Amalee (3 page)

I woke to absolute silence. Dad wasn't up yet. Then I remembered yesterday at the hospital. Was he okay? I stumbled out of bed and into the hall. His door was closed.

“Dad?” I called softly through the door. I heard nothing. “Dad?” I called again. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I shouted the only word I had in my mind, “DAD!”

I reeled around to Phyllis as she said, “Shhhh!! What's wrong?”

“Is he okay in there?” I asked.

“He's fine. He just needs to sleep.”

“How do you know?” I challenged her.

Phyllis was stretching her arms. I realized she'd slept on the couch. Now she stopped and stared me down.

“I'm sorry,” I apologized.

“It's okay,” she said. “I understand. The doctor will be here in fifteen minutes. Otherwise I'd open the door and check. Let's get some breakfast. You got me all worried now, …” she muttered as she led me to the kitchen. “I bet Dr. Nurstrom likes strong coffee,” she told herself as she measured the grounds.

“Uh, hello?” We heard a voice at the door. Dr. Nurstrom found his way to the kitchen. “Good morning.” He looked big in our house. Not big like a bear. More like a giraffe.

“How do you like your coffee?” Phyllis asked.

“Oh, coffee, uh, yes. I'll have a small cup.”

Phyllis pretended he'd answered the question.

“Are you going to check him now?” I asked. “We tried to check him but there was no sound.”

“Why did you do that?” Dr. Nurstrom asked, suddenly frowning in my direction.

“I was worried,” I said, terrified that I'd done something wrong.

“You shouldn't bother him,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. Had I harmed my dad by calling out for him? Interrupted his sleep?

Dr. Nurstrom bumped into Phyllis, who stood in the doorway.

“I think it's pretty natural for Amalee to worry about her dad, don't you?” she asked as kindly as she could. “Here's your coffee.”

“Oh, I, uh, yes, thank you. Um, worry, yes. People worry, of course.” He turned back to look at me, then hurried down the hall.

Before I could thank Phyllis for sticking up for me, we heard someone else.

“Knock, knock,” Joyce sang in her little voice.

“What's Joyce doing here? It's not her shift,” Phyllis wondered out loud.
Aha.
So they
were
going to come in shifts. They all pretended to be relaxed about the situation, but they weren't planning on leaving me alone with Dad. I felt annoyed, but then I remembered how scared I'd felt when I couldn't hear any sound coming from his room.

Joyce burst into the room, weighed down under two grocery bags.

“Well, I got donuts for the doctor, but then I thought he might be into, you know, health food, so I got a few whole-grain bagels, and a mango, and orange juice, and some eggs in case he wants a couple.” She caught herself rambling. “We want him to like it here,” she explained. “This is really for David. David is worth finding out what the doctor likes for breakfast.”

The three of us tiptoed down the hall and peeked in at Dr. Nurstrom and Dad, who looked a little better than he had yesterday.

Dr. Nurstrom was showing Dad how to use a bunch of things.

“Press this button to reach me immediately,” he said, demonstrating on a box next to my dad's bed. “Or press this button to call an ambulance, and this button to call your daughter.”

My back stiffened. Me?

“Ama doesn't have to do anything,” Dad protested. He sounded almost too tired to speak. I felt bad that he was wasting his words on me.

“I can do things,” I spoke up.

“You might need her if you fall or if you can't breathe,” Dr. Nurstrom said coldly, as he turned on another machine. Couldn't breathe? What would I do about that?

Joyce stepped forward and said, “Dr. Nurstrom, this is a sensitive situation. I think we all feel a little nervous about this.”

“Well, you'll have to deal with it,” the doctor shot back.

I expected Joyce to melt into tears, but she didn't. “Dr. Nurstrom! We are doing the best we can, and that is very
well. We're going to have questions and fears and
you're
going to have to deal with
that!
” she exclaimed. Dr. Nurstrom looked at all of us one by one. He seemed a little less stern, maybe even embarrassed. “Now,” Joyce continued, more gently, “I have donuts, bagels, a mango, and orange juice for you. And eggs. What can I get you?”

We waited for Dr. Nurstrom to storm out of the room, but instead he spun around and faced Joyce. “You got all that food for me?”

Now Joyce looked embarrassed, and said, “Well, we're very grateful that you're here.”

Dr. Nurstrom asked for a cinnamon donut, a mango, and a plain bagel.

“And … thank you,” he added.

And that was that.

Phyllis drove me to school on Monday, listing all the things she was going to do to make my life easier. First off, she was going to tell all my teachers about my dad.

“No, you can't,” I said.

“Heavens! Why not?” she asked.

I had lots of reasons. What if everyone got worried about me and followed me around? I couldn't eat backstage anymore. And they probably wouldn't let me walk home.

I thought of Ms. Severance disliking me even more. She would think I was trying to get out of doing homework. And what if one of the teachers made an announcement to the class, telling the other kids about my dad? This was
my
business.

And then there was the guiltiest secret I had. I was
seen as a mean kid now. I had stood by while Ellen was mean to other kids. I had been silent, because I felt shy this year. I felt sad. I missed the paintings by the first graders that they used to put up in the hallways. I missed watching the third graders at recess. So I was quiet, and I let other kids think
they
had a problem, not me. Maybe if the kids knew my dad was sick, they would be mean back to me, as if they had been waiting for the right moment to attack.

“This has to be our secret,” I insisted. “Do you promise?”

Phyllis said yes, but I could tell she felt very uncomfortable.

Lenore appeared out of nowhere as I was walking up the steps to school. “I wish someone drove
me
to school every morning,” she panted, catching up with me. She didn't say it nicely.

“Hi, Lenore,” I said. Dealing with Lenore was always so awful, especially today, when I was too worried to follow all my strategies:
Avoid her if you can. If you can't avoid her, be on guard for something mean she's going to say. When she says something mean, don't explode or she'll make it worse.

“I've been working on my report on the Pilgrims. What's yours about?' she asked. Before I could answer, she said, “Hey, slow down! We're not late.”

I gave in. I slowed down.

“I'm doing a report on the first Thanksgiving,” I said.

“Oh, you took the
easy
topic,” she replied.

I took the first Thanksgiving because John always made Thanksgiving dinner at our house. And it was always my favorite time of year. “Let us give thanks,” he would announce, “that those of us who have lost their parents can be together” — that was everyone except John — “and that my father and stepmother, safe and sound in Georgia, don't require a visit from their fat, bald, cantankerous son until Christmas. I am obviously needed here in the meantime.” Then he would present a huge, elaborately stuffed turkey, followed by a different exotic pie for every guest, from ginger mincemeat to vodka key lime pie, after which all of us would fight for the remote control and space on the couch. John always won, and we would watch black-and-white movies on TV.

I stopped in my tracks as Lenore kept walking and talking. Would there be another Thanksgiving like that? Were things about to change? I lost my breath.

I wasn't sure if I'd make it through the day. I decided to pretend I was a river rock, letting the river of whatever hard words I heard today wash over me.

I caught up with Lenore, muttering, “Yes, I'm sure I took the easy assignment. Maybe I was just feeling lazy.”

“Laziness can be a bad habit,” Lenore lectured as we walked.

The river of Lenore.

When Ms. Severance didn't call on me, when Mr. Hankel lost his temper at us, when Hally and Ellen observed that my shoe was untied, I let it wash over me. This stuff wasn't important. I actually felt a little sorry for them all. Why did everyone waste so much time being unkind?

I came home to my dad sleeping, so I tiptoed past his room. I looked around but didn't find any of his friends.

“Amalee,” I heard him call. I backed up, feeling a little nervous. We were going to have the big talk now? The one about how sick he was? He looked a little less terrible than he had this morning and certainly yesterday. He was still pale, but less green and less clammy.

“How was school?” he asked. “Do you have a lot of homework?”

“I've got some,” I answered.

“Do it here,” he offered, pointing to his desk. “On the big desk.”

“Okay,” I said, carefully taking off the books and, at his suggestion, piling up his papers.

I sat on a couple of couch cushions and spread my books across the massive desktop of dark wood. No won
der people bought big antiques like this. It made my homework seem more important.

I looked over at my dad, who was already reading a book.

So, no talk. We worked together for almost two hours, with him drifting off and shaking himself awake. He offered to quiz me on the pulmonary system. I asked him if he wanted a sandwich first.

“There's nothing else to eat,” I complained. “Everyone brought food this weekend, but then they stayed and ate it!”

“A sandwich would be perfect, Honey,” he assured me.

The silence of the afternoon was contagious. The whole house was silent as the darkness came on. I shuddered a little as I slid around the kitchen floor in my socks, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Should I just ask him if he was scared, maybe tell him not to worry about me, something like that? Maybe I could walk in and call him by his first name, the way we called my mother “Sally.” “
David? Is there something you'd like to talk about?
” I'd ask, making my eyes look very sincere. I spread Phyllis's stiff health-food store peanut butter on the soft white bread Joyce had bought. Had they asked Dad if he was scared? I could ask Phyllis. I got out Car
olyn's homemade preserves and said a little prayer that they wouldn't kill us all. Then I went upstairs.

Dad was smiling at me as if nothing were wrong. “Where are those science questions?” he asked. We were just going over the names of lung diseases when we heard a big clatter downstairs.

We looked at each other in alarm. Then we heard someone swearing. It was John.

I hadn't seen him since I'd insulted him. He was coming up the stairs, and before I could react, his head was in the room. “Hey ho,” he called, “I hear you're bedridden, David. Hi, Amalee.” I couldn't figure out how he was really feeling. “Oh, dear! Don't tell me you're eating sandwiches after two o'clock in the afternoon! How would you like a big healthy dinner?” I wondered if he knew how sick Dad was, or if any of us did for that matter.

“I'm not sure I can finish this!” Dad said, holding up my sandwich. “But make something for Amalee.”

“And I'll make a little something for you later, too. Sandwiches for dinner … really!” John scoffed, disappearing.

“Go with him,” Dad whispered. “I'm sleepy anyway.” I wasn't sure, but Dad looked at me and knew what was going on. “C'mon, Honey,” he said. “John's not mad. Go
hang out with him.” I'd missed the chance to find out how my dad was feeling about being sick. For now, at least.

I paused, then gathered up my homework and dropped it off in my room. I wanted to close the door and be alone, but I went downstairs.

John was standing in the kitchen with a big lumpy sack by his side and about ten bags of groceries on the counters.

“I've come to help,” he said, as if this were a secret we were keeping from my dad. “This is my shift. I was supposed to be here at three! Don't tell Phyllis.”

“You really have this shift thing down to a science,” I said.

John fished a piece of paper out of his pocket. It was a schedule of all the times that he, Phyllis, Joyce, and Carolyn would be staying at the house. This was the kind of thing Phyllis would do.

John started pulling pots and pans out of his bag. “What in creation have you been eating around here?” he asked.

“Well, uh, sandwiches.”

“Like the ones you were just eating? Sandwiches on white bread, with peanut butter and Carolyn's creepy preserves? Like that?” John looked like he was going into a trance of horror at the thought of it. “You think your
father's going to get better eating that?” Then he opened his eyes wider and said, “You all are going to need some good food.” Maybe he wanted to be alone. Maybe I just wanted to leave him alone. As mean as I'd been, he was being so dramatic, it was making me feel annoyed again. I started to leave.

“Ama, Hon, I need your help.”

I flared my nostrils and stared up at the ceiling, and then I turned around.

“I don't know if I brought enough stuff. But you have some things. Thank God I stocked you up before the New Year's party. I'll need some flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, cinnamon, and if you could go to the cellar and get me some red wine. That's for the cook.” He winked.

I went downstairs and got the wine. Then I went to the pantry and got all the stuff he asked for. I don't think it took more than five minutes, but when I got back, everything was set up. The sack was folded on top of the refrigerator. John looked up and said, “Let's go.” He cracked an egg.

It's hard to remember what happened next. I just followed his orders.

“I need two cups of flour and another two cups of sifted flour.”

“Bring me a cup of milk, but measure it in another
measuring cup. We'll do all the wet stuff in one and dry stuff in another.”

There was some broth simmering on the stove that made the house smell like we were getting ready for a big dinner party.

Suddenly, he had three bowls going at once and was asking me to do three things at once.

“Chop the celery.” I chopped while he stirred.

“Stir this.” I stirred the broth with the celery while he sautéed garlic.

He left me stirring and sautéing at once, while he crossed over to two bowls. I saw him through a slight haze of flour.

“Three tablespoons heavy cream,” he commanded from another station in the room.

Something was different about him. It was as if he were playing a chef in a movie, very confident and knowledgeable. He covered one bowl to let some dough rise, and he pulled out another. He was turning pink from the heat in the kitchen. There were pots on two burners, and the stove was preheated for whatever he was kneading and covering. He was also a little out of breath.

“We need lots of eggs. Seven.”

I cracked and stirred and checked on the garlic. I saw at least four cartons of eggs and wondered how much more we were going to do.

“A tablespoon of vanilla.” He tasted whatever was in the bowl. “Throw in another splash.” He tasted it again. “Oh, I'm good! Now a dash of cinnamon and a cup of that broth from the stove. Careful, though! We'll freeze this stuffing for a night we cook a turkey.”

He almost danced around the pots on the stove, stirring and smelling whatever was bubbling here and crackling there. Then he went to a bowl and emptied the contents into two bread pans. “Vegetarian meat loaf. Make sure the oven's set for four hundred.” Soon the smell of chicken soup was joined by the meat loaf, not to mention the garlic stuffing.

A puff of steam as big as a genie rose up from the sink, and then John was carrying over a huge bowl of pasta. I quickly cleared some counter space and stood by his side, pulling big noodles out of the strainer for lasagna.

“Wow. You're a natural,” he said, turning down the burner on the soup behind him. “Oh, by the way, I got you some root beer.” That was nice.

He pulled the risen dough out of one of the first bowls
and plopped it on a rolling board. Then he took some dough and rolled it out with a rolling pin.

“Be my flour girl,” he said. I sprinkled flour onto the dough every minute or so, pulling pans out of the oven and putting other ones inside in between.

John rested the rolled dough into three pie plates and put them aside.

He put a chicken in the oven, and we started peeling potatoes for shepherd's pie and mashed potatoes. Then he left while I was still peeling.

“Check this out,” he said.

I turned to see him standing with three long ropes of dough on the rolling board.

“I thought we'd used up the dough,” I said.

“Think again.” He smiled, and started braiding up the dough so quickly it seemed like he was using a magic wand and telling the dough to braid itself.

I said, “John! You're a chef!”

“What have I been telling you?” he asked. “Okay, now we paint the top with egg whites and a shower of sesame seeds….”

He put four loaves of braided bread into the oven. We dumped chicken and vegetables into the pie plates, pushing aside the lasagna to put in two shepherd's pies. Into
another three pie plates (where did they come from?) he poured out something and threw in some broccoli. “This is called quiche,” he explained. “You'll like it when you're fourteen.”

He poured something out of a blender into an old yogurt container. “This is pesto. Just thaw it out and throw it on spaghetti. I also made two kinds of tomato sauce, one with meat and one without. And they're both fabulous.”

“When did you make that?” I asked.

“After you cut up the thirty tomatoes, silly. Remember?” Oh, that was right. He'd let me use the biggest, sharpest knife, something Joyce wouldn't have liked.

The bowls were all empty. So were the pots, with the exception of some soup cooking on the back burner.

The room was warm and it smelled wonderful. I looked around the counters and saw everything we'd made. Three quiches, two shepherd's pies, four loaves of bread, tomato sauce, pesto, meat loaf, a huge lasagna, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. And the soup.

It was midnight. It didn't feel so late, but here was the evidence of all our hard work!

“Thank you, John,” I said, picking up a couple of pots to pack up for him.

“Thank me nothing. You're eleven years old, and you haven't asked about the most important part of dinner. We've got to make the dessert!” I looked over at the dozen eggs we still hadn't used. John started muttering to himself and pacing around the room. “There are a lot of sad people around here. We need a lot of dessert. Get me the chocolate chips.”