Lifting the Sky (23 page)

If a raven flies by my window by the time I count to fifty, my dad will come back today.

I lay slumped in my bed, counting, dragging the numbers out. At forty-nine a black bird flew by. I raced to the window and poked my head out. It
was
a raven! I plopped back onto my bed, blew my hair off my forehead. “He'd better come back,” I muttered to myself. “If he doesn't…” I punched my pillow with my fist and turned it to the cool side.

It was the morning of day six since he'd left.

The first couple of days I'd buzzed about expecting his truck to come rumbling up any second. By day three I'd started dragging about, barely lifting my feet off the ground. It felt like a heavy gray cloud had settled around me, turning the world dreary and taking its colors away.

On the next bed, the doll stared wide-eyed at the doorway as if expecting her prince to show up any
minute. “Don't get your hopes up,” I muttered, punching my pillow again.

Why'd he saddle me with a doll as big as a barrel, for cripe's sake. How could she possibly fit in our pickup? She'd take up half the seat, and a princess is way too fancy to stick in the back. I bet she cost a small fortune. What was he thinking? Hadn't he kept track of the years that'd gone by since he'd left us the first time?

The first time. What kind of dad walks out the door
twice
? I could feel the anger inside me growing and filling me up. I tried to remember what Mam had said before I stormed off to bed last night. “It's just the way he is…. Don't take it personally.”

But I did. I was furious. I'd about driven Mam mad with my raging and stomping about. It didn't help that she seemed to keep her own anger all bottled up deep inside. I wondered what would happen if ever she came uncorked.

Downstairs the door banged as Mam headed out. Stew Pot opened one eye but didn't budge from his beanbag.

Was my buddy getting old? I counted backward. Eleven? Twelve? I'd read somewhere that big dogs got older sooner than small ones. Lately he'd been having trouble jumping up into the back of the truck. I felt a big lump grow in my throat. What good did it do to worry about stuff I couldn't change or do one thing about?

Like my dad being the way he was.
Don't take it personally,
I thought.
It's just how he is.
Yeah, right. I lay in bed trying to think of all the good things about him. Like
the bubbly way he told stories. And the stuff he came up with, like setting off fireworks—though of course that'd almost ended in disaster. But then the comical stuff he did—why, even Mam hadn't been able to keep a smile off her face as she'd watched him do that funny French chef act. And he was so handsome it made my heart ache.

That's what he did to me. Made my heart ache. My tall, handsome, heartbreaking dad. And he'd done it so easily. Just breezed in and then out the door. Had he gone clear to France to find that stupid chocolate stuff? I spit out the word. “Nutella.” It made me gag. Same as the word “Dijon.” Maybe I hadn't understood what was going on when I was little, but now!

I could feel the anger building up like a big fire burning inside me, feel myself getting so hot I thought I'd explode.
WHERE ON EARTH ARE YOU?
I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.
How could you walk into my life again and then turn around and walk out?

I stared at the cracked mirror across from my bed. Someone really angry must've thrown something at it, but I bet they'd been nowhere
near
as furious as me. I shoved my hand under my bed and jerked out my just-in-case box. Grabbed a soup can. “TAKE THAT!” I yelled, and I threw it as hard as I could at the mirror. Pot gave a yelp, shot up from the beanbag, and dove to the far side of the room. He crouched by the wall, his worried tail
thump-thump
ing apologies on the wood floor.

“Oh, Pot, I'm so sorry,” I cried. “I'm not mad at
you
!” I patted my bed and he bounded up into my arms.

I looked at the mess I'd made. Jagged pieces of mirror lay scattered across the wood floor, along with the dented soup can. I hid my face in Pot's furry shoulder and begged him to forgive me for scaring him so. The horrible thing was that my huge, hungry
wanting
was ripping me right down the middle. I felt so divided. I mean, how could I want something so
much
—for my dad to come back—but at the very same time regret it now that he
had
? What was it that I really wanted? And Mam? Yesterday I'd watched her pick up the telephone and then stand there staring at it. I was sure my dad hadn't left her a number or else she would've called him by now, so she must've been thinking of calling Mr. Mac. But she hadn't. She'd held the phone to her chest, sighed, and then put it back down.

And as if things weren't bad enough, she'd drunk up the rest of the wine. Two bottles, all by herself. I hadn't made it easier. Even poor Stew Pot had slunk about hiding under the table or the couch or in the bathroom, anywhere to get away from my ranting.

Every afternoon I'd hiked up the hill, my heart leaping ahead of me, fingers crossed, hoping and praying that at least one happy thing would happen that day. Stew Pot would lope ahead of me wagging his tail expectantly. And then the big letdown for both of us. No Shawn.

I'd walk past my tree and jump over the rocky ledge and then climb partway down the back side of the hill. I stared down by the pine tree, checking for a pile of manure
or some hoof marks that would mean Tivo had been there. He hadn't. I'd climb slowly back up and walk to the other side of the hill and stand there with my hand shading my eyes, searching for some sign of my dad. No dust rose on the long road to the ranch. No one traveled it, no one at all.

Now, in my bedroom, I looked over Pot's shoulder at the slivers of glass and the dented soup can. A pool of tomato soup had spurted out on the floor. It looked like blood. I shivered and hugged Stew Pot so tightly he coughed.

At noontime Mam stomped into the kitchen. “Turn down that drumming and singing,” she said, throwing her gloves on the counter. “Doesn't it get on your nerves?”

I got up from the table and clicked off the radio without saying a word.

She picked up her latest encyclopedia and slammed it down on the table. All my dad's roses let go of their petals at once. We stared at the blackish red piles. Mam jerked the stems out of the cobalt-blue bottles and stuffed them into the trash can by the sink. Then she turned on the faucet and reached for her white china teapot. Both of us winced as she banged it down in the sink. For a minute I thought she might cry.

“We've had this forever,” she moaned, holding the broken pot to her chest like a kitten. “I was going to make some ice tea….”

“I'll … I'll buy you a new one,” I said softly, though what I really wanted to say was
Please, please don't cry, 'cause then I'll start crying too …
.

I watched her set the broken teapot on the counter, then carefully, slowly, scrape the pieces out of the sink. She placed them, sliver by sliver, next to the teapot. She gave a huge sigh and then scooped up the slivers and dropped them into the trash with the roses.

“Never mind, Blue,” she said. “It's all over and done with.”

I sucked in my breath. Was she talking about the pot or my dad, or us being at the ranch? Cripes, how I hated those huge, heavy sighs and what almost always followed. It's all over and done with…. Would she pack up and take off just to pay my dad back for what he'd done? Would
she
disappear? Would she do that to him? To
me
? To
Mr. Mac
?

“After all these years,” Mam said, startling me, her voice as cold as ice. “Just like
that
he shows up.” She snapped her fingers. “And with no excuses whatsoever except that it was my fault for not leaving a forwarding address. Shows up with wine and red roses. Fireworks and fancy French food and a doll. Gets me thinking about how it was, and how it might be again. Gets me looking at a bottle of wine again as if it holds all the answers.” She opened the fridge, stared into it, and then slammed the door shut. The fridge hummed. She glared at it as if it'd talked back.

“I've half a mind to pack up and be out of here
before he comes back.
If
he comes back. Let him come back to an empty house.”

I could've sworn my heart stopped beating.

“I didn't want you to get hurt. Not again, not ever again…” She slid a piece of china out of the sink and held it up on the tip of her finger.

“Maybe we can glue it back together,” I said. The words came out raspy. “Or get a new one. Off with the old, on with the new, right?” I felt light-headed, crazy, as if everything had gotten all scrambled up and nothing made sense. Was I talking about the pot or our lives or my dad or Mr. Mac? Or all of the above? I mean, this was the way we lived, right? Here for a month or two and then gone in an instant. Why should things be different now?

The sink gurgled, making a sucking sound as if something was stuck in the drain. I wanted to run over and stuff the plug into it. Because sure as sure, my whole world, everything I'd ever wanted, everything I'd dreamed about, was now headed straight down the drain.

Without a word Mam started taking everything off the table. She pulled off the pretty tablecloth, took it onto the porch and shook it, and then folded it up and put it away again. It so reminded me of the time when the dishes had finally been cleared from the table, back when my dad left before. Neither of us said a word. Mam warmed up some leftovers and then sat with her chin cupped in her hand, staring at her book but not turning the pages. Me, I wanted my comfort food. I dribbled honey over a peanut butter sandwich, giving the bottle such a squeeze that a big glob
oozed out.
Ha,
I thought as I took a huge bite.
If my dad comes back this very minute carrying a whole box full of Nutella, I won't even touch it. So there.

Mam looked over at me.
She better not dare say anything,
I thought. I frowned down at my book.
If she decides to pack up Ol' Yeller, I'll hop up in the truck and throw everything right back out. I'll chain myself to the table. Or I'll run away. That'd show her. She couldn't leave without me, could she?

What about those rosy-pink lights that always showed up when Mr. Mac came around? She had feelings for him. But she probably thought she wasn't good enough—that she was just the hired hand, and she hadn't finished high school—my mom was so full of old hurts. But she'd proven she was more than
just
a hired hand. The ranch had been in such poor shape and all on her own she'd turned it around. Maybe I'd helped a little. But she'd done it. She'd repaired all the fences and gotten those ditches running again. And just look at the house!

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eyes. She hadn't eaten a bite, hadn't turned a page, and was sitting with her chin cupped in her hand, her eyes all faraway looking.

“Just tell me one thing,” I said. “Did my dad say anything about—anything? Our future, what he wanted …?”

“I wish I could tell you what you want to know,” Mam said, “but he never said what his plans were, and I didn't ask. It seemed that all he could talk about was that darn film he wanted to make.”

“I was sorry that he wasn't doing anything with that
gift of healing you'd said he used to have. I tried to find out about it, but he brushed it off as nothing.”

Mam sighed. “All I can say, Blue, is that he didn't value the things he had. Neither the gifts nor the people.”

I pushed back my chair.
I will not cry,
I thought. “Think I'll work on my room,” I managed to say. “A few touch-ups and it'll be ready for the grand opening.”

Mam looked at her untouched plate and then gave me a lopsided smile. “I can hardly wait. Secrets are hard to live with,” she said.

If we were just two hairs from splitting this place, I'd at least get the room all tidied up and make it nice for Mr. Mac. And the room did look kind of pretty, with my funky creations with their feather and birds' nest surprises. They were weird and definitely wobbly but quite fantastic, if I did say so myself. Maybe I should have a little ceremony. Ask Mam to call Mr. Mac to invite him to the grand opening. A two-in-one party, an opening and a closing at the same time …

Maybe if Mr. Mac came, it'd make my mom change her mind.

I swept and mopped and then raided the rest of the house. I grabbed some books from the bookshelf and arranged them on my table. I took two turquoise pillows from the kitchen and placed them in my chairs, and then I swiped four cobalt-blue bottles and three stubby candles and placed them on the wide windowsills. It was all just too pretty for words. Then I latched the door and straightened the sign. Soon I could tear it off.

Mam's door was closed. I wrote a note.
Please call Mr. Mac to come out tonight to see what I've done with the room.
I tucked it under the salt shaker. I doubted she'd call. It seemed even more unlikely that he'd come.

I could've spent all afternoon with my bums, but time was running out.
Why hasn't Shawn come by to see me again?
I wondered as I fed my bums and looked up at my hill. It was hot, and one bottle each wasn't enough. They wanted more.

“Hang on,” I said. “I'll give you doubles this evening, I promise.”

It was a promise I wouldn't keep.

Clouds stacked up like cups and saucers on top of the Owl Creeks. In the Winds, soft gray clouds smothered the mountaintops.
We could sure use some rain,
I thought,
but we'd probably just get dry lightning.
From my hilltop I searched the landscape for—what? Dust swirling up the road behind a pickup? Tivo galloping over the hills? No such luck. I counted on my fingers the days since my dad had left. Six. And seven since Shawn and I had ridden into the mountains on Tivo.