Waiting for Normal (5 page)
“That’s not all she’s getting,” Mommers said. She winked at me. I squirmed and raised an eyebrow at her. Dwight cleared his throat.
“Everybody know what they want?” he asked. We focused on the menus and nobody said anything more about me, thank heavens.
“I’m going to call the hamster Piccolo,” I offered later. “Kinda goes with one of my dreams. You know, to play the piccolo someday.”
“Puh-puh-piccolo!” Katie sang. “There’s a P in it!”
The five of us were laughing when our meals came. The restaurant owner himself helped the waitress bring our plates and he set my fish and chips down in front of me.
“Enjoy!” he said.
I couldn’t help thinking that they might have thought we were just a normal family. I don’t think it showed, there in the restaurant, how many twists and turns we’d taken. I leaned into Dwight a little, took a bite of my fish, and did what the restaurant owner said: I enjoyed.
The only bad thing about having a good time is when it’s over. Dwight was already talking to Mommers, looking for another day to come down, as I kissed my sisters good-bye.
“Sorry you can’t come all to home, Oddie,” Katie said.
“All to home?”
“She means to
our
home,” said Brynna.
“I’m sorry too.” I kissed them both good-bye, then watched them go.
The trailer seemed so quiet that night. I climbed into my bunk, took Piccolo out of her cage and let her explore. She hurried along the back of my bunk with her whiskers twitching. I cupped her in my hands. She sat still enough for me to feel that tiny hum of life inside her. I stroked the butterscotch fur with my thumbs, brought her to my lips and kissed her tiny warm head.
“Welcome all to home,” I whispered.
T
he next day, I was looking at the bulletin board at the minimart. Soula had a newspaper clipping from a while back with a picture of the OverUnderpass on it. (In fact, I could see a little corner of our trailer in the picture.) Someone had spray painted graffiti across the top of the OverUnderpass. I read it out loud. “‘DORRY IS A NUMBSKULL.’ Hey, Soula, what was this about?” I asked.
She flapped a hand at me and laughed. “Oh, that’s a story that went on for a while.” She thought for a second. “The words appeared up there one morning in spray paint. Everyone just thought it was a prank, a one shot. The railroad painted over it. But then, it appeared again, only this time it said, ‘DORRY IS
STILL
A NUMBSKULL.’”
“Oh no! Get out!” I laughed.
“Seriously, Cookie. I’m telling you the truth! So the railroad cleaned it up again, and wouldn’t you know, a few days went by and the rascal came back and put up ‘DORRY WILL
ALWAYS
BE A NUMBSKULL.’” Soula laughed and stamped a plastic sandal on the floor. (Sandals in October seemed funny, but Soula had sort of outsized feet, so that’s what she wore.) “Anyway, the railroad was getting sick of cleaning up the mess and they thought the city ought to be putting some effort into looking for the culprit. So there was a bit of discussion between the two, you see.”
I nodded. I turned to look back at the article on the wall. The door to the minimart swung open and in walked a man. I knew his face but I couldn’t remember from where. Hose Company No. 6? No.
Suddenly it hit me. He was the guy from Numbskull Dorry’s—the restaurant owner!
“Hey! Numbskull! Get out!” I said. Then I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oops!” Soula started laughing so hard I had to run and get her lawn chair from the candy aisle.
“Who you calling a Numbskull?” the restaurant guy called after me. He started to laugh too.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean
you are
a numbskull and I didn’t mean
get out
of here either,” I called as I dragged the chair up.
We got Soula settled and she introduced me to Rick. “You were in the pub yesterday, right?” he asked. He put a finger to his lips and thought for a second. “Fish and chips?”
I nodded. “But I don’t get it. Are you the one who wrote ‘DORRY IS A NUMBSKULL’ on the overpass?”
“No!” He threw his head back.
“We were in the middle of the story when you walked in,” Soula told him. Together they went on to tell me that after the newspaper ran the articles, there had been some letters to the paper about the graffiti. It turned out that Dorry’s family knew all along that her sister had done the “decorating,” as Rick called it.
“It just happened that I was ready to open the pub around the same time that all of this was going on,” he said. “I had been looking for a name and, well, I figured there was no such thing as negative advertising. You could say I stole it.” He shrugged and grinned.
“The pub’s great,” I said.
“Thank you. It’s a grind. Eighteen hours a day. But it’s my dream,” he added. He checked his watch, then looked at Soula. “Could I leave a message for the love of my life? He’ll be in soon, no?”
“That’s right,” Soula said. “There’s a notepad by the register. Cookie, would you mind?”
I brought Rick the notepad and a pencil. He scribbled on it and handed it back to me.
“Soula, good luck later this week.” He gave her a little salute. “Sorry to run,” he said. “Gotta check in with the chef.” He hurried out the door.
I looked at the notepad in my hand.
Elliot,
Running late tonight. Can you meet
me at the pub after your shift? Call.
Love you, R.
I looked at Soula. “Huh?” I said. “I thought Elliot was
your
boyfriend.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Best friend. And sometimes hero.”
“
A
ddie!” Mommers slammed the trailer door behind her. I poked my head out of my curtain “ and saw her set a bag of groceries down in the kitchen. “Those pumpkin guts stink out there. Can you get them away from the front door?”
“Sure,” I said. “Mommers, look.” I had the carved pumpkin up in my bunk and I turned it so she could see the face. Piccolo was climbing around the inside of the hollow. Every so often her head would pop out of an eyehole or appear between the teeth of the grinning jack-o’-lantern. Mommers watched, smiling a little. Then Piccolo bit off a chunk of the pumpkin flesh and stuffed it into her cheek and both Mommers and I laughed out loud.
“You like that rat, don’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m taking her over to meet Soula and Elliot today,” I said. “They asked me to.”
“You’re spending an awful lot of time with those people.” Mommers put a new carton of milk in the fridge. “You have a home, you know. Such as it is.” She bumped her hip against the refrigerator door to close it.
“You should come meet them,” I said.
“I’m not gonna do my shopping at the gas station, thanks,” Mommers said. She put a hand on her hip and gave me a serious look. “You need to consider whether they really want you hanging around or if they’re just being nice.”
They were definitely being nice. There was no doubt about that. But how was I supposed to know if they were
just
being nice? I decided to look for signs that I might be a pain and I decided to start that day. I arrived at the minimart with Piccolo tucked into one of those fishing creel baskets—the kind with the lid. Helena had given it to me after her family had a garage sale.
The minimart was quiet when I walked in. Dead quiet. I called for Soula and Elliot. No answer. I headed back to the Greenhouse. The door was open so I stepped inside. I heard the water running in the bathroom and then Elliot’s voice, quiet and steady, saying, “It’ll stop. It’ll stop.”
I walked right up to the open bathroom door and there was Soula on her knees, her large body bent to hug the bowl. I couldn’t see her head but she heaved and retched as hard as I had ever seen or heard a person do that. I pressed the creel basket close to my chest.
Elliot wrung a washcloth into the sink. “Just remember, you
will
feel better,” he said. He stooped to offer her the cloth. Finally, I saw Soula’s head come up just a bit. I caught a breath in my chest. She was completely bald.
I started to back out of the doorway. Elliot turned and we locked eyes.
“I better go,” I said.
He nodded. “The hospital called this morning. There was an opening for a treatment and—”
Soula threw an arm back and tugged Elliot’s pant leg. “Is that my Cookie?” she said, gasping. “Let her stay. I think it’s over.”
I was frozen on the outside and screaming on my inside.
What’s wrong? What’s wrong?
I wanted to know.
Elliot asked Soula if she was still cold. He pulled a wrap around her shoulders. Finally, she stood but Elliot did not let go of her. He kept one hand tucked into her armpit as he helped her shuffle over to her big round papasan chair.
“God, Elliot,” she breathed. She rubbed her head with her hand. “Where did we put my hair?”
“Just a minute. Comfort before vanity,” he said. He lifted Soula’s big legs onto the ottoman and draped a shawl over her lap. He pushed two pillows in behind her and set one of those vomit trays and a box of tissues on the table next to her. Then he brought the black wig and helped her stretch it over her bare head.
“I’m going to check on things up front if you are set,” Elliot said. “Unless of course we’ve already been robbed blind, that is.”
“It’ll be fine,” Soula said. “They leave the money on the counter.”
“You have entirely too much trust in people.” Elliot gave her arm a stroke before he left. “You’re in charge.” He tapped me on the head. I kept a gulp inside.
Soula closed her eyes. She rested for a minute in her nest of pillows. Then, just when I thought she might have gone to sleep, she opened her eyes again.
“You’re seeing the worst of it, Cookie.” She sighed. “This is cancer. And it stinks.”
“Cancer,” I said. So that was it. And I remembered that one of Grandio’s friends had had treatments that’d made him throw up and lose his hair too. I felt an ache in my heart. Grandio’s friend had died.
“It grew in my big breast.” Soula breathed rhythmically as she spoke. “Wonder I found it. Old big-as-a-fridge me. They said it was the size of a peach pit. And I let the doctor cut on me. ’Cept I swear he used a spoon.” She paused, and it seemed like she ought to shake out one of her chuckles but she let go a tiny, whistling sigh instead. “Anyway, what you see here is the violent storm”—she paused to breathe—“of old Soula reacting to chemotherapy.”
I nodded. I should have hugged her, it seemed, but my knees felt locked in place and I still had my arms glued to the creel basket. I just stood by her chair not speaking.
“So, did you bring that little mouse of yours?”
“Hamster,” I whispered. “Uh-huh. But I could jus—”
“Love to see him,” she said.
“Her,” I whispered again. I opened the creel and slipped the sleeping ball that was Piccolo out of the tissue nest. I set her down on Soula’s crossed arms. The hamster shook off her sleep, sat back on her haunches and worked her whiskers. Soula managed a chuckle.
“I didn’t think I liked these little critters,” she said.
I said, “You never met Piccolo.”
I
walked right over the pumpkin guts on my way home. Inside, Mommers was heating some water on the gas stove and it had reached a full boil. She came out of her room all dressed up, hair neat as could be. A purse she hadn’t used in months dangled from her wrist.
“Good. You’re back. I have a job interview,” she said. “How do I look?”
“Great,” I said. “I like your hair pinned up. And your makeup looks nice.” (No blue eye shadow.) “It’s dinnertime,” I said. “Weird time for a job interview, isn’t it?”
“Well, we figured out this was the best time for both of us. We’re meeting at a restaurant.” She fiddled with one earring.
“What kind of job?”
“Sales,” she said. “Oh, I forgot to put the macaroni on! I was gonna have dinner ready for you. Well, water’s boiling. I’ve gotta get up to Union Street. I can’t miss my bus. I don’t want this guy to know I don’t have a car.”
“Okay,” I said. “Hey, Mommers?”
“What!” She stepped out of the trailer and I followed her.
“Do you do that breast checking thing?”
“What? Of course!” She started away. She slipped in the pumpkin mush, caught herself and swore. “Addie! Clean that up!” she yelled over her shoulder.
I ducked inside, put the macaroni in the pot and grabbed the broom. While I swept I wished everything good that I could for Mommers. I wished her up to Union Street in time for her bus. I wished her a seat by the window, and something as tasty as fish and chips for dinner. I wished up the best interview ever for Mommers. Then I wished something for myself: I wished Mommers back home before midnight.
I
shouldn’t have tried to wait up, it being a school night and all. But I wanted to hear about Mommers’ meeting and, well, I just wanted to know she was home. The clock on the microwave read 11:45. Piccolo was busy running on her wheel—it squeaked just a bit with every turn—and I liked having the sound inside the trailer with me. Outside, the street was quiet. The lights were low at the minimart. I hoped Soula was sleeping.
In my bunk, I opened my writer’s notebook and took a look at the “Sloppy Copy” of my school essay.
Sloppy
barely described it. My writing was okay. But I had things crossed out, eraser marks everywhere, and worst of all, I’d missed the left margin for most of the new lines—again. My work covered only the right half of the page and it was on a slant. Like a quilting square cut on a diagonal.
Why was it so hard? My teacher and I had gone through my entire writer’s notebook and had highlighted every left hand margin in bright pink. When I wrote, I was supposed to come back and bump that pink edge with the first letter of every new line. It seemed like kindergarten stuff. But if I got my mind going on the words, I started to miss the margin. If I concentrated on the margin, I forgot what I was writing.
I sighed loudly, and Piccolo’s wheel stopped. She was looking at me. “I can’t do it, Pic,” I said. I rolled onto my back and covered my face with the open notebook. “Grrrrrr …How do ya get the Love of Learning?”
