Nature of Jade (12 page)

There is no time for the perfect patron saint, so I light Raphael, the nightmare guy, so that this doesn't turn out to be one. I light him, blow him out, head downstairs. Mom has made a bowl of peanut butter cookie dough and is eating it off the tip of her finger. Cookie making is never simply cookie making. It is a direct result of an elevated mood, good or bad. It is either joy inspired (see the related French Toast Incident,

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previously described), or depression inspired--PMS, broken heart, listless boredom, agitation that can only be cured by the near inhalation of fat and sugar. The clues--no baking sheets out yet, the oven still cold--means this is not about joy.

"I suppose you'll be home for dinner," she says. Her tone sags. Bingo: depression.

"Five thirty. Or so."

"Don't be late without calling." Finger dip, consume. "Want some?" "No, thanks."

"Jeez, it seems like I barely see you anymore." Her voice is a ball rolling downhill. "Busy time,"

I say.

"You're not going to be around your family forever, you know," she says.

"Well, I could get married and have six kids and we can all live in my room," I say.

"At least we'd still do stuff together. Watch a movie every now and then. Eat cookie dough out of the bowl like we used to. Make valentines."

"Valentine's Day was two weeks ago."

"We used to make valentines together, remember? I'd buy all those paper doilies and the glitter ..."

"When I was six."

"I loved that," she says.

"I've got to go," I say.

She doesn't answer. I leave the kitchen, close the front door behind me. I have this creepy, gnarled feeling inside. Guilt. God, what'd she want me to do, eat paste and have her tie my shoes for me forever?

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The task of the day is to finish the elephant cleaning started by the morning interns. This means Bamboo and Flora, and Flora's tire. I work with Elaine and Evan, who is embroiled in some kind of divorce depression that day and barely talks, except to the animals. I know how it is--

sometimes you're sure only they'll understand and/or put up with you. We clean the dirt out from the bottoms of Bamboo's and Flora's feet and give them baths, and when I am done, the legs of my overalls are soaked. Picture washing a four-ton car, only the car is moving.

The task is involving enough that the time goes fast, and I check my cell phone clock only a couple of times, because I am holding one of the hoses. I change out of my overalls about ten to five. My pants are also wet too from the mid-thigh down, so walking around, out toward the viewing area, just before five, after combing my hair and putting on new lip gloss, is also probably a good idea. Not because of anyone, but just so that the air can dry my pants a little.

And then back to the elephant house because he isn't there yet, and then out again, and then, oh, shit.

Oh, shit, he's there. He's there, and now I have to breathe, only it's impossible because my lungs are collapsing, folding in on themselves.

I watch him from a bit up the path (stalker!) so that I can catch my breath and until he becomes just the same old him. We practically know each other. Okay, he doesn't have a clue who I am, but I can tell a lot about him already. He is familiar to me now, I remind myself.

Every big happening has a moment of plunge, that moment of decision, usually instantaneous even if you've been thinking about it forever. That now! Toes at the edge of the pool, look 105

ing at the water, one toe in, looking some more, and then, suddenly, you're in, and it's so cold, but nice, too, and you don't even remember where in there you decided to jump.

"Look, Bo, look who's coming. Remember that one? With the tire?" Flora. She's ambling out of the house into the yard with her new manicure. "She sure likes that tire. See, Bo?" The boy points, I can hear the nylon of his jacket swish as he moves his arm, but the baby just squirms in the backpack.

"Dow," the baby says.

"And that one. Remember him, with the really big ears?" Actually, her with the really big ears.

Tombi. Stomping out with newly bathed cheer.

"Dow," the baby says. "Dow!" The word turns into a half screech.

"Okay, fine." The boy says. He sounds tired. "But no running off."

The boy swings the backpack off his shoulders and around, giving the baby a mini amusement park ride. He holds the baby under the armpits and lifts him out. I still can't tell how old the baby is. A year? A little older? I'm not too experienced with babies--my only real exposure was with our neighbors', the Chens', little girl. They wanted me to babysit when I was about fourteen, but Mom got nervous that something would happen that I couldn't handle, so they had Natalie come over to our house. She was only a couple of months old, and her head was as floppy as my old doll Mrs. Jugs.

The minute the baby's little tennis shoes hit pavement, he takes off running, in this rigid-limbed, forward-leaning way. It seems so unsafe. Like a windup toy headed for the edge of a tabletop.

My own feet start moving then, heading to the viewing

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area where they are. I have this instavision--the baby running to me, grabbing my legs. Looking up at me, then smiling. I am going forward, because this is the moment, right now, when the boy and I are going to meet. Two points in need of a line, and now the line is being drawn.

The baby is running in my direction, just like I envisioned. And, yes, when I am in front of him, he stops and looks up. His face freezes in this look of half pleasure/half alarm. I smile. "Hi," I say in a small-children voice. Here is where he is supposed to smile back, big and beaming, the red-jacket boy seeing the connection we already have.

But instead, the baby's mouth twists, contorts. He looks up at me, and his face turns red. And then he begins to cry. Scream, actually. A wail so loud and terrified, even Onyx looks up with concern, and a couple making out by the savannah enclosure stop to watch who might be being kidnapped in case they're interviewed on the news.

"Oh, no," I say. "Oh, I'm sorry." Oh, my God. Horrible. Way to go, Jade! Perfect first impression--his baby screams in fear at you! You make the kid cry, for God's sake! Thanks bunches, Raphael--good job on the nightmare thing!

The boy comes over, lifts his son up in his arms. The baby sobs into his shoulder as if he's been traumatized so terribly he's sure to need therapy far into adulthood. "He's not good with strangers," the boy says over the cries. "Bo, hey. It's okay. Hey, kiddo." He bounces him up and down, pats his back. "She works with the elephants. Right?" he asks.

The baby is still crying, but my shame backs up a step. He'd seen me. He'd been here, when I was here. When I didn't even know it. Sea boy, desert girl.

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"Yes," I say. "I help out whenever I can. Almost every day."

"We watched you before," the boy says. "You were hiding pieces of watermelon all over."

"Enrichment. It keeps them interested, working things out."

The baby, Bo, is quieter now. His chin is tucked into his dad's shoulder.

"The little elephant likes you. He sniffed your hair."

I laugh. "Hansa," I say. "She likes smells. You know, my shampoo . . . Hansa's a real handful."

"I know all about that." Bo peeks from the safety of the red jacket.

"I bet. Is this little guy yours?" I ask. I'm bold. I can be. He'd seen me. He'd noticed things about me, as I had noticed things about him.

"Oh, yeah." He smooches Bo on the neck, and Bo wriggles himself further into his dad, into that red jacket, which is right there in front of me. The real red jacket, the real boy, talking. To me.

Having a regular old conversation. I am listening to his voice, this real person, this person who is not just an image in my thoughts. "All mine. This is Bo. Say hi, Bo."

Nothing doing.

"Hi, Bo. I'm Jade." I peer back at him.

"Jade?" the boy says. "Wow, that's really pretty."

Heat rises in my cheeks. God, don't blush. Please don't blush. Okay, I'm blushing. I think I'm flaming red. Blushing is so unfair. Might as well wear a sign: WHAT YOU THINK MATTERS

TO ME.

He doesn't offer his own name. The conversation stops. Awkward silence. Well, that's it.

"And you?" I have to at least know this. Just this--his name.

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"Oh," he says. He seems startled. "Sebastian. Sebastian Wilder."

Awkward silence again.

"Well, I'd better be going," I say.

"Yeah, I better get this guy fed. He's got maybe twenty minutes before he goes ballistic."

"Good luck," I say.

"Maybe we'll see you again," he says.

"That'd be great," I say. "I could show you around."

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't seem sure. Maybe I'd gone too far. Shit, I'd gone too far.

"See you," he says. "Maybe tomorrow." I hadn't gone too far. Okay, I hadn't. I'd done fine.

"Bye," I say. "Bye, Bo."

No response, not that I'm expecting one. I walk away, am almost down the path, when behind me I hear a small voice: "Ba-ba." Bye-bye.

I smile. I refrain from doing what I really feel like doing-- leaping and hugging things. Hugging and shouting and doing good deeds for people for the rest of my life. Joy spirals through every part of me, spins and sparkles, lifts up my heart and makes everything look right. Jake Gillette is in the parking lot with his skateboard again, racing over a new ramp, and even his parachute looks bold and majestic.

"Cool skateboard!" I shout, and Jake smiles and does another leap for me. I pass Total Vid. Titus looks out, and this time I wave. He raises his pinkie and thumb in the Hawaiian "hang loose"

greeting. The world--it sits in the palm of my hand. It's all mine, if I want it.

Mr. Chen is getting out of his car, coming home from work.

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"Hi, Mr. Chen," I say. I hear the singing in my voice.

"Hi, Jade," Mr. Chen says. He sounds surprised. He holds his briefcase and a clump of mail.

"Have a good evening!" I say. The day is one of the most monumental and spectacular in the history of days. I have met the red-jacket boy. And he did not have a wedding ring.

I see the letter on the kitchen counter when I come home, an acceptance to the University of Washington, just a ten-minute drive from home. Mom has already opened it.

"Did you see that, honey?" she shouts from the living room.

"I see it."

"You don't sound too excited. This is wonderful. God, I'm so proud of you."

"I am excited." I am. Everything is working out beautifully. The best school in the state, a red-jacket boy. I'm not sure why I feel this small, grating annoyance. The sense of something being scraped against something else. Maybe I'm just pissed she'd opened my mail. I tell my backstage mind to shut the hell up. I don't want anything to intrude on the happiness I'm feeling. Soaring, red-jacket happiness.

"Well, it's no surprise, though, with your grades. Bring it here so we can read it together."

She has her feet up on the couch, a book open on her knees. She sits up to make room for me and I sit beside her.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you. Wow. God, I'm a greeting card," she says.

"At least not, 'Sorry for your loss.'"

"Really. It's corny, but it's true. Can you believe we're looking at this? A letter from college?"

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"I know. Freaks me out."

"I'm sure. This is huge. Dad hasn't seen it yet," she says. "He's getting changed for dinner. He'll be so pleased."

I hand her the letter, check out the book she is reading. "The Life and Times of Alexander Hamilton?"

"It's interesting. Quit with the look. It really is."

"Since when do you read history?"

"I read history," she says. "Mr. Dutton recommended it. It's fascinating. I couldn't put it down.

Did you know he was illegitimate?"

"Mr. Dutton?" I say.

"Alexander Hamilton! Not Roger."

Roger?

"Oh. Wow," I say.

"Pretty shocking for those days . . .," she says.

She's missed my sarcasm. I turn it up a notch. "Now I understand why you're reading a"--I check the back of the book--"682-page book about the guy."

Mom does this thing with her mouth that reminds me of the time Dad took Oliver and me to a trout farm, just after we'd caught the poor targets, pulled them out of the water, and laid them on the dock.

I don't have time to follow this up, because Dad's voice booms from the direction of the kitchen.

"Should I be taking this out?" he yells.

"Oh, shit," Mom says. "Dinner. I forgot." She tosses aside my acceptance letter and leaps up. I follow her into the kitchen. Dad is wearing an oven mitt with smiling vegetables on it, and he's holding a pan. The vegetables are the only things smiling. There's a small dark item the size of my fist in the center of the pan.

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I crack up. "Was that a roast? Toasted roast. Toasted miniroast."

"I didn't even smell it burning," Mom says. "It's supposed to cook slowly, but probably not for ..." Mom checks her watch. "Oh, my God. Three and a half hours. " She chuckles and so do I.

Dad sets the pan down on the stove with a clatter. He seems pissed. Big deal, so she forgot. You know, give her a break, for God's sake. In the last ten minutes, I've been annoyed at her for opening my mail, and at him for being mean. When Oliver comes downstairs to help me set the table, I'm so glad to see him, I sock his arm. It's one of those times where you look for someone to like just so you don't hate everyone.

At dinner, Oliver chews his roast dramatically. It's pretty impossible--a piece of tire that had self-destructed on the freeway would have been easier. "Okay, all right," Mom says. She is half grinning, too, because, really, it's pretty funny. But Dad actually spits an attempted chunk of beef into his napkin and then shoves his plate away. He's being a real ass, if you ask me.

"I guess reading comes before dinner," he says.

Mom ignores him. She scoots her rice around with the edge of her fork. She doesn't apologize (good), acts as if no one has spoken. She puts a mouthful of rice in, then looks up and meets his eyes. She's daring him to say more--her eyebrows are raised in a silent statement of Anything else you care to say? They stare at each other for a moment, saying a thousand unsaids. Oliver has gotten very still. I'm not sure he's even breathing. The silence crawls around into the corners of the room, scary-movie-music style, something-bad-about-to-happen. I count the syllables in Reading comes be/ore dinner and end up on my