Sunshine Picklelime (13 page)

While waiting for her
mom to come home on the weekend, PJ felt a need to do something very practical with her dad. Something that wouldn’t end in an argument. So she asked him to help her paint her room egg-yolk yellow.

“Egg-yolk yellow, PJ? Such a strong color?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, Dad. It’s
sooooo
my color this year!”

“Next year it’ll be red?” He smiled.

PJ laughed. “We’ll see,” she said. Together they went to buy drop cloths, egg-yolk yellow paint, rollers, paint trays, and brushes. Ready to tackle the task together, PJ
and her dad moved everything in her room into the center, draped it carefully, and layered the drop cloths on the floor.

Mr. Picklelime showed PJ how to pour paint into the trays, then spread it back and forth before rolling it on the walls, careful to avoid drips. He masked the windows and painted the rims an even darker shade of yellow, PJ’s choice.

“Wouldn’t you prefer white trim, PJ?” asked her dad.

“No way,” PJ said, sweeping the roller up and down. She didn’t want white trim or ledges, because they would show webbed bird footprints too clearly. But she didn’t tell her dad that. “Dad, thanks,” PJ said. “This’ll be like living in a sunflower.”

“Sounds nicer than living in egg yolk,” he said.

Later, when everything was dry, they moved the furniture back and PJ reorganized all her pastel drawings in sequence on the corkboard opposite her bed. The yellow wall was the perfect backdrop to the array of drawings of birds, moons, gardens, the tree house, Ruth, and sunsets on display. It was getting quite crowded.

PJ lit some sandalwood incense, a gift from Mrs. Patel, to mask the paint smell, even though they were careful to buy a nontoxic variety. She was so excited about
her new room, she hopped on her bike in her paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt, now covered in yellow, and cycled over to Ruth’s house to tell her and to share the news about Pete and Tweety’s departure. She also wanted to find out how Squirt was doing alone since the birds had found new homes.

Ruth’s street was blocked by cars.

Puzzled, PJ dismounted and pushed her bike the rest of the way. People she didn’t know or barely recognized were going in and out of the gate. Then she spotted Mr. Splitzky with Blossom on the sidewalk. He had tears in his eyes.

“Oh, PJ, I’m so glad to see you. We’re all heartbroken about Ruth.”

“Heartbroken? What’s happened?” PJ asked.

“You haven’t heard? Your parents didn’t tell you?” Mr. Splitzky looked distressed.

“Heard what? Is Ruth sick?” PJ parked her bike at the curb.

Mr. Splitzky couldn’t speak for a moment. He turned away and looked down, as though studying his feet. “PJ, I hate to be the person to share the news with you. There isn’t an easy way of telling you. Your wonderful friend Ruth is no longer with us.”

“You mean she left town?” PJ looked confused. “Was she kidnapped? Is that why there’re so many cars here?”

Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “PJ, Ruth died earlier today.”

“Died?”
PJ’s voice rose. “Mr. Splitzky, that’s
sooooo
impossible. We were in your barn a few days ago talking about owls!”

“PJ, hold Blossom for a moment,” he said.

PJ bobbed down and buried her face in Blossom’s golden fur.
This isn’t real
, she thought. Children didn’t die just like that. Ruth wasn’t even sick! “Did she have a bike accident? Did a car hit her? Did she fall out of the tree house?” she asked.

Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “They’re still trying to figure out what happened,” he explained. “One of those rare things, PJ. Hard to tell so early. Hard for any of us to understand. No advance warning. She felt this strong pain and died in the ambulance.”

“There was nothing
wrong
with her, Mr. Splitzky. This can’t be true!” More cars wove by, hunting for a parking space. Families got out, heads bowed. “Are you sure it wasn’t her
great-grandmother
who died?”

“I’m so sorry, PJ, but no. Come, let’s walk home together. This isn’t the best time for you to see her family.”

“But Squirt the squirrel’s in the tree house at the back …,” PJ began, pointing toward the sprawling live oak branches she could see sticking out above the roof. “I need to go there.”

“Tomorrow, PJ. Let Josh take care of things like that right now. They’re all in shock.”

PJ held both hands on Blossom. The dog’s soft fur, rhythmic breathing, and warm body comforted her. Children didn’t just die. Something was horribly wrong. After a moment, PJ lifted her hands off Blossom, reached for her bicycle, and followed Mr. Splitzky home. “I want to see Ruth,” she said.

“That’s not a good idea, PJ. Doctors are still examining her to find out exactly what went wrong. And then there’s the Jewish ritual of wrapping the body, done by experts who are specially trained. Kind people will be very loving and careful when they touch her body. You can go with me to the funeral in a few days if you like.”

Funeral? PJ blocked the word. She followed Mr. Splitzky and Blossom home in silence, too stunned to understand what was going on, and refusing to believe she wouldn’t see Ruth ever again. She kept thinking about Ruth’s gold-flecked gray eyes and the way she twirled her honey-blond pigtail to help her solve some
problem. “Mr. Splitzky, what do you think happens when someone dies?”

“Ah, PJ,” he explained, “I was raised in a Jewish household, like Ruth, and like Ms. Lenz. Traditionally we believe in the
here
and the
now
. I wasn’t raised to believe in an afterlife. But talk to Mrs. Patel, PJ. She’ll share her Hindu thoughts on reincarnation. Ask your art teacher, Mr. Santos, about Catholic beliefs. Talk to Mr. Kanafani about Islam. Ask Mrs. Martins about Protestant beliefs. Go and talk to Ms. Naguri about Zen Buddhism. Then you can make up your own mind.”

“How will this help me?” PJ asked.

“Just listen,” said Mr. Splitzky. He placed a comforting arm around PJ’s shoulders. “Keep Ruth in your mind and heart. You will soon hear something to help you make sense of this unhappy day.”

She stood by the gate and watched Mr. Splitzky go, followed by Blossom swishing her tail. PJ longed to talk to her mother or to Mrs. Patel. But first she needed to go off alone. She began to feel a heaviness close around her heart, so she climbed back on the seat of her bike and pedaled toward the cliffs.

The loss made her think about Lemon Pie and how much she missed him, how much she would miss Ruth. If she felt this way, how must Josh be feeling? And Ruth’s parents? Mr. Splitzky said it was too soon to see them, but if all those other people could, why couldn’t she?

The wind was brisk. It whipped her cheeks and tugged her curls. She felt the sting of salt spray. A couple frolicked with dogs on the beach below, but PJ preferred to stay up on the cliffside. She didn’t want to risk bumping into anyone she knew. Gulls tumbled about in the strong wind, but she didn’t recognize any of them. BG and LG were nowhere in sight.

She thought about Ruth’s advice, about learning to let go, giving animals and friends the strength to move on, to be free, to find their own space.

But how could you let go before you understood what it was that you were letting go? It was impossible for PJ to imagine she would never see Ruth again. PJ longed to talk to Joshua. She would call him soon, whether Mr. Splitzky said it was a good idea or not.

The wind got colder and fiercer. It flattened sea oats to the sandy crest of the cliff. PJ shivered. She wished she had one of her heavy fleece hoodies with her. She jumped on her bike again and headed home.

Her mom’s car was in the driveway. Had she come home early because of Ruth’s death?

PJ locked her bicycle and went in slowly, wondering why she felt so numb. Her mother was on the phone in the front room, surrounded by books.

Mrs. Picklelime studied her daughter’s face anxiously. She ended her call and reached out for PJ.

PJ hugged her and then pulled away. “It’s not right.”

“Honey, I lost my best friend at your age. I know how it feels.”

PJ shook her head. “You can’t know how I feel, Mom.”

Mr. Picklelime poked his head around the door and said, “Sorry, sorry to hear about Ruth.” When they didn’t react, he asked, “Was she taking any sort of drugs? Kids do these days. If she was, I need to know if she gave you anything, PJ.”

“Dad, how can you talk to me like that?”

Mrs. Picklelime held up her hands. “Philip, I’ll take care of this. Why not give us a little space?”

When he left, PJ said, “Dad is so wrong.
So
wrong! You know that, don’t you?”

“Course I do. Don’t take any notice, PJ. He’s overanxious about you. That’s all.” She paused. “Mr. Splitzky called me, so I came home immediately. PJ, it’s hard to find a way to explain such a tragedy. All you can do is
keep a vivid picture of Ruth in your wonderful imagination and act on everything she taught you. This takes time, I know.”

“Is that what you did after you lost your best friend?”

“I curled up with Peppy, our dog, in his kennel so no one could find me. My parents couldn’t deal with it, so nothing was discussed. I worked things out on my own. That wasn’t the best way. I shut down inside.”

PJ listened. She understood a little of what her mom was saying about finding comfort in Peppy, because of the comfort she felt earlier while hugging Blossom. Now she realized why her mom kept a goofy picture of floppy-eared Peppy on display, even though the dog had died years and years ago.

Her mom cut into her thoughts. “PJ, it helps to keep doing really regular things at such times. Keep active. Look, why don’t we set up the tumbler compost bins I brought home?”

When PJ didn’t respond, she said, “I saw your wonderful yellow room.” She smiled. “Looks like half the paint ended up on your jeans.”

“Yes, well.” PJ paused. Who cared about compost or paint-splattered jeans at such a time? “Mom, I need to go out again for a while, is that OK?” PJ asked, backing out
of the room. Without waiting for her mother to reply, she left the house, knowing her parents would start to fight. This was one day she did not want to wait around to hear it.

She went straight to Mrs. Patel, who took her in her arms and held her for a long time without talking. “Come, child. Let’s go in the kitchen. I just made some jasmine tea,” she said. “I knew I’d see you today.”

Mrs. Patel lifted a tea cozy shaped like a large ladybug off a round earthenware pot and poured them each a lightly scented cup. PJ watched the steam rise. She blew gently on the brew to cool it before taking her first sips. Mrs. Patel spooned in some sweet honey from Mr. Splitzky’s bees.

PJ said, “Why is it I can sit with you in silence and you know exactly how I am feeling, Mrs. Patel?”

Mrs. Patel chuckled. “I listen to your silence, PJ. It’s not that difficult. I have some news for you, child. I was with Ruth’s parents today. They would like you to have the tree house.”

“What about Joshua?” PJ asked in surprise.

Mrs. Patel shook her head. “He doesn’t have that same passion for animals. But his parents know you do. Can you handle the tree house alone, PJ?”

PJ didn’t answer right away. “I’m scared, Mrs. Patel.”

“Scared of what, child? Of the tree house?”

“No, I love the tree house. I’m scared of not knowing where Ruth has gone.”

“Ah, dear PJ, I understand that fear. It’s important to put something in its place. Be a friend to Josh. Ruth would want that, you know.” Mrs. Patel paused. “Also,” she went on, “taking care of Ruth’s animals, or any injured animal, will always keep you very close to her memory.”

PJ thought about this. It didn’t seem right for someone as good as Ruth to disappear just like that. Branches scraped against the roof above in a gust of wind. PJ got up to look outside. She wished her family’s garden would hurry up and become as comfortingly lush as Mrs. Patel’s. “Mr. Splitzky said I should ask you about reincarnation,” she said.

Mrs. Patel laughed softly. “PJ, Ruth gave so much of herself. To her tree-house animals. To her friends, like you. To Josh. To her parents. Yes, she left us too soon and our hearts are breaking. We can’t explain everything. She was a wonderful role model. Reincarnation? Will she return to our earth in another body? I believe we all keep returning to earth to evolve, become wiser, and
complete unfinished business. Sometimes, we are linked once again—but in different ways—to our circle of friends and family from a previous life.”

PJ turned from the window. “Does that mean I’ll see her again?”

“Not in the same way or form, PJ. We don’t know when Ruth might return. Or where. I do not expect you or anyone else to share my philosophy. Don’t think too hard. Just keep her alive here,” she said, tapping PJ’s chest, “by continuing to do the work she loved.”

“You believe that?” PJ asked.

“I do with all my heart. Come, child, let’s finish our tea.”