Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (13 page)

 

I am not going to ask him.

 

I should not have to ask my father

where there are pictures

of my own family.

 

I should not have to ask him

why there is no visible evidence

our family ever existed.

 

No.                   I will find them on my own

if they are there to be found.

 

I am not going to beg.

I am not going to plead.

 

I am not going to do anything

to make him

almost

cry.

 

 

 

I sneak in the house

grab up Serendipity

and let her climb on my shoulder.

I drop my backpack in the corner

and head out the door.

 

Mrs. Whittier's is the best place

I can think of

to unearth family secrets.

 

I will pretend

our last conversation

was easy.

 

I will pretend

I never drifted away

from Mrs. Whittier's life.

 

I am pretty sure

she has forgiven me.

 

So we will begin again.

Clean slate.

 

I knock.

She opens the door wide

gauze sleeves fluttering in welcome.

 

I step inside quickly.

What can you tell me

about after?

 

 

 

Her mouth opens

but no sound comes out.

Then,
After what, Sara?

 

I heave a sigh.

I need a family picture for school.

I can't find any.

They're all missing.

Serendipity creeps beneath my hair

and I put a steadying hand on her.

Do you know

what happened to us

after . . . my mom died?

 

Mrs. Whittier stretches her arms to me

then pulls them back

then looks at her ceramic-rough hands

as if willing them to move.

 

She sits down on her couch

and pats the leaf-print cushion beside her

then pats my knee as I sit.

 

I haven't gotten to hug you for years,

she says.

Do you remember when you used to

lean against me to get a hug?

 

I shake my head.

 

Mrs. Whittier says,

When your mother died

all four of your grandparents came.

You were surrounded by family. . . .

She reaches up to scratch Serendipity

under her chin and jaw.

I thought you'd be okay.

Serendipity leans into her fingers

claws tightening on my shoulder.

But when they left

your dad retreated into himself

and he took you with him.

Mrs. Whittier stops petting Serendipity

and turns her clear eyes full on me.

Maybe I should have done something sooner.

But I thought you two just needed time

to lift out of it.

But your dad has never smiled much again

and you . . .

you just disappeared into . . .

 

She stops.

 

Into what?
I ask.

 

I don't know.

Into his sadness?

She shakes her head.

It would break your mother's heart

to see you both like this.

 

 

 

Mrs. Whittier bumps me with her elbow.

Remember how she used to sing

“Put on a Happy Face”?

With that cheesy tap dance?

She loved to see you smile.

 

She teases another memory

from way back in my mind—

sunlight bouncing off Mom's bright hair

as Mom leads me to a backyard room

she made from branches

wound with flowers and floaty scarves.

 

Mrs. Whittier remembers it, too.

You called it your fairy castle.

 

In my mind, I see a pitcher of lemonade

in Mom's hands.

She let me pick blossoms

for the fairies' cups.

 

Of course,
Mrs. Whittier says.

Your mother got such a kick

out of your imagination.

 

Serendipity jumps off my shoulder

and into her lap

begging for attention.

 

Yes, yes,
Mrs. Whittier baby-talks to her.

She would get a kick out of you, too.

 

 

 

I wonder if she is just

making small-talk.

Would she really?

 

Are you kidding?

Your mother would have loved

this little kitty,
Mrs. Whittier says.

 

I sit quietly

heart beating loudly.

Then why?
I ask.

Why did we never get a cat?

 

Mrs. Whittier looks like someone

who has just said too much.

Cornered.

Shifty-eyed.

She shakes her head.

I'm sorry, Sara.

That's something you'll need

to ask your dad.

 

I consider stomping off in a huff

but then I won't get to talk

about Mom.

 

And I need this.

 

 

 

Maybe Mrs. Whittier is thinking

about what I'd face

if I asked Dad.

I remember once

when your dad was grumpy

from grading papers . . .

 

At the sound of her sudden laughter

Shoji's and Kajiro's heads pop up

from where the cats are curled

hidden behind a trailing vine.

 

Mrs. Whittier's plants look like

she can never bear to trim them.

They sprawl like

cats outside on a warm day.

 

She got you and herself

dressed up in fifties-style clothes

and turned on that song from
Grease.

She wipes a tear off her laughter.

That one at the end.

And you two danced and sang

on the back deck

for your daddy.

 

What did he do?
I ask.

 

Don't you remember?

Matthew smiled so big

he looked like his face would crack.

 

 

 

She tells Mom stories

until my insides feel satisfied

like eating baked potato soup

on a cold night.

 

About the pictures . . .

I ask finally.

Where do you think they are?

 

Mrs. Whittier shrugs.

I'm guessing your dad

has them somewhere close

but not out where

he has to see them

all the time.

 

I take a deep breath.

I'm going to find them.

 

I'm almost daring her to stop me.

 

She looks at me steadily

then holds out her arms

 

and I lean into her.

 

I think I remember this

after all. . . .