Authors: Tracie Vaughn Zimmer
Reaching for Sun (7 page)
the old screen door
means
Jordan’s home from four weeks at camp.
He’s taller, broader, and tanner,
but when he smiles,
my friend appears.
When I show him
Granny’s sleeping form
on the old chintz daybed
his face collapses,
tears bloom;
he swallows over and again.
I grab his shoulder,
not letting him turn away.
I kiss his cheek,
then hug him.
He smells like soap and syrup.
A long time
we hold on
to each other.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop awayfrom you like the leaves of autumn.
—John Muir
On the first day
back to school
Mom and Gran make
Jordan and me
a special breakfast.
Mom flips the pancakes
and sausages at the stove,
while Gran stirs the batter
with her good hand,
though she nearly falls asleep
at the table while we eat them.
On the bus,
Natalie Jackson
walks past our mid-bus seat
without so much as a glance.
“I see the real Natalie is back.”
“Oh, she never left,” he says.
“You remember that day
at her pool? She only wanted me
to fetch the ball for them
when it bounced out.
I didn’t even swim.”
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me, Jordan.”
“That’s just fine with me.”
This fall
Mom works most nights
so she can be with Gran
during the days,
which are measured in
doctor’s appointments
and daily therapies.
Jordan and I
take turns reading to her
by lamplight.
I show her how to use
my loop scissors
with her wrong/right hand
to cut
the pictures out
of her seed catalogs.
We even teach her
Morse code so she can knock
for what she means to say.
But Granny’s sharp words
like cactus needles
have been plucked,
and I miss her
pointed opinions each day.
I never thought
I would ever miss
the sound of
Granny and Mom
exchanging words
like darts.
Now Mom is so
gentle, cautious,
kneeling by her side,
showing her the color
overlays for her first
commercial landscape
design.
The comments
Granny would make
if she could
ping around in my head:
move this here.
This shrub needs a mate.
What fandangled thing is this?
But instead
she just nods,
smiles with half her face.
I bite my lip not to cry,
but Mom lays her head
like a little girl in Gran’s lap
and lets the tears
stain her ancient
mint robe
at last.
Gran’s friend Edna
(the one who stays too long
but brings the best carrot cake
so we suffer her latest complaints,
nodding through mouthfuls),
brought Gran another sick patient.
An African violet
with crown rot—
pitiful swollen stems
that drop if you
breathe too hard on them;
heart-shaped leaves
hanging their heads
like a kid who just got scolded.
It took some time
for her damaged hands to nurse it back,
but finally
double bubblegum-colored blooms
reflect in the frosted window
above the porcelain sink.
I bet a lot of kids
wish for the same thing
as I will this year
with my fourteen candles:
for things to be
just like they were.
I’m lugging homework home—
it feels like
an elephant in my backpack.
Homework should be outlawed
on birthdays—
even ones nobody mentions all day.
I nearly fall through the door
to find
Granny at the kitchen table
pointing
and nodding.
By the look on her face
she might cuss if she could.
Burnt sausage in her iron skillet
and Jordan dusted in flour,
trying to roll out dough.
They both look up—
caught
trying to make my
birthday favorite:
breakfast for dinner,
Granny’s biscuits and gravy
on the red plate!
Out of nowhere
Granny flings her good arm—
a dollop of dough
sticks for just a second to Jordan’s forehead.
She snorts behind her hand.
Then he lobs a glob
of unbaked biscuit at me—
soon the kitchen is covered
in flour,
biscuit balls,
and laughter.
Jordan and I
keep laughing
over Mom’s surprised face
when she walks in on our flour fight
and then joins in.
It’s a day
we both don’t want
to end, standing
near the door on the screened porch,
though neither of us
reaches to open it
first.
On impulse I say,
“Wait here.”
I give him the journal of letters
about my imaginary summer.
I know he’ll understand it.
When I slip it in his hands,
I realize
he’s shot up taller than me
and so fast that later I question
whether it really happened at all—
one quick kiss—
then he nearly falls
rushing out the door.
The wind stinging my face
as I watch his dark figure escaping
into the lavender glow of the night.
What do you want to be?
adults always ask,
as if you know
by fourteen
what you want to be doing
at forty-five.
I used to make up stuff:
firewoman,
pediatrician,
astronaut,
all the people
I knew my mom
wanted to hear.
I know
more what I don’t want to be:
a single parent,
poor,
stuck behind some desk
or in school longer than
I need to go.
And that will have to be
enough
for now.
I decide to finish
the Eiffel Tower mural on the old shed
as a Christmas gift for Gran.
It may take this whole season, but I’ve learned
if I take my time, nothing can stop me.
My fingers sweat inside the rawhide gloves,
the tools for glasswork awkward in my hands.
But I make a little progress each day.
Mom has taken to standing below the stepladder,
shading her eyes with her hand,
talking to my back as I work.
I step down to get a wider view.
“I’m going there someday, you know.”
I say it out of nowhere, but realize I mean it.
“I believe you,” she whispers.
“You do?”
Mom’s cool fingers tilt my chin up at her.
“I believe
in
you, Josie.”
And I press her words
in the pages of my heart
like a first spring bloom.
Shoe to shoe,
leg to leg,
arm to arm,
familiar fingers,
Jordan and I
sway in the hammock
on the autumn breeze.
I convince Jordan we should
join the Young Scientists Club
together
so we can go on their annual trip
to the Smithsonian museums
in the spring.
The pale sky and changing leaves
create a kaleidoscope of color
tumbling and fluttering
around our new plans
and dreams.
It’s the last chance to plant bulbs
for spring,
so I drag a chair
from patch to patch.
Gran shuffles to
her spot and gives me clear
directions with a series
of grunts, nods, gestures.
I understand her wishes
better than my own.
I unroll a length of
yarn
that has laid
dusty far too long
this summer.
Tears puddle in her eyes
and her smile wobbles
as she sees I’ve
spelled her name
with daffodils:
Jocelyn
Even after summer
packs her bags,
the garden blooms:
holly drips berries
for the birds;
the river birch
peels back
to show its pale heart.
A museum opening
of frozen sculpture:
Japanese maple limbs
painted with fresh frost,
ornamental grasses
pause time.
And me,
I’m the wisteria vine
growing up the arbor of this
odd family,
reaching for sun.
This book grew over many seasons with the gener-ous care and insights from many friends: Sue Corbett, Diane M. Davis, Susan Greene, Kim Marcus, Lynne Polvino, Andria Rosenblum, Deb Svenson, Kyra Teis, and support at The Pub. My twin, Trish DeLong, who gossips with me about my characters as if they live down the block, and my mom, who listens to poems over the phone. The divine duo: Jessica Swaim and Julia Durango, who held my hand through every page of every draft. My agent, Barry Goldblatt, for his unwavering faith. Melanie Cecka, who pulled the ribbon of the story from my clenched palm, and the entire Bloomsbury crew for their boundless creativity and enthusiasm. The real Aunt Laura Collier, for ever-lasting friendship. Thanks, always and always, to my husband, Randy, for believing. And for Cole and Abbie, who inspire every word.
Copyright © 2007 by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First published in the United States of America in March 2007
by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers
E-book edition published in April 2011
www.bloomsburykids.com
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Zimmer, Tracie Vaughn.
Reaching for sun / by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. — 1st U.S. ed.
p.cm.
Summary: Josie, who lives with her mother and grandmother and has cerebral palsy,
befriends a boy who moves into one of the rich houses behind her old farmhouse.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59990-037-7 • ISBN-10: 1-59990-037-8 (hardcover)
[1. Cerebral palsy—Fiction. 2. People with disabilities—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.
4. Grandmothers—Fiction. 5. Single-parent families—Fiction. 6. Novels in verse.]
I. Title.
PZ7.5.Z63Re 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006013197
ISBN 978-1-59990-812-0 (e-book)
