Ruby Unscripted (2 page)

“What's your wish?”

I jump as Mac shouts at me, leaning to get his face close to mine. I nearly throw my phone out the open rooftop.

“Mac! Mom!”

“Mac, leave your sister alone. She needs time to think,” Mom calls back with a worried glance in my direction.

She was more worried than I was about this move to Marin . . . well, until I said all the good-byes this week and especially now. I realize it's the last remnant of what is, taking us from the past and
what has been
to the new place, the new life, and the
what will be
.

“Do you know what I wish?” Mac says in a loud whisper that only I can hear.

The innocent expression on his face soothes my annoyance. He motions for me to lean close.

“I wish I was six again.”

“Why?”

“Promise you won't tell Mom or Austin or Dad and Tiffany, 'cause I don't want to hurt their feelings . . .” He waits for me to agree. “I wish I was six 'cause Mom and Dad were married then. But then that would make Austin and Tiffany go away, and I don't really want them to go away, but I sort of wish Mom and Dad were married still.”

I nod and glance up toward Mom, who is staring out toward the bay. “Yeah, I know, Mac. But it'll be all right.”

“So what do you wish for?” he asks again.

We're almost there now, and I still have no singular wish. How do you make such a choice when your whole life is upended—for the good and the bad? I wonder if San Francisco Bay is like one giant wishing well, and in the coming years I can toss as many pennies as I want into the blue waters and have all the wishes I need.

I hope so. And maybe wishing that the bay would become one giant well breaks Mac's rule about infinity wishes. But regardless, this is what I wish my wish to be.

It was my choice to move to Marin with Mom. But now I wonder if these bridges are taking me where I should be going. Or if they're taking me far, far away.

“I wish for infinity wishes!” I say and kiss Mac on the cheek before he protests. “No one can put rules on wishes.”

And this is what I truly want to believe.

chapter two

“Aunt Betty's house is kind of creepy at night,” Mac says as the car makes a turn up the driveway and the two-story house comes into view.

“It isn't Aunt Betty's house anymore,” I say, thinking how right Mac is.

The lights from the upstairs windows stare down at our approach. I see Austin and Uncle Jimmy carrying my dresser through the garage, and they set it down as our headlights blind them.

“Okay, then
our
house is kind of creepy at night.” Mac's jaw is set in a way that says,
I'm too big to be a chicken
, but his eyes are wide and dart around the thick trees, ferns, and bushes that encroach the property. “Ruby,” he whispers. “Do you think the house is haunted?”

“No.”

“Promise?” His eyes look to me for reassurance.

“Yes, I promise.”

Aunt Betty's house, built in the early 1900s, is the coolest place I've ever seen. It has two secret-looking doors—one in the parlor by the fireplace and another in a room upstairs—that go into boxlike storage areas.

When my brother Carson was six, he broke his arm going down the laundry chute that slides from the second story down to the basement. His teddy didn't break its arm when it went down the chute, Carson cried, so why did he?

And, of course, just having a basement is a rare and exciting thing in California. Aunt Betty converted it from a cold, damp space into an entertainment room with books, puzzles, games, a TV, and a DVD player. Supposedly, a movie director owned the house in the forties, but I can't remember who it was or what movies he made. The yard reminds me of
The Secret Garden
. Carson and I have spent hours exploring and playing there.

But Mac is right—tonight with the garden shadows leaning in and the house so full of old stories, it appears downright creepy.

Uncle Jimmy and Austin wave with gloves on their hands. The moving truck is gone, but boxes and furniture fill the garage and driveway close to the house. Aunt Jenna pulls to a stop and turns off the engine as the guys come toward us.

“Here we are,” Austin says.

Austin is my stepdad of six months. He leans into the open car and kisses Mom before opening her door. He says hi to me and rubs Mac's hair, eliciting a “Hey, not the hair”—something the two of them say often.

“Do you think the house is haunted, Austin?” Mac asks in a whisper, as if the ghosts might overhear him.

“I've been here all day, and no sign of anything.”

“But that was daytime.”

“When your mom and I came down to paint and get the house ready, there were no ghosts then either.”

Uncle Jimmy gives me a wide smile. “Hey, you just missed Kaden.”

“We did?” my aunt says, and now they're all smiling at me. “You were supposed to keep him here.”

“Yeah. Strangely, when I mentioned my fifteen-year-old niece that we wanted him to meet, he had to get going.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I ask.

“We want you to meet Kaden,” Mom says. “Don't you remember, I mentioned him?”

“Uh, no.” But then I do vaguely remember some mention of a guy, though it's not unusual for Mom to have some “nice young man” to introduce me to. They're usually from church, or the nice fella who takes her groceries to her car. My parents, stepparents, and other relatives do these matchmaking things—but then don't actually want me dating anyone. This is my observation anyway.

“Oh, Ruby, you're going to like Kaden.”

Aunt Jenna has a pretty convincing expression, and I do trust her judgment a bit more than Mom's—though I'm not sure why.

“He's been helping with some yard work, and today he helped unload the heavy furniture.”

“A yard guy? Interesting.”

“No, he's really cute,” Aunt Jenna says, and Mom nods her head.

“And he's really hot,” Austin says with a laugh. “Or at least you'll think so. Actually, I didn't like him at first.”

“You didn't?” Mom and Aunt Jenna say together.

“I didn't either,” Uncle Jimmy says.

“Why?” we all ask.

“He's one of those silent and suspicious guys,” Uncle Jimmy explains, and I instantly imagine a serial killer.

Austin nods, and I wonder why we're having this long conversation about the yard boy when we've just arrived at our new house.

“He didn't talk a lot. But then once you're around him awhile, he's really great.”

Aunt Jenna closes the car door. “Something tragic happened in his family, I heard. I don't know what.”

That makes everyone quiet until Mac yells from the house, “Hey, I got the green room with the secret closet, right?”

“Yes, Mac,” Mom says, and we start moving toward the house, finally. “And sorry, Ruby, but your room is still a mess.”

“Which room did I end up with?” I glance at the apartment over the garage that's Carson's room, the one I wanted.

Aunt Betty used to rent it out to college students. It has a small kitchen and an old cast-iron bathtub and walk-in tile shower. I'm counting the years till Carson moves out. Kate and I might stay there when we go to college.

We walk through the garage and into the small kitchen with the new, light-colored granite that brightens up the dark wood cabinets and tile floor. “Wow, this looks nice.”

“Isn't it beautiful?” Mom smiles proudly. “And your room has newly refinished floors. We thought you'd want Aunt Betty's, since it has its own bathroom and the little balcony.”

“It does? Sweet,” I say. “My memories are of a flower infusion and the smell of old lady and wet dog.”

Mom knows I can't stand bad smells. There's a restaurant back home that smells so strongly of fish, I can't walk in the door. And I'm not completely opposed to fish usually.

“We took down the old wallpaper and painted it. It doesn't smell like wet dog anymore, and only slightly of old lady.” Mom smiles. “Just kidding. It smells of paint and floor lacquer, but that'll clear out soon.” Now Mom has her convincing expression and twinkle in her blue eyes—
Everything is going to be okay, you'll
see.
“We'll have gas for the furnace and phone and Internet access tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” A panic rises in my chest as we stand in the kitchen between boxes. I need to get online tonight. Where is my phone charger?

“We all might sleep in the living room tonight, by the fireplace. It gets pretty cold at night. Aunt Jenna and Uncle Jimmy are staying over too. It'll be a slumber party.”

Mac somehow overhears this from upstairs and yells, “Slumber party! Slumber party!”

“Great,” I say dully. Why did we come down tonight instead of staying in Cottonwood if the house wasn't ready? Or I could've stayed at Kate's. Then I would've been at the movies with everyone and heard Nick's admission in person. Though he may have said it only because I'm gone.

Mom goes upstairs to join Aunt Jenna and Mac in his room, and the men have retreated back to the garage to put things together. The sounds of my family fade beneath the dull silence of the house. It's cold and empty and smells of paint and that strange mustiness of homes near the ocean.

I see a framed Monet print sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace, propped against the wall. It's the garden scene in hues of blue that hung in the house we lived in for ten years. The house we lived in with Dad and Mom together. Now it's going to hang in Aunt Betty's house.

Suddenly everything feels awkward, and a shiver goes down my spine. I wonder where Dad is right now, and how soon until Carson arrives. Maybe he and I can take a drive tonight, go to Dutch Bros. or explore the winding hillside roads that connect the towns of Marin. To our west is San Francisco Bay; our little town of Corte Madera climbs up the mountain, and on the other side of the peak is the wide Pacific. South is the Golden Gate and San Francisco, and north is Santa Rosa and the California wine country. I think of this and imagine exploring the roads and ocean inlets. Carson needs to hurry up and get here.

My friends said I was lucky to move from Cottonwood to Aunt Betty's old house in Marin. I agreed. But as I ascend the steps to my new bedroom with a coldness going deep into my skin, I wonder if this move is really so great after all.

I carry my phone up the narrow stairway to Aunt Betty's room—my room—which is off to the right at the top of the stairs. The rest of the rooms go toward the left, so that's another plus—a bit of privacy at this end of the house, no one complaining about my music being too loud the way they did at the rented house we've stayed in since the divorce.

Standing in the entrance of my new domain, which is bigger than I remember, I look over the hardwood floors. They do shine nicely. The plaster walls look better with a cream-colored paint. The ceiling has thick dark wood and beams, a perfect place for strings of lights or paper lanterns. With all the boxes, it's a maze to walk through. My full-sized mattress is in the corner, up against the wall. It reminds me of a room you might see in one of those old movies Mom and I like to watch—
Casablanca
or something. That makes me like it better.

Mom said I could bring the old phonograph to my room, and I imagine painting on the balcony with the grainy sounds of a Billie Holiday record playing in the background. Aunt Betty's massive rolltop desk is in one corner. I'd forgotten about it. It too fits the 1940s classic feel. I have to use two hands to lift the cover, but then it slides easily back. A note and new journal rest on the smooth wood desktop.

To my dear Ruby, the new occupant of my beloved room.

Dream big dreams! Work hard to attain them! Look
how even an old woman like me can have dreams come
true. By the time you read this, I will be dancing in Madrid
with Herbert.

See you in a few months.

Hasta la vista—
Aunt Betty

Beneath the note is an article Mom wrote for a singles magazine. She writes so many articles, I didn't even know she'd written one about Aunt Betty. It's titled “Love in Cyberspace” and is about Internet matchmaking success stories. The main photograph is of Aunt Betty with Herbert kissing her cheek.

I imagine feisty Aunt Betty on her long honeymoon with Herbert—Uncle Herbert, as he's now officially named. Uncle Herbert appeared to be about as exciting as a zombie. But then he surprised everyone at their wedding when he and Aunt Betty performed a perfect and impressive tango.

Right now they might be dancing at a fiesta with Aunt Betty wearing a flowery old-lady hat—who wears things like that anymore? Aunt Betty does.

I hear Mac calling me from downstairs. He calls and calls even after I respond with a “What?” Finally he races up and into my room.

“We're having a campout in the living room!”

“Yes, and for a ten-year-old, this is the best thing in the world.”

“You don't think it's fun? Austin's going to get Chinese food and stuff to make s'mores in the fireplace.”

“Oh yeah, I'm stoked,” I lie.

“It'll be like when we went camping at Patrick's Point.”

“Except that we're in a house, and we won't be cooking over a campfire or walking on the beach at night. And we don't have Dad or Carson.”

“Yeah,” he says, and the fun fizzles right out of his expression, which makes me feel the big g-u-i-l-t-y.

As much as Mac loves Austin and Dad's wife, Tiffany, and it's been four years since our parents lived together, he continually brings up memories of times with Dad. He forgets that Mom and Dad had a big fight on that trip to Patrick's Point. Dad and Carson went fishing for the day, and Mom took Mac and me shopping, and neither spoke more than a few words on the drive home. Fun trip.