Out of the Box (13 page)
“But isn't that box heavy? Are you sure you don't want a ride?”
“I'm fine,” I say. “I'll be back in a few hours. Jeanette knows where I'm going.”
The box Mom referred to is the bandoneón. I'm taking it to Frank's along with a letter I wrote last night.
Dear Mr. Moreno,
Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would,
since you only met me once and I wasn't exactly honest about why I went to the tea talk. I know I should have
told you about the bandoneón, but I didn't know how. I figured if I went up to you and said I had something
that was your father's, you'd probably think I was nuts.
Okay. And there's another reason too. I love this
bandoneón and would give just about anything to
keep it. But I keep thinking of that picture you told
me about, the one of your father playing and your
mother clapping behind him. You sounded so grateful
for that photograph, and I know the bandoneón
would mean a lot to you too. It was something of
theirs that made them happy, and it doesn't feel right
to keep it from you.
Inside the lining of the case, you'll find an envelope
with all sorts of things inside
â
all the clues I followed
to find you. I've left everything exactly how I found it.
I'm leaving Victoria tomorrow. I don't know
when I'll be back, but Frank has my email address
if you want it.
Yours truly,
Ellie Saunders
P.S. Any idea how both you and your father's
bandoneón wound up in Canada separately?
Frank asks me if I'm sure about this, and when I nod, he tells me he's proud and disappointed at the same time. “You have the makings of a damn fine player, and I hate to see you go without a bandoneón. If ever I hear of one for sale, you'll be the first to know, and if you don't go about finding one yourself, I'll personally come over and give you a swift kick in the pants.” Coming from Frank, I figure that's the highest compliment. I thank him, he hugs me, and Louise gives me a
CD
that Frank and his tango group made a few years ago. I promise I'll visit again as soon as I can.
I walk back along Government Street feeling lonelier than I have in my whole life. I eat the granola bar that I brought for Ned and am relieved that Sarah's busy at the petting zoo. Last night I tried to figure out what to say to her, and I wrote a whole speech in my head about how much her friendship has meant to me and how awful I feel about how it's turned out. When I woke up this morning, though, I knew I'd never have the courage to say all that, so it's just as well I won't be able to see her.
In the end, I wrapped up something I found in the basementâa box of my aunt's clothes from the seventies, which Jeanette agrees Sarah will love. The card that I taped to the top said only
Sarah, I'm sorry for being
such a lame friend. Hope this makes up for it a bit. E
I wrote her name on the envelope and left the package at her front door. Sometimes there's only so much you can do.
A
t home, nothing and everything has changed. My list of chores for each person still hangs in the kitchen. The house looks like it hasn't been cleaned since I left, and the only thing in the fridge is half a liter of milk.
The second we're in the door, Dad hugs me, tells me how much he missed me, and suggests we go out for dinner. Mom says he should have had supper on the table by now. Dad stomps off into the kitchen, and half an hour later, we're sitting down to pasta with salmon Alfredo sauce, whipped up with stuff from the pantry and the last of the milk. I smile. No canned soup. No sandwiches. At least in one way, it's good to be home.
My father and I spend the next two days cleaning the house while Mom's at work. I weed the bark mulch in the backyard, walk to the library, fill my backpack with novels and walk home.
I think about the paper Jeanette slipped into my hand before we left: the name and phone number of a counselor, a friend of Alison's who works within a bus ride of my school. “In case you ever want to talk to someone outside the family. Just make an appointment. I'll pay.” I don't think I'll call, but I've saved the paper, just in case.
On Saturday, I wake up to the sound of arguing and the growling of my stomach. I ignore my hunger, grab a book from the stack by my bed and try to read. I promised Jeanette I wouldn't get involved in my parents' arguments anymore, and if I show up in the kitchen to make breakfast, they'll want my opinion. It's safer to stay in my room.
When I was at Jeanette's, curled up in a deck chair under the cherry tree on my last night there, I felt like I could stand up to anyone. It was two in the morning, Mom was snoring in the living room, and my aunt and I were having a secret farewell picnic in the backyard. She was talking about setting boundaries and said again that my job is to be a kid. She said my parents need to talk to other adults about their problems, not to me, and that I have every right to tell them that. I wrapped my hands tighter around my mug of hot chocolate and pictured myself standing up to Mom. I pictured her tears, but they didn't hurt me. I felt strong, powerful.
But now, with their shouting ringing in my ears, I'm hiding out in my bedroom, too scared to go out and too hungry to stay. Finally hunger wins out and I go to the kitchen, where Mom is banging dishes in the sink and Dad's leaning against the counter, arms folded, glowering at the floor.
“Don't bother,” Mom says when I open the fridge door. “It's not like your father's made the effort to shop properly lately.”
“It's been a busy week, Gloria.” He sounds more tired than angry.
“So we don't need to eat?”
Clank, clatter, crash.
I grit my teeth, open the pantry and pull out a box of crackers. I've just found an unopened peanut butter when Mom turns to face me. “Right, Ellie?”
“What?” I bang the jar down on the counter louder than I mean to, and she startles, as if she's the only one around here with noise privileges.
“Division of labor,” she snaps. “I mean, this is a family issue, right? So what do you think?”
I think nothing has changed. I think I can try all my life to help them, and they'll keep running in circles, arguing and crying about the same old stuff. My life would be way better with Jeanette, and I wish I'd fought to stay with her. I yank down the page of chores that I'd posted on the fridge and shake it at them. “
This
is what I think. Why bother asking if you're not going to listen anyway?” I crumple it into a ball, hurl it at the floor, grab the box of crackers and slam out the front door.
I walk fast, head down. I don't look up until the rows of identical houses give way to older ones with yards dotted with flowers or vegetables or trees. I pass a llama and what I think is a chicken coop. I feel my jaw relax. I stop white-knuckling my cracker box.
I don't stop walking until I reach an empty lot. It's full of blackberry bushes, and if Jeanette were here, we'd change any plans we had and spend the afternoon picking instead.
The fruit is ripe, the bushes are loaded, and I have an empty cracker box. I'm tempted, but I should be getting back. I've been gone less than an hour, but my parents have no idea where I am, I don't have my cell with me, and Mom is no doubt imagining me snatched up by a serial killer or mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.
I sigh. Sometimes I wonder what she'd do for excitement if she actually lived in reality instead of her head.
I place my box in a bush, propping it up the way Jeanette does, so it won't fall over no matter how full it gets. Then I reach for a blackberry, avoiding the prickles, and pop that first one into my mouth. It's warm and sweet and tastes of summer.
M
om's furious at me when I get home. She yells and cries. I hug her but don't apologize. She begs me to tell her where I'm going next time. I agree and head up to my room, pretending not to hear her sniffling. By lunchtime she's pulled herself together, and we all act like nothing's happened.
I abandon my stack of library books and scour the Internet for bandoneóns for sale. I find none I could ever afford, but decide to start earning some money so I'll be prepared when a cheaper one comes up. Besides, staying out of my parents' problems will be easier if I'm out of the house as much as possible.
In the next few days, I find lawns to mow, kids to babysit and a newspaper route. I also make an appointment with that counselor, because it can't hurt, and maybe it'll inspire my parents to see someone themselves. My summer becomes busy. Mom declares I'm wasting my childhood by working too hard (I bite my tongue), but she doesn't try to stop me.
I decide that, someday, I will go live with Jeanette. Not right now, but maybe in a few years, when Mom is better, or at least when she's figured out that I won't try to solve her problems anymore. That's when I'll ask if I can go, and I won't give up until my parents say yes. None of it should surprise my mother: it will be evidence of the rebellious streak that she's been waiting for all along. And I know Jeanette wouldn't mind. She calls every few days now, and she talks to everyone in the house. Other than hers, though, we don't receive many phone calls. No one comes by, either, until the last Friday of summer, when the doorbell rings.
“What are you doing here?” I shriek, flinging my arms around Jeanette, who is standing on our doorstep with a bandoneón case in one hand.
“Special delivery,” she says. “I figured you might want this before school starts and you get too busy to practice.”
“What? Howâ?”
“May I come in?” she asks. “Or do you expect me to tell you the whole long story on your front walk?”
I step aside, and she marches into the living room. The place looks a lot better than it did a month ago. Dad and I have been doing the housework together, because Mom's declared that if things ever fall into complete chaos again, she and I will be checking into a hotel, and Dad can expect divorce papers in the mail. The house is now clean, but messy. Mom leaves stacks of paper wherever she goes, and the entire place is starting to look like her office desk.
Jeanette places the bandoneón gently on the footstool and sits down on one end of the couch. I curl up opposite her. “Do my parents know you're here?” I ask.
“Not unless they heard me come in,” she says, tucking her feet up beneath her. “Gloria can hardly complain about me dropping by without calling though.”
“How did you wind up with the bandoneón?”
“Would you believe Facundo offered to trade it for a broken lawn mower and a china cabinet full of rusted bike chains?”
I laugh. “No way.”
“Worth a shot,” she says. “Anyway, Frank told him your story, and Facundo wants you to keep playing. He sent a letter explaining it all. It's in the case. He said you'd know where to find it.”
I'm fighting back tears. “I don't know what to say.”
“
Thank you
will do for starters,” she says. “I've got his email address, if you want to write to him. Interesting guy.”
“You talked to him?” I ask.
She nods. “Frank invited me along when Facundo came over. You and Frank had quite the sleuthing operation going this summer. Why didn't you ever mention it?”
I feel my face go red. “I was afraid you'd want me to give back the bandoneón.”
“But you did anyway.”
“I didn't know I would until Mom showed up.”
She smiles at me. “I'm proud of you, you know.”
“I can't believe he gave it back to me.”
“He says it's on loan until you can buy one of your own,” she explains. “The only hitch is that he wants to hear you play next time you're in Victoria.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Will I be in Victoria again?”
“You will if I have anything to do with it. I'm not going to do all the traveling in this relationship, and you know that house is way too big for just one person.”