Getting Back to Normal (2 page)

“I want it against the far wall, under the windows.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the cute blond says.

“This is like a furniture store,” grumbles the darker, heavier one. They set down my bed in order to move tables and bureaus blocking their way.

Out on the landing, I notice two small rooms crammed with furniture. A rocking chair catches my eye.

“Do you think you could move some pieces out of my bedroom?” I ask.

“Why not?” the cute blond says, and winks at me. “We’re getting paid by the hour, right, Tommy?”

“What do you want out of here?” Tommy asks.

I point to the two large bureaus, a few small tables, and a chest. “And I’d like the rocking chair in here. In the corner, by my bed.”

When they’re finished, the room looks lighter and airier, despite the cartons and suitcases. I locate the box with my “It Isn’t Fair” notebook and write down the two entries I thought of earlier today. Then I put fresh linens on my bed.

I set free my bear collection, hugging each furry creature as I put them in their proper places. Next, I work on my computer. I’m relieved to find a three-prong outlet in the wall below the table. Not exactly what you’d expect to come upon in an old cottage. I smile and think: Aunt Mayda. She’d think of a detail like that.

Aunt Mayda isn’t really my aunt, but my mom’s college roommate. She’s the reason Mom catered most of the fundraisers. It’s how Daddy got this job. Come to think of it, she’s probably the reason we’re moving in right now.

Daddy comes into my room as I’m putting away my clothes. “Looks very nice, Vannie. We can use some lamps. I’ll get them from home.”

“And please bring the step stool from the kitchen.”

Daddy comes closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. I don’t pull away, but I don’t lean into his chest the way I used to.

“We’ll settle in, Vannie. Before you know it, the cottage will feel just like home.”

I don’t like the sound of this. “What about our own house? When can we move back?”

Daddy shrugs. “The Petersons’ new house should be finished in April. Maybe we’ll move back in the spring. Maybe the summer.”

My father, the Maybe King, is already jogging down the stairs. “Help Robby finish unpacking,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll be out for a while. I have a meeting with the board.”

“Now?” I throw up my arms. “We’re not even moved in!”

Daddy turns to look at me as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “It’s only a short meeting, honey. I’ll be back at six-thirty, the latest. I promise. I’ll bring burgers and fries for dinner.”

I glare at him. “I’m sick of hamburgers and fries.”

“Then I’ll get fried chicken pieces. You love fried chicken pieces.”

“I did, until I had to eat them every other day.”

Daddy lets out a deep sigh. “Tell you what. Next week, you and I will buy out half the supermarket. I’ll start making proper dinners.”

The giggles come upon me. They rise from my belly and stream like soap bubbles from my mouth. Daddy stares at me bug-eyed. He looks so comical I giggle harder and louder, till I fall on my bed.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say when I can speak. “But how can you make us dinner when you can’t even boil an egg?”

“Well, I intend to learn,” he says stiffly. This time he makes it down the stairs and out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

Outside the cottage, Robbie’s poking a stick into the ground.

“What are you digging for?” I ask.

“Worms. For the ducks.”

“Don’t worry if you can’t find any. The ducks have plenty to eat.”

“They do?” he asks. He’s digging slower now.

“They feed on stuff in the pond. They won’t go hungry.”

“Do you think Theodore’s hungry?”

“I bet the Petersons feed him first thing when they come tomorrow,” I lie.

Robby grins suddenly. “I left him lots to eat this morning. My leftover hamburger from last night.”

I laugh. “So that’s why you told Daddy you wanted two big burgers. One for you, one for Theodore.”

I wait till Robby drops the stick. “Ready to unpack your clothes?”

Robby shrugs. He follows me into his small room.

It takes fifteen minutes to put Robby’s clothes inside the tall bureau. Everything looks worn and skimpy. I hold up a pair of jeans. I eye Robby. “Don’t tell me these still fit you.”

He shrugs.

“Try ’em on.”

The jeans end where Robby’s socks begin. He’s outgrown them and needs new jeans. With all that’s happened, neither of us has gotten new clothes for school.

“Daddy has to buy us new clothes,” I tell him.

Robby takes off a worn sneaker and waves it in the air. “And I need new sneakers, Vannie. My big toe’s about to come through.”

“New sneakers, too,” I agree. Food, clothes, sneakers. My father has lots of shopping to do.

I leave Robby playing with his action figures, and go upstairs. In the living room, our big TV looks out of place amid the old furniture. I turn it on, glad to see it’s working, and turn it off. I reach inside my pocket for my cell phone and call my best friend, Tammy.

“Want to go to the movies tomorrow?” Tammy asks.

“Sure. I can’t wait to get away from this place.”

“But it’s so beautiful!” Tammy gushes. “You’re like living on your own private estate.”

“You won’t say that when you see this cottage,” I tell her. “And it’s miles from everything.”

“I’ll come over after school and we’ll have fun,” she offers.

“How can you with piano, dancing, and drama lessons every day of the week?”

That stops her, but only for a minute. “You can always come here for a weekend sleepover.”

“Thanks, Tam,” I say.

Tammy sighs. “That means you won’t.”

“I can’t leave Robby,” I mumble.

Tammy doesn’t understand, but at least she has the good sense not to argue. She thinks I act the overprotective sister and that Daddy should be looking after Robby. Well, maybe he should be. But not all fathers are like Tammy’s—thrilled to drive their daughter back and forth to lessons and help with science projects.

We talk about which movie we want to see, and decide to eat lunch at the mall before the show. “We’ll pick you up around noon,” Tammy says.

“Great, can’t wait,” we say at the same time. Our private signing off.

I take my book of short stories out of my school bag. It feels strange, getting ready to read my English assignment in this room. I snuggle down in the rocking chair and look around. The place won’t look half-bad with new curtains and a few area rugs. I rock as I read. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know is, Robby’s shaking my arm.

“Vannie, wake up!”

My heart is pounding. Where am I? I remember, but the fear stays with me. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You left me alone,” he says accusingly.

“I was here reading. I fell asleep.”

“And I’m starving.”

The sky is beginning to darken. I look at my watch. “It’s past six o’clock,” I tell Robby. “Daddy should be home soon. He’s bringing our dinner.”

Robby stamps his foot. “I want to eat now. We ate lunch so very long ago.”

Robby’s right. We last ate in our own house, before the movers came at noon. That seems like yesterday.

I step into my sneakers and tie the laces. “Let’s go downstairs and see what’s there.”

“I looked. There’s nothing to eat.”

My heart sinks. “Let me check. I brought lots of Mom’s supplies from home.”

Robby sniffs. “But you can’t make anything with them like Mommy used to.”

In one minute he’s going to start bawling for our mother. I jump off the rocker. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” I grab hold of his skinny hips and start him down the stairs. Our old train game.

Downstairs, I flip on every single light. Even if we had the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree here all lit up, the cottage would still be dark and gloomy. I rummage through the refrigerator.

“There’s some jelly left.” I hold up the jar. “Cherry. Your favorite.”

“So? What can I eat it on? Paper?”

“Let me see, let me see,” I mumble over and over as I open cupboards. “I remember seeing an open package of something.”

“Of potato chips?” Robby asks hopefully.

“Of those biscuits Mom used to like. Ah, here it is!”

I open the packet held closed by a twist, and take out a few biscuits for Robby. Even in the dim light, I can tell they’re stale.

“Do you want a few of these?”

Robby shrugs his shoulders. He starts to sniff.

I’m getting more and more furious with Daddy for leaving us like this. “I’ll put jelly on the biscuits,” I say between my teeth. “That should hold you till Daddy comes back with our dinner.”

Now Robby is crying. Large tears run down his face. Still, he takes a bit of the jellied biscuit and chews. He cries and chews. I wonder how he can do that—cry and chew at the same time. I worry that he’ll choke. But he finishes the biscuits and grabs me around the waist.

I rub his back. When he’s calmer I take him to his bedroom. “Go to sleep, Robby,” I tell him.

Robby shakes his head but lets me untie his sneakers. I help him under the covers, clothes and all. When his sobs turn to snores, I tiptoe out of his room.

“I have to get out of here,” I say out loud, “or I’ll go stark, raving mad.”

I fling myself out the front door into the cool, fresh air. The sun has gone down, taking all the colors of the rainbow for company. Under the pale gray sky, the road’s an endless black. Huge trees loom up, frightening me. I’m about to return to the cottage, when the tall street lamps flanking the road blaze with light. Across the meadow, Greystone is lit up as well. Maybe that’s where they’re holding the board meeting. Maybe not. Either way, I’m no longer afraid.

I race along the road, retracing the route we took this afternoon. It feels great to be moving—pumping my legs and swinging my arms—after this horrible day. By the time I reach the pond, I’m gulping down gallons of air. I slow down. Not one duck in sight. Where did they all go? I grin as my eyes make out their hunkered-down forms on the grass around the pond. The ducks have gone beddy-bye for the night.

I drop onto the wooden bench and stare at the smooth surface of the water. All is quiet and peaceful.

“I like it here,” I say out loud. “Away from that awful cottage. Even away from Robby.”

Suddenly I miss Mom. She would love sitting beside me, the two of us gazing out at the pond in early evening. No matter how busy and hectic things got, she always took time out to appreciate nature. “Moments of Beauty,” she called it. “Vannie, always leave room in your life for Moments of Beauty.”

I feel tears welling up. A few spill down my cheeks, but I brush them away as I remember what Mom told me a few days before she died.

“Don’t stay sad and mopey, Vannie. Remember the good times we’ve shared, especially the fun things. Make sure you keep fun things in your life.”

“Good times. Fun things,” I say aloud.

Good times and fun things were helping Mom prepare for her big catering jobs. I grin, remembering the last time we baked puff pastries. When Robby came into the kitchen, I made him a whipped cream mustache. Mom and I laughed as he licked it off, then asked me to make him another.

“I want to cook dinner tonight,” I say out loud. “Something Robby will like so much, he’ll rub his tummy and say, ‘Vannie, this is good. Almost as good as Mommy used to make.’”

I get up and walk to the edge of the pond, careful not to step on any ducks. I crouch down, pull up blades of grass, and toss them into the water.

“But what can I make? Number one, I don’t know how to cook. Number two, we’ve hardly any ingredients.”

A cold breeze chills my neck as an amused male voice asks, “Do you have pots and pans?”

I jump to my feet, startling a duck. He flaps his wings and quacks his complaint. I turn around to see a young man in a tuxedo sprawled on the bench I just left. His long, skinny legs are stretched out before him as though he’s been there for hours. He’s handsome, I suppose, or would be if not for the dumb grin that matches his silly question. For some reason, he doesn’t frighten me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Archibald Heatherton the Third, at your service.”

He stands up, puts his hand to his heart, and bows. Now I’m sure he’s making fun of me, and I don’t like it one bit.

“Where did you come from, all of a sudden?” I demand. “And where are you going, dressed like that?”

“I come, I go, as the wind blows,” he says, as if he’s reciting a poem. “Would you be kind enough to tell me to whom I am speaking?”

“Whom?” I stare at him. “We studied ‘whom’ in school, but no one uses it.”

“How utterly astounding!” he declares.

At first I think he’s teasing me again, but he seems truly upset by my grammar-usage bulletin. At least he’s no longer grinning, so I decide to be polite.

“I’m Vanessa Taylor.”

I’m about to reach out to shake his hand. Instead, I let out a yelp. “The bench! I can see the bench right through you!”