Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (16 page)

 

Walking home

I almost kick myself.

I could have at least petted the kittens.

 

Fortunately, I still have my own at home.

 

Serendipity follows me into the living room

grabbing at my shoelaces.

 

There's an empty spot on the bookshelf

where The Book was.

 

Dad comes around the corner

his arms full of sheets

his face full of disgust.

It's hard to imagine him

as the rebellious romantic hero.

Guess where the little monster

decided to pee            
he says.

 

Um            
Uh-oh.            
Your bed?

 

Righto.            
Heavy sigh.

Any phone calls yet?

Or what about Taylor's mom?

 

Dad,
I say

and then I stop.

 

What else can I say?

 

 

 

I follow Dad to the washing machine.

Maybe you could teach me to do laundry

I say.

 

He gives me a double take.

Why the sudden interest?

 

I put Serendipity on the dryer

to let her peek into the washer.

So if this happens again

I could fix it instead of you.

 

Dad narrows his eyes

shows me which way

to turn the knobs

and twist the dial,

how much detergent to put in.

 

Then he says

It's not like she'll be here long enough

to make this a habit.

Saturday morning at the latest.

 

I clutch her like a baby

stunned by the real time frame

and scratch her forehead.

No, I know

I say.

 

But I'm hoping I don't.

 

 

 

Serendipity tries to help us make up the bed

by standing in the middle of the mattress

paws reaching as the sheet floats down.

She dances out of our reach.

 

Finally Dad says,
Just grab her

and I'll do this myself.

 

I tackle her and pluck her claw-hold

from the mattress.

I sit in the armchair

and hold her on my lap

so she looks like she's sitting

like a regular person.

 

Dad,
I say

to get his attention.

 

He turns to look

and I hear his breath go in sharp

at the sight of us.

He quick-flips the covers

at the end of the bed

and the
Love Songs
book

goes flying toward the dresser.

 

Dad sees me looking at it.

He picks it up

and puts it on his nightstand.

 

I think he's going to say something

but he doesn't.

 

With his chin, he holds a pillow

ready to drop

into an opened pillowcase.

 

Dad,
I say.

 

He lets the pillow fall into the case.

Sighs.

Your mom gave me that book

to let me know how she felt about me.

 

So—what's the long story?

 

He reaches for the book.

Cradles it in both hands.

Silent.

 

Dad,
I say,
I want to talk about her sometimes.

Couldn't we           talk about her?

 

He replaces the book.

His hands drop to his sides.

 

Serendipity must think

there's a treat in his hand

because she springs from my lap

and claws her way up his pant leg

to investigate.

 

Dad yells and pulls her off

like she's a sticky burr.

He tosses her onto the bed.

That's enough for now.

 

He's looking at Serendipity

but I'm pretty sure

he's talking to me.

 

 

I pick up Serendipity

and take her from his room.

 

I go into my room and close the door.

Not sure what to do now.

 

I stand by the door and

watch Serendipity play hide-and-seek

with my blankets and quilt.

 

I can hear Dad finishing up his bed

then footsteps to his study

then outside my door.

 

I wait on my side of the door

feeling kind of ridiculous.

 

Serendipity runs to the door

and paws at it.

 

A good excuse to open it.

 

Dad's there

looking like he got caught

doing something he shouldn't.

Looking like he feels silly.

 

Then he holds out the book

and a piece of paper.

 

 

 

Here,
he says.

I know I should be able to

talk about her with you

but I just can't.

Not yet.

 

I take the book

and the paper

from his trembling hands.

 

He turns to go

then turns back.

He taps the book.

Mom named you

after how we began . . .

with Sara's poems.

 

He doesn't stay

to watch me read them.

 

 

 

It's a really old book.

Love Songs,
by Sara Teasdale.

I wonder if this is a poet

Dad teaches about

in his American Lit class.

Inside the front cover

there's an inscription—

For Matthew,

who makes the world

a poem
.

 

Then the book flips open

to a poem called “The Look”

like it's been opened

to this page

time after time.

 

Someone has pasted in

the name “Matthew”

over one of the original names.

 

It had to be Mom.

 

Now with Mom's editing

the poem says,

 

“Strephon kissed me in the spring,

Robin in the fall,

But
Matthew
only looked at me

And never kissed at all.

 

“Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,

Robin's lost in play,

But the kiss in
Matthew's
eyes

Haunts me night and day.”

 

 

 

It's like another artifact

Mom left behind.

An arrowhead from Cupid.

 

How did Mom have the nerve

to give her professor

a book like this?

 

He couldn't help but get the message

loud and clear.

 

She put it all out there.

I think of Garrett and wonder

if I'll ever be able to do that.

 

Many of these are not happy poems.

A lot are about death.

I don't know how Dad can bear

to read this one:

 

“I SHALL NOT CARE

 

“When I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,

Though you should lean above me broken-

hearted,

I shall not care.

 

“I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough,

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

Than you are now.”

 

 

No wonder my dad

has such a hard time

 

smiling.