Up From the Blue (29 page)

“The house,” she said, “smelled like dogs and cigarettes. We opened all the windows to let in the breeze. It was a hot day, and your father and I went down the street in search of an ice cream shop that sold root beer floats. This was when Phil was in diapers, and we strolled him down the sidewalk. Everyone thought he was such a cute, fat baby.

“When we came back to the house, the smell had aired out, but inside was completely coated in red sand.”

“I remember it,” I said, my voice so quiet I hardly recognized it as my own. “That red dust got on everything.”

Something about her story made me nervous. Why tell it now? Why on a day he’d been so cruel to her?

“I started to cry,” she said, continuing her story, “because our new house was ruined and it was too much to clean. Roy told me to go wash my face, and I felt ashamed of my tears, hurrying to the bathroom to see if my mascara had run. But this was all a ploy to get me to see that he’d written ‘Cootie’ on the mirror with his finger.”

“Why Cootie?”

“On our first date, he tried to call me Cutie but was nervous and it came out wrong.”

“It’s a nice story,” I said, though it was also a terrible story, because the man in her memory, this nervous man who would go out of his way to please her, no longer existed.

“Those are the kinds of things that keep you going,” she said. “Otherwise, life is just an awful rowing toward God.”

“That’s one of your books,” I said, remembering the title.

“Yes,” she said. Normally when we talked about books, she was pleased with me, but this time her eyes were distant.

We both turned our attention to the spinach crêpes, though I mostly cut mine into smaller and smaller pieces because my stomach hurt again. We hardly looked up until the waiter cleared our dishes.

“It’s been such a pleasure to serve you today,” he said, a kindness in his voice that seemed to break through her mood, however slightly.

When she pulled out the credit card, I couldn’t help but imagine this man as a replacement for Dad.
Maybe he’d be nicer
, I thought.
Maybe he’d dance with her.

“How about the bookstore next?” she asked after signing the bill, though she seemed as tired as I felt.

“Okay. And then maybe we’re done for the day,” I said, cringing at how much I sounded like Dad. When we got up from the table, I brushed some spinach from her hair.

“Did you like your coffee?” she asked as we weaved through the restaurant’s tables, our hands full, once again, with shopping bags, and I realized I hadn’t even tasted it.

At Waldenbooks, Momma found a copy of
The Feminine Mystique
and handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “One of your very own.”

The cover was crisp, shiny, and not as nice to hold. “Are you
sure?” I asked. “I could just borrow yours when I need it,” not that I was ever expecting to need it.

“I’m absolutely sure,” she said. “Would you like anything else while we’re here?”

As I panned the store, my eye stopped on a sandy-haired girl who had paused at the entrance to turn one of the book racks. It was not until I saw the one-handed lady move her along to the next store that I was sure who it was.

“Anything else?” Momma asked again.

I pointed to the stacks of
Ribsy
and
Ramona the Pest
in the children’s section. “Hope likes these,” I said.

“Hope?”

I was so curious about the books with girls my age on the covers and the ones Phil used to tell me about, with words like “dumb” and “snot” in them, but no one expected me to read those anymore.

In the checkout line, I turned to my mother’s favorite chapter in my new book.

“Oh, is that a sight,” a woman in line said, approving.

My jaw hurt from what had been a long day of pretend smiles, and I worried, as we stepped back into the glass elevator, that when the door opened we might continue shopping.

“Do you think maybe we can go home now?” I asked.

“Oh. Well, I guess we could.”

The bags were heavy in my hands and I did a quick count. “Aren’t we missing one?”

She gave a hurried look at what we carried and sighed, “What can you do?” We’d shopped so mindlessly that we couldn’t remember what was in the missing bag or be bothered to retrace our steps.

• • •

The air in the mall was icy, and I wished my hands were free to rub my shoulders and warm them. As we headed through the exit, I heard someone shout behind us. Momma kept going, but I turned to find Hope.

“I
thought
that was you,” she said.

We stood on either side of an automatic door, which buzzed and clicked, trying to shut itself. The cold air blew against my kneecaps while the humidity hit the backs of my legs.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Shopping.”

“Me too.”

The doors buzzed again as my foot swept back and forth on the pavement, pushing a rock of tar with one side of my sneaker and then the other.

“That’s my mother,” I said, pointing across the parking lot, remembering they’d never met. Momma adjusted the bags in her hands, continuing toward the car. I worried if I took too long, she might leave for home without me.

When Hope didn’t say anything else, I said, “You should come over some time.” But even as I said it, it was clear too much time had passed and we would not play at each other’s houses again. The friendship was lost forever, maybe lost long ago, but I’d only just become aware of it. I pushed my thumbs through my belt loops, feeling hot behind the knees and itchy from bugs.

Hope leaned slightly to one side, holding her hands behind her back, then placing them on her hips. We stood there saying nothing at all to each other, though I tried desperately to think of something because I didn’t want to leave just yet.

Finally, the one-handed lady emerged from around a corner and called, “Time to go, Hope.”

I had never gotten a good look at the stump before. It was only the slightest hint of a hand—a wrist, and three bumps where fingers might have formed. Seeing it straight on took away my fascination of it, and my eyes soon wandered to the denim purse she carried on that arm, and the strawberry blonde hair at her shoulder, until, for the first time, I noticed her face, and that she had freckles.

“Okay,” Hope told her. And then turning back to me, she said, “I have to go.”

I thought to shake hands with her, wanting to stall or to have some last contact, but it seemed silly, something only boys would do. “Well, see ya,” I said, and slowly turned from her to find my mother. I had to jog to catch up to her.

“Who was that?” she asked, keeping up her pace.

“Hope.”

“Hmmm.” She was focused on reading the row numbers to find where we’d parked.

“Bug,” I reminded her.

When we got to the car, we stuffed the bags into the backseat. Then I got in front, cooling my head on the window.

“Here,” she said, handing me the most enormous bag of potato chips I’d ever seen. “Snack on these if you get hungry.”

I was still full from the Magic Pan, but I opened the bag and ate anyway, trying to imagine Hope’s room at her new house: lavender walls, dust ruffles around the bed, a portable record player on a small table, and her collection of trolls all around. I thought of us singing and dancing in front of the mirror, and how it might feel to laugh like that again.

As we made our way through the parking lot, I thought of silly jingles we used to sing: “Mr. Bubble in the tubble …” “My bologna has a first name …” “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese …”

Momma pulled on to the road, while I ate potato chips until the roof and the corners of my mouth started to burn. “I can’t believe Hope was there,” I said.

Momma hadn’t heard me. She’d turned on the radio, and sang a little to Debby Boone before switching the station to a Stevie Wonder song. I brought my knees to my chest and squeezed them hard. “Hope was so short,” I said, turning to the window. “I don’t remember her being short.”

My reflection in the glass—a lost look in the eyes, a greasy mouth that turned downward on one side—showed that the feeling I’d had that morning had traveled with me. It was a stubborn sorrow that would go home with me as well.

Momma and I climbed out of the car with shopping bags on our arms. I didn’t remember buying so much, but between the two of us, we could hardly carry it all.

In the dining room, I noticed the table was set, and there were plates of cold dinner at my seat and at Momma’s. I felt sick from eating so many chips and wished I’d waited for Dad’s cooking.

“We’ll hide these under the table,” Momma said.

“Who are we hiding them from?”

“It’s just for fun. Like a game.” She nodded for me to go first into the living room, and I did, with the bags behind my back, though they were still completely visible. It didn’t matter, though. No one was there.

“The closet,” she whispered, taking a few items from the bags first. “Hide them in the closet. There’s more room.”

Momma took her regular seat, and using one of the items we bought at the mall—our new Ronco Rhinestone & Stud Setter machine—pressed rhinestones and metal studs onto a new stiff jean jacket for me.

I opened the door to the closet, stuffed so full of Momma’s things I didn’t know if I could close it again. To make room for our shopping bags, I had to push piles of clothes and random objects to one side, and while I was doing this, I heard a clank. Fearing I’d broken something, I began to sift to the bottom of the pile. I lifted a towel and then a scarf, and underneath, my heart beginning to pound, I found a small, white mug with a broken handle and rubies glued all around the sides.

31
Rubies

I
HELD THE CUP, BREATHLESS,
and slowly fingered the ridges where the handle had once been. I touched the rim and brought it to my mouth. Everything came rushing back—lying warm in my old bed, Momma coming to sit beside me, talking and reading as if she had all the time in the world.

I walked back to the couch, the cup in my hands, and sat beside Momma. I sat closer than I normally did and let myself feel small next to her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this. Momma, do you remember how you’d sit by my bed and tell me stories and I’d have my drink in this cup? It used to have more rubies on it. Remember? And how I used to save them in my pillowcase?”

She tried to laugh but it came out weary. Put on. “That little drink you liked had a way of calming you down. You’d talk and talk and talk, and then you’d talk yourself right to sleep.”

“It had such a strange taste.”

“Mostly,” she said, distracted and looking toward the couch, “it was Tang and hot water.”

“But it was bitter, too.”

“Well, that was the
magic
ingredient.” She smiled a bit, but her eyelids drooped, and I could feel our day coming to an end.

“I know! Let’s make it tonight.” I blew the dust out of my cup and wiped the inside clean with my shirt.

“Oh, I don’t think this is a good time. Aren’t you tired from all the shopping?” Then, meeting my eyes, she sighed. “I suppose I can make you Tang with hot water.”

“No. Make it just like you used to. I like the bitter. Oh, I know! …” I jumped up with a thought so thrilling I thought I’d burst. “I’ll wait under my covers. You’ve never seen my room before. It’s up these stairs.”

I handed her the ruby cup, and her hands sank lower as if it were something heavy.

“Momma, please.” I didn’t know how badly I wanted this until I said it out loud. I wanted her to see my room. I wanted her to tuck me in. I wanted to have back what had been taken from me.

“Tillie, really, I …” Finally, sighing again, she took the cup. “All right. I’ll make it for you.”

I laughed with a joy I couldn’t hold in. “I’ll wait for you in my room.”

I leapt up the stairs, but when I got to the doorway and imagined Momma seeing my room for the first time, I worried she’d be disappointed. If we were so alike, my room didn’t show it, except for the mess. There were no literary classics or choice pins. Instead, she’d find tacked to my wall a picture of Peter Frampton (with his girlfriend Penny cropped out), along
with pages of my favorite song lyrics, written in bubble letters. I heard the kettle go off downstairs and knew I only had time to pull the books she’d given me forward on the shelf.

When I heard her clump up the stairs, I got into bed with my sneakers still on. She slowly rounded the corner, holding my ruby cup. I felt wonderful, excited. My legs were restless under the covers, and I patted the mattress to show her where to sit. She sat near the edge and placed the cup in my hands. I held it just below my chin to feel the steam and listen to the ice cube squeal and pop. The warmth and its sharp smell gave me a strange flash of memory from the old house—Momma with her face close to mine, crying.

I’m sorry, Bear. I never meant to hurt you.

I took a sip, then another, hoping for a different memory. The drink burned as it went down, and the bitter taste was strong. It was a drink that forced you to slow down.

I rubbed my fingers over the remaining rubies. “I was so afraid someone had thrown it away.”

“You’ll have to ask your brother how it turned up in there.”

I took another sip, hardly surprised that he was to blame, but I didn’t want to ruin our time with thoughts of Phil. “Do you remember how you used to tell me stories at bedtime?” I asked.

Her shoulders raised the tiniest bit, then dropped again. “I just can’t think of one,” she said, when Phil burst into the room with something bundled under his arm.

“Dad’s been pretty berserk looking for you.”

“He’s always berserk,” I said. “That’s
his
problem.”

“Well, he’s been searching the neighborhood for hours and then coming back home to check.”

Momma stood, arms wrapped about herself, and Phil paused, as if just now taking in the idea that she’d come upstairs.
Slowly, she unfolded her arms and extended them toward Phil as if he were still that boy beside the crashed sled, calling for his mother. He shook his head, but barely, and stepped backward.