets so stressed. I don't know how to talk to her.

Mom didn't let me take my notebook with me when we ran errands today. She doesn't get me at all, and I don't get her, and I don't want to.

I wonder if Mom is where I get my blue days from. They have to come from somewhere, don't they?

I am not sure which idea is more terrifying: that my blue days come from my mother, or that they don't come from anywhere in particular. That they are these toxic clouds floating through the universe, and they thought I was worth latching on to.

But when I am with Mom, and she is happy, I feel like I am not simply myself but a piece of something bigger and stronger.

“Finley!” Even through the phone connection Mom's voice is a clear, crisp bell. “Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry it's been days, I really am. I've been so busy.”

I sneak downstairs and out onto the Green. Grandma has the kitchen windows open while she bakes, and a Jimmy Reed song drifts across the yard with the dragonflies. The freshly cut grass is warm and scratchy on my bare feet.

“I really feel rotten, baby. But you know how crazy this time of year gets.”

With Mom, every time of year is a crazy time of year. How are she and Dad possibly talking about anything important if all they do is work?

I curl my toes into the grass. It's almost like I can feel the green color seep up through the bottoms of my feet, sleepy and slow, like drinking a glass of water on a hot day. “I know, Mom. It's okay.”

“So, tell me everything. How's it going?”

Mom asks me this whenever we talk, but this time I am not sure how to answer her. My summer has, over the past week, become much more complicated than I anticipated.

“Fine,” I say.

(But there was a fire, and no one talks about it. No big deal.)

I hear Mom typing on her computer. “And how is everyone?” she asks.

How best to describe the mood at Hart House tonight?

From here I can see inside the big living room windows. Dex and Ruth are galloping around on their hands and knees, probably pretending to be unicorns, which is Dex's favorite game. Gretchen is running back and forth between the
kitchen and the living room; each time she comes back, she holds a fresh cookie. Kennedy is braiding Avery's hair, who is braiding Aunt Dee's hair. Stick and Aunt Bridget are dancing to Grandma's music. Aunt Bridget holds a drink; Stick is wearing a glittery paper pirate hat that Ruth made.

Uncle Nelson and Grandpa sit in the big leather chairs, trying to watch TV, but I can't imagine they can actually hear it.

I grin, watching them. “Same as always. Loud.”

Mom laughs—her real laugh. It is this great big guffaw she tries to hide when she speaks with clients because she thinks it sounds unprofessional.

Whenever I make her laugh her real laugh, I feel like I will never have a blue day again.

“Your dad said Hart House was always a bit of a zoo,” she says. “I guess that hasn't changed, huh? What else? I feel like . . . What else?”

“You feel like what?”

“I just . . . I miss you so much. I feel like I haven't seen you in months, and it's only been, what? Five weeks?”

I sit down in one of the swings and push myself back and forth, trying not to think of what the past month has been like for my parents. Did they send me to Grandma's to protect me from whatever is happening at home?

Or did they send me away because I was making things worse?

“Four weeks. Ish.”

“Well. Feels longer to me. How are you? Really.”

“I'm okay. Really.”

“You would tell me, right? If you were miserable?”

“Yes,” I lie. I don't lie about many things, but I always lie about that. There is enough going on in my parents' lives. They don't need to worry about me.

(I am fine.)

(I should be happy, so I will be.)

Mom sighs. “I'm just checking, is all.”

“I'm having fun. Mostly.”

“Oh, honey. You're not still scared of Avery, are you?”

“
Mom.
I'm not scared of her, but she's seventeen. We have nothing to talk about. And she's so pretty.”

“So are you, Finley.”

I roll my eyes. “You're my mom. That doesn't count.”

“It does too. It counts double.”

“You sound like Ruth. She thinks she and Dex should get double votes, double ice cream, double everything. She says since they're twins, they have special powers, so we have to keep them happy or else they'll turn to the dark side. She's . . . a little nuts.”

Mom chuckles. “Remind me again. That's Bridget's daughter, right?”

It still feels strange to hear Mom say Aunt Bridget's name. “Yeah.”

I wonder: If we had been a normal family all this time, would Mom and Bridget be friends?

“Are you still going on drives with your grandfather?”

“Sometimes.” And then I am thinking about the article, and Grandpa's face as he read it—like it was an article not about a fire but about the end of the world.

Does Mom know about the Travers fire?

The question begs to be let out, but I don't allow myself to ask it. Not tonight. Who knows when Mom will call again?

I dig my toes into the ground so hard, I feel dirt wedge beneath my nails.

(Act normal, Finley.)

(Nothing is wrong here. Nothing at all.)

“Did you know Grandpa does crossword puzzles too?” I ask her. “And Uncle Nelson, but he's not as good at them as Dad is.”

“No one's as good at crossword puzzles as your dad. Except for maybe you. But don't tell him I said that.”

Hearing Mom talk about Dad like everything is the same, like we are at home sneaking pepperonis off Dad's slices of pizza and trying not to burst out laughing—it makes me feel light inside, like I am made of wings, flying up and up.

“Sometimes I go with Stick when she runs,” I continue, “but just part of the way.”

“I'm so glad you're getting to spend time with your aunts. What about Dee?”

“Aunt Dee . . . I don't know. She's nice, but sometimes I think she's afraid to talk to me. She looks at me like . . .”

“What is it? What do you mean?”

“Like she feels bad for me. Or she wants to say something but then she decides not to.”

“Ah. I see.”

I pause, drawing circles in the dirt with my toe. “She told me she loves Dad. That she always will.”

Mom goes quiet. “I'm sure that's true.”

My wings slip away from me. I am losing her.

“Grandpa likes Beethoven,” I say quickly. I squeeze my eyes shut. Great. Beethoven. One more thing to remind Mom about Dad. Why can I not think of safer things to say?

But Mom just laughs and says, “Don't you mean Beeth-oven?”

I relax against the swing. “Yeah. We listen to that a lot and talk about random stuff. There are a ton of cows out where we drive. He's really funny, actually. He's always making these comments, like he always has really good comebacks. But then he can get really serious, too. The other day he and Gretchen were playing chess, and I literally saw Gretchen
sweating
, she was so nervous. He's intense.”

That makes Mom laugh again. “I've heard that your grandfather has always been a formidable man.”

“He wears nice pants and shirts
every day
. Even when he's sitting around the house or whatever.”

“Your dad once told me that when he was growing up, they had to change for dinner,” Mom says. “You couldn't wear sweats or pajamas. You had to put on nice, clean clothes. Dresses for the girls. Slacks for your father.”

I think of my typical dinner uniform at home—my pajamas. Curled up on the couch. A plate on my lap, and Dad
behind me at his desk, and Mom to my left in the kitchen, and something deep in my chest shifts, aching.

I push myself back and forth on the swing. “That's insane. I'm so glad they don't still do that.”

“It was your grandmother's thing, apparently.”

“She loves things to look nice.”

Mom pauses. “Yes, she certainly does.”

“I think . . . She kind of scares me.”

“Goodness, why is that?”

Because she almost fainted in the kitchen last week.

Because she does not like to talk about
upsetting topics
.

Because most of the time I cannot see past her smile—but when I do, I see someone who is angry and sad and tired. And I am afraid it is somehow because of me. I am afraid I remind her of Dad, and whatever he did.

“Because,” I say, “I don't know. She wears these pearls all the time, and she's constantly cleaning. She makes us clean too, every day. Not normal cleaning. Major cleaning. Like the president's coming over or something. She cooks
every meal
, and she does all this volunteer stuff—this clinic and the library and backpacks for kids. And did you know she and Grandpa gave a bunch of money to the city? Like, to the library and the parks and all that.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“I did know that,” Mom says. “Yes, of course. They got to meet the mayor and everything. I didn't know your dad yet, but . . . yes. I remember him telling me about that. Isn't it
great of them, Finley, to get involved in their community?”

Mom has started using her work voice—light and fake and professional, and not Mom at all.