Forget Me Not (8 page)

Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

When I finish work Tuesday morning, I bike fast as I can to Mill Road, holding my breath as I pass the garbage treatment plant. Gosh, does that place stink.

There are red, white, and blue petunias planted in a flag pattern outside of Bramble Animal Shelter. Mr. Sweeney smiles when he sees me.

“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today,” he says.

“Did the owner come?” I ask, heart pounding.
Please, please, say no.

“No,” he says, smiling. “Want to see him?”

“Yes!” I follow Mr. Sweeney back into the kennel area. We walk past a row of cats who peer sadly and quietly out at me, then into the dog section where they jump and pace and bark, making a ruckus to get my attention. I look at each animal as we pass, smiling
and silently saying,
Don’t worry, stay hopeful, someone will adopt you, I’m sure.
And then I see my dog.

“Salty!”

Mr. Sweeney unlocks the cage. Salty jumps toward me. I kneel and hug him tight. He smells different, like soap. “So you got a bath, huh, boy?”

Mr. Sweeney gives me some treats for Salty and lets me take him out on a leash in the backyard. Salty seems so happy to see me. I stay for an hour. I hug him tight and look straight in his eyes. “Don’t forget me, Salty.”

He smiles and barks.

“Be back tomorrow, bye!”

I’m over in Mariel’s neighborhood. Maybe she’s home. I bike past the trailer park, then I see the sign O
CEANVIEW
I
NN
:
TOURISTS WELCOME
.

The Oceanview Inn is a dirty, dumpy, run-down motel that hasn’t welcomed a tourist in a long time. It’s an inch up from a homeless shelter, yards down from an apartment building, miles away from being a real house.

Poor people who can’t afford the cost of an apartment here on Cape Cod rent rooms here by the month. Mariel’s whole family lives in one room, Room #5.
Two people are arguing loudly in #7, a baby’s crying in #6. As I approach the Sanchez’s door, I hear singing. It’s a young woman’s voice, must be Mariel. The melody is familiar, but the words are in Spanish and I’m not sure. What a beautiful voice.

I stand there listening for a moment. When I knock, the singing stops.

I hear little-kid giggling, Nico and Sofia, and then Mare opens the door.

“Willa!” She seems confused and embarrassed. She moves me outside, closing the door behind us. I can hear the twins giggling louder, like this is some sort of game.

“What are you doing here?” Mare says, not in a happy tone.

“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop by.”

“Why didn’t you call first?” she says.

“I’m sorry.” But inside I’m thinking,
You’ve stopped by my house without calling first.

“What are you doing around here?” she asks.

“The animal shelter up the road,” I say. “I went to visit the dog I found.”

“
Your dog
,” Mare says, her face brightening.

“I hope so,” I say.

“No, he’s yours,” Mare says, confident as one of
those court judges on TV. “I told you, it is a gift from the mermaids.”

“What are you doing today?” I say, trying to change the subject. I feel sort of hurt that she isn’t inviting me in.

“I have to watch the kids. My dad’s working.”

“I’d like to meet them,” I say.

Mare stares at me for a second like she’s considering this.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“It’s just that they get all excited about meeting new people and then they keep asking when they’re going to see them again.”

“Well, no problem there,” I say. “I think they’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

Mare smiles. I smile back. We don’t say it, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: We’re going to be good friends. Her brother and sister will see me again.

When Mare opens the door, Sofia and Nico are hiding under the bed. “Ooh, where have those little kittens gone,” Mare says, and we hear the giggling. “Meow, meow, meow,” they say, crawling out. Mare introduces us. We have animal crackers and apple juice. We play Candy Land, my favorite game when I was their age. When I tell Nico and Sofia that my grandmother owns
a candy store, their eyes bug large like I’m a rock star on MTV.

“I’ll bring you some candy next time I come. What kind do you like?”

“Bring it all!” Nico says.

“
Mucho, mucho
,” Sofia says, and they roll on the floor giggling.

When I get home, I go up to my room and look over the plans for Ruthie’s wedding. The weather is supposed to be nice on Saturday. We’ll do the ceremony in the Labyrinth. There will only be twenty or so guests, and the service will be short, so we can all stand in a circle around Ruthie and Spruce. I think they should sit on the stone bench in the center. Yes, we’ll all be there in the inner circle while they process in through the Labyrinth. Sam helped me pick some readings and Ruthie’s favorite poem. It’s the one by Robert Frost about “the road less traveled.” I’m still not sure about music. When we hold formal wedding ceremonies at BUC, Mrs. Bellimo belts out songs from the choir loft. We can’t do that in the Labyrinth. I ask Sam. He says you can’t go wrong with the Beatles. He gives me some
CDs. I pick out “Here Comes the Sun” and “Let It Be” and “Imagine.” Now I just need to find someone to sing them. I think of Mariel singing this morning. I wonder if she’d be willing?

JFK calls and asks if I want to bike out to Woods Hole.

“I’ll pack lunch,” I say. Tuna fish sandwiches and Cape Cod chips, peaches, brownies, and two bottled waters.

We take the Shining Sea bike trail out to Woods Hole, through a shady treed area with lots of wildflowers, out along a beautiful strip of the coastline, past Nobska Lighthouse standing tall.

Woods Hole is a cool town. Scientists from all over the world come here to conduct ocean research. We lock our bikes on a rack in the center park area and walk through town. They’re feeding the harbor seals at the research aquarium at the end of the street. I remember Nana taking me here during summers when I was little and would come to stay with her while Mom was busy with her wedding planning business. There’s a “please touch” water box inside the building. I’ll
never forget the first time I picked up a live starfish, a horseshoe crab, and a lobster, all slimy and wriggling in my hand.

We walk back to the park, check out the old sundial in the center. JFK takes a long drink from the orange bottle with the black top he has hooked on his belt loop. We find a grassy spot in the shade and I take out our lunch.

“You should get a reusable water container,” JFK says, holding up one of my “Only the best for Bramblebriar guests” bottles and turning it around in the sun. “These plastic bottles are wicked bad for the planet. I did a science project at my old school in Minnesota. Americans buy, like, thirty billion of these a year.”

“At least they get recycled,” I say.

“Actually, only about one-fifth of them do. The other eighty percent end up in landfills. The plastic never breaks down. It’s awful for the earth and animals, especially birds. They ingest it and choke and die. Not to mention the oil.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I remember it takes something like fifty million gallons of oil a year to make these plastic bottles, just here in America alone. And then there’s
the carbon dioxide pollution made during the manu-facturing.”

I have excellent taste in boyfriends if I do say so myself. Not only is Joseph handsome, kind, poetic, and smart, but he thinks about bigger issues like stopping the war and saving the planet.
I hold up my bottle: Only the best for Bramblebriar Guests. “Bad, bad bottle,” I say in a stern voice. JFK laughs. “No, seriously,” I say, “I’m going to get a refillable bottle like yours, Joseph. Do they come in green?”

He laughs. “Yeah, they come in lots of colors.”

“Mine will have to be green, for Bramblebriar, of course.”

After lunch we get ice cream and sit with our legs dangling off the pier, watching the boats come in and out. I turn just as Joseph is pointing to something and his cone bumps into my nose. He wipes off the ice cream, then kisses my nose.

I feel like I’m going to cry. “I’m going to miss you.”

He smiles so sweetly. “It’s only a month, Willa. I won’t forget you.”

We bike home, wind sailing through my hair, sun beating on my face. It’s a perfect date on a perfect summer day. Neither of us mentions Florida. Bad, bad baseball.

JFK has to go somewhere with his family. I bike into town to tell Nana about the taffy tags I’ve come up with so far. Dr. Swaminathan and Mrs. Saperstone are coming out of a restaurant. They are laughing, all happy about something. Dr. Swammy opens the door of his car and Mrs. S gets in, just as I’m pulling up behind them. I don’t call out. “Let those young lovebirds alone” is what Nana would say. Dr. Swammy has a bumper sticker: T
HINK GLOBAL
. S
TART LOCAL.
I think about that for a minute.

Nana loves the taffy taglines. She writes them down. “I’ll get these printed up right away,” she says. I get some mints for Mom, chocolate walnut fudge for Sam, and me…I’m in the mood for fish. I “remember the scoop” and shovel up a bag of those yummy red gummy guppies.

Back at the inn, I help with the cocktail social hour. I cut veggies and scoop out fresh dill dip into a bowl. I light little yellow candles out on the sunporch, turn on some music, carry out the fresh fruit and cheese platter, and mingle around, chatting with the guests.

The Red Hats are off to dinner at Wimpy’s in Osterville and then karaoke night at the British American Brew Pub in Falmouth. They’ve been practicing some songs all day. They show me their red boas and test out a few lines of a song from the musical
Chicago.
Oh, I wish Chickles Blazer was here. Mama B would love these gals!

Up in my room, I check out my books. Tonight I’m in the mood for comedy. Mrs. S was surprised that I hadn’t read
The Whipping Boy
by Sid Fleischman. Great illustration on the cover. I plop down on my bed, dig into the fish, and start reading.

Mrs. S was right. This is a hoot.

I brush my teeth, which are all red from the fish, and think about what I’m going to wear for Ruthie and Spruce’s wedding. They’re coming Thursday. No need for a rehearsal Friday; it will be such a simple affair. I look through my closet, not sure what to wear. I don’t know how formal Ruthie’s going to be. I pull out the dress I wore in Suzie Jube’s wedding. It’s pale yellow, the color of sherbet, silky, with a poofy skirt that swirled when I danced. I felt like a princess in this dress. I was Suzie’s maid of honor. I try it on. Yep, still looks good. I hang it back up and pull out the dress I wore the following day for Mum and Riley’s wedding. I was Mum’s maid of honor, too. This is a simple linen sundress, pale pink. It looked so nice with my silver locket and little silver dangling earrings. I try on the dress. Yep, still good.

I pick up
The Hundred Dresses
by Eleanor Estes, written more than sixty years ago. I leaf through it
before I start. There are black-and-white illustrations throughout with bursts of watercolor colors here and there. It’s about a girl named Wanda who wears the same old dress to school every day, and is teased by the “in girls” who have many beautiful dresses. It’s a quick read, a powerful story. Definitely a skinny-punch.

Enough books for today. Time for a movie. I change into my pajamas and shut off the light. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the summer matinee starts in my mind.

JFK and I bike along that sunny bike path, the wind whistling, boats bobbing in the water. He looks at me with those sea-blue eyes and kisses ice cream from my nose.

I wish JFK could see my first wedding. I wish we could dance all night.

Art is a jealous mistress.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Wednesday sails by in a minute.

I visit Salty. Hoorah, still no owner.

I see Tina and Ruby as they are coming out of Cohen’s card shop in town. Their “book” is “going to be a bestseller!”

“It’s not all wordy like a lot of books,” Tina says. “Just a little bio on each boy…places where they like to take dates, their taste in music…you know, just the important stuff.”

So far, they’ve got twenty boys featured from four Cape towns and they’re not stopping till they hit Provincetown. That’s the final point on the Cape. After that, they’d have to head out onto the Atlantic, hunting
for hunky fishermen. Which might actually not be a bad idea for a sequel.

“Wow, that sounds like a lot of work,” I say.

“The price one pays for art,” Ruby says, wiping her brow like she’s been cleaning toilets all day. Tina giggles.

“Do you have a title yet?” I ask. Wait until I tell Mariel about this.

“
The Beach Boys of Cape Cod
,” Tina says.

“I like it,” I say.

“We’re not sure about the price,” Ruby says. “We’re thinking fifty, sixty bucks.”

“For a book?” I say.

“Well, it’s words
and pictures
,” Tina says. “And wait until you see these photographs. Ruby is a really good photographer. I mean, this is going to be like the summer swimsuit issue of
Sports Illustrated
, except it’s all boys. All buff and beautiful…”

“In bathing suits, right?” I say.

“Yes, Willa.” Tina rolls her eyes. Then she whispers to Ruby, “Well, most of them, anyway.” She and Ruby laugh. “Just kidding.”

“Who’s going to publish it?” I ask.

“Oh, Willa,” Ruby huffs, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a Debbie Downer. Details, details. Leave it to you to worry about something.”

Tina looks at me like she feels bad. “I haven’t seen you around, Willa. Let’s do something this weekend,” she says.

“I’m busy,” I say, and then I brighten up. “Guess what? I’m doing my first solo wedding on Saturday.”

“Wow,” Tina says. “Who?”

“Sam’s sister.”

“Your mother’s letting you?” Ruby says. Ruby remembers how, when I first moved to Bramble, Ruby’s aunt was getting married and my mother wouldn’t let me near her wedding planning studio.

“Yes,” I say. “Mom and I are partners now.” I look at Tina. She smiles but doesn’t seem excited. I think of how thrilled she was just a few short years ago when her favorite soap star was getting married and my mother was planning the wedding and Tina and I snuck into the reception. That seems like so long ago now.

“Let’s go,” Ruby says to Tina. “You know, Willa, so many lifeguards, so little time.”

Tina looks at me, then turns to join Ruby.

I watch them walk away.

I stop by Nana’s to pick up candy for Nico and Sofia, lots and lots of it, and bike over to visit them like I promised.

Mr. Sanchez is home today. He says he wants to
talk with my mother about a
quinceañera
party at the inn for Mariel when she turns fifteen in August.

“Papa, no,” I hear Mare whisper, “You know we can’t afford—” but he puts his hand up to silence her.

When I get home, my mother’s coming in all red and sweating from jogging. “You’re running late today,” I say. She usually runs first thing in the morning.

“I’m starting to train for the Falmouth Road Race,” she says. “It’s always so hot, I want to get myself conditioned.”

“How long is it again?” I ask.

“Ten-K…six point two miles,” she says, turning to leave. She swings back around. “Hey, Willa, want to run it with me?”

I feel a surge of happiness. My mother hardly ever asks me to do anything with her. She’s always so busy. “Uh, sure, maybe,” I say. “If I can. I’ve never run more than three or four miles, but…”

“I’ll write up a training program,” Mom says, all happy. “You’ve got time. If you’re serious, that is.”

“Sure, yes,” I say. “Count me in.” I wonder whether Mom should be running so much so soon after losing the baby, but I’m sure she checked with her doctor. I wish I could ask if she and Sam are planning on trying again, but…

Mom grabs two water bottles from the fridge. She hands me one. I take it. “Thanks.” This isn’t the time to talk environmental issues, but maybe it’s the time to talk about Salty. “Mom, I went to the shelter to visit the dog today.”

She looks at me. Takes a long drink of water. Wipes sweat from her face. “And…”

“And the owners still haven’t showed up.”

“Well, I hope they do soon,” she says, finishing her water. “Are you all set with everything for Sam’s sister’s wedding Saturday evening? I realize I’ve been so tied up with the Caldor event that I haven’t even inquired.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m good. I went over the menu with Rosie and checked over the ceremony stuff with Sam. It’s going to be in the Labyrinth, fingers crossed it doesn’t rain. And I’m going to ask my friend Mariel if she’ll…”

“Good,” Mom says. “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to…”

“I understand,” I say. “On Saturday, you will be Wedding Planner one and I’ll be Wedding Planner two.”

Mom smiles at me, then looks at the clock. “Oh, gosh, look at the time. I’ve got to shower. Willa, please do a dining room check for me, will you? Make sure
all the tables are set properly and that the girls used the new linens. Those old tablecloths were getting shabby.”

Well, at least she didn’t say “no” about adopting the dog again. I still have time to figure out a way to change her mind.

Up in my room, I go online and search under “water bottles.” Tons of articles come up. I search “Planet Partners” and, lo and behold, there’s a picture of the founder, Ruthie Gracemore. She looks like Sam’s twin, only shorter and skinnier. The article talks about a new irrigation system they’ve just brought to three villages in Nicaragua. I search under the keywords “polluted Ganges River” and up come photos. One of a girl about my age. Her big brown eyes are bulging out of her face. Hollow-cheeked, she’s just about to drink a skinny handful of water.
Don’t do it.
I wish I could help her. I feel sad and hopeless, like, what can I do to help that girl, that particular girl right there in that photo. I wonder what her name is. I wonder how old she is. I wonder if she’s gotten some fresh, clean water by now.

Water, water, everywhere. I think of that day on the beach, how thirsty I was, how awful it would be to be really thirsty, actually dying from thirst.

Maybe I will find a way to raise money for Planet Partners or for the organization Dr. Swaminathan is connected with in India. I think of Dr. Swammy’s bumper sticker. T
HINK GLOBAL
. S
TART LOCAL
.

Tonight I choose
Missing May
by Cynthia Rylant. I first read it when I was in fourth grade, one of those books you come back to again. It’s so hopeful. And I like that the girl’s name is Summer.

I write in my journal.

Only one more day until Ruthie arrives. Curious.

Only two more days until Joseph leaves. Sad.

Only three more days until my first solo wedding. Excited.

Only four more days until Salty is mine. Hoorah!