All That's True (23 page)

Spring break is over and I go back to school assuming that it will be the same old same old. Then, out of the blue, my home room has a new boy and what do you know? He’s the boy of my dreams. I know I thought Anthony was, and then later I thought Rodney was, but when you really meet the one you are meant for, it’s like all the ones before are nothing. Nothing! Elliott Chambers. This is the one I am going to marry. He’s everything. He has an English accent. His father’s in the military, so he’s been all over the world, well mainly China, and Germany, and England. Mostly he was raised in England. So I’m not sure if he ended up where he was born and is English or just sounds like he is. I love his accent. I’m convinced it’s the way we should all be speaking English. Just like Princess Diana and Prince Charles, whose marriage—according to the papers—is on the rocks. What does that say for my mother and father? Royals can’t even stay married. This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I really like Diana and I love my mother. Both men in their lives have not lived up to what they said they would do in their wedding vows, stay married ’til death us do part. Men lie.

That gets me thinking that maybe Elliott will be the same way. I probably shouldn’t get involved, but he’s already paying a lot of attention to me and it’s hard not to pay attention to that kind of attention. Just this morning he asked me if I’d like to go skating on Saturday.

“I can meet you there,” he says.

“Okay,” is all I manage.

He has light brown hair and blue eyes. There’s a cut over one eye that’s left a scar. I wonder if he gets into fights or something. Or maybe he’s just clumsy and runs into things.

“What time?”

“What time?” I’ve lost my train of thought.

“Skating,” he says, like where have I been?

“Oh—uh, maybe one o’clock,” I answer, then, I remember I’ll be at Sunny Meadows reading to Elizabeth. “It’ll have to be three o’clock. I’m an Angel at Sunny Meadows. I have to read. That is, I volunteer to read. I’m not really an angel or anything like that. They just call us that.” I’m babbling. I could kick myself, but my mouth won’t shut up.

“An angel, huh?” He grins. “Well, the afternoon session ends at four. That would only give us an hour.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean, maybe we should pick another Saturday.”

“I have to read every Saturday.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and just looks at me. What? I’m supposed to rearrange my life for him already?

“Maybe some other time,” he says. He shrugs his shoulders and walks away.

We haven’t even started this romance, and already things are getting complicated.

***

After school I decide to walk home. I know, I’m not supposed to, but who cares? I’m feeling really down anyway. Getting into trouble can’t make me feel any worse that I already do. I look around to see if I can spot Julia. She takes the number eleven bus. It’s already pulled away and mine is next in line. I turn around and walk away. I’m thinking about Elliott and how I could have helped things turn out differently so we’d be going skating after all. Maybe I should have said, “I’m supposed to be at Sunny Meadows Nursing Home—I’m a reader—but I probably could make arrangements. You know, change my day.”

But then he would have thought I was too eager and all the stories in
Seventeen
say to be a little mysterious. Guys like the chase. They want what they think they can’t have. If that is the case, Elliott doesn’t get it. He walked away like, too bad for her. When he said
maybe some other time
, he didn’t sound like he meant it. He could have been saying, see you around, and it would have come out the same way. No big deal here, girlie—I wasn’t sure I wanted to go skating anyway.

If he was getting ready to like me, he probably will get over it, pronto. Maybe I could call him up and explain that we could go skating on Friday night instead. But I don’t have his number and even if I did, it would be so pushy, me calling him. I could leave him a note with my name and telephone number on it and just write, “Hey, give me a call sometime.” That might work.

I’m mulling that over when I look up and there’s a mother pushing her baby in a stroller. There’s a little girl about three hanging onto the handles. She’s having trouble maneuvering the stroller in the right direction. The mother places her hands over the little girl and guides her along. The little girl smiles and says, “I can do it, Mommy.”

That is so cute. A little butterfly just flutters inside me. Soon that will be Donna, pushing her baby along, maybe a toddler hanging on the handle and another one on the way. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so cute anymore. Now what kind of person have I become that I don’t find that cute? I’m not liking myself very much. I think back to when my father was still with us. I liked myself fine. He’s turned me into a monster. He’s dumped our life upside down and has changed my once-nice personality into a grumpy one.

We have a counselor at school, Mrs. Temple. Whenever I see her in the hallways she has a smile on her face like she has a secret. I’ll bet she has many. She’s very well liked, so she probably keeps everything she’s told to herself. I should go talk to her. Let her know what’s happened to me. See if she can help me get back to being who I used to be. All you have to do is put a note in the box outside her office. Then your homeroom teacher quietly lets you know you have an appointment and you get out of study hall. But then everyone in class automatically knows, so it’s not so discreet, even though the system was designed that way.

For once I don’t care. What difference does it make what others think about me. I don’t like myself enough anymore to care. The following morning I write my name on a piece of paper and slip it into Mrs. Temple’s box outside her door. Andi St. James, homeroom 309. Urgent.

I cross off the word urgent and write sort of. In case she’s real busy she can move me back or something, so she’ll at least know I’m considerate, I’m not all bad.

Maybe there’s hope for me.

I’m back at Sunny Meadows Nursing home. Katherine has on a pink sweater over a flowered dress. She has just come from the beauty parlor. Her hair is set in little ringlets all around her face. It’s a major improvement over the fluffy halo hairdo she wore last week. I tell her how nice she looks. She pats one side of her head with a shaky hand. It’s so tender to see old people when they do something and their hands shake. It just makes you want to give them a hug or something. I pick up a new book I’ve brought along and she smiles.

“What are we reading, this week?” she asks sweetly.

I’ve decided to read James Fenimore Cooper’s
The Last of the Mohicans
, because it’s another really beautiful love story and I’m wild about the promise Hawkeye made, “You stay alive, no matter what occurs. I will find you! No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. I will find you.”

I think of Joe and how he stayed alive on that long march where so many died. More or less, this book is for me and for Joe. Sadly, Katherine can’t remember one chapter to the next, let alone what book we’re reading. I just hold the book up for her to see. “It’s
The Last of the Mohicans
, by James Fenimore Cooper. It’s sort of a love story. Will this one be okay?”

She says the same thing she said last week. “Why, yes, that would be lovely.”

She’s such a lady. She leans back in her rocking chair and closes her eyes.

I start reading on my favorite part. Major Heyward is accusing Cora of defending Hawkeye because she loves him. And Cora says, “You are a man with a few admirable qualities, but taken as a whole I was wrong to have thought so highly of you.”

I glance at Katherine. She still has her eyes closed and is slowly rocking back and forth in her rocker. I wonder if she’s thinking about her long-lost love, about Joe, and remembering he got killed, only he didn’t and she didn’t find out until after she married Mr. Wilcox. In those days, one just didn’t up and get a divorce, even if a long lost love came back on the scene. I picture Katherine pining away for Joe, all the while trying desperately to keep it from her poor husband, who probably loved her very much and would have been heartbroken if he’d known the truth. It almost makes a better story than Mr. Cooper’s. I wish he were still alive. I would write to him and tell him I have a great idea for his next love story. It’s bound to be a blockbuster, and all based on fact.

I keep reading, wondering where Joe is. I stop for a moment.

“Ms. Wilcox,” I say. “Will Joe be joining us?”

“Who, dear?” she says and stops rocking.

“You know, Joe, your—your good friend—”

“No, I don’t recall a Joe,” she says, and goes back to her rocking.

So much for this love story—if James Cooper were alive he couldn’t possibly write it. The ending is too sad.

***

Today it’s raining cats and dogs. Well, that’s what people say, but I don’t get it. They might as well say it’s raining forks and spoons or lamps and end tables. It doesn’t make sense.

Rudy keeps running over to the library windows. It’s like he’s checking to see if the rain has stopped so he can go outside. He’s very smart. Or maybe it’s because he has to make a potty run, which I will eventually have to take him on, regardless of the rain. Rainy Saturdays are always so boring. I’m glad I have to be at Sunny Meadows this afternoon. It takes up most of the afternoon, getting ready, driving there, doing my reading, and then waiting for my mother to take me back home. Beth is busy studying as usual. My mother is busy fluffing throw pillows and straightening the various knick-knacks. Rosa has been dusting and they get moved out of place. If there is one thing about my mother she likes everything back where it started.

Rosa’s going on vacation next week. In the spring she always goes to Mexico to visit her relatives. She brings us back all sorts of interesting things. One year I got a handmade pottery bowl that had all the colors of the rainbow in it. The pattern on the side was very intricate and I marveled at how someone’s hands could just craft that out of a lump of clay. And then, since all of Rosa’s relatives that I know about are very poor, I wondered how they fired it. Is there a store they go to or something? And what about the cost? Do they charge them a lot of money to do that? So, I really treasure that bowl. It’s meant for the kitchen, but I keep it on my bedroom shelf and put all my favorite treasures in it. Right now that consists of a rabbit’s foot good luck charm, the bow from the corsage I got from the Sadie Hawkins dance, a very good-looking gold button that belongs on something that I think I like, because when I look at it, I can almost remember, but then I can’t, and it makes me sad or even anxious, so I’m saving it until I find out where it’s missing from. Also, I have a hankie that my grandmother gave me that has my initials on it, with crocheted lace all around the edges. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but treasures are hard to come by.

Bridget’s letters would be there, too, but they don’t fit, so I have them tucked in the top dresser drawer under my panties. I got another one yesterday and I’m worried about her. She sounds more depressed than ever. Her Aunt Ellen is still making her go to the Camp Fire meetings and her cousin Ashley is still mostly making her life miserable. Whenever Bridget invites someone over from school, Ashley insists on being included and her mother insists there is nothing wrong with it, when everybody knows teenagers need plenty of time by themselves with their friends. How can they even talk about boys they like with Ashley sitting there all big ears? The worst part, Bridget said, is that her father has decided that she should finish the school year and then maybe by the time school is set to begin next fall she will be in London. He’s trying to get settled. He’s been doing that for months. How long does it take?

Earlier he had said she could go over after Easter, but now he’s changed his mind. Bridget’s Aunt Ellen told him how disruptive it would be to take her out of school, which is probably true, but that doesn’t make Bridget feel any better. Plus she’s been away from her father for over six months, so it’s kind of like she’s lost her father, and she’s already lost her mother. And she no longer has Rudy, don’t forget that. Who wouldn’t be depressed? It’s Donna and my father’s fault. I hate them. I fold Bridget’s letter up and put it back in my drawer. Her last paragraph pinches my heart.

I wish we were together in my old room, just painting our toenails, like we used to. Do you remember that? You had yours all different colors. And mine were lime green.

The rain hasn’t stopped, or even slowed down a bit when it’s time for my mother to take me to the nursing home. I take Rudy for a quick run, using my father’s golf umbrella that’s stashed in the garage. Rudy’s quite a handful and runs me down the street. I can barely hang on and I almost lose the umbrella, he’s pulling me that hard. He does that a lot when I take him out. When it’s not raining he’s off smelling something with so much determination you’d think he was being paid for it. Every once in a while he must find a scent that he particularly likes because he’ll spend a lot of time at that spot before moving on. It’d be so neat to be able to feel what they feel, and smell what they smell at least once in our lifetime. But maybe not, because mostly he smells things that don’t look like they’d smell all that good, and some of it is downright repulsive. Why do they sniff at each other’s butts? Dogs are very lovable, but they’re peculiar, too.

There’s a man walking his little poodle across the street. Rudy takes one sniff and is off running. He bounds away so fast it’s hard for me to keep up with him. I yank on his leash, but it does no good. He’s off and running faster than ever and ends up yanking me. My feet slip out from under me. I land face down on the sidewalk where my forehead smashes into the wet concrete. Blood is pouring into my eyes and down my cheeks. Rudy turns back. In an instant he’s at my side. He licks the blood off my face and whimpers. Dogs know when something’s wrong. And something is definitely wrong. My head feels like it’s been hit with a hammer. The man across the street gathers his little poodle into his arms and comes running toward me.

“Can you get my mother?” I say, holding my head with one hand. “I live in the big house on the corner.” Blood has filled the palm of my hand. It drips down my arm and onto the sidewalk. “Please hurry.”

He takes one look at me and goes back across the street. “Stay right there,” he yells. “I’m calling an ambulance. Then I’ll get your mother.”

An ambulance! My face must be a mess. I’ll probably never look like Beth again. I’m not sure what happened after that. Everything’s a big blur. I do remember riding in the ambulance. And I definitely remember when they stabbed me with an IV needle. I almost climbed off the gurney.

“Steady now,” the attendant said and patted my shoulder. “It’s a bit of a nasty sting to get it in place, but you shouldn’t feel a thing once I do.”

“Do you know where my mother is?” I asked.

“I suspect right behind this ambulance,” he said. “She was by your side when we got to you. You don’t remember that?”

I shake my head.

“Well, you took a nasty bump on your head. Everything’s bound to be a bit jumbled right now, but we’ll have you to the hospital it no time and the doctors will have you all fixed up before you know it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just lay back and enjoy the ride.”

I close my eyes and try to relax. I don’t want to think about what my face looks like. What if I am maimed for life? What boy will want me now? Then I remember Rudy.

“Did you see my dog? Did you?”

“I believe your mother left him with your neighbor.”

“My neighbor?”

“The man with the poodle.”

Right, the poodle—the very one that started this whole thing. Hopefully Rudy and the little guy are having a high old time of it getting acquainted. Something good ought to come out of this.

***

The doctor in the emergency room puts five stitches in my head, but insists on keeping me overnight for observation. By that time my mother has called my father. When he sees me with the bandages on my head he rushes over to my side.

“Andi sweetheart, are you alright?”

“She’s going to be just fine,” the intern says. “There’s not much we can’t fix around here.”

My father isn’t convinced. Concern is stamped all over his face. For a minute I forget how mad I am at him. I tell him what happened.

“Honey, you shouldn’t be running the dog in the rain.”

“Well, I wasn’t meaning to run, but Rudy took off and I followed, and then he sort of got away from me.”

The doctor explains that they are going to keep me overnight. “Just as a precaution,” he says. “We’ll take some X-rays and watch to make sure she’s not bleeding from her ears.”

“Bleeding from her ears?” my mother says, and looks like she might faint.

“Bleeding from the ears is indicative of a concussion, but don’t worry,” the doctor says. “Like I said, it’s just a precaution.”

“Mind if we stay with her?” my father asks.

“Not a problem.”

My mother takes hold of my hand. “Would you like that, Andi?”

Actually I’d like my parents to get back together again. That nice young intern said there wasn’t much they couldn’t fix around here. I want to ask him if he can fix that.