Alice Bliss (21 page)

“Cool.”

He tosses her a grimy rag. She wipes her hands.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I can do?”

“You’re doin’ it.”

“Ha!”

“Hey, Mom said you might have met somebody.”

“Angie and her big mouth!”

“I heard her talking to you on the phone last night.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“She from around here?”

“I’m not ready to share details.”

“Oh, c’mon—”

“She’s a teacher. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Not at my school—”

“No, not at your school.”

“You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“How many dates?”

“Two.”

“And she still likes you?”

“No accounting for taste.”

Alice looks into the empty waiting room.

“Where’s Ellie?” Alice asks.

“She was right there.”

“Ellie . . .?”

“Did she walk home?”

“No, her backpack’s still here.”

“Ellie . . . !”

“The bathroom?” Eddie suggests.

“You know how Ellie feels about that bathroom.”

Alice starts to panic, and then closes her eyes.

“I think I know where she is,” she says and heads for the door.

Eddie follows Alice to the parking lot out back where Matt’s truck is up on blocks. Sure enough, the tarp has been loosened next to the driver’s-side door.

“I’ll get her,” Alice says.

Crossing the parking lot, just those few feet to her dad’s truck, Alice almost can’t feel her feet touch the ground. When she opens the door and finds Ellie asleep on the seat, relief washes over her and threatens to spill over into tears. She waves at Eddie to let him know they’re all right and climbs up into the cab.

Ellie has a snapshot under her cheek and her thumb in her mouth. Alice looks at the photo: it’s a picture from Ellie’s birthday party last year, the one with the princess theme. Only Ellie doesn’t look like one of those perfect little princesses, she looks slightly possessed. She’s wearing a pink tutu and bright yellow tights and her red Dorothy shoes that Uncle Eddie gave her. And a fluffy white sweater and crooked homemade angel wings and long white gloves and a striped ski hat with a long, pointy top and a pom-pom. It’s a photo to make you laugh. It must have been in Matt’s visor. What else is up there?

Alice pulls the visor down and finds a whole collection of birthday photos. The year he and Angie made the dragon cake, the year they made the volcano cake; the silly hats and the candles and the wishes.

She pulls down the other visor and there’s a photo of Matt and Angie in bathing suits, with a Frisbee, laughing. Before kids, it looks like. She opens the glove compartment. A mini road atlas, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, a level, a tape measure, a packet of gum. She pulls out a piece. Not too stale.

Ellie opens her eyes, jerks her thumb out of her mouth, sits up, and grabs the photo from Alice.

“You okay?” Alice asks.

“I like it in here.”

“Me, too.”

“I wish you could drive it.”

“That would be cool.”

“Maybe one day.”

“When Dad gets back.”

“I heard on the radio, in the car, with Janna’s mom . . .”

“Don’t listen to the radio.”

“Car bombs and casualties. They give the numbers but not the names.”

“That’s in case the families don’t know yet.”

“Do you know, Alice?”

“Do I know what?”

“Is Daddy still alive?”

“Yes, he is.”

“You’re just saying that. Like if I asked you is there really a Santa Claus.”

“Ellie . . .”

“But you don’t really know, do you?”

“Nobody knows. But that’s what I believe.”

“Honest?”

“Honest.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I wish we could just drive over there and pick him up.”

“Yeah! A couple of oceans and nine thousand miles, but
yeah . . .
”

“Today. Right now. I wish we could—”

“Me, too.”

Alice puts her arm around Ellie.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just close your eyes,” Alice says, closing her own eyes. “Now breathe in,” she says. “What do you smell?”

“Oil.”

“Try again.”

“That nasty tarp.”

“Yeah. What else?”

Ellie wrinkles her nose. Alice waits.

“Daddy.”

Angie had not been as freaked out by Alice getting suspended as Alice thought she would be. She even talked to the principal, she even defended Alice, and they agreed to reduce her suspension from two days to one. Alice has had to write a lengthy apology to Jennifer White
and
her parents,
and
Mr. Brooks,
and
Mr. Fisher. She is also now a provisional member of the track team. Sort of like being on probation. If she has another infraction, she’s off the team.

So she’s back in school. Not so great. And back on the team. Much better. Ginger, Alice now knows, is the team’s long-distance star, and for some unknown reason she has taken Alice under her wing.

At the start of practice, Ginger hands her a polypro T-shirt.

“This will keep you warmer. And cooler. And
drier
.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Alice says, pulling the T-shirt over her head.

Ginger hands her a pair of socks.

“Try these. They’re the best I’ve found.”

“Hey, I can’t take all this stuff.”

“My mother’s a little compulsive in the shopping department. I have dozens.”

Alice hesitates.

“Really. Try ’em.”

Alice sits down in the grass to put on the socks.

“Hurry up!” Ginger is dancing around on the grass.

“Okay!”

“Let’s go!”

And Ginger is off with Alice in pursuit.

“Do you know the route?” Alice shouts at Ginger’s back.

“Pretty much.”

“And if we get lost?”

“It’ll be fun.”

Keeping up with Ginger is a tall order, but Alice is determined not to lose her as they make their way around the course through the Mendon Woods. Alice’s endurance is improving and so are her times. Running is the only place where she can forget what’s going on in the rest of her life. She loves falling into a rhythm, starting to know her reserve, and pushing it, the steady driving forward. She sings inside when she runs, sings like an airplane, like a motorcycle, like some kind of powerful engine, humming along.

 

She gets home after practice to find Gram in the kitchen, standing on the top step of the stepladder.

“Gram, I don’t think you should be on that ladder.”

“Well, look who’s here!”

Alice drops her backpack on the floor.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Where’s Ellie?”

“She’s coming a little later. They had band practice.”

“Band?”

“Yup.”

“She plays an instrument now?”

“The recorder. They all have recorders. You remember. You bought it for her.”

“I did?”

“In the fall.”

Alice hangs her jacket over one of the kitchen chairs.

“Hand me that piece of shelf paper.”

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning out your mother’s shelves. They were . . .”

“A big mess. I know.”

“Lots of people don’t care about cupboards. Close the door, forget about it. I like to know they’re fresh. It’s a simple thing. A little lift in the spring.”

“I’m worried about you up on that ladder.”

“I’m fine.”

“You could cut the pieces and I could lay them down.”

“I am actually very skilled at this. After all these years. Good old Con-Tact paper.”

“Are you implying I’d make a mess of things?”

“Not at all. I could show you. Experience, however, is the best guide.”

“We were going to bake cookies.”

“I know! I’m almost done. I’ve got the butter softening. Did you pick what kind you want to make?”

“I say molasses; Ellie wants chocolate chip.”

“We can do both. Get some more butter out of the fridge.”

“Gram!”

“What?”

“You went shopping!”

“I did.”

“You cleaned out the fridge.”

“I did.”

“Have you been here all day?”

“Ginny’s covering for me at the cafe. I went to the market at eight, got here by nine, which left me plenty of time to clean out the fridge.”

“Wow! And the freezer—you can tell what’s in there!”

“A little organization goes a long way. What has your mother been doing?”

“Take out. Breakfast for dinner. If we’re lucky. Or I cook.”

“Okay, so she’s had other things on her mind. Now you can have some real food. It’s not so hard. Take some mental notes. These are useful things to know. Not like I could ever get through to your mother.”

Gram’s got the radio tuned to the country station and every now and then she hums along, or sashays her hips a little. She’s wearing slacks and an old denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sandals. “Just giving my feet a little vacation,” she’d tell you, if you asked.

Alice pours herself a glass of orange juice.

“I had to throw a lot of stuff out,” Gram continues.

“Good move. I’ve been trying—”

“Easier for me, I think. I’m not worried that your mother might really want that two-week-old spring roll.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna tell me how things are?”

“Gram, you seem a little hyper.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking about spending a few nights here each week. I could get things squared away, prepare some meals, do some laundry . . .”

“Gram, you don’t have time to run the restaurant and take care of us, too.”

Gram gives Alice a look over the top of her glasses, like,
are you kidding me?

“Okay, let’s get the bread started. Then we can make the cookies while the dough rises.”

“There’s just one thing.”

“What?”

“Mom’s not big on bread.”

“Since when?”

“Since about two months ago.”

“The staff of life!”

“I know, Gram.”

“It’s not normal to be afraid of food!”

“Just one food group.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not normal.”

“Gram . . .”

“Okay. No criticism. But you like bread.”

“Yes!”

“And Ellie . . .”

“Loves it.”

“Let’s see how long your mom can resist toast. Let’s make toast till she can’t stand it. Hand me that big bowl, would you?”

“Where’s the recipe?”

“You don’t really need one. This oatmeal bread is very simple and very forgiving. And when we start toasting slices? Your mom is gonna go nuts.”

With the yeast proofing, Alice beats butter for the first batch of cookies. Gram chats about this and that and lets her be. Gram knows how to wait for Alice to talk, how to be interested but not too aggressive. She doesn’t ask the same old same old questions either—like what’s your favorite subject, who’s your favorite teacher? She asks where you sit at lunch, what you’re reading, what you think about when you’re alone.

The bread is fun: the measurements are a “big glub” of molasses, a cup or two of oatmeal, a pinch of salt, “enough” flour to form a soft dough. And the kneading part? Really you just get to beat the dough up. Slap it and punch it and squeeze it and pick it up and throw it down. Alice is making clouds of flour and Gram is laughing and egging her on.

When the dough is a smooth, sweet-smelling bundle Alice almost wants to pick it up and rock it like a baby. But they put it back in the clean, oiled bowl, turn it once, cover it with a dishtowel, and put it to rise on the back of the stove.

Alice goes still for several long moments and stands looking at the floor. When she raises her eyes Gram is there waiting for her, not flinching, not suggesting she get over it, go to her room, start her homework, et cetera. For the first time in she can’t remember how long, Alice lets herself get pulled into a hug, and at first, right at the beginning, it feels so good. Gram is wearing Matt’s apron and has flour on her nose and smells of the lemon verbena she keeps in her drawers. But then Alice pulls away and stumbles out of the room.

She locks the door in the bathroom and sits on the sink, kicking one heel against the cabinet. She can sense Gram on the other side of the door.

“Alice, you don’t need to talk to me. I’ll leave you be. If you can just tell me you’re safe in there.”

“I’m okay.”

“You take your time. I’m here if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“Can you unlock the door?”

“Not yet.”

“Ellie can help me punch the bread down and form it into loaves if you don’t want to. Or we can leave it another twenty minutes so you can do it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, leave it?”

“Yeah.”

Turning away from Alice and that locked door would be impossible if Ellie weren’t banging through the back door shouting: “Graaaammm!”

Ellie squeals when she finds out they are making
two
kinds of cookies. Alice can hear the fridge and freezer doors opening and closing, she can hear every cabinet door opened and then slammed shut. Ellie is hooting and hollering about how great everything looks. Ellie is little miss neat, Ellie color codes her socks, so this move toward organization is right up her alley. Then there’s quiet for a bit, and then there’s Ellie, playing her recorder. Must have been a request. Gram is nice like that.

Alice lies down in the tub and listens to Ellie squeaking away. There’s a drip coming out of the tap, a very slow drip. Using her foot, she messes with the handle until the cadence of the drip is a little faster. Then she sticks the hole in her left sneaker right under the faucet and feels the steady drip drip of the water filling up her sock and her shoe.