Get Happy (15 page)

B
ACK TO SCHOOL
. Fin was a hyper, nervous pogo stick of energy because he was auditioning for the play
Our Town
and he desperately wanted the part of George Gibbs, one of the leads. While he was busy after school, I got together with Hayes to rehearse for the open mic. And here’s the thing: I didn’t tell Fin about any of it. It’s not as if it were a terrible secret, but I knew that a little part of him would feel left out, and I didn’t want to throw anything at him — even something as small as me and Hayes singing together — during the whole
audition process. He was called back for the second round of auditions on Thursday. On Friday the director asked just four people to come back for an absolute final read-through. Fin’s fingernails were bitten to near oblivion.

After school that day when I arrived home, I remember it smelled as if a giant vat of cleanser had permeated the cells of everything in the house. My mom had flipped her schedule, traded with her coworker so she had today off and would be working tomorrow. Cleaning the house was Pat Watson’s idea of a day off.

I called out a quick hello — she was rummaging in the utility room — and ran upstairs to think of a way to make things better with Fin. My room was a picture of order. The top of my dresser was clean, every drawer closed, the mess on my desk gone. My bed was made, Aunt Joan’s puffy patchwork quilt stored away and replaced with the thinner, store-bought bedspread and matching sheets that I never liked.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. My mother had done major cleans in the past. And then I remembered the necklace.

I dove to look under the bed.

Nothing. The rug was a blank landscape. In the closet, all my shoes were neatly stacked on a shoe rack, my favorites next to the ones I never wore, and no sheepherder boots among them.

My mom appeared in the doorway. “Hi, sweetie. How was your — ”

I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. “Mom, what did you do?”

“ ‘Thank you’ would be a more appropriate response, Minerva. Your room was a disaster zone.”

“Did you throw stuff away?” I looked under the bed again, hoping that the boots would miraculously reappear. “Mom? Did you actually throw things away?”

“I have been asking you every day for the past year to clean your room. Look at how cute that dresser looks without a pile of — ”

“Where did you put everything?”

“It’s trash day. I threw away the trash and put everything else in a bag for Goodwill — ”

“Where’s the Goodwill bag?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Are my boots there, those brown ones you hated that I got last year?”

“They were filthy.”

A hot wall of anger was rising up inside me; in my peripheral vision, the room seemed to be turning red. “Did you throw them out?”

“They were absolutely not worth saving.”

“Where’s the trash?”

“Minerva, those boots — ”

“Is it gone? Did they pick up the trash?” I already knew the answer.

“For heaven’s sake, Minerva. You’re being ridiculous.”

I lashed out. “You don’t have the right to mess with my things.”

She looked as if I had slapped her. “Minerva, I don’t like this attitude. That is the last time I clean your room. You can live in a pig sty!” She left in a huff.

I ran downstairs and double-checked the garbage can. I scoured our yard and then our street, just to make sure that the necklace hadn’t fallen out. I dumped everything out of the Goodwill bag and went through each item, in case it had gotten tangled up in something else.

After twenty minutes of searching, I had to face the fact that it was gone.

I went back up to my room and stood there,
surrounded by the immaculate order: the smooth bedspread, the gleaming mirror, the parallel vacuum lines on the rug.

I pictured the seahorse, the curl of the tail around the black silk cord, and I pictured my dad’s handwriting in black ink on the cream-colored card.

The necklace was mine. I was supposed to decide if I should sell it or throw it away or maybe even someday wear it and feel the weight and elegance of it against my skin. He had finally given me something I could look at and hold in my hand. It had arrived without warning, and now, just as suddenly, it was gone.

The universe giveth and the universe sweepeth away, and your needs, your desires, your feelings are swept away, too.

I looked at myself in the mirror. No black silk cord around my neck. No silver and pearl-studded beauty against my skin. Nothing but a hollow, silent cry inside my throat.

I
COULD NOT EVEN
look at my mother.

I may not have been learning as much about history or math or biology as I could have, but I was learning the valuable lesson of how to completely ignore the existence of another human being while living in the same town house. My mom and I spent the entire evening in our separate bubbles. She didn’t insist that I sit across from her at the dinner table, and I didn’t ask if I could eat in front of the television. I loaded up my plate and cushioned myself on the couch.

I texted Fin, asking him to call, and he wasn’t calling back. Nothing good was on. I flipped through the channels, knowing it would be better for my soul if I went upstairs and played the uke, but I couldn’t move.

I texted again:
Where are you? I’m going through something big and I really need to talk.

My phone buzzed. Text from Fin:
I didn’t get the part. Thanks for asking.

I had completely forgotten about his final audition. I set my phone on the coffee table, got up, and paced. I wanted to throw something.

Sounds were coming from the kitchen, dishes clunking angrily into the dishwasher.

I grabbed my phone and texted back.
I’m sorry, Fin. Please call.

No call.

Over the next two hours, I texted five apologies. No reply.

Silence is a terrible thing. Hoping that he had just turned off his phone and that he wasn’t that mad, I stormed into my room and dove under the covers.

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick to my stomach. Too much was happening at once. I went into the kitchen and stared at the clock. I couldn’t think of a way to make things right with Fin, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the necklace. My father had reached out to me, and no matter how much I told myself that I was putting him out of my mind, I couldn’t. Finally, I sat at the computer. I thought for a long time, and then I called up Google images. I typed in
Keanu and Minerva.

I deleted it.

I typed it in again.

I walked away.

I came back.

I stared at it.

I hit
IMAGE SEARCH
.

I held my breath, and a thumbnail picture popped onto the screen. I clicked to enlarge it.

A photograph. There we are. He is standing in front of a large circular blue aquarium tank, holding me. I’m about one. I’ve got that wispy black baby hair and my eyes are huge and I’m wearing a striped dress and little black shoes that I’ve seen in other photos. Whoever took this photo must have been kneeling, because the angle shows a beautiful ceiling above our heads, lit with blue lights. We are surrounded by blue, as if we are in the water. No wonder I fantasized that he’d emerge from the lake at the beach when I was little.

I clicked on the link to see where the photo lived, and it took me to an archive of Shedd Aquarium newsletter articles going back twenty years. Caption:

He is holding me with one arm as if he’s having fun showing me off. He is young. We both look happy. My chubby arm is resting on his shoulder so casually. At one point in my life, I was completely comfortable in his arms.

I printed it out.

20

I
WOKE UP
light-headed; my movements felt involuntary, as if I had stepped into a strong current and was being carried along.

I put on my green dress and took my uke, the photo, and my backpack downstairs. My mom was already at work, although it was Saturday, because she had not worked the day before. The note on the counter, reminding me about assignments that I hadn’t done that week, had a tone of annoyance. I rode my bike to the El station and took a train to Chicago.

When I left the train, it took me a while to figure
out which way to walk, the sun bouncing off everything so brightly it hurt to look ahead. After a long walk, I could see the aquarium, which looked like a Greek temple with the magnificent lake behind it and a cloudless blue sky above it.

Huge and majestic, the building had four pillars and colorful banners between each pillar, announcing special exhibits. The banner on the right read:
SEAHORSE SECRETS
. At the top of the stairs near the entrance, a glossy cardboard cutout of a seahorse — six feet tall — was on display. Next to it was a large poster explaining my dad’s award and his research. The reality of him hit me: My dad, the guy I had tried and failed to avoid thinking about for so many years, was right here, in this building.

The line to get in was out the door. I stood behind the last family waiting and checked my wallet. I hadn’t done my research to find out how much it cost to get in. When the line finally reached the doors, the ticket prices were visible. More than I expected. I left to find an ATM, tapped out what was allowed to be withdrawn, and hurried back. By the time I walked in, I was out of breath.

The main room, the grand rotunda, was the same room that was in the photo I had in my backpack. The same beautiful blue ceiling and curved aquarium tank. I had been here fifteen years ago in my dad’s arms — we had been at a party together, and he had been showing me off. When he moved here again to work and saw this, it must have brought back memories of us together. I wondered if he wrote the letter to me here, in the beauty and peace of this aquarium.

Inside the first large tank, the scene was mesmerizing, plants and animals moving underwater gracefully and effortlessly: sea turtles, moray eels, and parrot fish. A little girl standing with both hands on the glass was literally yelping with excitement every time a creature swam by.

The mom asked if I would mind taking a picture of the family together.

I held up the camera. Inside the frame, the parents stood, all smiles, with their daughter between them. “Say ‘fishies,’ Zoe!” the mom said.

I started to get a little panicky and walked around for a while, not looking at the tanks, with an internal debate raging in my head. Should I play it safe and go home right now or should I go into the auditorium and
at least stay for the lecture? I didn’t have to approach him; I could just sit in the back, a baby step to be in the same room at the same time. If he happened to see me and recognize me after the lecture, I could make it sound as though it wasn’t a big deal, tell him that my bio teacher had recommended coming. He’d see the uke in my backpack and ask me about it. I’d have something to say. Yes, I play the uke. I’m doing an open mic later tonight with a friend. I’m doing just fine, thank you, as you can see.

I made my way to the auditorium doors. People were streaming in. A man wearing a blue suit asked for my ticket.

I showed him my receipt.

“That’s your admission to the aquarium,” he said. “You had to reserve a lecture ticket in advance.” He looked past me to take the reservations of a couple waiting behind me.

I just stood there.

“Sorry,” he said. “Your ticket does give you admission to the seahorse exhibit as well as our permanent exhibits.”

Stunned, I walked away. The corridor was crowded, full of moms and dads and strollers. I walked into a
bathroom to escape. There were three women waiting for the stalls, and I squeezed past them and stood at the sink. The soap was pink and foamy. I glanced up at the mirror just as one of the stall doors behind me opened. Cassie Lott walked out.