Whatever (15 page)

“Why are your feet two different colours? What are those things anyway?” asked Andrew.

I pulled off the purple slipper and tossed it into the basket, found the other orange one and pulled it on. “Slippers. Grab a pair,” I said.

“I'll just wear my socks,”

“No you won't. House rules: no outside shoes, no bare feet or socks.”

“They're all wimp colours,” he complained, surveying the slippers. “Except the orange ones. Can I wear those?”

“No. Hang up your coat and backpack, take off your shoes. Once you're ready, bring your homework and come to the kitchen. I'm working.”

I'd measured the flour, cocoa and sugar into the pan by the time Andrew came in. He'd taken his time, probably agonizing over which pair of slippers to wear. On his feet were brown
ones with thin yellow stripes. They must have been at the bottom of the basket as I hadn't noticed them before, and they were much too big for him.

“Mrs. Johnson, this is my brother, Andrew.”

“How do you do, Andrew?”

“Fine. What's Darrah making?”

“Wacky Cake.”

“What kind?”

“Chocolate cake,” I said. “Sit down on the bench and start your homework.”

“No, come sit by me, boy. I'd like to see what passes for homework these days. What grade are you in?”

“Five.” He'd pulled up the other tall stool, the one that was usually pushed into a corner, and the two of them sat side by side. Andrew wriggled uncomfortably.

“What's your arithmetic homework?” Mrs. J. asked.

He looked puzzled.

“Math,” I explained.

Andrew put his math text on the counter. “I've got lots. It's review. Fifty questions by tomorrow.”

The two of them bent their heads over Andrew's math homework. I continued with the Wacky Cake, making three holes in the dry ingredients, putting the vinegar, the vanilla and the oil each in a different hole.

“
DO NOT BEAT
” the recipe insisted in capital letters, underlined, so I mixed well “with a fork” as instructed, and popped the cake into the oven (preheated to 350 degrees).

Andrew was reading the questions to Mrs. J., and she was
figuring out the answers in her head. They were racing to see who could get the answer first. I could tell Mrs. J. beat Andrew almost every time—she nodded her head just a bit and almost smiled when she got it—but she usually let him say the answer before she did.

Once again, Robin appeared in the kitchen unannounced. “Hi Gran, hi kid, how you feeling?”

“I'm feeling fine,” I answered, even though I knew he was talking to Andrew. “I think you have nasal radar that can smell something baking from miles away.”

He smiled. He had a wonderful smile.

“Bet that's Wacky Cake.”

“How'd you know?”

“Gran used to let me make it when I was little.”

“Good, then why don't you make the icing?”

He laughed and reached for the recipe card. “Okay, if I can use this cheat sheet. It's been awhile.”

I could smell the chocolate cake baking. Andrew and Mrs. J. said an answer at the same time and laughed. Robin whistled as he blended butter and sugar together in a small pot. Outside, it was dark and cold, but in here it was warm and bright. I could see my reflection in the bay window; the overhead lights reflecting back from the dark.

I sat on the bench in the kitchen nook and watched and listened and felt warm. Not warm from the oven heat, but inside. At first I didn't recognize that feeling. Then I realized what it was.

I was happy.

The four of us finished the cake. Mrs. J. had a small piece and pronounced it “acceptable,” except the icing was too sweet. Andrew asked her if we could borrow the recipe. Maybe he could help me make it at home.

I promised to take good care of the recipe card and return it the next time, then slipped it into Andrew's math book. “I'll let you help if you copy it out for me,” I told him.

“Deal.”

“It's after five,” said Robin. “Isn't your dad coming for you, Darrah?”

“No,” said Andrew. “You're driving us home.”

“Meant to ask you, forgot, sorry,” said Mrs. J.

“No problem.” Robin smiled at me. “Always a pleasure.”

The warm happy feeling stayed with me all the way home. Andrew leaned over the back seat and chattered at Robin who kept turning and smiling at me.

The warm happy feeling was still with me when we stopped outside our house.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Andrew, climbing out of the backseat. “I like your grandma,” he told Robin cheerfully.

Then it happened, and the warm feeling twisted in my stomach and turned into something cold and frightening, as Andrew continued, “Too bad she's going blind.”

Chapter Thirteen

ANDREW DIDN'T REALIZE
what he'd said, but Robin understood immediately. He stared at me for a long, long moment, reached across the empty front seat, pulled the passenger door shut then drove off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. All without a word.

Andrew was in the front hall. He hadn't even taken off his coat when I grabbed his shoulders and started shaking him.
Shake
. “You stupid idiot!”
Shake, shake
. “Now Robin knows.”
Shake
. “He'll tell his parents.”

Andrew paled, and his eyes grew wide. “Robin didn't know?”

“No one knew, except a few of her friends, the doctor, and me,” I shouted at him.

He shouted back. “And me. You wouldn't have figured it out without me.”

“I didn't think you'd go blabbing like that.” I was almost screaming.

He yelled back. “Everyone would have found out soon. She couldn't even see my math questions, that's why I read them aloud. It's not the end of the world.”

“It's the end of her world.”

“What?”

“Her family will make her give up her house. They'll make her move to an old folk's place, and that will . . .”

“Will what?”

I didn't want to think about the answer to that question. I sighed and lowered my voice. “Never mind, there's nothing we can do about it now. Please don't have a seizure because I was mad at you.”

He looked indignant. “Now you're being stupid. No one causes my seizures, they just happen. Like farts.”

Upset as I was, I had to smile. “Or hiccups?”

“Yup. How about I phone Robin and tell him I lied?”

“No use. He figured it out, I saw it on his face. He knows it's true.”

“Then how about you let go of my shoulders before your fingers bore into my skin? You're hurting me.”

I let go of him. “Sorry.”

“What's going on down there?” Mom called from upstairs.

“Nothing,” Andrew and I said together.

“Well, the ‘nothing' is too noisy. Stop it. Go do your homework. Both of you.”

“What's she doing home?”

I shrugged. “I guess the emergency at work solved itself. Or else she's working from her own computer, here.”

“Keep it down. I've got a database to finish in half an hour.”

“Okay, Mom,” Andrew and I said in unison again and reached for our backpacks and our homework. He grabbed his and bounded up the stairs. I reached for mine, but it wasn't there. It was still in Robin's car.

The doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I wasn't surprised to see Robin, my backpack in his hand. Robin was pale and there was not a trace of a smile on his face.

“I've got to talk to you, Darrah.”

“Who is it?” Mom called from upstairs. Without waiting for an answer, she started down the stairs, stopping when she saw Robin. “Oh, it's you,” she said. “Thank you for driving Andrew and Darrah home, but aren't they early? I thought I'd have the house to myself for an hour longer.”

“Mom!” I felt like shouting “Manners!” at her, the way she did at me so often.

“I'd like to talk to Darrah, please, Mrs. Patrick.”

Mom was distracted. I could almost hear that database calling to her from her computer. “Okay,” she said, turned around and went back upstairs.

I started for the kitchen, but Robin pulled me into the living room. “Let's talk in here,” he said.

The living room? This was like the old days when a young man came to visit his girl and they had to sit in a formal parlour that was used only when the minister visited or after a funeral. Or when a young couple were “courting.”

“Um, I can make tea or get us some pop or juice. Let's go to the kitchen.”

“No, no distractions. In here.”

He half-pushed me into the living room, sat me down on the sofa, then pulled up a chair and sat facing me.

“How long have you known?”

I wasn't stupid enough to ask “known what”—to play games.

“Not long.”

“What's wrong with her eyes? And why did she tell you and not me?”

“She didn't tell me.” I explained how I found the glasses and magnifiers, and began to wonder why she'd lied. “I knew there was something wrong once I found those,” I said. “I should have figured it out earlier.” I told him how she wanted me to read the newspapers and recipes aloud to her, and how Andrew and I had googled eye problems to narrow down the medical options.

“That's why her front stairs are such weird colours—the dark edges allow her to see where each step ends so she won't fall.”

He nodded. “I wondered at her choosing that colour
scheme when she had me paint them. She used to wear her glasses all the time, and then for a while she had this big magnifying contraption that hung around her neck, sort of balanced on her chest, so that she could look through it when she read. I thought her eyes were getting better when she stopped wearing her glasses.”

“She said glasses don't help anymore.”

“What's macular degeneration? Is it curable?”

“Um . . . I don't know that much about it.” I wasn't lying, I didn't know much, just what I'd read on a few medical sites.

“She's going blind, isn't she?”

“I don't know for sure.”

He was silent for a long time, then “I have to tell Dad.”

“No, don't! They don't have to know. I'll help her and you can do the garden and other things for her and Karen is there every morning and . . .”

He shook his head. “How old do you think she is?”

I hadn't really thought about it. “Seventy?” I guessed. Old was old.

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Well how old is she?”

“We don't actually know. She won't tell anyone when she was born, but my dad thinks she's nearly ninety.”

“Really?”

“Gran doesn't seem that old, does she?”

“Not usually,” I said, honestly, omitting that lately I'd thought she looked old.

“But if she's losing her sight, she can't live alone, Darrah.”

“She can, I told you—”

“Dad and Uncle Brad won't let her. They already worry about her being by herself in that house. No security, not even a decent lock on the door. Not that she ever locks it.”

“But she's lived there for—”

“I know. I used to go there a lot when I was little. There was this awesome tree house and she always made gingerbread. Sometimes I got to sleep over, and she'd read me stories from these old books. Giants and fairies and magic spells. But my parents won't let her stay there once they know.”

“So don't tell them.”

“You don't understand. I fought—pleaded—for her when she broke her leg. My parents and uncle wanted to put her in a care home right then, to make sure she'd be safe with that cast on. They wanted to move her out of her house right away. I persuaded them not to do it, said I'd help her, do her driving, shopping. She promised she'd have Karen come every day, and would call us if she needed anything. A few weeks later, she told us about your school program and said you'd be there to help, too, so they let her stay. But they're still talking about how it's time for her to give up the house.”

“So don't tell,” I said again.

“What if something happens to her because of her eyesight? What if she falls again, or takes the wrong medicines because she can't read the labels on the bottles? If something awful happens, and I knew about her bad eyesight but hadn't told anyone, how do you think I'd feel?”

I was silent. I knew how Robin would feel if he didn't tell his father, and then Mrs. J. had an accident. I knew how horrible it felt to be responsible for something bad happening to someone else.

Dad came in, not surprised to see Robin. “Hi, it's Robin, right? I recognized your car from when you picked Darrah up the other day. Hey, Darrah, got any ideas for dinner? It's late.”

It was—almost seven and dark. Even if Mom was too busy to want to eat, Andrew would be hungry. “Maybe mac and cheese. I'll put cottage cheese in it to make it creamier. Maybe some sliced hot dogs, too, if there are any. I hadn't planned on cooking tonight, sorry Dad.”