The Year of My Miraculous Reappearance (22 page)

“I know you are. I just want to know if
you
know you are.”

I said, “You know, Pat, you're more like my mother than my mother is.”

She said, “Well, it works like that sometimes. Blood family, that's something we get dealt. Sometimes we get a bad hand. Not much way around it. You just have to grow up and get more family. The kind you get to pick out yourself.”

When I got home the phone rang. It was Nanny.

She said, “Bill wants to talk to you.”

Next thing I knew, I could hear his voice on the phone.

So I talked to him. And sang with him. And asked questions to see if I could get him to say any new words. He'd been starting to say new words right around the time my phone card ran out.

After about ten minutes Nanny came back on the line. “If you want to call once a week,” she said, “for about ten minutes … Grampop says he'll pay for it.”

“You're kidding.” That might have been the wrong thing to say, but I was truly amazed. “I mean … what I meant to say … can I talk to him? So I can say thank you?”

“He's taking a nap, hon.”

Nanny hadn't called me “hon” in as long as I could remember.

“Well, when he wakes up, tell him I said thanks, okay?” It hit me that maybe Grampop was sitting right there. He wasn't very good at stuff like hearing thank you. But that was okay, because I still remembered how that used to feel.

Next time I went to a meeting I shared something funny. It didn't used to be funny. It used to be something that scared the crap out of me, but it got funnier after a few months went by.

I said, “When I first got here I was scared that I was going to change so fast and so much that I wouldn't even know myself. I was afraid I wouldn't be me anymore.” Everybody laughed. Because they all knew. They knew what I meant, but they also knew how crazy it was. Because you always change slower than you want to, and after a while you realize that part of you doesn't change at all.

It's a hard thing to explain, but in some ways if you're broken, you're always broken. In some ways. It's like the difference between a china mug that's lying in pieces on your floor or one that's been carefully glued back together: it might not look as pretty as a brand-new one, and you might have to be a little more careful with it, but at least you can drink out of it. It works. I'm not sure I can explain it any better than that. But the really cool thing is, in that room, I didn't have to explain it. They all got it. Because they're all like me.

That's the other thing that seems funny now. How I thought maybe I was the only one.

When I was done sharing I looked around the room. I was remembering when I first got here. I couldn't stand Pat and I didn't want anyone to talk to me. Now I looked around at the people. They were mostly people I would have thought were dorky a year ago. They were all different ages. Some had been there when I showed up, like Pat and Zack and Phyllis and
Tom. Some were new people with less time than me. Some people I'd known were gone. Fallen away like my mom. Some people fall away. It's like you can save yourself, but you can't save them. But
they
can save them. But sometimes they don't, and it's hard to understand why.

I thought, This is not a bad family. Better than the blood family I got dealt.

I thought, Me and Pat and Bill. That might not be bad. I figured at least it was something worth working for. I figured maybe I was worth it.

After I got home I called Zack. I know. That's really weird. Because I'd just been at a meeting with him. But there are some things I still could never say with somebody like him staring me right in the face while I talked.

I said, “Look, do me a favor and just listen, okay? I just need you to listen to this. I've been thinking a lot lately about how you said you always liked me. And I think I knew that, even way back then. And when you're not used to people liking you, you sort of make it too big a deal, you know? Like it can't just be what it is. It has to be everything. I don't think I'm explaining it right. Anyway, I just called to tell you I love you, okay? Just love you, just like that, not like you have to do something special, I just do, okay?” I waited, but nothing happened. “Zack?”

“You told me to just listen.”

“Oh. Yeah. I'm done now. Say something.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “You're a good kid.”

“Am I really?”

“Yeah. You really are. And the more you let that tough-kid outside thing start to fall apart, the more the good-kid inside thing shows through. It's the coolest thing to watch.”

I said, “I gotta go now, thanks, bye.”

Then I lay there on my bed and cried for a long time. Not really in a bad way, though. If a thing like that could possibly make sense. Not like I was falling apart or like everything was awful. More like there was just a lot of stuff in there that needed to actually finally come out.

CHAPTER 14
Momma Lion

Right after I celebrated my one-year AA birthday, it was a long holiday weekend, and I got to take the bus to Redlands to see Nanny and Grampop. And, of course, Bill.

I left on Friday afternoon, and my mom was slumped over on the couch with a bottle on the coffee table in front of her and a cigarette in her hand. That worried me. She was never supposed to have a cigarette in her hand. She was supposed to put it in the ashtray in between drags. Every time. I thought I had her all trained.

“Mom,” I said. She acted like she didn't even hear me. Maybe she didn't. “Mom.” I took the cigarette out of her hand, and she looked up. She was really smashed.

“What?”

“Where is this supposed to go?”

“Right. I know.”

“It's important. I'm going to be gone for three days. You can't forget. Remember why? Remember why it's so important not to forget?”

She thought about it a long time. Like this was a real brainteaser. “So I don't burn the house down.” Her words were mushing all together.

“Right. Don't forget.”

I knew Snake was waiting in the driveway to take me to the bus station, but I really wanted to call Pat. I stuck my head out the door and gave Snake a little signal, that I'd just be a minute. He caught it and nodded.

I dialed Pat's number by heart.

“Thought you'd be gone by now,” she said.

“I'm just leaving. Pat, can you look in on my mom while I'm gone? I know we said to just not worry, but—”

“Sure,” she said. “It's no trouble.”

“Thanks, Pat. Make sure she eats something, okay? Sometimes she doesn't eat. Maybe heat her up some soup or something.”

“Cynthia. We've been over this. She's home alone all the time. She'll be fine. But I'll stick my head in, just so you can stop worrying and enjoy your trip.”

“Thanks, Pat.”

“You gonna talk to your grandparents?”

“Yeah. I really am.”

“Scared?”

“A little.”

“You'll be strong. I know you will, Momma Lion. Call me collect if you need to.”

“Okay. I have to go, Pat. Thanks.”

I hung up the phone. I looked at my mom again. She was all fallen over sideways on the couch. But at least her cigarette was in the ashtray.

“Bye, Mom,” I said. No answer. “I'll be back Monday night.” Nothing. “I love you, Mom.” Nothing. But at least I said it.

Snake sat in the bus station with me and held my hand while I waited.

“It's a little scary,” I said.

“Think they'll fight you?”

“I don't know. I think they'll be mad. It's a little weird, telling your own family you'll be in court in a custody case in three years. I'm not sure how you say a thing like that.”

“Just take a big deep breath and say it, I guess.”

“I guess.”

Then they announced that my bus to Redlands was boarding, so we got up and Snake carried my duffel bag all the way to the door, and then he gave me a big long hug. He was a good hugger. There was something solid about his hugs. You knew he was really in there.

“I'll miss you,” he said, and gave me a little kiss.

When I looked up this older lady was smiling at us, like we made a nice couple or something. Maybe we did.

“Miss you, too,” I said.

You can't forget to say stuff like that to people, like I always used to. Besides, now I really meant it.

Nanny and Grampop came to the bus station to pick me up, and they brought Bill. He was so big. Huge. He was five now, and almost too big for Nanny and Grampop to pick up.

He came running at me and hugged me around my knees and said, “Hi, Thynnie, hi, Thynnie hi.” He was strong, too.

Bill said “hi” now. He said a few things now, not just “Thynnie.”

Nanny said he'd learned all kinds of new words. She said Bill might even surprise me that weekend, because I might even hear a new word I hadn't heard on the telephone. She said new words popped up every day now. But even if he'd never learned another word his whole life, it wouldn't have mattered to me.

Grampop came over and gave me a great big bear hug and said, “Great to see you, Cynthia. You never looked better.”

It was hard to imagine that these were the same people who never even came into my hospital room in Arizona. Who wouldn't even look at me. But I knew it wasn't Nanny and Grampop who had changed. I was the one who had changed.

I waited until Bill took his afternoon nap the next day to have our talk. Because even though he wouldn't understand the words, Bill knew a lot about when people were mad and upset. I wanted to make sure he didn't hear us fighting.

I just told Nanny and Grampop straight out that I needed to talk to them about something important. That way there was no backing down.

Nanny made tea, and we sat at the dining room table. I said, “In three years … when I'm eighteen … I'm going to try to get custody of Bill.”

They looked at each other for a minute.

Then Nanny said, “How will you look after him, dear?”

“Well, Pat says we can rent a room in her house. And I'll work and go to school. And we're looking into getting him into a special school, so he'll be gone part of the day, anyway. But Pat will look after him when I'm not around.”

They looked at each other again and nodded a little.

Nanny said, “That sounds fine, dear.”

I guess I was so prepared for what to say, I just said it anyway. I said, “I know it's kind of weird, me fighting you for custody and all.”

“There's no need for a fight,” Nanny said. “If you really keep doing this well … we'd be happy for you to take him.”

I was quiet for a minute, wondering where all that scary stuff had gone. “You would?”

Grampop said, “Oh, God, yes! When we took that kid I thought it'd be just temporary. I thought your mom would get her act together. But it doesn't look like that's gonna happen, and it's not like Bill's going to grow up and be on his own.” I saw him look up at Nanny and then look away, like he was ashamed. I could tell she was giving him that look. Like he was being way too honest. His voice got softer. “Anyway,
you've earned a lot of trust back this year. I hope you really do keep it up. You're doing something even your mom can't seem to do.”

Then we were all quiet for a while, because it was hard, talking about my mom. It's like we all knew she was pretty much a lost cause, and we all felt bad about it, but there was nothing we could do. Every time her name came up, there was this moment of silence. Like she died or something. It was so sad.

“I really appreciate this,” I said.

“You'll be earning it,” Grampop said. And that means a lot coming from Grampop. It might not be much credit, but he doesn't give you any credit unless you really deserve it.

Then he left to take a nap, and Nanny and I sat at the table together for a while longer.

Nanny said, “Remember when you sent that letter apologizing for everything you did?”

“Yeah. Be kind of hard to forget.”

“I've been feeling bad ever since then. And now I know why. Because
I
owed
you
an apology, too. For just leaving you in that house on your own with her. I tried to talk Grampop into taking you, too. But he didn't even want to take Bill. He never wanted any more kids. He said we paid our dues already on kids. But at least I could've told you how hard I tried. But I didn't, and I don't know why not. It's like I had to pretend you were fine there on your own or I wouldn't have been able to do it.” A long silence. I didn't know if I was supposed to say something or not.

Nobody in my family had ever made amends to
me.
“Anyway. I'm sorry.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your saying that.” More silence. It was reminding me why my family never talks about things. Because when we do, it feels so awkward and strange. “I'm going to go sit in the bedroom,” I said. “I'll be careful not to wake Bill.” I think she knew I was really saying, I'm going to go look at Bill while he sleeps. I think she understood.

Nanny and Grampop had set up a rollaway bed for me in Bill's room, and I sat down on it. Just sat and watched Bill sleep. He was faced away, so I was just seeing the back of his hair, all mussy and dark. A bunch of afternoon light came in through the window and fell over the back of his head, like he was the lightest thing in the world.