Wherever You Go (2 page)

His buddy Mark Gentry elbowed him in the side. "Don't blame you for staring, bro. She's still hot even if she—"

"Give the girl a break," Jason said, half under his breath. As they passed the bench, Holly raised her head. He saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but it wasn't the right time to stop and talk. Not with Mark there and her with what seemed to be her family. He couldn't deny what Mark had pointed out, though. In the spring sunlight, Holly was as pretty as ever. Those blue eyes were piercing, like they could see right through him. And they probably did.

"Dude, you okay?" Mark gave a little laugh and elbowed him again.

Holly looked away, and suddenly Jason wanted to make sure she knew Mark wasn't laughing at her. But the damage was already done. She was frowning now, staring down at the book in her hands.

"Yeah, I'm cool," Jason mumbled.

A few steps later, when he glanced back over his shoulder, Holly was still reading. The old guy stared off at the water in the distance, and the little girl rocked the scooter back and forth on the pavement, making a
scritch-scratch
sound of rocks imbedded in the cheap plastic wheels. They were all doing their own thing.

Mark shoved Jason in the shoulder, knocking him off the path. "C'mon, man."

Later, shooting hoops on the basketball court at the end of the park, he couldn't get the image of Holly to leave his mind. He knew he owed her something more. They all did.

***

We made it home from the park slowly—with Lena insisting on riding her scooter and Grandpa Aldo inching along and murmuring about the birds singing. The park had been the best I could do for the biggest part of the day—even though it hadn't been the greatest outing. At this point, I was just glad we were home. Before she'd left for work at the dealership, Mom had promised she would try to find someone to cover her shift at the supermarket that night, but I wasn't holding my breath.

As we entered the lobby of the Hillwood Apartments, Grandpa Aldo put his hand on my arm. "This is the wrong place," he said, his voice full of panic.

"What?" I said, a little startled, since it was the longest sentence my grandpa had said to me since he'd arrived. When Uncle Frank had helped move him in last night, Grandpa had been pretty quiet. He'd sat in the easy chair watching us carry in the boxes of his things and place his clothes and shoes in my former closet. It must have been weird for him, suddenly finding himself in a whole new environment.

"The wrong place," he repeated. Uncle Frank had told me Grandpa would say random stuff sometimes, but this was the first weirdness I'd experienced.

"No, Grandpa. You live here now with us. Remember?"

A confused smile crinkled the corners of his mouth. "This place? It's a dump."

"Yeah," I said, smiling back. "Thanks."

He hesitated at the open doors of the elevator, seeming unsure if he should go in.

"This is the way up, Grandpa." I patted him on the arm.

"Oh. All right."

We all climbed aboard. Standing atop her scooter, Lena stabbed at the button marked six. It took a moment to light up since, like everything in the building, the elevator was about ready to fall apart.

Finally the doors closed, but they opened back up quickly and Mrs. Anderson stepped onto the elevator, carrying two grocery bags. "Sorry, girls, this contraption takes forever to come back down," she said with an exasperated sigh.

"Can I push your button?" asked Lena.

"Sure."

Lena punched the number two and the door closed.

As we lurched upward, my grandpa reached out for the grocery bags. "Please, let me help," he said in a soft voice.

Mrs. Anderson smiled politely. "Oh, no, thank you, I'm fine."

"It's okay, Grandpa," said Lena. "She's got it."

He lowered his outstretched hands.

"So, girls—this is your grandfather?" asked Mrs. Anderson.

"Yep. He's living with us," said Lena.

"Hello, I'm Bitsy Anderson from 219." Smiling, she held out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Aldo stared at her for a moment and then reached out to shake. "Aldo Santucci," he said, his voice a low rumble.

The elevator stopped at the second floor. Mrs. Anderson stepped off, but when she turned just before the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of worry in her eyes. I glanced over at Grandpa Aldo, who was stari's ho was ng at the lighted buttons of the panel.
Everything's going to be fine,
I told myself.

Upstairs, Mom was bustling around the kitchen, still dressed in her car dealership work clothes—office casual, she called it—a straight brown skirt and a white blouse with shell buttons. As much as she hated her job at the grocery store, the dealership was twice as bad. Answering the phone for the parts and service department all day made her cranky with us when she got home. Maybe it was being forced to be nice to people she couldn't see. Maybe it was the endless ringing of the incoming lines. Whatever it was, it made for a crappy transition between that and the night job.

"Good, you're back," she said, lining up a bunch of medications on the counter. "I realized we need to go over this again. There are a lot of pills."

"I wrote it all down," I said. "I know what to do when. I'm going to load those daily pill dispensers after dinner."

Grandpa stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a hand on the jamb to steady himself.

"Come on in, Grandpa," I said. "I'll get you some water."

Mom gave him a smile and turned back to me. "On my lunch break I called over and set up the senior center for Monday. They have a special group for people like Grandpa," she said. "They'll send a van to pick him up just before you get Lena on the bus. They can only keep him until three, so you'll have to come right home from school to meet him on weekdays."

"Why are you telling just me, Mom?" I gestured toward Grandpa Aldo, who was still standing in the doorway. Everything I'd read online at the library said that we had to keep talking to him, even if it seemed like he wasn't hearing or understanding. And so far, he was doing pretty okay. Well, except for being quiet and forgetting our building a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry, you're right." She walked over to Grandpa and took his hand. "Papa, I have it all set up. Weekdays you'll go to the center and do some activities and get a hot lunch."

"Sounds good," he said. "I'll go lie down now." He turned and shuffled down the hallway, past Lena, who was balancing on her scooter on the hallway carpet, pretending to ride.

"Thanks, honey." Mom reached out and hugged me tightly. She smelled like her floral perfume and the slightest hint of something industrial from the dealership. "This is a big change for all of us."

"Yeah."

"Hey, babe," she said, releasing me and going over to hug Lena. "So, was it a good day at the park?"

"There were boys there staring at Holly," said Lena. "They looked at her like she was an alien."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

Mom frowned. "Well, I was mostly asking about Grandpa. Holly?"

"He seems fine."

That seemed to satisfy her, and for a moment, the concern fell away from her face. "Okay," she said, peering inside the fridge. "Do we have any leftover pizza?"

"I was gonna make that spaghetti. Are you staying for dinner?"

"Yes, I found someone to take my shift at the store tonight."

"Really?"

Mom gave me a hard look. "I told you I was going to try."

Yeah, but trying and doing are two different things,
I wanted to say. Instead I went to the sink and loaded the stack of plates and cups into the dishwasher and then rinsed my hands.

"Lena, put away your scooter, please," Mom said.

Whistling, my sister dutifully rolled her toy to our room down the hall. Mom took a seat at the kitchen table and sifted through a stack of mail that was likely all bills.

I could feel tension in the air, so I just started on the spaghetti. Cooking always relaxed me, gave me something to do that didn't involve talking or thinking about anything more than the task in front of me. I got out some frozen ground beef and pork sausage, which I stuck in the microwave to defrost.

"Sorry, honey. You want me to do something?" Mom asked, looking up from the mail.

"Chop?" I handed her a cutting board, a knife, and a big yellow onion.

While Mom started on that, I minced garlic and diced bell peppers over by the stove. When the oil in my pot was hot, I tossed in mom's onions and my veggies and let them start to cook. A few minutes later, when the microwave dinged, I took the meat out, put it in a big bowl, and mixed it with bread crumbs, eggs, and herbs and garlic for meatballs. I formed the little balls in my hands and laid them on a sheet pan one by one.

Mom brought the cutting boards to the sink. "When did you get to be such a good cook?"

"Years of practice." I washed the boards and then my hands. The vegetables were all breaking down, so I crushed dried oregano and rosemary in my hand to release the flavors and added them to the pot. Instantly the aroma perfumed the air. "Can you get the tomatoes, Mom?"

"Sure." She handed me two opened cans and I dumped them in, crushing the tomatoes with the back of my spoon.

"Something smells like tomato gravy." Grandpa Aldo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, delight on his face.

"Holly's cooking dinner." My mom walked over to him and put a hand on his arm.

He reached out and touched her on the cheek. "Julia, it smells like heaven."

Mom's eyes lit up at the sound of her name. "Holly makes it like Mama showed her, with the baby meatballs simmering in the sauce."

Grandpa moved over to a chair, sitting so that he could see me at the stove. He stayed there until everything was ready, and Lena set the places at the table around him—a glass, a plate, a knife, a fork, a folded paper towel for the napkin.

There was something sweet about the smile on my grandfather's face as I set the bowl of pasta and meatballs on the table. It was the smile of recognition, or happiness or something. And it didn't leave him until after dinner was finished.

"That was delicious," he said, wiping his mouth.

"Yes, it was, huh?" said Mom. "I'm glad you're here, Papa."

The rest of the evening went pretty well. I mean, it actually seemed like everything was all right. Like Grandpa Aldo was going to be fine at our place. We could do this.

But then, when the apartment was dark and I was tucked into the lower bunk in the room I now shared with Lena, I heard crying. Next came Mom's footsteps and then her words of reassurance. "Papa, it's okay. You're at my house. It's me, Julia."

And then there was more weeping and, at last, peace and the shutting of a door. Then a new sound—my mother pacing in the kitchen. And
I knew nothing was right.

You like to drop in on the guys sometimes. You circle the group on Mark's deck that overlooks Lake Washington, settle in on one of the cedar-plank benches and listen to them discuss girls, parties, basketball, and the start of waterskiing in a few short months. It's comforting to be with them, to hear the rattle of empties, the crinkling of a bag of chips passed around. To see them checking their phones, pretending they don't care if the girls they're crushing on text them or not.

There are only two of them tonight. Jason, your very best friend on the planet, and Mark, who is a pretty good guy most of the time. You met them both on the first day of kindergarten when Mark tipped over your green tempera paint on purpose and, without a word, Jason tried to help you clean up the mess. You fight the flood of childhood memories that comes rushing into your head, taunting you with the fun times.

As Mark and Jason lean back into cushy deck chairs and share a light beer stolen from the fridge, they are on the subject of Holly.
Your
Holly. You instantly tune in.

"Tight little body," Mark says, taking another swig from the can. "But man, I never understood why Rob would want her for more than a hookup."

Jason doesn't say anything.

"Still," Mark continues, "Holly ... mmm ... nice tits."

Your blood, or what d ohwould be blood, rushes to your head. If you were there, you'd kick his ass, but you aren't. You are and you aren't. Okay, so how about making something move? You haven't tried it yet, but this would be the perfect place to let it rip. Let a cushion, a beer can, something, smack Mark in the face. Anything to give him the notion that this is not cool. But before you can try concentrating all your focus onto an object, Mark shuts up.

Glancing between the two guys, you notice that Jason has the exact expression on his face that you'd have if they could see you: he looks like he wants to hurt Mark.

"Don't talk shit about her."

Mark raises his head, a sheepish smile on his face. "Hey, I'm just kidding. What's your deal?"

Jason's glare is hot. "Holly's a nice girl."

"Yeah, real nice," Mark says, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "If it weren't for her, then Rob would be here."