Meeting Miss 405 (7 page)

I have put the list on the bookshelf, out of the way of greasy fingers, while Dad and I have our supper. I know what it says by heart. It took me almost an
hour to write. Miss Stella walked Parveen home while I finished it. So even she does not know what it says.

While we eat, I tell Dad what I have decided to do. Which means I hardly concentrate at all as I peel off the batter and eat it separately and take one bite of fish, then one of chips. It's the way I always eat it.

My list says:

1 Give Devin the pea butter sandwich and tell him that I am sorry he is allergic
.

2 Tell Mr. Howarth about the bullying so he can take care of it. He is the grown-up
.

3 Tell Mr. H that I really appreciate the advice about having a Trusted Other, but I have Dad and Miss Stella and Parveen, so I won't need to see Ms. Carlton, the school counselor
.

4 Offer to show and tell the class about my calligraphy and tell them all about famous Miss Stella
.

5 Write a letter to Mom in my best calligraphy so she knows how much I miss her
.

“I must be full, because I feel sick,” says Dad when there's still a bunch of cold chips left. This is an old joke, and we laugh each time we say it. I said it once when I was little, and no one will let me forget it.

“You came up with this yourself?” Dad asks when I have finished telling him what I plan to do. He rolls the paper around the chips and takes them into the kitchen. I hear the garbage can open and then close. I should tell him that Mom would put it all in a plastic bag first. The kitchen will smell now, even after he takes out the garbage. But Dad has to figure this stuff out for himself. Just like I have to.

“It was all my idea. But it will be hard to do,” I say. Already I am nervous.

“How badly do you want Devin to feel better about his allergies. Even just a little?”

“Quite a bit.”

“And how much do you want your teacher to take care of you while you're in school?”

“A lot.”

“I think writing a letter to Mom is a fine idea. It will help you get things off your chest.” He brings me a big glass of oj and sets it on the table. “Drink up. You need your vitamins,” he says. “Sometimes the only thing to do is take the bull by the horns.”

I drink my juice in three gulps. “Bulls have very sharp horns.”

“Aren't you the joker!” Dad says. “I am very proud of you, Tansy.” His voice is all choky. “Your mother would be too. And this weekend might be a very good time to give her your letter. So you had better get on it.”

My glass tips over as I jump up. I throw myself at Dad so hard he nearly falls over too. “Are we going to see Mom? This weekend? Does that mean she is better now? Has she graduated from the clinic?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes.” Dad picks me up in a bear hug and swings me around. I bend my knees because last time I knocked over Mom's favorite lamp. I bet I've grown since I saw her. How long ago was that? So many weeks I have lost count.

Dad puts me down and nuzzles my neck. “We will see how things go. She is not sure she is quite ready to come home. Let's get to Grandpa's and see how it goes. Okay?”

I feel so happy and light, I think I could fly. I am so excited about Mom being better. But one thing at a time, as Miss Stella says. “I want this to be the best letter ever,” I tell Dad. “And in my best calligraphy.” I pick up my list again. I read it slowly, to make sure that everything I need to do is there.

“Chores first. Calligraphy later,” says Dad.

“There are no dishes, Dad. We ate supper on paper and you threw it all away.”

We have to start changing our ways soon. Things will be different when Mom comes home.

On Sunday morning we are just packing our stuff into Dad's backpack for our trip to see Mom when Miss Stella drops by.

“I have a little something for you.” She is holding a square package with a bump on it. It is wrapped in one of the old maps she found at the thrift store. Miss Stella recycles and does not use regular wrapping paper.

“Can I open it? Stay while I open it.”

“Not too long, though. I have a date for a walk around Stanley Park with a friend.”

Sometimes I forget Miss Stella might have other friends. When I go to her house she never makes calls or has people over. We just spend our time with each
other. I bet her other friends think they are the only ones she has too.

Dad cuts the string with his Swiss Army knife. Then I unwrap the paper very carefully so I can look at the map later.

Inside is the most beautiful book I have ever seen. I hardly dare touch it. The cover is all smudgy greens and red. “I have been working on this for a while,” says Miss Stella. “But this seems like the right day to give it to you. That paper is handmade,” she adds. “And that special binding on the spine is called Coptic.” All down the spine are little rows of string and knots. “It was bound by my friend Linda in Nelson.”

I stroke the book and turn it over and over. “Thank you. It is lovely.”

“But there is more,” says Miss Stella. “Look inside.”

The first page is blank, so I know it is a notebook. I turn the next page.

Tansy's Book

In Her Own Words

For her eyes only

“My own calligraphy notebook! I love it.” I give her a big hug, breathing in the smell of her cucumber soap.

“Not everyone gets their own handmade book with calligraphy by the famous Stella Vickers,” Dad says.

“Oh, hush, Lew,” says Miss Stella. “You missed something, Tansy.”

When she rattles the paper, a long thin box slips out. Inside is a pen. “That's a special felt pen for calligraphy,” she says. “No ink required, so you can take your notebook and your pen and write anywhere.”

We are only going to the Sunshine Coast for the day. But as we get in the car, Miss Stella calls good-bye from her balcony as if we plan to be away for ages. “Have a wonderful visit. And enjoy the ferry trip.” She has been watering her balcony, and it
drip-drip-drips
down the wall, like a clock ticking.

“Thank you for my book,” I call back. From below, I can only see one of her arms flapping and a strand of her hair that has escaped from her messy bun. “Don't be late for your friend.”

As we drive away, I open the notebook again and run my fingers over the title page. “Isn't this beautiful, Dad? But I am afraid to write in it. What if I mess it up?”

“It's your book. No one will see whether you mess up or not.”

I flip through the book and find something I did not see before. On every single page, Miss Stella has made a little ink drawing of a tansy flower.

I think of all the time and concentration it has taken Miss Stella to make such a perfect gift.

And while I am thinking about this, I forget to worry about what will happen when we get to the Sunshine Coast and see Mom for the first time in weeks.

When we drive up the gravel road to Grandpa's house, he is standing on the porch shaking a rug over the railing.

“There you are, then.” He bends down at the top of the stairs and hauls me into a big hug. I can feel the tight muscles in his arms from all the woodcutting. His cheek is bristly and his mustache smells smoky.

“Where is Mom?”

“Down by the water. I suggest you go down to see her one at a time. She's a bit shaky.”

“You go, Dad.” I feel shy. Will Mom still be crying? Will she recognize me?

“We could go together. We can take it slowly,” Dad says.

But Grandpa puts one hand on his arm. “You go ahead, Lew. Tansy and I will go inside and catch up on all our news.”

“I need our bag.”

When I get back from the car, I see Dad walking down the slope to the chairs where we always sit to count stars. “Come on, Tan. Let's put some coffee on,” says Grandpa. He makes horrible coffee, Dad says. I can smell that he must have made some already today.

His house always looks like a campsite. He leaves blankets all over the place, stacks of books and greasy tools on tables, and clothes piled on any old chair. But today everything has been put away and cleaned up.

“You hungry? I have muffins and fruit. Homemade.”

“Muffins?” Mom is a great baker.

“Fresh from the oven this morning. I'll take the bottoms if you want the tops.” Grandpa and I always share them that way.

“Did Mom make these?”

He sets a stack of plates and cutlery at the table. “‘Fraid not, lovey. Louella Harris. Remember her? She's taken it upon herself to help fatten up your mother. Fresh muffins to take every time I visit her at the clinic. A double batch when she heard you were on your way.”

He stirs three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Then one more. “Your mom is doing very well. This house is shipshape, thanks to her. Now, juice or milk?”

Dad takes forever. When I peek out of the window there is nothing to see. Just two chickadees dancing around the bird feeder. And down on the lake someone sitting in a boat.

Grandpa chatters on. He gets up and down from the table, and then he goes back and forth to the counter. He peeks out the window when he thinks I am not looking.

If she was here, Mom would tell him to
Sit still for heaven's sake
.

I show him my special book. I tell him how Dad and I will decorate my bike for sports day next week. Then I tell him about the calligraphy and the letter I have written Mom.

When Grandpa asks if he can see the letter, I tell him it is private. That I wrote it for Mom in my own words and for her eyes only.

“You are one brave girl. Naming you after such a sturdy and persistent wildflower was the perfect thing to do,” says Grandpa. “I have the best girls in the world!” His face gets all pink when he is excited.

At last I hear Dad walking up the stairs. When he comes in the house, he goes straight to the coffeepot and pours a cup.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

Dad's face is blotchy and his eyelashes are wet. But he is smiling. “Sure. Mom is eager to see you.”

I walk down the hill, trying not to run. Little waves glint on the lake. Leaves shiver in the trees. My stomach feels flickery, and my hands are sweaty. But I let the flickering and the sweatiness be. When I get to the bottom of the hill, I stand for a minute, looking at Mom's back as she stares at the water. “Mom?”

She turns around. Then she puts out her arms, and I walk right into them.

Mom is just the same. But different.

She reminds me of kids on the first day of school. Everyone has new clothes and fresh haircuts. Everyone is on their best behavior.

I have not seen Mom's dress before, or her shoes. Her hair looks like she had it cut. I wonder how long it will take her to go back to being her usual self, like kids on the second day of school.

Mom and I talk a bit. But not much. There are lots of silences between us.

She tells me about the birds she has been watching, sitting here by the water. About some of the other people at the clinic. One lady cleaner is always happy to sit and talk to Mom or anyone else who needs company. Maybe for now she's Mom's Trusted Other.

She says, “I will be home soon. Will you be pleased?” But she is looking out over the water. Not at me.

We sit side by side in the chairs. I look at the sun dancing on the glinty water.

I try to let the tight place in my chest be. I try to stop worrying about what I should say. For a while I don't even think about the letter I wrote that is
still in the pocket of Dad's bag in Grandpa's house. I don't think about when will be the best time to give it to her or if she will smile when she reads it. Or if it will make her cry.

I try not to worry about what will happen next and just practice being here.

I see a fish make a little splash. I hear the breeze rustle the leaves and a loon far down the lake call to its mate and the clatter of a bucket along the shore.