The Things We Keep (11 page)

“Richard Bennett was your husband?” Clara gasps. “Oh, you poor, poor dear.”

“Richard was running an illegal Ponzi scheme,” I explain to Anna. “Because of him, lots of people lost a lot of money. And we, of course, lost our money. That's why I'm working here.”

“That sucks,” Anna says.

“Yes, it does, rather.” I laugh.

Anna's face becomes thoughtful. Her eyes are on her lap, her brow is gathered, and her lips work around silent words—like a child reading from a book.

Suddenly she looks up. “Did I see you,” she says, “in the … the garden?”

“Yes,” I say. “That's when you asked me for help.”

“And …
he
 … was there?”

A feeling of dread creeps in. “Who?”

“Him,”
she says. Her forehead creases. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching.

“Do you mean Luke, honey?” Clara asks.

I start to shake my head, but Anna's eyes go round like she's seen a ghost. “Yes. Luke.”

This isn't what I expected.

Anna's gaze locks on mine. “Please. You have to help me
.
”

“Is Luke doing something to you, Anna?” I ask.

“What?” She shakes her head. “No!”

“But you said you needed help?”

“Just give her a minute,” Clara says gently. “Too much talkin' makes it hard for her to think.”

So I wait, willing Anna to keep hold of whatever invisible thread was keeping her with us. Her hands shuffle in her lap, folding and unfolding. I try to imagine what it must be like, not being able to access the words and memories you need to say what you think. I wonder, just for a second, if that would make you want to kill yourself.

Finally Anna leans forward and tugs the sleeve of Clara's cardigan. “I like that thin-jacket on you,” she says. “It's the exact blue of your eyes.”

I finish wiping the mantelpiece, then move on to the bathroom. From what I've seen, there are still some lights on in Anna. As I finish making up her room, I can't help but wonder which lights are on, which are blinking, and which ones are completely out.

 

9

Clementine

Before Daddy died, my biggest wish was for a baby brother called Phil. He'd have chubby fingers and a toothy smile and legs that kicked when he was happy. I used to imagine the way my friends would gather around his stroller for a peek, and I would tell them importantly,
Move back! Phil is sleeping.
I would be the expert on Phil. When he cried, Mom would say to me,
Clem, can you tickle his toes for me?
and I would, and Phil would giggle. When we went to the mall, I would push his stroller so Mom could do the grocery shopping. And I would play
peekaboo!
with him when he got restless. I had it all worked out. I used to think about Phil all the time. I still do, sometimes. But he's not my biggest wish anymore. My biggest wish is that Daddy was still alive.

Miss Weber stands at the front of the classroom in a red dress with white spots and blue shoes with thick soles, called wedges. “All right, class,” she says, “I'd like everyone to sit in a circle on the mat. Now, since it's no one's birthday today … Clementine, would you like to sit in the birthday chair?”

The birthday chair is gold with red rubies all over it, like a throne for a princess.
Of course
I want to sit in it. Legs sits beside me on the floor and smiles because she is happy for me. Miranda doesn't smile. I think she wishes she was sitting on the birthday chair instead of me.

“Now, I want to hear a little about your summers,” Miss Weber says. “Why don't we go around the circle and each of you can tell me what you got up to. Let's start with you, Harry,” she says. “What did you do this summer?”

I like Harry. He has curly hair that is mostly brown but in the sunshine it turns gold and shiny like a coin. Usually he is really smiley, but today, he looks at his shoes. “I visited my dad in Orlando,” he says.

“Wow, Florida.” Miss Weber smiles. “Were you on vacation, Harry?”

“No,” he mutters. “My dad lives there.”

Harry's daddy met a new mommy. They live in Florida and she has a baby in her belly and Harry says they kiss all the time and it's really gross. But Miranda must not know this, because she frowns and says, “You mean … your mom and dad—”

“Did you go to Disney World, Harry?” I ask quickly, because Miranda can be a bit tricky sometimes. That's what Mom calls it, being “tricky.” Being tricky is when you can make people feel bad without saying anything really mean. Miranda is good at being tricky.

Harry looks at me, and he smiles a little. “Yep. All four parks. It was awesome.”

It's Miranda's turn next, and she tells the class that this summer she got a real-life pony called Farts. Everyone giggles, even Miss Weber. Then it's my turn.

“Would you like to tell us about your summer, Clementine?” Miss Weber pats me on the head, and her voice gets a little bit softer than before. “If you don't want to—”

“I
do
want to,” I say. “It was very busy. I moved to a new house and I went to five birthday parties and one was a princess party and I wore real high heels. Well, they were plastic, but still real. Also, my daddy went to Heaven. I wrote him a poem.” I unfold the paper from my pocket, then look at Miss Weber. “Would you like me to read it for you?”

Miss Weber smiles, but it is a sad smile. “We'd love to hear it, wouldn't we, class?”

“Okay,” I say, and put on my good reading voice:

Daddy, I miss you every day.

I miss the way we used to play.

You were the best dad in the world.

And I was such a lucky girl.

I miss how you always made me laugh,

When you did funny voices with my toy giraffe,

Now you're gone I want to cry.

And that is not even a lie.

Why did you have to die when I was seven?

I wish you could come back to me from Heaven.

When I look up, Miss Weber is wiping something from her eye. “That was lovely, Clementine.”

I smile. “Mom helped me with the rhyming parts.”

Freya puts up her hand. “My gramma is in Heaven.”

“Mine, too,” says Harry.

“Heaven is in the clouds,” Miranda says.

“Actually,” I say, “Heaven is in the ground. I know because I saw some men put Daddy there.”

Miranda doesn't say anything. I feel pleased that I told her something she didn't know.

“Heaven isn't like going to the Hamptons,” I continue. “Because you can't come back after the weekend. It's a long way away, but people in Heaven can still see us and hear us.”

Everyone listens.

“In Heaven you never get sick. And you are never by yourself, because lots of people are there.…”

I don't tell the class that I really don't understand Heaven. That it makes no sense because it would be really hard to hear and see someone from under the ground, even if you have really good ears and eyes. And that there might be a lot of people there, but not the ones you really love. I don't tell them this, because I just want to keep talking and feeling important. It's better than thinking about Daddy and feeling bad.

*   *   *

When Legs giggles, I giggle, too. I can't help it. As soon as I hear her giggle, even before I know why she is giggling, I'm just giggling back. Sometimes we giggle so much that by the time we stop and I ask her why she was giggling, she's forgotten. But when Miranda giggles, I don't giggle back. When Miranda giggles, I get a funny feeling in my belly.

Today Legs and I are skipping with ropes and Miranda is in a huddle in the playground with Freya and Audrey. They look over at us. “Clemmy! Can you come here for a minute?”

I stop skipping, but Legs keeps jumping because she was trying to get to twenty without tripping.

“Come
on
!” Miranda giggles. “We don't have all day!”

“Okay.” Legs finishes skipping and we walk over to Miranda's huddle. “What?”

“Is Heaven
really
in the ground?” Miranda asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“But … worms are in the ground.” Miranda smiles. “Does that mean that worms are eating your daddy?” She looks at Freya and they both snicker.

“No,” I say, but I hadn't thought of that. Worms
are
in the ground.

“Why not?” she says, all innocent. “If worms are in the ground?”

“Because he's inside a box.” It only comes to me at that very moment, but as soon as I say it, I know I'm right.

Miranda looks at Freya. She's not smiling now. “How did he die, anyway?”

Everyone looks at me, even Legs. I don't know what to say. Every time I ask someone, they tell me something different. Mom says it was an accident. Nana says Daddy had a sick head. The man who talked at Daddy's funeral said Jesus took him somewhere. I don't think anyone knows what happened to Daddy. Except that he went to Heaven, which is in the ground.

“He was old,” Legs says when I don't say anything. “And sick.”

Sometimes I really love Legs.

And Miranda says, “That's not what my mom said,” Miranda says.

I frown. “What did your mom say?”

Everyone looks at Miranda. She takes a long time to answer. I want to grab her face and make her answer right away.

“She said he died because that bastard was too scared to face the music.”

Everyone goes really quiet. I don't know what that means, but I do know that “bastard” isn't a nice word. Also, I know it's not true. Daddy wasn't even scared of going into the basement at night or of Maleficent when she turned into the giant snake in
Sleeping Beauty
. He would never be scared of music.

“What music?” Legs asks.

“Don't know,” Miranda admits. “Probably some really scary music.”

The bell rings and Miss Weber tells us to line up in two straight lines. Miranda runs to the front and seems to forget all about the music and how Daddy died, but I keep thinking about worms and Heaven and what was so scary about that music.

 

10

When I get out of class, Mom is waiting. She's wearing a white shirt and jeans and flat shoes and she's standing by herself instead of with the other moms. I remember how, before, Mom used to wear earrings and a skirt and shoes like Miss Weber's. And she stood in the center of the group of moms.

I wave at her, and she pulls a gingerbread man out of her purse and puts it up to her face so it sounds like it can talk.

“Hello,” it says. “I'm First-Day Fergus. Please don't eat me!”

“Of course I won't eat you, Fergus,” I say—then I bite his head off. Mom and I giggle.

Usually after school, I stay and play for a while so Mom can chat to Legs's mom, but today we leave right away. As we walk, I ask, “Was Daddy scared of music?”

“No,” Mom says slowly. “Why?”

“No reason,” I say, feeling relieved. Then I ask, “Are the worms eating Daddy?”

Mom stops walking. “What?”

“Miranda says if you're in the ground, worms eat you.”

Mom says something quietly that sounds like
cheeses
. Then she says, “Daddy's in Heaven, remember?” She gives me a little sideways cuddle. “I'm sure he's watching over us.”

I hate it when people say this. I don't want Daddy watching over me. I want Daddy
here.
So he can walk me to school tomorrow and do the funny voices of the witches when he reads
Witches Wear Britches
to me before bed.

“How did he die?” I ask.

Mom looks at me. “We've talked about this, Clem. It was … an accident.”

“Was Daddy a …
bastard
?”

Mom doesn't say anything for a while. And then, “Did Miranda say that, too?”

“Yes.”

Mom squats down. “People might say things about Daddy, but they don't really know what they're talking about. Who knows Daddy the best in the world?”

“We do,” I say.

“That's right.” She smiles a little. “Anyway, did Miranda even
meet
Daddy?”

“Once. At my fairy princess party.”

“Just that once?” Mom says. “Well, what would she know?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “What would she know?”

Mom winks. Then she stands and we start walking and I don't worry anymore, because I know that Daddy wasn't scared of any music, and Miranda doesn't know what she's talking about.

*   *   *

I play outside for a while before Mom calls me for dinner. By the time I've washed my hands and got to the dining room, there's only one seat left, next to a bald man. I wriggle onto it.

“Hey!”

I look up. He's frowning.

“That's Myrna's seat.”

“Oh.” I slip off the seat quickly. The bald man is very cranky. “Sorry.”

Another lady puts her arm around me. She's soft and has yellow hair and smells of flowers. “Why don't you sit here, darlin', right by me?”

I like this lady. She has a nice smile and a funny voice, slow and long, like the people in the
The Princess and the Frog.
I sit beside her.

“Now, let me see,” she says. “You must be about … six?”

“I'm seven,” I say. I do not look six.

“Ah, I apologize. I have a great-granddaughter who is six. Or”—she frowns—“maybe she's seven? With twenty-seven great-grandchildren, it's hard to remember them all.”

I agree that does sound like a lot to remember.

“I'm Clara,” the lady says. “This is my husband, Laurie.”