Fault Lines (14 page)

People are starting to put on coats, hug goodbye, leave. Mrs. Jenkins continues taking information from the line of gift-less kids and their parents. Jazzy has stopped crying, and the quiet almost seems worse. She rests against her mother’s tummy, staring blankly at the dark food pantry door. Her mother shrugs her shoulders at me.

I look back to the food pantry too, wishing I’d see St. Nick standing there. Wishing there was such a thing as Santa, and magic. Because I used to believe in a lot of things that now I’ve lost and I don’t know if they ever existed. Love, family, comfort, security.
Home
. Tears burn my eyes for the first time in forever. When they spill down my cheeks in a sudden rush, I’m glad for the release. I bow my head, squeeze my eyes, and let the emotion flow a few seconds. Air bursts from my nose in drum beats. Then I hurriedly wipe off my face and breathe deep, pull it together, before facing Jazzy again.

I stand up and reach for her hand. “Your mom’s going to get in line,” I say, a little shaky. “You come with me.”

Jazzy takes my hand, confused. I don’t know what I’ll say to her, I just want to move her away from all these people, to someplace quiet and protected. A cocoon.

She sniffles. “Where?”

“Let’s talk in the pantry over there. I have something to tell you.”

She takes my hand, and we walk slow, so I can think. I could tell her Santa wanted her to pick her own gift at the toy store, so she could find just the right thing. But it’s hard to make a gift certificate as exciting as a shiny wrapped present.

I shut the door behind us. Metal shelves rise to the ceiling all around.

“Do you talk to Santa?” she says.

“I do. I’m his helper.”

“Then go get him. Tell him I won’t be naughty no more. Promise.” Her eyes plead. The black ribbon around her waist, bow-tied in back, hangs limp like the tail of a puppy caught chewing a hole in the couch.

My mind tries to catch up. Naughty? I should have known. A true believer can only conclude one thing when Santa leaves without giving her a gift.

“Please? I’ll be good forever and ever.”

“Yeah. Or… No. Um—”

I’m unprepared. I can’t tell her Santa’s not real, that too many families need more help than the shelter can give, that the truth is so much bigger and sadder than Jazzy can understand – than
I
can understand.

I drop on my butt in front of her and hold both of her hands in my palms, stroking the tops of her fingers with my thumbs. “You’re not bad.”

“Am too. Santa knows who’s naughty or nice.” She melts back into tears on my shoulder. Her hot breath warms my neck.

“Shhh. You’re a good girl. I happen to know he thinks you’re good. He told me.”

She hiccups and lifts her head to study my face, to search if I’m lying. “I took your lipstick thing,” she says. Her freckled cheeks glisten with tears.

“I know.” I stroke her hair like Grandma does mine, pulling my fingers through. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. I’ve done bad stuff before.”

Should I tell her my dad walked out too? “That’s not why Santa left, so you can’t blame yourself,” I say. “Santa doesn’t just watch what you do. He sees straight in your heart, so he knows all of you. You’re a good girl. And he knows you didn’t mean to do something bad. You made a mistake, and you’re sorry. He’d never punish you for that.”

“Yeah but, why’d he go then?”

I pull her onto my lap, her words reverberating around my skull. It’s the same question that lurks in the edges of my mind as I fall asleep at night, that darts in and out of my days: Why’d he leave? And I’m afraid of the answer that’s been hiding in the dark places in my mind: It wasn’t Creeper’s fault, but mine, for dividing Mom and Dad, for starting the split between them and driving it wider with fighting over the dog.

“It’s complicated. Stuff happens that’s big, stuff you don’t know anything about.”

“Like what?”

Like two people fighting about a dog when they’re really mad about money and bills and who knows what else. Like letting that anger turn into hate, letting it turn into a brick wall I keep pounding my fists against, and all I get is bloody. Like Jazzy’s mom who has her own problems but takes them out on her little girl. Jazzy doesn’t deserve to be homeless, or mistreated, or abandoned by Santa. And she didn’t cause every bad thing to happen.

Neither did I.

“If I tell,” I say to her real serious, “you have to promise not to share it with anybody else. Santa would be so embarrassed!”

Her eyes open wide. “What? What?”

I look around like I’m making sure no one else is there. I whisper, “Rudolph got a bad case of gas. The police came by and said you could smell it for miles, and the sleigh had to go! Whew!” I wave my hand in front of my face.

Jazzy giggles.

I pinch my nose and talk in a nasal voice. “I don’t know what Rudolph’s been eating lately!”

Jazzy squeals with laughter.

“Santa needed some medicine – fast, so Rudolph can be ready to fly all night. They’ve got a big job tonight, you know.”

She grins for real. Me too. And it feels so good to smile, to laugh, to make Santa and Rudolph fly in Jazzy’s imagination – it’s like setting down a heavy load that’s been hurting and floating up into the air myself.

In the lightness of the moment, my dog trainer voice quietly returns like it was there all the time, waiting for me.
You know what to do
, it says.
You can make it right
.

“Do you want to hear what Santa told me?” I ask her. “The secret, inside story?”

She nods eagerly and sits up in my lap.

“He told me that you’re special. He said your heart is good and kind. He told me your gift is so cool that he didn’t want the other kids to see it. He was scared they’d get jealous. He said you need to get in bed early tonight. Go right to sleep like a good girl, and your present will be waiting when you wake up tomorrow.”

Jazzy starts bouncing in my lap. “What is it? Tell me, please!”

I lift her off my lap. “That wouldn’t be fun! Besides, Santa swore me to secrecy!”

We leave the pantry to find her mom, who’s sitting alone at a table. I lean over to fake hug her, so I can whisper my plans to her: “I’m delivering her present tonight after dark,” I say in her ear.

We part, and Jazzy’s mom smiles for the first time I’ve seen. I hug her again and whisper, “What does she want most of all?” And she whispers back: “A house. For her doll. A doll house.”

Of course.

I hug Jazzy one more time, and remind her, “Go to sleep tonight,” before going to check out with Mrs. Jenkins. It’s the end of my shift.

I can’t wait for Grandma to pick me up, so she can take me to the bank and the mall. I have the one-hundred dollars she gave me, plus I’ll withdraw more from my savings account. Santa can’t only visit Jazzy at the shelter – I’ll get a list from Mrs. Jenkins of all the kids staying there!

It’s true what Grandma said to me at Thanksgiving. Sometimes helping someone else with a problem shows you the way out of your own. Somehow I talked to Jazzy and listened to myself at the same time.

You’re a good girl. You can’t blame yourself. Stuff happens. It’s complicated.

now

I’m sorry

Dear Mr. Reiber,

This is about the millionth time I started this letter. All the other 999,999 got crumpled up and thrown away. The problem was, the judge told me I had to give you a heartfelt apology. That heartfelt part messed me up for a while. But anyway, here goes: I’m sorry.

It’s probably hard for you to tell that was heartfelt, but it was. The thing is, for my New Year’s resolution, I resolved not to lie, unless it’s absolutely necessary to keep from hurting a person’s feelings. Like when my mom cuts her own hair to save money and then asks me how it looks! Other than that, I’m a truth-teller from now on. That’s the only way my best friend Justine will stay friends with me, and believe me, I’m not going to risk losing her again. I know it’s only been a week since the New Year started, but so far I’ve kept my word.

I’m sorry for soaping and egging your house. I’m sorry for your window getting broken. Most of all, I’m sorry I blamed you for causing my family’s problems, which you probably didn’t know I was. Even though, to be honest, you have been kind of a pain to have for a neighbor. But what happened to my family wasn’t your fault, just like it wasn’t mine either. It wasn’t even my mom’s or my dad’s fault. Sometimes terrible things happen, things no one would have wished for and no one could have stopped. It’s like the earth underneath your feet – what you thought was solid ground – starts rumbling and splitting open to swallow you up.

For example, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, because I’m in this play at school where the main character dies at the end. She has leukemia she got from having an atomic bomb dropped on her town. I know it sounds crazy for a school play. But anyway, she spends all this time folding paper cranes because she thinks she’ll get her wish granted if she finishes folding 1,000 of them. Then she dies before she’s done! Finally her classmates finish the cranes for her after she’s gone, because they hope her wish will be granted too. They all wish, just like the little girl does, that there would never be another bomb dropped like that again. I think that’s a nice wish, and a nice ending for a play, but I don’t think a bunch of cranes will make it come true. I don’t believe in wishing on cranes, or stars, or anything like that. Plus, one thing I’ve learned is that we’re all human and that means we get mad and we do stupid things we shouldn’t, like yelling at someone who doesn’t deserve it, or putting dog poop in someone’s mailbox, or breaking a person’s window, or dropping a bomb on a whole city. I don’t think that will probably ever change, even with all the wishing in the world. It doesn’t mean we can’t try our hardest to listen to the good voice in our head. And if we do make a mistake, we should forgive ourselves and each other. If everyone could do that, the world would be a better place. At least I think it’s worth a shot.

Maybe you and me could test this out, because in a way we’ve been at war dropping bombs on each other. I forgive you for being sort of a pain in the neck for a neighbor. I hope you can forgive me too. I’m not perfect, but nobody is. I know what I did was wrong, and I am truly sorry for the trouble it caused.

I gave $25 to the court so far toward paying for your window. That’s all I had left in my savings after Christmas, but I will be shoveling driveways this winter and cleaning my grandma’s house to make money. If that isn’t enough, I’ll even babysit if I have to. That’s fine, I’m willing to pay my debt to society.

Sincerely,

Danielle Burkhart

P.S. You will probably be getting to know Justine, my best friend, because she lives just a couple houses down from you, and her mom agreed yesterday to let her take Barney for their pet! I’m sure he won’t have any trouble finding your yard!

P.P.S. Seriously, I hope you have a sense of humor, because that was a joke. Well, not the part about Justine taking Barney, that’s true. But don’t worry, because Justine will never let him run around loose in the neighborhood, I don’t think.

P.P.S.S. In case she needs help, I got Justine this great book called
Mastering Your Misbehaving Mutt
.

now

it’s show time

“Go ahead and look,” I tell Ricky, who can barely concentrate on running lines for the play – which starts in, oh, about fifteen minutes – because of the crowd assembling on the other side of the curtain.

He peeks through a crack without touching the fabric. “I see my mom!” he shouts and suddenly gives up the whole idea of trying not to be seen looking out. He jabs one arm through the curtains and waves.

I sit down on the low Japanese-style table that is the only furniture for the opening scene. Me and Ricky don’t come into the story in the beginning, not until Sadako dies and it’s time to travel to the spirit world, but it helped him before last night’s opening performance to go over our lines together one more time.

“Give your mom a thumbs up,” I tell him. “You’re ready.”

He gives her two thumbs up. And he’s right – if last night was any indication, he’s more than ready, in fact more ready than I am. Last night, when it came time for our scene together, Ricky said his lines perfectly.

So did I. And I mean that literally.

I said HIS lines perfectly.

We’d spent hours practicing together since Christmas break, memorizing his lines by starting with one word and repeating it over and over, then adding another word and repeating those two over and over, and so on. I knew his part backward and forward, just as he did. Unfortunately, when I said the line that was his cue, I continued right on talking and we both said the first few words of his speech.

Like an idiot, I slapped my hands over my mouth. Ricky simply smiled and finished without one mistake.

“I’m nervous,” he says, turning to face me and poking his glasses up his nose. “My sister and my aunt and my uncle are here too. I should’ve told them to come last night. I’ll probably mess up now they’re here.”

“You have to believe in yourself, and tell yourself positive messages,” I remind him. “You remember that saying: ‘If you think you can or you can’t, you’re probably right.’ Don’t let the scared voice win. Here, I’ll help you get started: You were perfect last night. Better than perfect – emotional. You’ll be great again tonight. You’re going to knock it out of the park.”

I’m not lying to boost him up. Maybe it was nerves, but last night he seemed to feel the pain of the old man digging fire lanes in preparation for the bomb, as if he really saw his shovel flash in the white light of the bomb and melt. The audience was dead silent and feeling it too.

Honestly, he did better than Kailyn Whitehead in the same scene, who grinned as she was talking about holding her baby boy and getting blown back by the bomb’s wind. She full-out smiled during the line about how her baby isn’t with her in the spirit world. But that’s Kailyn. I guess I can’t knock her for being happy.

Ricky’s back to peeking through a crack in the curtains. “I see your brother out there,” he says.